Shadows of a Soul Already Sold

by dcfg21

Dark!John. AU, Non-canon. Extremely dark and violent. John Watson is harboring a terrible and dangerous secret from his flatmate. Jim Moriarty finds out and tries to use the knowledge to his advantage. John!Lock if you squint. WARNING. Graphic violence and dub-con. Bloodplay and blood!kink. If you have triggers, you've been warned.

A/N: WARNING. This fic contains graphic depictions of violence and some dub-con. Bloodplay, gunplay, Dark!John. And I mean Dark!John. If any of these may be possible triggers for you, you have been warned.

"Your text didn't allude to this amount of blood."

Lestrade stood up from the body and frowned. "You didn't ask. And where the bloody hell have you been, Sherlock? We've been here since half-six waiting for you. So glad you decided to condescend and join us." The detective inspector pulled off his bloody gloves with a huff and deposited them into a plastic bag and handed them off to the waiting officer.

"I was waiting on the results of an experiment back at Baker Street. Couldn't be helped," the tall man sniffed. "Besides, John's here. Isn't he?" Sherlock looked for the doctor. "Where is he? John?" he called.

Lestrade gestured off behind him. "He's over there. Give him a minute. He looked a little flushed. Don't blame him. Haven't seen anything this mangled in ages. Tough to stomach after a couple of weeks of thefts and domestics."

"I suppose," Sherlock murmured, reluctantly tearing his gaze from John to crouch and get a better a look at the mass on the floor.

The corpse had been beaten beyond recognition, a bloody web of lumpy cuts and contusions, the muscle and tissue beneath the skin so destroyed it was spilling out, oozing through every opening of broken skin it could find. Blood pooled from the body from head to toe, and the major bones of the arms and legs were savagely broken, sticking out in odd, misshapen angles. The eyes had been gouged out by blunt force (thumbs, possibly?), leaving only remnants of blood, tissue, and fluid in the empty sockets. The nose was flattened against what was left of the face, nearly severed, and Sherlock could see teeth and part of the jawbone through the hole of the nasal cavity. This was not an easy death.

Above him, Lestrade cleared his throat. "I've been informed the injuries are consistent with a severe beating, fists firsts, and then by something long and cylindrical. Baseball bat, possibly a pipe of some sort. Won't know for sure until we get it on the slab. If the damned thing doesn't fall apart before we can get it there. Bones in the neck are all crushed, and the tissue is pulverized. Head's hanging on by a thread. Literally. Wanted to get your take before we moved it."

Sherlock gave the corpse another once over, and then cast an aside glance over his shoulder to John, standing still and quiet, an expression of restrained calm on his features. His face was flushed to an unnatural shade of pink. Sherlock noted the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. It must be a difficult thing for his doctor's sensibilities, seeing someone like this. The body was in a terrible state, and even though he'd probably seen worse, he knew John found things like this hard to take. John was programmed for healing, despite his soldier's nature. He turned back to the body.

"You found him here? Naked?"

"Yep," was Lestrade's clipped reply.

"Are the clothes here?" He stood up, great coat swishing as he rose.

Lestrade pointed. "Over there. Nothing's been touched."

Sherlock's eyebrow quirked. "Are you quite certain of that?"

The DI gave him a sigh and an eye roll. "Don't worry, Sherlock. I haven't let Anderson anywhere near them."

"Good man," he said dryly as he moved to the pile of dirty clothing. He didn't look at Lestrade as he stretched out a hand. "Gloves."

Lestrade nodded and an officer placed a pair in Sherlock's waiting hand. He snapped them on and began to rifle through the mound of fabric.

He searched there for a minute or two, finally standing with a resolute huff. "Transient. Been riding the trains. Coal dust on his clothes. Still fresh. Must have recently arrived in London." His eyes moved across the interior of the warehouse and his lips turned down at the corners. "This looks random. This feels random."

"It's fucking sick," Lestrade snorted.

"True, but random, nonetheless. Send me the reports when they're finished and I'll take another look and see what you've missed." His eyes found John, still leaning against the back wall of the warehouse. Still flushed. Breathing still choppy. This has really put him off. "He doesn't look good," he directed at Lestrade. "I should take him home."

"Off you go, then," The DI said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

"That's not necessary," John said, raising his voice only enough to carry to Sherlock and Lestrade. "I can see myself home. You stay here. Finish your observations."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." John slowly nodded his head. "I'll be fine on my own."

"If you're sure…"

"I'm sure, Sherlock." John's voice was firm.

Lestrade stepped up. "Constable, take Dr. Watson back to Baker Street, please."

"Sure thing, guv." The young PC gestured to John. "Dr. Watson? This way, sir."

"John?" Sherlock's voice rose in question.

"I'll see you at home, then." John fell in step behind the PC. "Lestrade."

The DI smiled. "'Night, John." He turned back to Sherlock. "Okay, Sherlock, one more time."

He crouched down, not giving John a second glance. "Right, now look here—see how this is torn…"

OOOO

The door to his room had barely slammed shut before he flipped the latch, locking it against outside intrusion when his hand shoved down the waistband of his jeans. John grabbed hold of his aching cock, throwing his back against the door with a loud growl.

So long. So fucking long.

The smell of blood and gore was still in his nostrils and he breathed deeply, letting it coat his tongue. He tilted his head back and squeezed tighter, eliciting another moan. It had been so hard to stand there among them, feigning disgust, all the while the sight of the carnage making him harder and harder the longer he stared.

It was all starting to come back.

He pushed off from the door, stripping naked as he moved closer to the bed, the need for release overwhelming his senses. He only made it to the edge before collapsing to his knees on the floor, his hands groping in the bedside table for the items within. He pulled out a penknife and a bottle of lube, turning to sit with his back against the side of the mattress, legs splayed akimbo in front of him. The knife and bottle clattered to the floor and John groaned again, unable to do anything but wrap his hands around the straining length of his erection and pull.

He hadn't expected the depth of violence when Lestrade invited him to the crime scene, and he certainly hadn't expected to be so energized by it.

The slick puddles of blood, the mottled and bruised skin, and the evidence of inflicted pain and anguish were dizzying; his instant erection and resulting rush of adrenaline had almost unmade him. They thought him revolted by the sight. They couldn't have been more wrong.

It was breathtaking.

The dry rasp of his palm on his cock was hard and rough, but it wasn't enough to sate him. He needed more. Now.

He reached out for the bottle first, but pushed it aside, redirecting his fingers to the knife. It flicked open with a snick and he placed the tip on his thigh, pressing down slightly. He hissed in anticipation and his eyes fluttered closed as he dragged the blade across his skin, across a field of faint scars he no longer noticed. He waited a moment and then looked down, pleased to see the slow bleed. He dug deeper, the bite of the blade no more than a passing annoyance, needing what it brought to the surface.

