John stood and walked towards his former flatmate. Blood dripped from his fingers, splattering on the pavement in a grotesque painting.
"I knew," he whispered.
"Knew what?" Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth. The stench of death had never bothered him before, but now it was all over John. All over sweet, gentle John who had done everything for Sherlock. That John was dead, though he stood before the genius, breathing, thinking, speaking.
John smiled maliciously. "I knew you weren't dead."
Sherlock gestured to the dead, bloodsoaked bodies piled around them. "So, why this?"
The doctor shook his head. "Not yet. Just let it sink in for a few minutes." His smile didn't reach his eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes, now turned flat and dead. Nothing would show there.
The genius clenched his fists, fighting to keep his emotions under control. "Let what sink in?"
John ignored him, dropping the facade of a smile and pulling a knife out from his pocket. It was covered in dried blood. John rolled up his sleeves. Scars were drawn up and down the tan skin. John murmured as he sliced open more skin, working his way up his left arm from the wrist to the elbow. Sherlock could barely hear him until he giggled and repeated his words, louder this time.
"Many species of animals bare their teeth as a threat, a sign of aggression, of dominance, of leadership. It's a reminder, that these clenched jaws can and will open your yielding throat. Remember this, think of it, the next time I smile at you."
John smiled again. It was really a grimace, thought there was definitely pleasure in it. He waited. Sooner or later Sherlock would understand, he would get it. He always did.
This time though, it seemed as if the super sleuth's observational powers were draining. He stared confused at the good doctor, his conductor of light, now cover in blood and smiling like a psychopath. What had happened to him? What had made him turn to this? It was as if John were turning into Donovan and Anderson's criticisms of Sherlock.
Then the light struck.
"Ah," Sherlock exhaled. "My 'death'."
John scowled. He hated being reminded of that. It still hurt. He added another few slices to his left arm as he talked."You mean, your betrayal?" He spoke with force, surprising Sherlock who instinctively took a step back, feeling for the brick wall behind him.
"My betrayal?" he asked, once again confused. Blood dripped steadily from both John's hands now. Some of it was his own, some of it was his victims'.
John continued striding forward confidently, not worried about the red liquid falling from the fresh cuts. "Yes, your betrayal. Of my trust. You didn't trust me enough to let me know you were alive." Now he was right up next to Sherlock, pressing him against the wall. He was angry. He needed to show Sherlock his anger. He let his emotions go a little bit, let them play in his eyes and face.
He continued, hissing, "One word, Sherlock, that was all I would've needed. Just one word to let me know you were alive." His left arm came up to hit Sherlock's long throat, pushing his head into the brick. His blood trickled onto the smooth, pale skin, painting it dark red. John giggled at the pretty color, swirling it a bit with the opposite fingers a bit.
"You pushed me to this. This happened because of you. And now, Sherlock, I'm addicted. When you left, you took away the only safe way for me. You know by now that I'm addicted to the danger, to the chase, to the fight. And now, to the kill. To the blood." He raised his right arm and licked it, lapping up the fresh blood eagerly. After taking his fill, John offered Sherlock a taste. When the detective shook his head, John frowned.
"You want to know why I started this?"
The detective nodded, barely able to breathe, much less speak. John wouldn't kill him. Not yet at least. Or he hoped not. Sherlock tried to keep his mind clear, but it wasn't working. It never worked around John Watson.
John leaned closer so he could whisper into the taller man's ear, "I did this to bring you back to me. And here you are."
Suddenly there was no more pressure at Sherlock's throat, no body shoving him against the wall. He breathed deeply once more, looking around. All that was left was the pile of dead bodies, an ever widening pool of blood, both on his chest and on the ground, and the echo of a maniacal laugh on the wind.
Sherlock would wait. John would strike again. And when he did, Sherlock could only hope to draw his friend back.