White Noise

Overpowering The Competition

John stared lovingly up at the building in front of him, wishing beyond wishes that he could just take one last look upon Sherlock, should he still be there. He knew that he couldn't, he knew that he wasn't allowed to lest he want the police to show up and arrest him for stalking his ex, however there was that need, that sense of urgency that simply wouldn't be erased with common sense. John was feeling a burning passion inside of him, the type of passion he so often felt when thinking about that beautiful Sherlock Holmes, and yet now it was coupled with impossibility, a feeling he despised, especially when it was paired with something he so desired. The sidewalk's crowd was so dense that he was sure no one would notice a strange man climbing up a fire escape, once he got up to the third or fourth flight of stairs he was sure that he could get some sort of security from the onlookers below. Besides, they would all be so busy with making sure they didn't step on the back of anyone's feet to bother with the strange man clambering up the metal stairs. Could he do it? Well, of course he could, the real question was should he. Obviously nothing good would come from his watching Sherlock once more, especially after what happened the last time. If Sherlock was there, what would he think? What could he only think? That John was there to finish what he had started, that he was there to have Sherlock one last time. It was a terrible thought but he knew that it was the only one that made sense, Sherlock would never believe the truth, that he just wanted to lay eyes on him once again, that he only wanted to see what he had lost to further the stab wound in his heart. The truth was almost too pathetic to believe, but then again that's what John's life had amounted to, right? Pathetic. Depressing. Miserable. So what was one more wound, what was one more felony? Might as well just get it over with, because he had nothing to lose anymore. Not when he had lost everything just a couple of nights before. So in an act of obvious self-destruction, John grabbed his new charger and his phone and threw them into the open sunroof of his car, not wanting to burden himself with the vibrations and notifications of Mary's text alerts. He looked around a little bit; making sure the crowd was thick on the populated side before racing over the street and sneaking across the sidewalk to where the fire escape hung so conveniently over the sidewalk. In an act he had done many times before John jumped up to reach it, wincing as the metal hinges groaned loudly with years of rust and aging, however no one looked, no one cared. He scampered up just in time to pull it back up for an approaching pedestrian, staying still right above their head as they walked carelessly by. John then continued his climb, scaling a couple of floors at a time without too much trouble, his feet rising and falling so effortlessly up these rickety metal steps. When he finally got to the top he looked down at the sidewalk below, at all the people who would never know they were being watched, and sighed triumphantly. He knew that this was wrong, incredibly wrong, and very stalkerish, however he had to; he had to see Sherlock or the evidence of Sherlock just once more in his life to be satisfied. He couldn't leave that apartment on such bad terms, not when he couldn't even take a last look around at the disgusting state Sherlock had plunged it into with his residence. John took a deep breath before creeping along the catwalk, finally coming upon the window he knew to belong to Sherlock, and peering very nervously inside. It was empty, as expected, the lights were off and the door was shut, except John noticed something rather peculiar, something almost too convenient. The window was open. Not much, at least not enough for Sherlock to notice, but just enough so that he could slide his fingernails under the brief slit and push the window up enough so that he could get his body to squeeze through. Well, if no one was home, why not, right? John clambered inside, falling to the floor with a silent squeal of pain, and sitting upright on the dirty carpet. The lights were off yet the sunlight shining through the window was enough to illuminate the pig sty, and yet it was beautiful, the most beautiful room John had ever seen. He got to his feet slowly, making his way around the room with careful feet, very aware of the feeling of emptiness the dim room had to offer. It was reminding him constantly that its inhabitant wanted nothing more to do with him. It was taunting him with its availability that John could no longer enter except in secret, the place where he could take refuge from his terrible, grief stricken lifestyle, where he could escape his wife and his life and live in an environment of love and carelessness. His own blood still littered the carpet from where he had stood when he had arrived with bleeding feet; it was obvious that someone had tried to remove it, however, because the area surrounding the deep crimson was cleaned to a state of whiteness that, when compared to the rest of the unwashed carpet, almost gleamed like new. Obviously Mrs. Hudson had been in to help out, Sherlock might not have been able to function for a while, he had probably been in a state of shock, in disgusted paranoia for a day or two, trying to process what had happened to him and why it would happen. John winced with the thought, with the very idea that his name and existence would leave a bad taste in Sherlock's mouth, that he had been the very one to ruin Sherlock's life for good. How is it that he managed to turn everyone against him? Mary hated him, Rosie hated him but probably didn't know it yet, Mrs. Turner hates him, his parents hate him, Mrs. Hudson hates him, everyone that knew him as a human being has seen the deep, dark, rotten core hidden behind his mask of normality. But it wasn't like he wasn't aware of it, oh no, trust me when I say John knew very well of his own imperfections. He managed to hate himself as well. John opened the drawer of Sherlock's dresser, running his hands over the freshly washed and folded shirts, no doubt Mrs. Hudson's doing, when he heard the undeniable sounds of approaching footsteps. John's blood ran cold, suddenly seeing a prison sentence before him, and hastily tried to close the drawer, scrambling for the window when he heard the keys clicking in the door. John was just prying the window back open