Three Is Company

The Mad Dog Gets Loose

John POV: The moment John recognized the stillness he knew that he was in trouble. Sherlock's body fell into that predictable slump; it slackened and lost its life for just that moment, that transition. He hesitated, stumbling forwards and backwards as if trying to let his body decide which direction it wanted to go. It felt unlikely that Irene would be emerging, although John had never been witness to Sherlock changing directly into Victor. There always seemed to be a progression, a natural way of things. It would take a lot of anger to cause Victor sprout directly, though it would seem as if anger was in overabundance in both of their chests. Sherlock's life was coming crashing down upon him, his world was taking a complete one eighty spin and heading off in the wrong direction. All that he understood, all that he claimed to understand, was suddenly discredited. How could he handle this, if not with his necessary dose of Victor Trevor? In some ways this was a good thing, as Victor was the only personality that understood the nature of the situation. In other ways this was catastrophic. For while Victor was self aware, he was also the only one with a body count. Sherlock began to come back to life, slowly. As usual it took a while for the personality to take the reins, as if somewhere in their brain there was a formal passing off. Sherlock was spurned from the controls; he was banished to some other part of the head while someone much more irrational took over. Sherlock was deemed unfit for handling a situation such as this. He wasn't ready to face what reality had in store. The fingers twitched, the joints began to flex, and finally Sherlock's neck began to roll, his head went back and forth along his back, staring into the sky for a moment as his eyes struggled to open. A giggle emerged from his throat, an ironic laugh, before finally his neck steadied his head and stared wide eyed in John's direction. John bit his lip; trying to remain calm all the while his feet were already ready to run. His legs were tingling with fight or flight; though his body was preaching that he go with the latter. Despite his victory over Musgrave earlier, Victor would not be so hard to kick down. Victor had been rational before, he had been professional, though as John caught those gleaming eyes, those which seemed to change to a deep, threatening blue, he realized what it was like to be prey. He realized what a mouse must feel like at the moment the cat's claws come out.
"Ironic, Mr. Watson, that it's you who's against me tonight." Victor whispered. His voice was low and calm, though it was laced with poison. Unassuming but deadly.
"I'm not against you, you know that." John whispered. "I'm doing what's best. I'm telling him the truth."
"I appreciate that, I really do." Victor muttered, cracking his bloodstained knuckles and reflecting the moonlight off of his barred teeth. "Though like any other dog, I am not programmed to accept morals. Not accustomed to the whole story. My job, as you know, is to defend what Sherlock deems unacceptable. My job is to protect."
"You don't have to protect against me." John insisted. "You know me."
"So does Sherlock." Victor whispered. "But tonight, we both see you as a threat."
"You're going to kill me?" John wondered, his nerves suddenly exploding underneath him while his mind insisted he hold his ground. For some reason he didn't comprehend the exact situation he was in. No matter how irrational Victor seemed to be there appeared to be an off chance that he could be swayed in either direction. Instead of running John merely jumped, leaping about a foot off the ground as if someone had lit a fire underneath his feet. It was a poor decision. He would've needed that head start.
"I'm going to try." Victor admitted. John nodded, he tried to comprehend, tried to process. He nodded again. He made eye contact one more time. And then he bolted. There was nowhere to run around here, only open woods, and it would seem that the only rational escape would be the car. Unfortunately it was Victor who was closer to the car, and if John made an immediate dash he would be intercepted or even beaten, perhaps given the same treatment as the stranger in the backseat. Would his body be found on top of that body? Would he be in the trunk, or lying in the ditch? John couldn't wait to find out. He didn't want to know the feel of that knife, the one that Victor undoubtedly wielded. He turned the opposite direction, taking off down the side of the road with the intention of turning back when Victor got a safe distance away from the car. John assumed that he'd have the speed and stamina to outrun the man and keep ahead, though perhaps cardiovascular endurance changed from personality to personality. Judging entirely by the fact that he could hear Victor laughing behind him, laughing with breath that was to spare, he was beginning to worry that Sherlock's lean and aerodynamic body had finally fallen into the correct hands. With such enthusiasm Victor may very well catch up with lethal potential. John's feet were slapping the pavement almost pathetically. If he was trying to hide from anyone his awkward form would do him no good. His football days were long over, and while he used to be able to sprint the length of the field he now found it difficult to keep this pace for over one hundred meters. John wasted some time allowing himself to look back, throwing off his momentum for the quick sake of bending his neck and catching a glimpse of the menacing figure stalking his every move. The lightning bolt of pure rage, the snarling, laughing creature that was moving with inhuman speed. There was no way Sherlock Holmes would be able to move so quickly, but when propelled by different strings he seemed to be able to glide through the air indefinitely. He was a predator, a natural born killer. And yet from this angle he just looked like Sherlock. Without giving himself the moment to study the eyes and expression it almost felt that they were in his backyard throwing baseballs, just like when they were children. In those days John always won. Now, however, he wasn't so sure he'd stay ahead.