TARGET [Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction]

Chapter 17 : Ticking clock

It felt like an eternity of waiting, just listening to the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his head between his ragged breaths, but soon the footsteps came again. For the past three hours Tom had isolated himself away from existence in the hope that he would find peace, and safety, hidden beneath his bed covers. However, his isolation didn't last long before his mind started to play games with him, and like the regular ticking of a well-oiled clock, panic soon followed. Every heartbeat he heard as a footstep of an attacker coming closer, walking outside in the corridor, creeping into his bedroom, pacing around the bed, waiting to strike. Every noise became his enemy, in the same instance that he heard every breath he took as the drawing of a gun, the cocking of a firing pin, the gentle squeezing of the trigger.

Is this what insanity feels like, Tom asked himself for the hundredth time as he gulped in air once more, after failing to hold his breath any longer than a minute. To lose the line between nightmare and reality? No matter how many times he tried to deny it, still his mind kept drawing him back into this blind panic which he wanted nothing more than to escape from. He didn't want to close his eyes, not ever again, for fear he'd never open them again. He didn't want to lie here helpless, hidden by only a few layers of material, trapped by his emotions, but he had no choice. Tom was being held a prisoner by his own mind.

Eventually, when the pain inside him became too much, he grasped the covers flinging them off him as he let out a silent scream of frustration, before clutching at his head, moaning and whimpering like a tortured animal. He hadn't eaten for over 12 hours now and he could barely stop himself from shaking. He couldn't take it any longer, being cooped up inside, not knowing what was going on in the outside world after everything that had taken place. He was a hunted man, and it would only be a matter of time before the inevitable happened. But the question was, who would come to kill him?

However, Luke was oblivious to the true extent of Tom's turmoil as he waited for the kettle to boil, glancing across at the clock on the wall, deep in thought. It had been several hours since Luke had left Tom, but every time he crept to the end of the corridor to listen, it was silence. He had enquired with the policeman positioned near there, asking if he had heard anything but he just shook his head. Perhaps he was just sleeping, Luke thought as he poured the water into the cup to make a fresh cup of coffee, also pouring a tea to take in to Tom. It was only now that Luke was finally getting a little break from the manic workload of having to deal with all the press that kept hounding him for information about what was happening. The whole world wanted to know what was going on, all their attention focused on Tom and the manhunt, trying to find his assassin.

Once Luke had made sure Tom was safe in his room and that the police around the house were set up, he took his car, along with Toms electrical possessions, back to his flat. Before he even had chance to step out of his car, press surrounded him, hounding him with questions, all concerned for Toms safety, but not for Luke's as they almost crushed him. He wrestled himself through his flat door, slamming it shut firmly behind him, refusing to answer any of their questions, regardless of how impatient they got at him. Dumping Tom's stuff in his spare room, Luke quickly set to work writing up a statement to release to the press on Tom's behalf, hopefully buying them both a bit more time. His mobile kept ringing constantly but he didn't dare answer it as he finished typing the final few sentences of the statement before hitting send, forwarding it to the relevant parties for them to publish it.

After grabbing a bag and stuffing as many clothes in as he could, Luke headed straight for the door again, but stopped when he heard the house phone ringing. "Yeah?", Luke answered as he continued around the house, picking up more things to take with him, stuffing them into his bag. "Got your email. It's just been published. How are you holding up? Need help?", the voice on the other end replied, which Luke recognised immediately as his manager. "I can manage", Luke grunted as he hauled his heavy bag down the stairs, attempting to balance everything in his overcrowded arms. "Mmm. I can tell when you're lying. How's he holding up?", he asked as Luke dropped his bags by the door, wiping away the sweat from his forehead.