He should have done this earlier. Months ago. But he was still wary of his flatmate and the ever-scrutinizing gaze of Sherlock Holmes, concerned that his blackness might be able to creep through and be observed. He knew Sherlock was unaware, but it didn't keep him from being thoroughly vigilant. Yes, he should have done this months ago. Maybe the ache would have faded from sharp to dull. Maybe.

The cut seeped, slow and methodical, sliding down in broken branches of crimson. He watched it for a moment, his lower lip catching between his teeth on a groan at the sight.

So beautiful.

His nostrils flared and he blew out the low breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tang of blood and sweat permeated the air and he threw his head back against the bed.

He dropped the knife and slid his hand through the blood on his thigh, bringing it back, slick and red and beautiful, to wrap around his cock. This time the slide was heaven and he groaned, deep and low, satisfaction flooding every nerve.

This. This is what he needed.

The hollow place in his chest grew and grew, until he thought it would swallow him whole from the inside. It blossomed out, dark and comforting, the sensation snaking out to his cock, and with each bloody pass of his fist, the crest began to build. That black tide, evil and seductive, was calling him now with a voice that had been silenced for too long. He could not resist. His other hand curled into the cut, his nails scoring into flesh, and the scent of his own blood in the air had him gasping as he fucked his hand.

It was right. It was perfect. Any lingering doubts vanished, replaced with the familiar rise of pleasure/pain at the base of his spine. The hand on his cock was hitting a relentless pace and his legs began to twitch in anticipation. He lifted the bloody hand from his thigh and sucked two fingers into his mouth on a long, groaning draw. The scent and taste of iron hit him in a rush and he came violently, his body convulsing as he spilled thick, white ropes into his hand and on the floor.

It had been far too long. Sherlock be damned.

OOOO

The flat was dark when he entered, save for the flickering of the telly in the sitting room, and the low volume of the programme filtered through the air.

Doctor Who. The tenth one.

Sherlock pulled off his scarf and coat at the threshold, tossing them onto the nearby chair.

"I didn't think you would still be up," he said in John's direction.

"Waited for you," was John's soft reply.

"That was unnecessary. But, thank you." John didn't look away from the television. "Are you alright, John? You seemed—"

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

He was lying, of course, but to what extent, he couldn't discern. Strange, but not unusual. In the months they had been living together, he'd become accustomed to the doctor's guarded nature. At first, it had unnerved him to no end, not being able to read John as easily as he read others, but as the months passed, it had grown on him. It made the taciturn doctor more of a puzzle, a trait that Sherlock had to admit, made him all the more interesting.

Deducing John Watson had become an excruciatingly slow game of chess with moves and countermoves aplenty. The fact that John seemed to be several moves ahead at all times was an exercise in frustration and irritation with perhaps a smidgen of awe (though Sherlock would never openly admit to that last one). The dichotomy was not lost on Sherlock; one could be both irritating and interesting at the same time. It was quite how he imagined himself to be and therefore allowed John the peculiarity. The doctor only revealed himself in small increments, each revelation more curious than the last, and it served to keep Sherlock's interest focused and heightened. The game, as it were, was on.

He could see by the set of John's shoulders that John was relaxed, but a hint of pink still flushed his normally tanned skin and his breathing was slowing down from an obvious state of fluster.

"Would you like tea?"

"No," John said, rising. "Since you're home, I think I'll head to bed."

"A good idea. Lestrade said he would email his reports in the morning."

John gave a noncommittal nod and began to head upstairs, but stopped short in front of Sherlock, looking momentarily dazed. Sherlock's brow furrowed as he watched the subtle changes in John's face, the almost imperceptible shift of muscle beneath skin as he stiffened.

"Your face is bleeding."

Sherlock snorted and shook his head, shifting on his feet as if to step back from John's sudden creep into his personal space. "Yes, well, I may have said something unkind to Anderson before I left. It was a lucky swing." He touched two fingers to the cut across his cheek and pulled them back, smeared with blood. "Must have opened up again. Damn."

Everything stopped in the flat. The tick of the clock, the sound of the telly, Sherlock's breathing. John's pupils flashed and blew wide as his thumb reached up and swiped blood from the cut in a slow, pronounced drag. Sherlock could only watch, his gaze frozen on the movement of John's hand as the doctor drew his thumb into his mouth and sucked it clean.

"John! Wh-what are you doing?"

Time returned to its normal drone as John stared at his thumb in mild curiosity, the glitter from his eyes gone, replaced with the softness of their previous state. His lids fluttered in quiet succession and his body gave a small sag as he slowly exhaled, the delicate hiss sounding like air being let from a tire. John shook his head and met Sherlock's bewildered expression.

"Sorry, I—" he stuttered, breathing deeply. "I just—yeah, I…I'm just tired, that's all. Don't have my head on right, I suppose," he murmured. "S'alright, Sherlock. Don't give it another thought." He reached out and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John's hand dropped to his side and he turned without another glance and shuffled up the stairs. Sherlock stared after him, mouth agape in stunned confusion.

What the bloody hell had just happened?

OOOO

John slipped under the covers and let out a soft moan as he relished the taste of Sherlock's blood on his tongue. That had been unexpected. And troubling. He was usually so careful. But something about the bloom of crimson on that chiseled white cheek had spurred him to the careless act. He reached down to find himself hard (harder than before) and ready again. The metallic taste lingered and he closed his eyes.

Sherlock.

Somehow, that made it all the more exciting.

He shook his head, unwilling to travel down that path in his mind. The intensity of his erection urged him on and he grasped himself, stroking in quick, rough pulls. The hazy fog returned and he relaxed against the headboard, prepared to ride out the tide of blackness he knew was coming.

The image of that mangled body brought back so many feelings, pushing them to the surface with a force he never imagined possible. Memory swallowed him.

Bristol. Birmingham. Manchester. Newcastle. There had been three intermittent trips to Glasgow (a luxury he allowed himself because frankly, there it was just too easy), an unexpected yet immensely gratifying trip to Gloucester, and one last hurrah in Cardiff before he shipped out with the RAMC. Afghanistan was a dirty playground, vast and accessible, especially at night, when everyone was either fucking or getting too stoned to pay attention to anyone else. Even now, invalided back after all this time, the smell of sand still gave him a hard-on.

It wasn't as though it were easy, this business of killing, and if it weren't absolutely necessary, he would have found a way around it. But the darkness demanded it. The bloodlust required it. It was difficult, tedious, and time-consuming, but the rewards were immeasurable.

The whole stint in the army was an effort to quell the burgeoning need, a way to silence the sinuous whispers of want that shuddered through him.

He thought it could work.

He was wrong.

If anything, the freedom and landscape of his service only exacerbated the frenzy, feeding the fire to the point that he was actually thankful for the bullet to the shoulder, for no other reason than he was forced to stop, to take back control. And then he met Sherlock.

He rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and groaned, his hand still moving over his cock.

Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock couldn't know. Whatever carefully crafted house of cards they'd built in an attempt at normalcy for the both of them would come crashing down if he ever found out. So, for this long at least, he kept the beast at bay.

