As mentioned in the summary, this is a prequel to imaginarywords' fic "Dirty Little Secret". As this is a prequel, I guess you don't technically have to have read hers first, but you should definitely read it either way. It is fantastic.
Warnings: Dark themes, murder, blood. No like, no read.
"When a man bleeds, it's just tissue."
You don't know where the quotation came from, but it appears into your head unbidden as you take a blood sample from your last patient of the day, lingering, taunting you with a dark chuckle as you call a nurse to take away the vial. You carry on regardless, filing away paperwork, exchanging smiles and pleasantries with Sarah (but nothing else – you both realise that there's no point trying any more) and head home.
It's raining, which feels fitting. Bringing an umbrella would have been far too sensible, and so you are soaked to the bone by the time you reach 221B.
More murders happen in the rain.
You close your eyes and wait for the thought to pass. You tell yourself that it's perfectly normal, that it's expected for someone who has been through war and violence and homicide investigations to consider such things. Hell, Sherlock even told you that little titbit. That does little to reassure you, however, as you know exactly where the voice really comes from.
And it's getting louder.
You tried talking to that psychiatrist about it, about how you would stare at the disembowelled corpses of your men and it would whisper to you. She thought it was shock, the mind's reaction to the horror of seeing such violence, but you know better. It was fascination, sheer wonder at the sight of a human who lived and thought and talked being reduced to organs and pulp. You dream about it, bodies falling apart in your hands as they writhe and cry. Sometimes you wake up screaming.
Most of the time you don't.
You trudge up the stairs, shedding sodden layers along the way. At the top you hesitate, your hand hovering above the handle of the door. Light is coming from underneath. Sherlock is home.
Of course, you knew he would be. Still, the thought is enough to worry you. The man can read you like a book; he must know these dark things that hide in the corners of your mind. Perhaps he understands that you would never act upon them, that it's just an eccentricity that you're ashamed of and would prefer to leave unspoken. Yes, that must be it. Because no matter how much you have these thoughts, how much you stare at the kitchen knives or your gun or one of Sherlock's "specimens", you would never actually do anything.
Would you?
Exhaling deeply, you open the door and hang up your clothes, trying to ignore Sherlock's eyes on you. He's just looking, like he always does. No need to panic or act strangely because of it.
But he doesn't stop looking. He just stares, that piercing gaze looking right through you, and you try to seem normal but your hands are shaking and your heart is beating so fast he must be able to hear it why is he staring what does he want – what does he know?
It's too much, you have to speak, but the feeble words die in your throat as Sherlock suddenly switches to very pointedly not looking at you. Somehow, this is even worse, and you have to leave get up get out, marching from the room and locking yourself in the bathroom.
When you eventually emerge, Sherlock has gone.
You get a text sometime later – you don't know what time it was exactly when Sherlock left, but it's probably been an hour.
Come to 5 Greycoat Place. Got you a present. SH
You're out of the door before you even realise it, anticipation bubbling in your gut.
The building you've been summoned to is an apartment above Westminster Fire Station. There must have been an emergency, as bells and sirens deafen you as you approach. Thankfully, they die down before you actually enter the apartment, but there are still loudspeakers and klaxons and phones making enough of a racket to drown out any noise from outside.
Which is probably why it takes you so long to notice the screaming.
It's female, muffled and broken, and it freezes you in your tracks. The walls of the corridor are covered in portraits and you can feel them judging you, questioning your presence in this place, but you cannot leave. Some rational part of you is saying that you should be running, calling for an ambulance or police or both, but then you hear it. Barely audible, but there.
"Ah, my friend has arrived. Isn't that nice?"
It's Sherlock. Sherlock is here and he brought you and there's screaming and he knows and he wanted you here. The part of you that had told you to run is suddenly drowned out because the voice from the darkness is roaringand you just want to see, you have to see or you'll go mad.
There is a woman, bound and gagged and tied to a chair. She is old, tiny but wiry and stern-featured, something that is still noticeable through the fear and the pain and the blood and the blood –
It's everywhere, bright and red and glorious, the smell making your heart pound and your breath catch in your throat as you slowly walk towards her, your hand reaching out to touch her but stopping short, afraid she'll disappear, that this is all some dream or fantasy or insane hallucination.
And then there is Sherlock.
He stands there, spattered in red, watching you. He is smiling, and you realise that you've never seen him smile, not properly, not like this, and it is beautiful. His eyes are wild with a nameless emotion that sings to something inside you, the darkness that you tried so hard to conceal, and you laugh, because suddenly it seems so ridiculous. Why bother to fight what you truly are?
This is what you truly are.
Reading your mind, Sherlock presses a scalpel into your hand, making a gesture as if to say, 'Your turn.'
Your mouth suddenly dry, you stare down at the woman before you. She looks back at you, begging you with her eyes, pleading to be released. You glance back at Sherlock, and there is something almost maternal about the way he is watching you. 'I've started it for you, now you finish up.'
Kneeling, you clutch the scalpel tightly. The woman hasn't quite accepted what is happening, and she still silently screams at you to help her. And you could, you realise. You could take Sherlock down and cut her free. It would be the right thing to do. The scalpel throbs in your fist. Just tackle him, knock him out and run. You can't let him do this. It's murder. You remember what you told yourself, back in the flat, an age ago.
You would never actually do anything, would you?
Your arm moves without you even realising and crimson blooms across the woman's chest as you slash her. She screams in pain, which is pathetic really. You sit in shock for a second, but then it passes and you look back up at Sherlock, smiling hesitantly. Have I done well?
He nods, still waiting and watching. He wants you to finish.
It's like being in surgery. Just a little cut, and all your worries will be over, you think. Power thrums through you. It would be so easy, just one little motion to change life to death.
But you can't. You can't do it, and your weakness makes you so angry, frustrated tears catching in your throat. Sherlock sees your rage building and puts a hand on your head, calming you, grounding you. Crouching down, he gently takes back the scalpel, takes back the control, lightly kissing you on the hand as he does so.
He splits her neck from ear to ear with one swift strike, a confident and practised manoeuvre. She makes a strange little choking sound and her eyes go dull, sending little tingles of excitement all around your body. Sherlock is saying something about covering it up, something about the son killing her for being written out of the will, but you don't care, all you care about is what you've done, what it means and how good it feels, and you laugh and you grab Sherlock and you dance, you dance around the room because you've never felt so happy. Sherlock is happy too and he did this and you love him, how did you not realise before? He is perfect and wonderful and you kiss him, the salty tang of blood on your tongue. You break the kiss but don't pull away, resting your forehead against his, content.
Thoughts are appreciated.