when it was too late, the door swung carelessly open, and John froze, hearing a gasp, a relatively unrecognizable gasp. He turned for a moment, hearing nothing but silence, and saw the face of the devil staring back at him. Victor was wearing what looked to be a suit and tie, as if he were on his way to a very important business meeting or something, and why he should be arriving to Sherlock's apartment alone was definitely beyond John, and yet it was convenient...terribly convenient. The only factor in this equation that was messing up the solution was in his grasp, finally alone together, finally face to face. Obviously Victor knew who he was, because as he stared his eyes flashed with recognition, displaying a type of anger that one only witnesses once or twice in a life time. His nostrils flared and his beautiful face was contorted in rage, and yet John could only smile, he could only thank God that he had this opportunity. Victor was beautiful, the pictures did him almost no justice, and John was nearly taken aback by the natural and collateral beauty radiated off of this hunk of man, however he was nothing compared to the beauty of Sherlock Holmes, and it was almost too perfect for the two most attractive men on this earth to be in each other's arms. John felt it to, that anger, that resentment, and suddenly it was all too easy. It was all planned out for him, a road map to the perfect solution, and it was right in front of him. No words were exchanged, they really didn't have to be, it was all just quick, silent, and powerful. John turned from the window and Victor closed the door, and they stared each other down with the power and superiority that they both wanted their opponent to fear. John, of course, wasn't too optimistic on his side, they were both fueled by the power of love, and by the power of hatred and of vengeance, however John had one factor that Victor didn't have, despite his bulging muscles and his six foot stature, Victor simply wasn't insane. And John was on him, he attacked first, going in for the eyes immediately, his claws gnashed and his feet flying. He jumped onto Victor very catlike, grabbing the sides of his face and wrapping his legs around his abdomen, clawing at his closed eye lids with nails that hadn't been trimmed in ages. However Victor shook him off, a little bit too easily, and no real damage had been done. Victor responded by grabbing John by the neck and tossing him across the room, and John had a brief memory of Mary telling him to take it easy and be careful as he smacked his head, right on the previous soft spot, right on the window frame with a painful smack. The drumbeat was back in his head, the ever so constant reminder of just what he was fighting for and just what he was losing, and suddenly he sprang back into action. This time he went for Victor's face, punching as fiercely as he could at Victor's perfectly structured nose. The man simply ducked, and sucker punched John right in the stomach, leaving him stumbling away and gasping for air. Victor was an experienced fighter it would seem, because every attack John made he simply dodged and counter attacked, and soon John was barely keeping himself upright, his mouth bloodied and his eye swollen, and yet he swung his fists confidently, ready to keep going. Victor was very unaffected; he kept that smile on his face, maintained that confident aura, and over all just daunted John with his positivity. And yet John didn't care, he didn't care if he died at the hands of this brute, it would be for Sherlock, it would be for love, and what better a motive? So he attacked again, this time diving at Victor's legs with a new burst of strength, somehow managing to take the idiotic oaf down. Victor tumbled to the ground with a gasp, smacking his head painfully off the bedpost, and rolling in the carpet for a dazed second, clutching at the side of his forehead in pain while John organized himself, trying to find just the right angle... John scurried around the back of Victor, propping his head up in would be carefulness, and running his fingers through his brown hair, slick and sticky with product. Victor swatted at him in agony, but he was lost, he couldn't even open his eyes, swaying on the spot while John tried to hold him upright. Oh this was almost too easy, this was almost sad. For a moment they stared at each other, one of John's hands creeping towards Victor's neck and the other playing gently through his hair, as if trying to calm him. Victor was muttering things with a swollen tongue, his head shaking slightly and his limbs weak. John shushed him softly, patting his shoulder and leaning down to kiss his forehead. It was almost a shame, to waste such a beautiful man, and yet as long as he lived, Sherlock would never come back. As long as Victor was alive, Sherlock would always pick him over John. So it had to be done, there was no alternative and no going back. So John grabbed hold of Victor's tie, a nice checkered tie, and spun it around the back of his neck, carefully, so that the knot was facing him nice and evenly while the man groaned and yelped in pain. John cleared his throat, shook out his arms a little bit, and put both hands on the checkered pattern, running his fingers over the silky fabric in satisfaction. So this was it. In a great heave he yanked the tie upwards, getting slowly to his feet with the effort of maintaining the tension, pulling the checkered pattern so tightly over Victor's throat that all he could do was squeal with a voice he couldn't produce, waving his arms helplessly and trying to wiggle out of John's grasp. Except he couldn't, he was defeated, dead before he stopped squirming, because John had the upper hand, and he wasn't letting go. John pulled the tie tighter still, trying to squeeze all of the life out of Victor nice and effortlessly, nice and efficiently. Oh how good it felt to do this, John might've even laughed if he wasn't using up so much of his energy yanking on this stupid tie. Slowly Victor started to still, his limbs getting limp and his eyes drooping shut. And John decided that yes, he was most likely dead and so he let the body fall to the ground, shaking out his strained arms once more and giving a hoot of triumph. He had done it, he had actually done it, the impossible was possible it would seem. Victor was dead, by the avenging hand of John Watson, and now Sherlock was free, he was unburdened by the heart of an inferior man; he was purely John's now.

