John was happy to see that Victor had plugged in his home address into the GPS, for all John really had to do was press the home button and the route to Victor's house was mapped out before him. It was almost too easy; it was like Victor had planned this out himself, trying to make it as convenient as possible for John to kill him. John followed the route obediently, playing some of the CD's that had been in the CD player at the time. It was mostly rap music, pretty terrible stuff, actually, and John got vivid images of Victor driving along with the top down, Sherlock in his passenger seat, listening to this horrific music, Victor driving with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand in Sherlock's curls as they flew around in the wind. God, the smiles that John saw in that image, the happiness Sherlock had that he knew would never be aimed towards him again, it was almost unbearable. He hadn't seen Sherlock in almost a week, maybe more, and yet he felt like it had been a lifetime. It felt as though Victor's very presence had drained John of all of his encounters with that man, and now he was almost as lifeless as the man sitting next to him. When they arrived at Victor's house John wasn't surprised to see that it was luxurious. It was beautiful, a white townhouse stretching up towards the sky, with freshly painted shutters and walls, plants and landscaping done neatly out front, and a garage attached to the side. John pulled the car into the garage carefully, not wanting to dent such a nice vehicle, and slid out of the car. He could only assume that there was no one home, surely Victor didn't live with family, servants maybe, but hopefully they would be done for the day. John's biggest concern was Sherlock. If Victor had been going to Sherlock's house with a key all alone, then that meant Sherlock was somewhere other than at his apartment. Maybe they had been planning on going to a fancy restaurant together, or Sherlock was just out with Mrs. Hudson, but John was slightly worried that he would drag Victor's body up to the bedroom and find Sherlock laying there waiting for him. And yet, he wouldn't get Victor quite in the state he had imagined. John went around to the other side of the car and pulled Victor out of the car, being careful to keep his body up right and intact, to damage the body would be to cause suspicion of foul play, and John surely didn't want that. If this plan was going to work then Victor had to be spotless. Because why would anyone suspect anyone to kill such a man like Victor, such a beautiful man? John used his key to get into the house, dragging the body the best he could across the polished hardwood floors. It was a beautiful house, with white walls that gleamed with luxury, nice expensive looking furniture, and granite counter tops in the kitchen. How on earth Victor was able to afford all of this was a mystery, however John was still fairly jealous. Of course this man had it all, what didn't he have? Oh ya, a life. John chuckled to himself as he dragged Victor up the stairs to where he could only guess the bedroom was. As predicted, Victor's bedroom was the first door on the left, with the door hanging open to reveal a very disheveled looking bedroom. It was empty, which was all that mattered, and it would seem like the entire house was deserted. It was the perfect time, the perfect opportunity, to dispose of his enemy without the slightest suspicion. John got right to work, pulling one of the white sheets from the bed and tying a very tight knot around the ceiling fan. Then, testing his own weight on his little rope, he pulled a chair underneath on which to steady Victor's body while he tied the other end around his neck. When finally Victor was wearing a very unattractive necklace of bedsheets John pulled the chair away, ducking away as Victor's body fell towards the floor, getting caught in the neck by the fan and swinging hopelessly around while the ceiling fan struggled to hold his weight. John smiled triumphantly, admiring his handiwork while tucking the chair back where he had found it. He was almost tempted to take a picture, but he knew that if anyone thought to investigate him then a picture would be just the thing they would need to incriminate him. So, with a final nod of content, John bid farewell to Victor Trevor, a final farewell it would seem, as he was sure Victor wouldn't be strolling unannounced into his life once more. 

 Mary was frantic when John had arrived home, insisting on knowing every move of his adventure. And so he told her, at least, he told her the first part. He may have lied just a little bit when it came to the next morning, when he had strangled a man to death and left him hanging on his ceiling fan at home. Mary was just so happy to see him that she forgot all about her anger, a prediction of John's that had inevitably turned out to be correct. She made him stay home from work the whole day, but he didn't have a problem with that. It was another great day, another Victorless day, when he finally arrived to work with a smile and a nod to Mrs. Turner. 

"Dr. Watson where on Earth have you been? Your wife had been calling in all day yesterday, going on about how you had run off. You've got patients you know, real lives with real inconveniences; you need to give us more notice before you take off." Mrs. Turner insisted with her disapproving frown.