There might have been a small part of him that was pleased at keeping his dirty little secret from the consulting detective. After all, the irritating sod was forever going on about his deductions, passing them out like sweets at Halloween, inviting everyone to bask in his brilliance whether they wanted to or not. He jerked roughly and snorted. Arrogant bastard.

Imagine the look on his face if he did find out. Another hard pull and a hiss. God. That fucking face. So beautiful when it bleeds.

A harsh moan escaped his lips. Christ, what would the rest of him look like? All that pale, lustrous skin, limbs that could have been carved from Italian marble, a blank canvas where rivers of red could flow and creep, sliding down the long, lean expanses of his body, pooling in the dips and hollows of his musculature. Yes, Sherlock Holmes would be beautiful to bleed.

His breathing quickened along with the pace of his fist, the painful pull of dry skin on skin not even registering. His mouth watered and Sherlock (God, Sherlock) reappeared on his tongue and the scent memory of blood made his balls tighten. The thought was sobering. Not Sherlock. It couldn't be Sherlock.

He pushed aside the vision of crimson-soaked curls and recalled the crime scene as the raging need built to a crescendo, but beguiling alien eyes and a perfect cheek smeared with blood forced back in, pushing him over. He balled his other fist in his mouth, biting down and drawing blood, to muffle the strangled cry of orgasm. He convulsed in hard twitches as he came, the fierce rush blinding him as he spilled into his hand. And as his own blood danced with the faint taste of Sherlock on his tongue, he knew he had to get out. The beast would be denied no longer.

It was time to start over.

OOOO

"You're leaving?"

"It's only for a few days," John replied, noticing the slight crack to Sherlock's voice.

Sherlock's bottom lip popped out in a sulk as he stuttered, "But…but we're on a case. You can't leave me—leave this now." He straightened on the sofa, pulling his dressing gown tighter around his body. He snorted, shooting him a disdainful glance. "Whatever it is can wait, I'm sure. I thought we agreed. Cases come first."

John dropped the duffel on the floor and reached for his coat. "No, you agreed. You didn't bother to hear my answer. It's only three days. And I know you; you won't even notice I'm gone."

Sherlock stood, drawing himself to full height in an effort to look imperious. He still looked like a pouty child. "This is highly irregular, John. I must protest."

He zipped up the jacket and grabbed the bag from the floor. "Protest all you like. I'm going."

The consulting detective flounced back onto the sofa in a huff. "Well, where are you going, then? And why didn't you tell me before?"

"I did," John replied, the lie rolling smoothly off his tongue. "I told you last week. You probably weren't listening, as usual. And if you were, you probably deleted it. A medical conference in York is hardly something you'd let clutter up your hard drive. Just tell yourself I've popped round to Tesco's for tea and biscuits. You won't notice if it takes me three days."

Sherlock's mouth turned down into a frown, and the tell-tale flash of his eyes told John that Sherlock was considering his words and discovering them to be most likely true. Hence, the frown. Git.

"I'll have it solved before you get back anyway," Sherlock said smartly.

"I don't doubt it." He moved to the door.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Have…fun."

The smile he gave Sherlock was genuine. "Plan on it."

OOOO

York was cold, rainy, and flat-out dreary. Beautiful weather. Turned out there were a number of conferences going on, which meant the city was filled with an influx of out-of-town businessmen. A host of strangers from which to choose. He was there a day and a half before opportunity came knocking, and John was more than obliged to open the door and meet the devil head-on.

An abandoned pump house in a seedier area was the perfect backdrop for the events about to unfold. The dark-suited gentleman tied to the chair was twice his size and still unconscious.

The black silk tie had made a practical gag, in case he came to before reaching their destination. He went to work, swiftly removing the man's clothes, cutting off anything hampered by his bound wrists and feet. Plastic tie wraps were optimal. Lightweight, metal free, good for short sessions, and then easily disposed of by burning. Even Sherlock could appreciate the rationale behind that.

Once he had the man disrobed, he divested himself of his own clothes, standing close, but not too close. There would be time for that. He stood there for several minutes, waiting. The man bucked as he roused, realization widening his eyes in fear.

He stopped moving when John pressed the tip of the knife to his throat.

Oh, yes. I missed this.

The man shook his head erratically as John reached to untie the gag. His mouth finally freed, he let out a raspy scream. John waited. He screamed again, louder this time. The sound echoed off the concrete walls of the pump house and went nowhere. John smiled, a slick slide of lips, and chuckled at his efforts. He watched as the man narrowed his eyes, shook against his restraints, and took a deep lungful of air to give it one more shot, this bellow loud enough to hurt his ears.

Like a whip, John's hand whistled up, backhanding the man with enough force to snap his head back and rock the chair on its legs, effectively shutting him up. He smelled the tang of blood in the air and as his head lolled forward, a bright river of crimson pooled from his mouth. John inhaled sharply at the sight and his erection surged forward.

He curled his fingers around the handle of the knife and brought it up to make a quick slash in his skin from sternum to abdomen. This time, the cry of pain was a balm to his dark soul and the shallow cut began to drip. The first cut was always the sweetest.

John raised the blade to his mouth and wound his tongue gently around it. The man tasted gritty and earthy and the beast within hungered for more. The hand with the knife came down to his side and he stared into the man's face with cold, dead resolve. He was rewarded with a horrified expression of dawning realization from his captive. The blade came up and he started screaming again.

Hours later, it seemed, but he really didn't know, John stood before the man, naked and bloody and panting. The knife lay discarded next to the chair, covered with the evidence of the carnage.

He took a final, ragged step towards the man's limp form. He was still breathing and even better, still conscious. John's cock strained forward, beckoning for a release that, until now, had been denied. He retrieved the knife and stepped behind the man and fisted a bloody hand in the wet, matted mass of his hair and pulled it back, exposing the taut veins of the neck. Ah, the part he'd been waiting for. He pressed the blade against the skin and began to pull.

A sharp intake of breath brought his head down as he carved, the slight dull of the blade dragging and pulling, tearing rather than cutting. He liked the rougher cut, the jagged rip of flesh; it was why he never used a scalpel. Scalpels were for healing; knives were for destruction.

Finally having made its journey from ear to ear, the blade clattered to the floor as John brought his hand up and coated it in the warm blood. He trailed one finger across his tongue before wrapping his bloody fist around his cock, pumping the rigid length of his shaft with an evil vengeance. He wouldn't last long. It had been so long and he wanted it so much. He blinked hard as his balls tightened and electricity sizzled up from the base of his spine, coiling his body tight around a swirling vortex of darkness. His climax thundered over him in a white-hot flash, the release so intense it unbalanced him and he dropped to his knees on the concrete, gasping and shuddering.

He gave himself several moments of composure before starting the meticulous task of clean-up and disposal. The combination of bleach and fire had suited him thus far, and he got to work, looking after every last detail.

