Chapter 1- Suspicions
John remembers the first time it happened. He had just come home from a long shift at the surgery. Upon walking into 221B he had been shocked to find Sherlock hovering over a messily cut up dead bird, a bloody scalpel in hand. Sherlock hadn't even registered John walking through the door. He just kept staring at the bird, a sort of cold smirk on his face. It made John uneasy.
"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John asked nervously. Sherlock then looked up and, as quick as lightening, the cold look was replaced by the Sherlock equivalent of a reassuring smile.
"Just an experiment, John." He replied, as he packed up the so-called "experiment".
If John had not been so tired, he might have observed that Sherlock looked too cheery, had too much of a bounce to his step, as he went to dispose of the remains of the dead bird, but he didn't. He dismissed the event as just another of his flatmate's insane experiments and went to bed.
What John didn't know, was that this was the start of something that would change both of their lives forever.
The second time it happened, John had just awoken from a particularly bad nightmare. He had gone downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. However, instead of finding his flatmate poring over some case files (which was what he had expected), his face shriveled in disgust as he found the detective standing over a mutilated cat, the same bloody scalpel in hand.
Unlike the bird, these cuts were cleaner, more surgical. As unsettling as it was, the grisly scene wasn't what scared John. What scared him was the twisted smile that Sherlock had on his face, and how his sharp gaze was surveying the cat with what looked like…pride?
John rubbed his bleary eyes, willing what lay in front of him to disappear. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock was still standing there looking insane as ever. Having still not been noticed, John quickly went back upstairs, refusing to believe what he had just seen. The pieces were there, but John couldn't put them together.
He didn't want to.
The third time, John couldn't ignore it. He had come back to 221B after yet another unsuccessful date and what he walked in on was the last thing he was in the mood for. John was no stranger to body parts being displayed in the flat, but that didn't mean he had to like it. So, when he took in the sight of the disembodied head that was currently decorating their kitchen table, he was rightfully frustrated.
Well, at least he had the decency to put it on a plate first… John thought bitterly. Just then, Sherlock walked in.
"Date didn't go so well, I presume?" Sherlock said casually, an infuriating smirk on his face. John gave an exasperated sigh and gestured toward the head.
"Sherlock, what the hell is this?" John said, purposely avoiding the subject of his date.
"John, I recognize that you may not be a master of deduction, but surely even you could-"
"I mean," John said, cutting Sherlock off, "what is it doing here?"
"Do you recall my experiment on the coagulation of saliva after death? Well, I wanted to re-test my hypothesis with the assistance of a few new variables." Sherlock replied. John didn't bother with a response and instead just huffed and turned to go upstairs to bed.
"Oh, and John? We're out of milk." Sherlock said. John turned back around.
"And? What do you want me to do about it?" John asked, annoyed.
"Go and pick some up, obviously."
"Why can't you do it?"
Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow. John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, repeating the now familiar mantra of I will not punch my flatmate over and over again. Just as he was about to tell Sherlock to get his own damn milk, John considered his own ritual of morning tea and how moody he would be without it, so he left for the Tesco, colourful curse words being muttered under his breath.
Why do I keep doing this? he wondered on the taxi ride there. John knew the exact answer to that question, but refused to dwell on his not-so-platonic feelings for his flatmate, knowing that it would accomplish nothing but heartbreak. He banished this train of thought as he exited the taxi and entered the Tesco.
As he was scanning the different kinds of milk, John felt someone walk into him.
"I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking! Completely my fault- oh, hello John!" Molly said, picking up the groceries she had dropped. John smiled and bent down to help.
"No problem Molly, how are things?" John asked politely.
"It's been alright, I've been working crazy hours lately. How about you?" she replied.
"It's been fine. We haven't had a case in a while, so Sherlock has been driving me mad with his boredom and his experiments on those body parts you gave him." John said, chuckling. Molly tilted her head and regarded him with a confused expression.
"John, I haven't given Sherlock body parts for over a month…" Molly said curiously. John's whole body tensed up and all of the disturbing scenes he had witnessed over the last couple of weeks came rushing into to the forefront of his mind. He forced a smile onto his face.
"Oh, he must have had some stored in the freezer I suppose." John said. Molly smiled in return.
As they parted ways, John's mind was reeling. He opted to walk home, leg be damned. He desperately needed to think. Questions whirled around and crashed into each other inside his head. Were Sherlock's experiments purely scientific? Was the highly-functioning sociopath label just a façade? Was his best friend really the man that he thought he was? If Molly didn't give him the body parts, where was he getting them?
More importantly, and John shuddered to think it, who did they once belong to?
Author's Note: I hope this was alright, the idea of psychopath Sherlock is kind of intriguing. I'm planning on making this a longer fic, which I usually don't do, so I'm a bit nervous. Reviews are really really appreciated, they set my mind at ease and give me some confidence so drop me a line :D btw, just to let you know, the title and rating may change!