"Sorry Mrs. T, I had a lot on my mind yesterday, just went for a little drive." John admitted with a shrug, turning on his heel for a moment before returning to his office in a blissful sense of carelessness. He had a lollypop again, turning around in his swivel chair and crunching down three or four candies before his first patient arrived. He went through the day completely ecstatic, smiling at all of his patients, helping them with their problems, and giving them the utmost customer service that they deserved. They all found his joy to be rather encouraging, and he found that they were a lot more cooperative when they saw that their doctor was having an especially good day. Now of course he was happy, his mind kept straying back to that final moment, the final tug of the tie that had led to the death of the beautiful Victor Trevor, he felt the strain in his fingers and the victory cry on his lips, and every time he focused he could still see the light fading from Victor's electric blue eyes. Why, there was no better antidepressant than a good murder. It would seem, however, that there was something much better coming his way, and it was announced, as usual, by Mrs. Turner's careful knock on the door.
"Dr. Watson sir, a man to see you." She said in a nervous voice, her old eyes darting over to the waiting area once more. John looked at her curiously; as it was his lunch period he couldn't guess who would want to see him at such an hour.
"Who?" John wondered nervously, his mind immediately jumping to a detective, or an undercover cop, come to investigate Victor's death. Mrs. Turner cleared her throat nervously, and dropped her voice so that she wouldn't have any eavesdroppers.
"It's him." she whispered. John's heart leapt, and he nearly jumped out of his chair in delight.
"Him as in..."
"Dr. Watson?" Sherlock's voice said from behind her, an unmistakable baritone that could never be confused with another man if it tried. John almost broke into a fit of laughter; he was quite sure in that moment, if he tried hard enough, that he could actually fly. Sherlock Holmes, come to see him again, despite all that had happened between them.
"Mrs. Turner, thank you, Mr. Holmes, please come in." John said politely, trying to calm himself down enough to give Mrs. Turner a little nod of reassurance, and finally she stepped out of the way, letting Sherlock slip into the room and lean against the door to close it. He was beautiful, as usual, but today he looked especially haggard, as if something terrible had happened. He was white as a sheet, and not the gleaming paleness he had usually sported, he was chalky, as if he had seen a ghost. His fingers were shaking as he held a stump of a cigarette to his lips, wincing as though the effort to breathe smoke through his lungs was just too much. John dared not take a step forward, just in case Sherlock saw that as another method of attack, and yet he was in such a weak state that John doubted he could do anything to stop him, much less call for help. And yet John knew enough to just stand still, he didn't want to scare Sherlock more than he already had, he had made his mistakes and he definitely wasn't in a hurry to repeat them. So he just stared, stared at that broken shell of a man leaning against his door, and tried to think of anything to say to prevent himself from gaping too much.
"Victor's dead." Sherlock announced without so much as a formal greeting. He just closed his eyes, taking a long draw from his cigarette as if the tobacco helped him clear his head and heart of the tragedy. John did his best to look surprise, to suppress the excitement and the relief that was flowing through his very soul.
"Dead?" John whispered in clarification. He wanted to get closer, but by God he knew he couldn't!
"He hung himself, at least that's what they told me. I'm here...I'm here because I had to confirm that it was him. I had to look at his body, the broken, twisted neck, the horrible bruising, the look of horror upon his beautiful face..." Sherlock winced, letting his head fall back onto the door in agony, as if just the recollection of the images he had been forced to see were just too much to handle.
"Sherlock I'm sorry, why...why on earth would he do such a thing?" John whispered in shock.
"I've never been good enough for him John; I can only imagine that he realized that as well." Sherlock admitted with a sigh. It was almost painful for John to hold back his laughter, the very thought that Sherlock wouldn't be enough for anyone was just a pathetic excuse to justify the destructive actions of his own hand.
"Sherlock of course not, surely there was more, debt maybe, or family troubles?" John suggested in his softest voice. He knew that Sherlock needed someone, the comfort of another man, or he wouldn't be here with the very man he had pledged to avoid forever.
"He was happy John, he was so happy, I don't know what happened, I don't know what I did..." Sherlock cut himself off, sniffling agressivley and wiping his fist at his eyes, as if trying to hide the tears that were already falling. John took a step forward to try to comfort him but Sherlock just held up a hand to stop him.
"Don't...don't come near me." he insisted in a broken voice, inhaling as much deadly smoke as he could before exhaling through his lips.