Freshly washed and dressed, he set the controlled blaze and stood back; prepared to wait until he was satisfied little evidence remained. He stared into the fire, the lick of orange and yellow and the billow of smoke drawing his gaze so intently, he failed to notice the entrance of the suited figure that had been watching him from the shadows of the second floor all along.

"I like the way you think, Dr. Watson. The sex is a little creepy, but I think I like that, too."

John turned sharply, the Browning pulled from his pocket with ease. He leveled the gun on the intruder, a slight man in an expensive gray suit with sparkling eyes and even cheerier smile.

"I will kill you," he warned.

The man's Irish lilt was soft and playful as he scoffed, "Oh, there's no need for that. Not yet, anyway. We're getting acquainted." He inclined his head to the burning figure. "I see you've already met one of my people."

"Your people?" The gun never wavered.

"Yes. I have loads of people. As a matter of fact, I have an entire criminal network. You might have heard of me. Jim Moriarty. Call me Jim." He gave a flourishing bow. "And you are Dr. John H. Watson, or are you still hanging on to 'Captain'?"

John's eyes narrowed and he put the gun away. "I nicked your man, then?"

Jim nodded. "Yes. But, I'm fine with it. He was an idiot, apparently. Supposed to be following you - discreetly, of course. But he found his way onto your radar anyhow, though I will admit, this is not what I expected. I'm not entirely disappointed, either. Bloody hell, you put on a show."

John frowned as he continued.

"This facet of you is certainly more interesting than your terrible jumpers and penchant for custard creams."

"Why are you following me?" The question was matter of fact.

Jim shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, smiling. "Two words. Sherlock. Holmes."

"You're after Sherlock?"

The smile grew wider, and his brown eyes glittered with malice. "I want to play a game with him." Jim's voice dropped, almost seductively. "Maybe with you, too."

"Not interested," John sniffed, turning to exit.

"Don't walk away from me, John!" Jim yelled. "I can make things very difficult for you!"

John stopped and turned on his heel, stalking toward Jim. Jim chuckled as he approached, but swallowed hard as John came to a stop inches away from him.

"I don't threaten," John said, Jim's quick hitch of breath puffing against his face.

"What about Holmes," Jim asked, licking his lips. "Does he threaten?"

"Don't know. Don't care."

Jim's eyebrow rose. "Interesting."

He could feel the excitement rolling of the little Irishman, could smell a mixture of hate and desire. Watching had turned him on, John had no doubt. Jim's soul was probably the same shade of black as his.

John stepped back. "Do as you like with Sherlock. It's no concern of mine."

Jim held up his thumb and forefinger. "Not even a little?" he laughed.

"No."

Jim frowned. "Well, that's no fun."

John turned again, this time making it to his duffel bag before Jim called after him, "You're just going to leave things like this? I'm heartbroken, John! I thought you might want to get to know me! You know, we could shoot someone and then have a wank!"

He wound his way out through the corridors of the pump house, the sound of Jim's cackling laughter following him out into York's dark night.

OOOO

"What do you tell Sherlock when you go out at night?" Jim tsked, "It's been over a month, John. I'm disappointed. I was expecting a long weekend somewhere nasty and delicious, and you've been here in London this whole dreary time. Boring."

John stopped his pace down the alley and turned. Jim's brown eyes glimmered in the moonlight. No suit this time, jeans and a t-shirt, leather jacket and scuffed trainers. Ordinary. Unassuming.

"It's none of your concern."

"You're becoming my concern, John."

John shook his head. "Leave it alone. You're already running Sherlock ragged. That should be enough to please you."

Jim cocked his head to the side. "You'd think so, but not really. Oh, I'm not saying it hasn't been an absolute gas watching him putter around in a pouty strop. He's got a gorgeous pout." Jim smiled. "Lips like sin."

John snorted. "Perhaps you should up your game if you're bored."

Jim moved closer, bringing himself into the shadows. "Maybe you should start playing."

"I already told you I'm not interested. I don't like repeating myself," he said, lowering in voice in warning.

"I don't like being told 'no'." Jim's voice went hard.

"I don't give a shit."

Jim sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes. "John, John, John. You're missing the point. Think about it. Just think about it." Jim's gaze sharpened and those brown eyes flicked to his. "Come work for me."

"No."

"'No'," Jim repeated on a droll frown. The mask on Jim's face shifted again, this time to a predatory stare. "Don't be so hasty, John. Think of the things I can do for you." He crept closer, his eyes on John's the whole time. "I can give you what you want."

Jim was in his face now, his lips so close, the moist heat of his breath tickling his skin.

John's stare was as cold as his voice as he answered, "I don't want you."

The Irishman moved like lightning, grabbing the edges of his jacket as he spun him around, pinning him hard against the brick wall of the alley. They were completely in the dark, the only light coming from the evil glitter in Jim's eyes. His breath came in a heated rush as he ground out, "You have no idea what I am offering you. I can give you everything. I can fucking gift-wrap it if you want me to. All of it. I have the means and the connections. I can take care of all the logistics so all you have to do is kill and fuck. Because I know that's what you want. You want the blood. You want the sex." He watched as Jim's tongue peeked out to slide across his bottom lip. "I can give it all to you. Give it to you good."

Those brown eyes flashed once more and then Jim's mouth came down on his in a violent crush of tongues and teeth. There was heat and darkness and the rich feel of sin as Jim's mouth slid across his. He felt a sharp sting and heard a breathy chuckle as Jim bit down on his bottom lip, and the taste of blood erupted on his tongue.

John growled, knocking away Jim's hold with ease to reverse their positions on the wall. Jim let out a huff as John slammed him against the brick and shoved a knee between Jim's thighs, spreading his legs. He could feel Jim's erection, hard and wanting, pulsing against his own, and he pushed their bodies together, relishing Jim's groan of desire.

The friction of their lower halves began a frenzied pace, and Jim leaned forward to capture his lips again. The kiss was rough, biting, and hard, and Jim forced his tongue inside his mouth, intent on dominating. John pulled him forward and then slammed him back against the wall, Jim's howl only spurring him on. Jim kept fighting, his hands tugging at clothing, making it underneath John's shirt to touch bare skin.

John hissed and rolled his hips on a hard thrust, and Jim laughed into his mouth. The driving sexual desire was taking over, the little Irishman writhing against him, the mocking chuckle echoing in his ears. He snorted out through his nose, feeling the curl of tension seep into his limbs. His eyes darkened and he focused, turning the blaze of scorching heat into a controlled burn, and decided to let it go. Jim wasn't the type of man to play nice. Well, neither was he.

John broke the kiss and moved his mouth to Jim's ear, licking hotly over the appendage, trailing his way down the column of his throat, smiling inwardly at the mewling noises coming from the other man. He reached down and palmed him through his jeans, and Jim hissed loudly and arched into the touch. He squeezed hard and Jim moaned. Suddenly, Jim's hands were back, wanting to assert themselves, but he shifted, denying him the pleasure. Jim growled in frustration, and John snapped his hips forward. The noise from Jim's mouth was hot and guttural, and he reached up to pull the collar of Jim's shirt aside, exposing the line of his shoulder. He kissed his way down the curve of Jim's neck, grinding his cock into Jim's as he explored.

