A/N: This AU came to me as I was reading a story on archive of our own, called The Loss of Flesh and Soul, by deuxexmycroft. This was really fun to write, honestly.
The sun was carved into the dusking sky, oddly delectable looking; like a half-eaten orange against the flatline of terrain. Sherlock would kill for something delicious, something soft, sweet for him to suck on.
He shifted, crossed his legs, then cast his eyes to the dragging feet of the crowd before him. Walking corpses slaving over the sidewalk; something palatable to chew on.
His steepled hands met under his chin, eyes lingering on the face of every pedestrian. Some of their skin was too thick, others had only a thin layer, while some hadn't enough along their bones. Not enough muscle, too much bone, little flesh; everyone was imperfect.
Then, there was someone more perfect. Coarse muscles of a compact body, slight frame and cordial features. Although he had a cane and detached face, he seemed gullible. Easy to dispose of, and an almost perfect profile to boot. Holmes grinned.
It was a military man, an exsoldier, with a psychosomatic limp. He was led to believe it was a doctor, considering the care he was bestowing upon a small child who had fallen.
"Just ice the bruise everyday and the swelling will start to go down; it shouldn't hurt too much," he heard, interspersed within the groans of too much flesh all in one place.
The boy smiled at him. "Thanks, mister. I have to get back to my parents." He waved, as did the doctor in return, then the child clamored through the cluster of bodies.
The doctor hobbled until he eclipsed the orange sun, and Sherlock watched pleasurably as his skin rippled; a nearly perfect specimen. A bundle of corded muscles and sunkissed skin.
The doctor turned back abruptly, and Holmes' gaze slid to just over his shoulder, as if looking at the setting sun. The man stared back for only a moment before he continued forward on his cane and tried vaulting through the thinning crowd. Tried being the operative word.
He rose from the bench, nonchalantly tailing the doctor before bumping slightly into him. He faux apologized, slender hand dipping into the man's pocket and hanging onto his wallet. It must've just fallen, the doctor would assume.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he crooned, bending and snatching it off of the ground. He rose again, the definition of composition. "Here." His fingers itched to claw at his hide, see if it was as lovely as it looked, but he steeled his desire.
The exsoldier looked startled. "Oh," he breathed,"thanks." He reached for the wallet, Holmes examining his stubby fingers. They reminded him of breakfast sausages, which wasn't making refraining just a nibble any easier.
"You're quite welcome, Dr...," he peered at his identity card,"John H. Watson." Date of birth: July 7, 1971. And the address; that was what Sherlock was searching for.
The doctor slowly gripped his wallet, cramming it back into his back pocket. "Thanks again, Mr...," he trailed off.
"Sherlock Holmes," he answered, giving a mock bow. "Sherlock, if you will." Being genial, having a good sense of humor, and helpfulness was sure to amount to likeability(the end goal).
"Sherlock," he uttered, sounding like he was rolling the name around in his mouth; it must've been delicious. "But how do you know I'm a doctor? How'd you know my name?"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he admitted,"Actually, an exarmy doctor, going by the tanline, psychosomatic limp, and stance. But really, I saw the way you cared for that boy's slight wounds; quite doctorly of you."
"To answer your second question; your I.D.," he offered simply, keeping his icy eyes trained on John's gooey ones; if only he could've lapped up the color dwelling inside of them.
Watson gaped before conceding,"Some talent...that's...amazing..." His flesh was singing, whimpering practically for Sherlock to slide his tongue along the tanned expanse of skin. He shook off his want, remembering the simple, dull statement, made only tolerable by the trophy he would have by the end.
"Oh, really? A diverse response," he told, facing the sun; the half-eaten orange was turning into one-quarter of a circle as it settled farther under the horizon.
"What is that supposed to mean?" His eyebrows knitted, navy eyes following Sherlock's gaze. The sun illuminated Watson's skin wonderfully, speckles of gold appearing in his hair.
"Piss off is what they usually say. Doesn't matter, though, because I don't take any of it to heart." He didn't take anything to heart; not compliments, or insults, or decisions, or actions. Everything was frivolous and deceitful, really. He wasn't bitter about it, either, because he knew he was worse.
A bubble of laughter erupted from the exsoldier's lips. They were chapped, Sherlock noticed, and the doctor's head was tilted back slightly. The noise trailed off, and as John reopened his eyes, Sherlock gave him a knockoff smile.
"That's ridiculous," he quipped, smiling. It looked genuine, and actual amusement wasn't something people experienced when around Sherlock Holmes. The dispatch of John Watson would be more difficult, now that he was likeable; how dreadful.
"Well, John, I apologize, but I must be off," Sherlock lied, folding his arms and smiling sweetly. Watson glanced at him for a moment before looking to the sun. He continued to smile.
"Yeah...See you around?" He sounded truely hopeful for more of his company, which it was rather the point to seem likeable, but Holmes was slightly content that it hadn't taken more effort for a positive reaction.
"Sure," he agreed, his hand snaking out to shake the doctor's. He gripped his fingers harder than necessary, an odd glint to his eyes and teeth as he leaned away. "Maybe we could have coffee sometime?"
John smiled again. "Sounds good; how 'bout tomorrow at 8, Speedy's Cafe?"
Even better; John was acquainted with Baker Street, where Sherlock resided. It would be almost too easy to invite him over for dinner and just happen to find him hours later, his heart and brain and flesh mutilated beyond recognition, and then call Scotland Yard in mock hysteria, bawling over a decent friend.
Or, he could just see John tonight, knowing his address, armed with a knife. He'd plunge the dagger into John's belly, the doctor would howl like a dog, and there would be a wonderful, indescribable tearing.
"Sounds brilliant," Sherlock appeased. It did sound amazing, but not because he knew Speedy's served splendid coffee.
Watson's smile widened, which was odd in itself, as he wasn't used to such saturated expressions of felicity. "Great; just grand." He waved slightly as he turned away from the sun. "See you tomorrow, then?"
Holmes conceded,"Tomorrow," and John started ambling away, his backside illuminated by cascading rays of orange. Sherlock turned and rose an arm, trying to hail a cab as the sun dipped nearly out of view.
John would surely be the soft, sweet thing he could suck on. His flesh looked toned enough, muscled enough, clean enough for consumption. His throat looked gravely inticing in the gloomy light, and that flesh was sure to be aching and writhing beneath him soon enough.
The tear of flesh would reign louder than John's screams; it would be absolutely brilliant.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Any feedback or critism is greatly appreciated(I appreciate feedback like Sherlock appreciates John's throat).