     It was cleaning up this mess that was the issue. As satisfying as it was to lay on the disgusting carpet next to Victor's body and stare at his cold, lifeless corpse John knew that if anyone walked in he would most certainly be arrested. Attacking someone, breaking and entering, alright, those were just little crimes. But murder? He was going to pay for this one, that is if he got caught. So of course he had to ensure that didn't happen, and so as much as he enjoyed stroking his fingers gently over Victor's smooth face, or running his hands through his hair, he knew that he had work to do. It was funny; really, John liked Victor a lot more when he was dead, when he knew that he wouldn't be a problem any longer. He could appreciate Victor now that he wasn't a human but a thing a corpse, a cadaver, something you simply burry in the ground and forget about, or throw in the fires and use as a decoration. There was no love, there was no sympathy, there was no aggression in a lump of freshly immobilized meat. And yet something had to be done with it, something more than just staring. So John got to his feet, wiping his bloodied mouth on his shirt and limping over to the door. He opened up the hall door carefully, knowing that he could never take Victor's body out of the fire escpae without anyone noticing. Mrs. Hudson was his main concern, obviously his mere presence, corpse or no corpse, would cause her to call the cops. And then they would come and investigate, and find not only his means of entry but also his recently murdered victim, and Sherlock would never be able to love him if he was in jail. So he had to careful. It was a sneaky operation, caused mainly by luck. John decided to pretend that Victor was simply passed out, drinking was his excuse, and so he slung the man's arm over his shoulder and heaved him to what would've been his feet if he still needed to use them. John then carried him off down the hallway, trying to look drunk himself, swaying and jabbing at Victor's body occasionally just to put on a show. There was no one in the hallway, thank God, and yet it was still kind of funny to smack Victor in the ribs, especially since now he could do nothing about it. It was odd, really, that life could be exhausted by a man and he would still leave his empty shell. And yet, it was just as intact as it was when was alive, save for a crushed throat and all of that. It simply wasn't moving, the heart wasn't beating, the lungs weren't inflating, but there really was no difference, other than he was a lot quieter. John snuck through the main entry by a stroke of dumb luck, it just so happened that the troll wasn't under the bridge, so he had escaped any confrontation with Mrs. Hudson and her law abiding conscience. John felt around in Victor's pockets for a car key while the front desk remained unmanned, and finally he found some sort of remote clicker buried in Victor's jacket pocket. The little weasel was wearing a suit, why on earth was he dressed up so nice? And why was he at Sherlock's, if not specifically to confront John? Was Sherlock supposed to be here, was he supposed to come pick him up? And if so, where was Sherlock now? John didn't have time for so many questions, in fact he barely had time for what he was doing right now, because the street was filled with people, all mingling this way and that, walking with their cell phones or listening to music or staring blankly in front of themselves with large shopping bags at their sides. The larger the crowd, the less he'll be noticed, this was good. So John stumbled out, laughing like a drunkard and swaying with Victor's body draped around him like a lifeless doll, laughing and clicking the key numerous times. The beeping led him, of course, to the nicest car in the street, some sort of Jaguar convertible with a sleek red design. John hated Victor; he despised him, why did such a man get a beautiful face and body, a beautiful boyfriend, and now a beautiful car? Why didn't John get all of this, what made Victor so deserving? Or well, he didn't have to worry about Victor much longer it would seem.
"Come on Victor, get into the car. It's alright, I'm driving." John assured with a laugh, opening up the passenger's seat and pushing Victor's lifeless body into a sitting position, repositioning his arms so that it looked like he was just chilling, John even buckled his seatbelt, for good measure. John then got into the driver's seat, smiling to himself and running his hands over the custom leather steering wheel, revving the engine a couple of times and feeling so powerful, so invincible. He had killed the only man who had ever stood in his way, and now nothing remains of that sad shell of a man except the constant reminder that he had been bested, defeated, destroyed.