Jim wriggled in an effort to find purchase, unable to establish himself as the aggressor. John's hips bucked and he bit down hard into the flesh of Jim's shoulder, sinking his teeth in deep, delighting in the metallic taste of blood that rushed to the surface. He rolled his hips once more and felt Jim shudder with a shout under him as he came.

He released Jim's shoulder and batted away his hands, as they still would not be deterred. He needed to come.

He kissed Jim one more time in a bloody smear of greedy lips and then grabbed his wrists and pulled them up, pinning them on either side of the Irishman's head. Jim struggled, but relented at the next thrust of John's hips. John kept moving at a hurried pace, his eyes never leaving Jim's. He stared into Jim's pupils, blown wide with pleasure, stared into the blackness until he felt it consume him. Jim gazed back, his expression hard and pointed, his lip curled into a snarl. John fucked him into the wall with sharp, quick stabs, feeling the coil of tension pull tighter and tighter. He looked into the abyss in Jim's eyes, licked the blood from his lips, fucked him once more, and came.

John waited until the last tremor left his body before stepping back. He blinked once and blew out a breath through his nose.

Jim glared at him, disheveled and panting, from against the wall. "You think this changes anything?" Jim asked quietly. His voice was choppy, but hard like steel. "You think this is control?" He adjusted the collar of his shirt and wiped blood from his lip, giving John a sinister glare. "You will play. I promise you. I'll get what I want."

John gave him a sidelong glance and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He turned and headed for the street, and said nothing.

OOOO

John exited the cab and held the door for Sherlock, who followed swiftly behind. The tall man was flushed and twitchy, leftovers from the culmination of a case that had them grappling on a rooftop with a gun-toting madman not an hour before.

The fight had been short and swift and dirty, taking valiant efforts from the both of them to subdue the killer. His lower back ached where he had taken a double shot to the kidneys for his trouble and Sherlock's face bore the brunt of a sound pummeling. In the end, John had emerged the victor just as Lestrade and his team stormed the rooftop. Sherlock sat in the cab panting and grinning like an idiot the whole ride back to Baker Street.

He opened the door to the flat with Sherlock plastered to his back, giving him no room to move. He could feel the tension radiating from his flatmate with every step. Sherlock remained glued to him as they ascended the seventeen steps in silence, the short puffs of Sherlock's still-labored breathing moist in his ear. Once they crossed the threshold, Sherlock tensed.

John turned to offer to make tea, but was cut off by the shutting of the door and Sherlock's hands fisting in his jacket to spin him and slam him solidly against the wood. He barely registered Sherlock's blown pupils and sweaty brow before that Cupid's bow mouth descended on his in a fevered kiss. Shock overrode the adrenaline high he'd been riding, replacing it with outright surprise. This was totally unexpected.

"Sherlock," he gasped. "What—what are you—?" His words were silenced by the hot press of Sherlock's lips, clumsy yet determined, and those fingers loosened their hold on his jacket to grab at his hips. The contact was electric and John felt himself harden.

"John, I—" Sherlock panted, "I—I've wanted this—I just need—"

He pushed at Sherlock, the instant desire unwanted and strange, but Sherlock was unrelenting, raining hard kisses on John's face and rocking his body to shove him harder against the door. Sherlock trembled above him, wound tight like a spring, and John could feel that the taller man was fighting to maintain some semblance of self-control.

Sherlock's tongue slid over the curve of his ear, and John hissed despite himself, the touch rushed and full of promise.

"Please, John. I can't explain it." The words fell from his lips on a ragged breath. "I've never felt like this. I've been thinking about it for weeks now, ever since you left to that damned conference. Missed you like mad." Sherlock's hands wound under his shirt on a groan and those long, elegant fingers began to explore the planes of his torso with intensity, the pads of his fingers lighting fires as they dragged across his flesh. "I wanted to tell you, but it never seemed the right time." He paused, gulping in air and shoving his face into John's neck roving over it with a series of biting kisses.

John blinked hard, stifling the moan that crept into his mouth, wanting to focus, needing to get his head around this and fast.

"Sherlock," he protested, reaching for hands that had curled into his skin like a brand, the searing heat beginning to cloud his mind. "You don't know what you're asking." And that was the truth. For all his faults, Sherlock was still good, bright and fresh and clean; all of the things he was not. But with each press of his body, each clutch of his fingers, and the wet fire of his kiss, it was getting harder and harder to remember.

John's hands came up to still Sherlock's face and he could feel the swelling and bruising beneath his fingertips. His breath hitched and he groaned. Sherlock took the sound as invitation and captured his lips roughly, the action opening the cut on Sherlock's lip. John's tongue darted out to taste blood and he was gone.

Everything now moved at a fevered pitch, and it was Sherlock who moaned as John devoured his mouth. The taste of Sherlock, sweet with passion and blood, kick started the slow fire that had been building into a conflagration, burning him from the inside out. He felt the pull of darkness, the opening of that part of him that called the dark things out to play, and he reached down to palm Sherlock's rigid erection through his trousers. Sherlock whimpered into his mouth, erotic and desperate, and John flipped them around, shoving Sherlock back into the door with a thud.

He wanted to give in, he was hard and ready to play, and he bit down on the plump flesh of Sherlock's bottom lip, eliciting more of his sweetness. Sherlock cried out and threw his head back, allowing John access to the long, pale column of his throat, and John attacked it with fervor, sucking voraciously, leaving vivid red marks in a trail along his skin. There would be bruises later.

It would be so easy, so easy to put him right where he wanted, to make him a quivering mass, eager for the abuse. Sherlock was so open and pliable, and John wanted to make him crave the darkness of his touch. He lost himself in the moment, dragging his mouth across the expanse of Sherlock's skin, the taste of him bursting on his tongue, all salt and sweat and blood.

It was Sherlock's mewling "Please!" that snapped him back to reality. Desire turned to rage in a flash, and he flipped Sherlock around again, pressing him face first into the door. He felt Sherlock stiffen in shock, the reaction feeding the sinister whispers that murmured in his ear.

He thrust a hand in Sherlock's dark, silky curls and jerked his head back, his other arm snaking around to press against his throat. The taller man let out a strangled cry as John pushed down and forced his leg between Sherlock's, commanding him down to an awkward crouch. Pinned between John's body and the door, Sherlock struggled to keep from collapsing.

"John? John, please!"

"You don't want this, Sherlock," John rasped, angry that Sherlock had pushed him to this. "There are things about me you don't want to know. You don't want to get involved. You will get hurt."