"I'm not going to hurt you again Sherlock, that was one of the worst mistakes of my life, a day hasn't gone by since that I haven't regretted everything I've ever done to you." John assured.
"I don't want your excuses, God, I don't even want you. I don't know why I'm here; I don't know why I even bothered telling you. It's good news to you, isn't it? You wanted to hear this." Sherlock snapped.
"No Sherlock, to love your pain is to be selfish; it's to not love you at all." John insisted flatly.
"And yet you struggle to keep a smile off of your face." Sherlock growled, shaking his head in silent exasperation.
"I mean you no harm Sherlock, never again. But I want to make up, not even romantically, not even friendly; I just want you to have a lasting impression me, one that doesn't make you cringe. I want to prove to you that I'm only human." John pleaded.
"And what do you suggest? Dinner? Or just crawling through my window at two o'clock to try to prove how human you really are? You disgust me Dr. Watson." Sherlock snapped with the wave of a pale hand.
"Then why did you come here?" John demanded loudly.
"I don't know!" Sherlock exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air in anger and turning towards the door.
"Sherlock please, just...Sherlock!" John called helplessly, but he had already slipped out of the door, dashing down the hallway and leaving his cigarette smoking on the floor. John stood helplessly in the hallway, staring down past the desk where Sherlock disappeared, and anchor in his heart that weighted on him with undeniable defeat. So Sherlock would never come back to him, despite all that he was doing, despite Victor's 'tragic' loss? But why would he come here, why would he bother if he didn't crave some sort of satisfaction from the man whose love would never waver? It was love, there had to be some, buried deep in his steel trap of a heart, he had to have some emotions that still lingered within his soul, yearning for John, despite all the harm he had caused him. Oh but how, how would he summon Sherlock for one last date, one last meeting, if Sherlock was too scared to even let him come near? Oh that man, that beautiful man, he had absolutely what was going on in his heart, did he? No idea whatsoever. 

It was just the two of them, John and Sherlock, sitting together who knows were, sprawled out in some field of flowers under the bluest sky, not a cloud dotting the horizon as they lay tangled in each other's arms, their skin getting tickled by the blades of grass and their lips brushing over each other's every so often, just to be sure that the other one was still present. Oh and it was beautiful, the only thing more beautiful than the field surrounding them was the man next to him, laying in a small patch of the most beautiful wild flowers, the sunlight playing over his face and his beautiful pale skin in a way that made John's heart leap. It wasn't so much the presence of the man, more so the feeling of security, and of love. John loved this moment because he felt in his heart that Sherlock loved it as well, it was nothing but the reassurance of their love's restoration that plastered that smile onto his face. He knew then, as Sherlock lay carelessly in his arms, that nothing more could separate them, nothing more would even dare. Sherlock was his, and only his, for the rest of their long lives. 

 John ordered his usual medium roast coffee at the shop that morning and found a seat close to the back. However he kept a trained eye on the crowd, trying to make sure Sherlock Holmes didn't slip in and out without his knowing. So maybe this was a bit obsessive, or even an invasion of personal space, but john knew that he had to see Sherlock. It had been nearly a week since the man's appearance at the doctor's office, and no word or sight has been seen of him since that day. John was quite sure that he was in mourning, probably planning Victor's funeral or arranging his own little speech as the boyfriend of the deceased, and yet John saw nothing of it in the papers. Usually there was an obituary, or even a mention of the date and time, and despite John's constant scanning of the papers he found nothing that would lead him to any conclusions. It seemed as though Sherlock wanted to keep the funeral small, if there was even a funeral at all. Victor may have gotten cremated, and it brought hoy to John's heart to think of that wretched man getting burnt to ashes and then stuffed in a pathetic urn as a mantle decoration. It was what he deserved, it was what was rightfully his, death and dominance, he ought to learn his place. John finally spotted Sherlock among the crowd, with his long trench coat pulled over his shoulders despite the warmth, bustling through the line with a look of pure exhaustion on his face. John sighed in relief, well, at least he didn't follow Victor's supposed path. He waited until he was sure that Sherlock had gotten his coffee, and then carefully he got to his feet, walking through the crowd and tapping him lightly on the shoulder. Sherlock spun around hysterically, giving a yelp of surprise when he saw that it was John standing before him.