John ignores the blood-stained knife sprawled out on the kitchen table, focusing on the scarf in his hands. The soft fabric nuzzles against his steady fingers, the blue stripes darting across the surface in flawless, straight lines. He lifts it close to his face. The faint scent of cigarette smoke and cologne nuzzles his nose. The expensive cloth hangs limp in his tightening grasp, allowing him to do whatever he pleases with it. His lungs draw in a deep breath of the smell, locking it into his brain. A tiny smile flickers across his lips before quivering and faltering. He shakes his head, his half-closed eyes opening to reveal full pools brimming over with the shade of oceans.
I told you not to get attached, his mind scolds him.
John pays no attention, unfolding and spreading out the scarf on the table. It's so long, stretching out enough to drape over the edge. He reins in a mouthful of smoke and tea, his attention falling upon the knife. His hand closes around the hilt, smooth with years of handling. He lifts it up to eye level. Soft rays of sunlight pierce through the thin curtains in the living room. They dance into the kitchen, reflecting off of the shining blade stained with splashes of dark red. The blood is fresh, still trickling down the metal towards his fingers. He swallows. His Adam's apple bobs up and down. His free hand tugs at the sleeve of his jumper, pulling it over the angry scratch marks twisted around his arm. A dull ache blooms within them with every movement, but it has gotten easier to ignore over the past few hours.
His fingers tighten around the hilt as John stares down at the scarf, exposed and stretched out in front of him. For a brief moment, he shuts down his mind to prevent any new ideas from sprouting. Before a thought can come barging through, he smears the side of the blade against the fabric. His teeth sink into his bottom lip. They dig into the soft flesh until it threatens to cave in underneath the sharp pressure. His thoughts quiver. He imagines that he is spreading jam across his warm toast in the early grips of the morning hours-very dark jam. The idea lightens the task, and before he knows it, he is finished. He admires his new masterpiece, his eyes tracing over the elegant twists and warm splatters of red. He takes a step backwards.
The slippery sole of his shoe slides on a wet spot on the floor. His heart jams into his ribs as his hands shoot out to grab the counter for balance. The sudden movement rips at the scratches on his arms. Pain erupts in the long wounds, eliciting a long, sharp hiss from his mouth. His fingers clench the worktop until the rough edge digs into his skin, threatening to rip into the flesh. He grits his teeth and waits for the sharp sting to ebb away until nothing remains but throbbing regret. If he had been faster, more careful, he would have gotten away without a scratch. I underestimated him, he realizes. He makes a mental note to acquire heavier sedatives.
His grip relaxes on the counter. He needs to leave before someone comes into the flat. Gentle hands reach out and fold the scarf into a neat square, careful not to upset the blood stained in the center. Tucking it inside a sandwich bag, he zips it shut and stuffs it into the pocket of his jacket. It's proof that he has completed his task. He remembers the knife and grabs it as well, taking it to the sink to clean off the blood. The handle squeaks in protest when he turns on the tap. The torrent of water floods his ears. He holds the blade underneath the thick flow and watches strings of red tangle with the colorless flood. The drain swallows down the strange mixture with eager gurgles, soaking in the evidence. Once satisfaction flickers through his chest, he turns off the sink. Clear droplets slide from the slippery blade, pummeling onto the floor. John snatches up a tea towel and rubs it over the knife with loving caresses. The weapon releases a squeak at his gentle ministrations.
His lips release a crooked grin, his wrinkles cracking from the shift of facial muscles.
=•=•=•=
Once the weapon and scarf are stowed away, John slides his hand into the pocket of his jeans. It rummages around in the walls of fabric until it curls around his phone. He pulls it out and pokes at the apps until he finds the camera mode.
"Picture time," he announces, stepping into the living room.
A breathless silence has draped itself over the flat, interrupted by the floorboards creaking underneath his feet. His eyes flicker to the shock of black curls peeking out from underneath a mountain of blankets on the couch. Some of the duvets have slid off of the motionless body, pooling on the carpet.
"Sherlock?" he calls. A grin plays on his mouth. He crosses the room in long strides, pausing in front of his flatmate. He can only see his closed eyelids, the rest of Sherlock's face hidden underneath the blankets. "C'mon, sleeping beauty," he says, reaching out towards him. "Lemme see your gorgeous face . . ." His fingers close around the covers and pull it back, only to see that the fabric is darkening with streams of red. With the sunlight casting its rays upon him, the detective's milky white skin appears even paler. Short, tan fingers spider along the dips of the collarbones. They travel higher in one, gentle stroke until they stop at a bloody slit marring his long, elegant throat.
"Yes, you're asleep, alright," John says, a breathless giggle bubbling up in his throat. He holds up the camera and zooms in on the motionless face, making sure to keep the bleeding neck in focus as well. "Get ready." He almost expects to feel the heavy glare of his flatmate as his finger taps the screen to take the picture. The shutter releases a quiet click before a white flash illuminates the room. "Well, I better leave now." He nods at the photograph in approval, a noise of pleasure escaping him. He tosses a glance towards Sherlock, and a small smile blossoms on his lips. A large hand reaches out to trace the shut eyelids, sliding down to cradle the side of his face. His thumb sweeps along the sharp cheekbone as he leans forward.