Sherlock's feet scrambled for purchase, but his legs gave way under the force of John's weight. John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair to keep him upright and hissed in his ear, "Whatever you think you want; this isn't it. I have a private life, and it doesn't belong to you. You can't be a part of it. I won't let you."

John closed his eyes and buried his face in Sherlock's locks, now damp with sweat, breathing deeply before throwing him to the floor in a heap. He heard the crack of Sherlock's head hitting the door frame and stepped over him, not looking back as he went upstairs. He shut the door on the sound of Sherlock's choked sob and went to the nightstand, pulling out the penknife.

Minutes later, he gave in completely, his blood-soaked hand bringing him to orgasm as grey-green eyes danced behind his eyelids, the taste of the consulting detective lingering on his tongue.

OOOO

The past few weeks had been a blur of cases, some of them easy to solve (of course), but it was the emergence of the self-proclaimed criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty that had put Sherlock on edge.

The Irishman was clever, Sherlock would admit that much. Clever and dangerous. There had been two murders and a bank robbery attributed to Moriarty, but all trails went nowhere, leaving Sherlock with nothing but the Irishman's gleeful chuckle on the other end of an untraceable prepaid mobile phone. And to make it worse, the bastard was interested in John.

There had been several picture messages sent to his own phone of John. John at Tesco's. John at the surgery. John entering and leaving the flat. He'd kept this to himself (again, of course), not wanting to alarm the doctor until he had it all figured out and Moriarty in his grasp. No sense to get ahead of oneself. Especially given John's current state of mind.

His blogger was edgy, secretive, and downright grumpy. He hadn't pressed too hard, given the outcome of the doorway encounter, and for a time they had avoided each other completely. Sherlock drove himself mad for days, irritated at his own hubris, but also at John for his shocking display of cruelty. If he was forced to admit that he was capable of desire, and even still, that it hadn't abated after John's brusque brush-off, well, that was something he wouldn't think about. He couldn't bring himself to delete it; after all, that would also mean erasing the taste of John on his lips and the feel of John's bare skin beneath his fingers. And if that memory was tied to the fact that John's rough treatment and hands digging into his scalp sent a flash of heat straight to his cock, well there again, he could accept that. He certainly wasn't dwelling on it.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket and Sherlock pulled it from his jacket, checking the screen. Another photo. John leaving the Tube station. This time, a caption.

I CAN GET TO HIM. CAN YOU?

Sherlock's lip curled into a snarl and his knuckles went white as he squeezed the phone. The game was beginning to irritate him. He pressed delete and tucked the phone away, heading downstairs to wait for John.

OOOO

Jim Moriarty watched the ex-army doctor weave through the crowded station with a rueful smile. Watson was far more interesting than Holmes on so many levels. The consulting detective was brilliant, but the fact that he couldn't see what was going on in front of him was highly amusing.

He watched John go, marveling at how normal he appeared. Jim suppressed a shudder. Normal. Normal was boring. It was what lay underneath the unassuming wool jumper that turned him on. The black heart. The dark side. A soul that mirrored his own. And no matter how hard he tried, he knew he could never attain Watson's level of normal. It was irritating and intriguing all at once. John's ability to put things in their place. The caring doctor and the raging killer, both vying for a control the man mastered effortlessly. He was awe-inspiring.

For all his wealth and power, his hold on London's criminal underbelly, Jim knew he could never be like John. John, who had nothing but his rage and his need to accomplish his goals. A thing of beauty.

A smile quirked at his lips. Wouldn't it be so gratifying when he finally turned? When John finally gave into the pleasures that he could offer? Jim licked his lips and felt himself harden. God, it would be so good. And even better, he would make Holmes watch. The thought was staggering.

Jim stepped onto the curb and got into the waiting car. He motioned to the driver and sat back, his excitement growing. The car pulled alongside Watson on the pavement, and the rear window rolled down by an unseen hand. He turned and flashed John a winning smile.

"Get in, Dr. Watson."

John's lips turned down and he made a move to keep walking.

"That would be a mistake," he said coldly. "Get in the fucking car."

John remained silent, but got in. They rode in silence, a small smile playing on Jim's lips. This would end how he wanted. It had to. There simply wasn't another option. The sooner the doctor realized that, the better for everyone.

The car crept to a stop in front of a block of flats and he motioned for John to get out. Jim swiftly unlocked the door and ushered him inside. Somewhere in the kitchen, a kettle whistled on the stove.

"Go on, sit. I'll bring tea."

John rolled his eyes and moved to the sitting room.

Jim returned with a tray and two cups of tea. He handed one to John and sat down.

"If this show of domesticity is supposed to impress me, it's fallen flat."

Jim chuckled. "Darling, if I wanted to impress you, I would have taken you straight to bed."

Another eye roll. The doctor's unflappable nature was charming. He might have to fuck that out of him.

"I need to know if you've reconsidered my offer," Jim said, sipping his tea.

"You know I haven't. And I won't."

"Don't be so hasty, John. There's a lot I can do for you. Outside the bedroom, of course," he added with a smile.

"Still not impressed."

Jim's lips pursed and he set down the cup. "I see." His fingers played across the rim as he continued, "Not even if I told you I had Holmes in my crosshairs?"

John shook his head. "I've already told you I don't care what you do with Sherlock. That hasn't changed." Jim watched as he set the cup down and rose to leave.

"Not so fast," Jim chided. "And I don't believe you. I've seen you together. You would care. Especially if I mailed him to his brother in pieces."

The slight twitch in John's cheek was pleasing. The doctor was fighting a few good demons. Delicious.

"Mycroft would find you," John countered with a narrowing gaze.

He shrugged. "Possibly. But I'm willing to risk it. Are you?"

John headed for the door.

"You're making a mistake here, Watson," he said, following. "I warned you about that." He reached for John, but the doctor was quicker, grabbing his wrist and spinning him around against the wall. John's eyes flashed and he breathed in deeply.

"You talk too much."

"And you don't talk enough," Jim shot back. John's grip on his wrist tightened, and the sharp twinge went straight to his cock. God, it was getting good. John's lip curled and he pulled him closer, but Jim shifted and they tussled, finally maneuvering into the bedroom.

Jim's voice lowered. "I'm beginning to think you like me, John Watson." The black void of John's pupils seemed to expand in an instant.

"That was your first mistake."

"And the second?" Jim panted, reaching for John's belt.

John's hand closed over his. "Thinking you're going to fuck me."

Jim let the smile spread across his face with deliberate slowness. "But I am."

The blow came from nowhere as John backhanded him across the face and shoved him onto the bed.

"That's what you get for thinking."

He saw stars and tasted the tang of blood in his mouth before John dove for him, covering his lips in a rough kiss. In the space of seconds (he wasn't even sure how John managed it), they were both naked, writhing on the bed as Jim struggled for control. He was strong, but John was stronger, and in no time John had him on his stomach, with arms pulled back behind him. The burn in his shoulders was enough to make him hiss through his teeth.

