dirty little secret
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is in the public domain, but this incarnation belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I, however, am neither and therefore own nothing D:
Warnings: blood, dark imagery, serial killing
A/N: Beta'd by Sekhmet.
The call had come in the morning, when you were both still curled around each other in bed, giggling slightly at thoughts of what had happened earlier still dancing in your head, ears echoing the sounds and your blood singing in your veins, adrenalin still pumping through you.
The other man was murmuring in your ear, about predictions and estimates, telling you when Lestrade will call, what Sally will tell you when you arrive at the crime scene together, tired but with smiles on your faces (you already know what she will say, it's the same thing every time, along with the looks she gives you, such pitying looks that makes you want to cause her painpainpain) and how Anderson will make such a comment and how John will fight with himself to stay calm and to ignore him.
It is routine, after all. Everything in your life has become routine, a strange, twisted mutilation of the word that has been bent and broken to suit your everyday life.
When you arrive, it is exactly as you knew it would be. Lestrade is waiting inside the house for you; Anderson sneers and makes a fool of himself and Sally is standing ready for you at the police tape, with a sharp tongue, and blunt words.
You could tell him everything, right now, while Sherlock is prancing around the two dead bodies that are positioned so artfully in the middle of the room, both laid out perfectly to make it look as though it were yet another murder-suicide. After all, you do know exactly how it happened; you and the genius detective both do, the memory - of their begging, of the bright red streaks of blood on Sherlock's elegant pale hands, those so very talented hands that you love, the arterial spray splattered over his face, marring the perfection of his complexion and yet making him look more beautiful to you – is still so very fresh in your mind.
You could tell him exactly how they died, how the two of you had chosen your victims in such a way that no one would ever have guessed, how you had studied them for weeks to find out the faults in their relationships, watching them like fish in a glass bowl. You might tell him how the weapons were picked carefully, and how together you had designed in meticulous detail every little thing that would happen, from leaving Baker Street and breaking into their home, to how you would restrain the man as Sherlock delicately sliced her skin open. You could tell him how he had decorated her arms with such different and beautiful patterns, how he smashed through her skull with the wooden cricket bat, stolen from their spare room that was so filled with useless items. You could tell him how he smiled all the while, how he still smiled after he had tortured and killed the man's girlfriend.
You think about what would happen if you told him about everything that had happened, about all the other countless victims. How you have laughed as they screamed, how you love watching Sherlock work in the night and how you want him so much it hurts, when he is covered in blood and wearing that smile he reserves just for you, only ever for you.
The disgusted look you imagine clearly Lestrade's face amuses you briefly. Would you do it?
Would you tell him how much you enjoy watching the life fade from their bodies, how a shiver runs down your spine when their eyes dull? Maybe you would tell him how you would clutch each other afterwards, breathless and wide eyed, frantic with lust and -
And then, Sherlock leaps up from his place on the floor, his long limbs all feline elegance where there should be clumsiness, and the moment is shattered like a dropped mirror, never to be fixed, pieces scattered across the floor.
You follow his movements around the room as he talks about the victims and how clever the killer is (you know that he loves compliments, it's just like the narcissist that he is. It doesn't matter who gives them). He tells them everything about the dead couple and reveals the secrets that were figured out weeks in advance, feeding DI Lestrade lie after perfect lie, always twenty steps ahead of his dim little mind. You don't even have to try not to laugh anymore as he tells of the desperate, pathetic man who committed the heinous crime – and, of course there will be enough 'evidence' to prove it, so much that it doesn't matter that her ex-boyfriend will deny everything, will try to convince the police otherwise.
They always do.
It always fails.
Sherlock turns to walk away, having told the detectives everything they need to know, and you walk quickly to catch up with him, easily matching his long strides.
You will never tell anyone about this, about your dirty, dangerous little secret. No one outside your partnership would understand the darkness that is trying to consume you, that is lying in wait, just waiting for the minute when it can swallow you whole and pull you further and further in, dragging you down, like Alice down the rabbit hole.
And as you stride past Sally together, you spare her a glance, confident in your knowledge that she will never know how right she was about Sherlock Holmes, or how wrong she was about you.
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