His lips pause near the detective's ear, his warm breath stirring the smaller wisps of hair. "You look beautiful like this," he whispers before pressing his mouth against the pallid cheek. The skin feels cool with traces of heat still curling around in the body. He pulls away, staring down at the face trapped in breathless sleep. "You know, people told me not to trust you," he says in a soft tone, careful not to break the web of tranquility woven around them with delicate threads. "But . . ." His head shakes, a tiny smile trembling on his face. He gazes at the detective with large eyes, a tender look laced inside the swirling pools. "It should've been the other way around." His eyes flicker to the slender watch embracing his wrist. Time to leave, he thinks. He drops his hand from the younger man's cheek. He sends off a text to Scotland Yard, informing them about a dead body in Sherlock's flat. Not my flat now, he thinks, leaning down to press a quick kiss to the detective's forehead.
"You should've never trusted me," John says. His fingers stroke the curls crackling with life, feeling their softness dragging across his skin for the last time. He hesitates, his attention dropping back to the slit in the elegant neck. "You know," he whispers, bending closer, "I'm not sorry." His mouth meets the thin line bubbling with blood, pressing against it. He allows threads of red to slip inside to meet his tongue. They curl around it and tease it with metallic tangs, staining it with copper. He pulls away and licks the spidery strings dripping from his lips, a smile gracing his face. He bestows one quick kiss to the tip of the detective's nose, leaving behind a small blossom of red. "I wish I was sorry," he says as he heads out of the flat. Thuds erupt from the staircase as he hurries down the steps. "But I'm not." Pausing at the exit, he glances down at his phone and scrolls through his list of contacts. In his mind, he can already hear the wailing of sirens.
He flips past the "D" names.
Flashes of blue and red.
Past the "F" names.
Breathless grins and the thrill of sweat splattering across trembling bodies.
Down the "Hs". He pauses at Mrs. Hudson's phone number. His thumb hovers over the delete button before he forces himself to squash it down. Moving on.
Secret smiles and shared laughter until their stomach muscles clench in protest.
Along the "Ks". He's getting closer.
"Just you and I."
The "L." He's close. He's so close.
"Just the two of us against the rest of the world."
He hits the "M." His eyes latch upon the name he wants, and he hits it just as the first wails of police sirens explode into his ears. His fingers pause on the keyboard as he tosses a glance up the stairs, where he knows a dead body lays. Do I really want this? he wonders, not for the first time. Is this what I really want? He remains still, rolling the thought around in his head.
The sirens are getting closer, their wailing scraping his eardrums.
With the words still clinging to his brain, he taps out a quick message, knowing there is no turning back now. He once had a home with Sherlock, but now it's no longer here. He could have spared Sherlock-he knows that. He knows that with every cell trapped in his being. He knew that as he was sneaking up behind the muttering detective, who was sprawled out on the sofa in complete trust and relaxation. He realized that as he pressed the knife into the long throat, gritting his teeth as Sherlock's hands clawed at his arms. For God's sake, the man who has-no, had-proclaimed himself as a bloody sociopath showed John his weaknesses and fears that were so human. It had been such a touching realization that John almost reconsidered murdering the detective. But this is his job. This has been his life for as long as he can remember. No one should be able to take over it. What else can he turn to? How can he abandon the thrill of sinking his knife into the deep confinements of a woman's chest? How can he leave his position after his boss has taken care of him for so many years? If he leaves this now, he has nowhere to go.
Sherlock, a tiny voice hisses in the back of his mind. You could've gone to Sherlock.
The blond squeezes his eyes shut, straining to strangle the memory of the lanky detective. No! he thinks. Sherlock can be banished to the deepest corners of his mind for all he cares. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone, gone, gone, gone. John sucks in a deep breath and glances down at his text waiting to be sent. He's dead, Jim, the screen reads. He stares down at the black words glaring up at him, marking the end of his time with the detective. It's no longer the two of them together-it's just him, alone in the world, with a long list of people to kill that increases with every step he takes.
He clicks send and twists open the flat door, only to be captured by a pair of liquid brown eyes, wide with anxiousness.
"Lestrade," John hisses, his muscles growing taut. He glances behind the older man, only to see his police car with the engine still running. The rest of Scotland Yard must not have come yet-he still has time.
The man blinks before confusion sinks deeper into his features. "John?" he says. "I came as fast as I coul-"
"Too fast," the blond replies, yanking out another knife from its hilt. "I'm sorry."
The Detective Inspector's mouth opens. The words are captured in his throat when John stabs his knife into the soft stomach. The blade sinks deep into the flesh before blood blossoms around the wound. The doctor watches Lestrade's face twist in pain and the wrinkles deepen. A choked gasp rips from his lips as he doubles over. He collapses onto his side, rivers of red staining his shirt and sinking into the rough pavement.
"John," he cries, a helpless tone embedded in his words. "I . . . I . . ."
"I'm sorry," John repeats. A wide, hollow feeling erupts in his chest and crushes his ribs.
A groan vibrates from the wounded man's lips. He tilts his head up to stare at John with glistening eyes rolling around in agony. "T-Trusted you," he hisses, layers of heavy betrayal weighing down his voice. "And then-" A tiny sob breaks his sentence.
John's teeth sink into his bottom lip. He stares down at his friend writhing around, his hands aching to press against the wound and wipe away the blood. How? he wonders. How can my hands heal one moment and kill the next?
"Please, John!"
He shakes his head. He isn't John. He isn't John. Say it, he orders himself. Say it! He squeezes his shut shut, his lungs reining in a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not the John you know," he whispers before taking a step away, and another, and another until he is running for his life, dashing through the winding alleys of London as fast as his feet can carry him. What life? he thinks. What life am I running for?
None, is the answer. None, none, none.
But perhaps, his mind whispers as John plunges into the dark shadows to shield his face. Perhaps that answer will change one day.
One day.