He wriggled, but John clamped down, lube-slick cock (fuck, when had he managed that?) poised for entry. He tried in vain to lift a knee, anything to edge away for leverage, but was pinned beneath the weight of John's lower body on his. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to move. The knowledge was thrilling and irritating. He was going to have to take it.

John inched forward, breaching his entrance, and he groaned at the heated slide. He had a moment of revelation and then it all went hazy and hot as John began to thrust in earnest.

He cried out, his voice a rough snarl of pleasure/pain as John's cock worked him over. He could do nothing but scream muffled curses into the sheet as John fucked him into the mattress. It was dirty, gritty, and hard, and the friction from the cotton sheet on his own aching cock was bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

Three more snaps of his hips and John came, groaning his release into the back of Jim's neck. John's breath was moist and ragged and he felt the point of John's tongue tracing the curve of his ear.

"If you follow me again, Jim, I will kill you," he said hotly. "I swear to God, I will kill you." He felt the mattress spring back, and John was gone in a rustle of clothing.

Jim flopped over onto his back, taking his cock in hand to finish the job. As orgasm approached, he couldn't help but giggle at John's threat and realized it was the first time John had ever called him by name. It was worth it.

OOOO

The tiredness crept into his bones like an ache that would not abate, no matter how much he slept. He was tired of running, tired of pretending. John swiped a hand over his face and kept walking down the pavement, unsure of where his steps would take him.

The darkness coiled up around him like smoke, weaving its tendrils across the shadowy face at the edge of his consciousness. Up around a mop of inky black curls, swirling around alien blue-green eyes that haunted him. He wanted to be free, unfettered by sentiment and longing, free to indulge in whatever desires plagued him. If he stayed here, that would not be possible. But neither did he want to go.

He pondered the depth of the predicament, the clashing swords of want and need slicing at the core of his black heart, and he kept walking. Toward what, he didn't know. Away from whom, it was obvious.

The black sedan pulled alongside him with a whiff of petrol. John turned to watch the rear window descend in a whisper, Moriarty's gleeful smile striking daggers into his thoughts.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson. I've arranged a game for us."

He should keep walking, he knew that. Keep walking and figure out the next action to take in this course that he was on. Maybe it would be easier this way, he decided. He stopped and got in. Let's end this once and for all.

OOOO

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the look of tired resignation on John's face. The second was the Browning pistol pressed to his temple. And third, but not to be discounted, was the sinister smile plastered across the face of Jim Moriarty.

Sherlock raised his gun and aimed it at the Irishman's smiling face. "Let him go, Moriarty. This has nothing to do with John."

Moriarty chuckled, "Oh, you're so wrong there, Sherlock. This has everything to do with the good doctor. So much more than you could have ever realized."

"Put the gun down, Sherlock." John's voice was even, unruffled.

"I can't do that, John. Don't worry, you'll be fine. I'm an excellent shot."

Jim snorted. "How adorable. Look at how fierce he thinks he is. How protective," he mused.

"Just walk out of here now, Sherlock. I'm telling you to go. Don't look back." An edge had crept into John's tone. "You don't want to see this."

"Of course he does!" Jim piped up, pressing the muzzle of the gun further into John's head, walking him further inside. "He wants to know all about what we've been up to. Don't you, Sherlock? Hmmm?"

John rolled his eyes. "For God's sake Sherlock, listen to me. He won't shoot you. Go."

"We'll see about that." A shot rang out from the Browning, narrowly missing Sherlock's foot. "A warning," Jim said. "I wouldn't move. I get antsy. Could shoot you prematurely. Not likely," he grinned, "but possible."

Confusion knit Sherlock's brow. What was Moriarty playing at? And what did it have to do with John? Unless…no. No. There was no way Jim could know how he felt. Or was it that obvious?

"So let's play, boys." Jim came to a stop and let go of his hold on John's arm and turned to face Sherlock. "I think you should know a little something about your live-in."

"Jim." John's voice had gone hard.

Jim? When had he become Jim?

"Oh, shush, John. I'm about to tell a story. A good one."

"What's going on, John? What's this about?" Sherlock locked his elbow and kept the gun on Moriarty.

Jim batted long lashes at him. "How best to say this? I guess I'll come right out with it. I can't spare myself the look on your face any longer." The dark smile slid across his lips in a flash. "Dr. Watson here has a very active and creative sexual outlet."

"What? What are you talking about? John, what's he on about?"

"He kills people, Sherlock. Gets him off. All that blood. Makes him hard as a rock. Delicious." Again with the lashes. "And I should know."

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face and his grip on the gun falter. "No," he said firmly. "No."

Jim giggled. "Oh, but it's true. Ask him."

Sherlock's eyes found John's. Tired and sunken. But no hint of response. None.

"No," he whispered, staring at John. He didn't look away. "Tell me it's not true." The crack in his own voice sounded strained to his ears and he could hear the roar of white noise creeping in.

John remained silent.

"And the cat's out of the bag!" Jim called out. "Let's see how else we can upset your Victorian sensibilities." Jim's smile went nasty. "He's a great fuck."

Sherlock jerked as if he'd been shocked.

"Touched a nerve, did I? Jealous, Holmes? Oh, I think you are." Jim laughed again. "You should be."

"That's enough, Jim." John shifted on his feet.

Jim pushed the gun harder into John's head. "I'll decide when it's enough!" he yelled.

Sherlock watched as the change in John was instantaneous, switching from off to on the second Jim raised his voice. Mesmerized, all he could do was stand there with his arm outstretched and watched over the end of the barrel as John whipped around to backhand Jim to the ground, forcibly taking back the Browning and clicking off the safety.

"Get up," he said to Jim. "On your knees."

Jim coughed and spat blood onto the concrete, his eyes twinkling. "Oh, you're a bad one now, aren't you, Watson?"

"Just do it."

"John?" Sherlock's voice echoed with confusion. He made a move to step forward, but the sight of the Browning in John's hand swiveling to point toward him stopped him cold.

"Don't, Sherlock. Don't make me do this."

Jim scrambled to his knees and John turned to face him, giving Sherlock a view of his right side. John wouldn't look at him, keeping his gaze on Moriarty and the gun trained on him.

"It's true, Sherlock. Think about it. You know it is."

The world began to spin on its axis as the information filed into his brain, leeching into all the dark corners and lighting them up with the new realization. He swallowed, unable to form words as he watched John's hand go to the fly of his jeans. He was hard.

Jim's hands came up to make short work of the zipper and within seconds had fastened his mouth around John's straining cock. He blinked twice, trying to reconcile what he was seeing. John's head fell back on a soft moan, and then his face turned to lock eyes with his.

"John," he whispered.

He said nothing, eyes cold and hard and Jim worked him over with enthusiasm, the Irishman's eyes darting to meet Sherlock's face. He winked and sucked harder.

