Elisaherm

He’d set the apartment on fire. He hadn’t meant to. Well, that was a lie, he had meant to do it, but he hadn’t really thought about it much beforehand. He’d just felt a deep, burning rage start in him that could only be quenched by fire and then his hands had just started working of their own accord and then Jim’s clothes were burning and then he was sitting in an armchair, waiting for Jim to come home. He knew he was being monitored, he knew Jim knew the second he started the fire, he knew it was only a matter of time before he came in and he really didn’t care what the consequences were, at this point. It

20 hostages. SIG Sauer P226 used. One set of fingerprints. No security camera footage. It wasn’t John’s gun, though. His fingerprints. Not his gun. His grocery store. Not his crime. They were calling it PTSD. Saying he snapped and released all of his stored up violent energy. Happened to veterans. Emotionally fragile. Easily breakable. But John was not easily breakable. He wouldn’t do this, all of this evidence may have pointed to him, but he didn’t do it. 20 hostages. SIG Sauer P226 used. Why didn’t any of them run? One shot for each, the killer wasn’t wasteful, each carefully aimed and placed to be fatal

Jealousy. That white hot little snake that slithered into his stomach and nested there, occasionally digging venom dripping fangs into his skin as a reminder of its existence. He’d started this because he was jealous. Not jealous of Sherlock, not jealous of John, but jealous of both of them. Jealous of that closeness they had, that relationship. Because it didn’t matter if John’s love was unrequited—and oh, Sherly knew what he was doing to him, the man would have had to be an idiot not to see the way John looked at him—they still had that closeness, that easy way about them that was obvious in their every interac

The gun was cold in his hands. Cold, heavy, sleek, and above all, guilty. It was a nice gun, new, and he had the feeling that had never been fired before. This thought made him distinctly uneasy, for some reason. His hands were still tied by the zip tie, forcing him to hold the gun with both hands. The two together made it hard to move agilely and he knew he didn’t have a chance of turning the gun on the man behind him before he was shot down. So he kept it trained on the ground, his grip tight. He didn’t look nervous or anxious, wasn’t shaking, his military training having prepared him for things that weren’t quite th