The myriad of emotions was overwhelming and Sherlock felt his knees threatening to buckle, even as his body began to betray him in the most horrific of ways. He was mortified at the display, yet he felt his lower half begin to respond at the sight of John's cock sliding out of Jim's mouth.

Everything was hazy and swirling as it was all coming together in flashes, gritty and raw, and his stomach rolled as the pieces began to fall into place. John's eyes fluttered closed, but he did not turn away, keeping still even as his breath hitched in response to Jim's mouth.

There they stood, each pointing a pistol at the other, the only sound in the room the heavy grunts coming from Jim as he savored his task.

Coherent thought had long fled; replaced with nonsensical drabbles of haphazard questions. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, all he could do was feel. It was terrifying, this rush, this onslaught of unwanted and confusing emotion. Sherlock blanched, still unable to process the situation. Yet in the midst of it all, one thought, one singular thought managed to break through the din. John.

Sherlock watched in bewilderment as Jim pulled off to smirk and say, "You don't know what you're missing, Sherlock. He tastes like sin."

John's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of Jim's hair and jerked him back on to his cock, causing Jim to snort roughly. John's eyes watched Sherlock's as Jim redoubled his efforts and Sherlock could see the flush creeping into John's neck. They kept their gazes locked as John's body shook and he pulled back to ejaculate silently across Jim's smiling face.

Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as the gun in John's hand moved to point at Jim's face, the barrel scant inches from his lips. John turned to challenge Jim with his stare and the Irishman, his face covered in cloudy white ribbons, opened his mouth and fastened it around the barrel of the Browning. He fellated the muzzle for a moment and stared up at John.

John's voice was quiet. "I warned you, Jim. Remember?"

Sherlock watched helplessly as Jim's eyes widened in shock, his mouth full of the Browning. John turned back to Sherlock, their eyes meeting in tandem, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed off the concrete walls and Jim's body jerked back and fell to the ground with a bloody thud.

Sherlock's body shook convulsively and he stepped back. "What have you done?"

"This is over, Sherlock," he said. "I'm done here." He readjusted himself into his jeans and lowered the pistol. He turned from Jim's body and headed toward the exit.

"Wait, John!" he called. "You…you can't leave!"

"I told you, you shouldn't be a part of this. You can't. There is no place for you."

"Please, don't," Sherlock pleaded, his arm falling to his side. "I—I just….I—" His voice trailed off, the words dropping off his tongue. He didn't know what to say, didn't know what to feel.

John's mouth set in a hard line and he shook his head. "Let me go, Sherlock. Just let me go."

He didn't even register the gun in his hand falling to the concrete as he watched John walk out of his life forever. Nor did he recognize the sudden tearing ache in his chest as the feel of his heart breaking.

OOOO

12 April - Paris

While spring in Paris is lovely, I still find the French tedious and distasteful. No sign of him, but I know he's here. Four incidents so far. My fervent hope is that he moves on soon. If I have to endure any more of the vile French condition, I fear I may be joining John on his travails. On the other hand, I do love a good Galouise.

29 June - St. Petersburg

Nine incidents. This city, while historically beautiful, is a dark place. I feel we may be here a while.

3 October - Shanghai

Six incidents. I am finding it difficult to blend. Yet he manages it effortlessly. The Chinese are tight-lipped and aloof, and getting information is proving to be exceedingly tiresome and frustrating. I imagined I caught of glimpse of him, but I was mistaken. I can only describe how I felt as an intense anticipation and it has made me start to examine my reasons for being here. What is it I hope to accomplish? Stopping him, of course, is the first thing that springs to mind. But I can't imagine a man such as John relegated to a cage for the rest of his life. Even worse, a needle in the arm. I must find him.

25 December - Istanbul

Mycroft is adamant I come home for Christmas. I have ignored his pleas in the usual fashion. Home. It suddenly has become clear to me that I do not wish to return to Baker Street. Not without him. The sense of sentiment associated with such a place as "home" seems to be one that is alternately repugnant and confusing to me. The idea of being restrained to a concept purely on one's emotional attachment to a particular place is pedestrian, yet I find myself thinking that were I to return without him, the flat would hold nothing but a lingering ache. Four incidents. I want to see John. Happy Christmas, My.

3 February - Zurich

I saw him. This time I am sure. To my dismay, I became so overwhelmed with an abundance of emotion; I could no longer speak, let alone breathe. He is marginally well, physically anyway, only a bit dark around the eyes. He's having trouble sleeping. The limp has returned. Emotionally, I do not know. Such things are difficult to deduce, especially since we've been parted for these months. He did not look shocked to see me, for the few brief seconds we locked eyes. Merely intrigued. And then he was gone. Only one incident. The reduced number is likely significant. I want to see him again.

24 April - Prague

I must find him. It is now the only thing that consumes me. My life has been consigned to crossing the continents following after the shadow of something I'm not sure I should capture. It is no longer want that drives me. It is need. And it is driving me mad. Nothing holds my attention. I no longer eat nor sleep. Even less than previously so. His face is what I see in the dark nights, and the memory of him holds to my heart in such a way that it will not let go. It no longer matters the circumstance; I need to be with him. In whatever incarnation he chooses to be. A surprising thought, but not one that displeases me. That knowledge alone, of what I am willing to condone, to overlook, to ignore, what I am willing to accept should have me packing for England without a second thought. Yet, I am unwilling to go. Instead, it is the path to the unknown that calls to me. Knowing that he is there, somewhere, is enough for me to continue my search. He is a fire in my blood. And I need to feel those dark flames. To understand what is happening to me. One incident. I need—

The knock at the door drew his attention from the journal. Sherlock put the pen down and answered the door. The bellman stood outside with a large box.

"Package for you, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock took the box, tipped him, and shut the door. He placed it on the bed, regarding the postmark.

Venezuela.

As he opened the parcel, he was assailed with the overpowering scent of wool and tea. Something else lingered underneath, filtering through his nostrils and into his brain. A scent of recognition. John. He ripped open the box completely.

Oatmeal-colored wool. Cable knit. John's favorite jumper. He reached in, fingers tracing over the pattern gingerly, with awed reverence. Without thought, he lifted it from the box to his nose and inhaled deeply.

Warmth. John. Home. This is what he needed. His heart lurched and rolled into his stomach, the aching despair making him want to double over and howl in agony. Oh, John.

He pulled it out the rest of the way, only to hear a thud as something dropped to the bottom of the box. Sherlock set the jumper aside and gasped at what remained.

Tucked inside the jumper, now free from its restraint, was John's Browning. There was no mistaking it. He picked it up, careful not to dislodge the red satin ribbon tied around the trigger guard. It held a note, written in John's unmistakable doctorish scratch.

"Pestana Palace. Lisbon. Room 221."

With a swiftness born of need, Sherlock packed his few belongings. He was suddenly well aware of the race of his heart and the quickening of his blood. The game. John. He didn't know if the game was just beginning or if it was ending. He didn't care. It no longer mattered. Because, John. And the game was on.

OOOOOO

END