Disclaimer: All rights and characters belong to the BBC and Steven Moffat. Nothing is mine but the creativity and storyline.
A/N: So I got this idea from another Sherlock songfic to this song, but that was just based on one verse. This is going to be a series of short drabbles based on little snippets of the song. So just a little heads-up, there. Like most songfics, if you haven't heard the song, I suggest you listen to it before you read: Love the Way You Lie by Eminem ft. Rihanna ©
WARNING: Character deaths (violent ones, too), SLASH, Angry!Sex, violence and strong language.
Just gonna stand there and watch me burn?
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts.
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry?
But that's alright because I love the way you lie.
I love the way you lie.
John lay motionless, arms and legs bound by too-tight ropes. He knew there was no use trying to escape – Sherlock would get bored soon enough, and then he could leave again.
John turned to look at the corner of the room where his packed suitcase was leant against the wall. Sherlock had calmly moved in there when he ushered John into his room to 'talk'. That was before he pounced on him and produced four long pieces of rope, which he tied to John's arms and legs. For such a slim man, Sherlock fought a good one.
He had left about half an hour ago, and John had just completely given up on trying to break free from the knots. Sherlock would release him when he came back in, slightly more sober, feeling guilty. Then John would leave. Yes, he would. This time he would leave him forever.
John sighed once he heard the door click open, because he knew that he couldn't convince himself whenever he saw Sherlock's face. And as Sherlock stepped slowly into the dimly-lit room, John's heartstrings panged painfully at just how guilty he looked this time.
But then as he closed the door quietly, the guilt darkened and turned to something crueller. John's heart leaped in his chest as he took in Sherlock's appearance. He hadn't sobered up. John sniffed. In fact, he had had more to drink since he'd tied him there.
John swallowed a hard lump in his throat. It was never good when Sherlock was drunk, but this time John was tied to the bed; helpless and vulnerable. But Sherlock made no attempt to hurt him like John had thought, he just stepped carefully into the room and stood at John's bedside, looking down at him with a thoughtful expression.
There was a pause, in which only the sound of John's heart drumming in his ears would be heard.
After what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock gestured to the suitcase in the corner, never taking his eyes from John, "Were you going to leave me?" His tone was so calm, so curious, that John didn't feel the need to answer; because even he knew that Sherlock knew the answer.
At John's silence, Sherlock tutted, shaking his head slowly, and pulled his hands out from behind his back. John's heart skipped a beat – probably its last. Because in Sherlock's hands, he held a container of petrol and a packet of matches. John started struggling frantically at the bonds holding him to his grave, screaming for Mrs Hudson. But Sherlock didn't even attempt to silence him. He just calmly twisted the cap off the petrol and tipped it upside down so it soaked every inch of John. All the while, John continued to struggle – so much so that the ropes had scraped his skin, and tiny droplets of blood were forming on his bare wrists and ankles.
Then, Sherlock threw the can away, beside John's suitcase, and took a match from the box. John screamed one last time before Sherlock scraped it across the side of the box and dropped it onto the bed.
And then he watched as John burned.
I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like,
And right now there's a steel knife in my windpipe.
Why did John have to bring that up? Sherlock hated talking about... that. Why couldn't John accept it? Sighing, Sherlock dropped the paper he was pretending to read away from his face and onto his lap so he could glare at the man infront of him.
"Do you purposely do that to annoy me, John?" He asked, arching a single eyebrow. John's own eyebrows knit at his lover's question, before he reached out and snatched the half-empty bottle of whiskey from the coffee table.
"Do what?" He snapped, taking a large swig and shuddering as the taste threw him, but he enjoyed it all the more.
Sherlock shook his head as if to say 'Nothing' and lifted up his newspaper again.
After a beat, John started up again. "Well? What is it? Yes or no?"
The Consulting Detective sighed, throwing the paper away completely and leaning onto his knees to get closer to John as he lowered his voice as if explaining to a small child, "It isn't as simple as that, John. I don't feel capable of those kinds of emotions. What is love, anyway? A small release of chemicals into the brain that gives the impression of 'loving' someone – so what?" Upon the livid look on John's face, he continued, briefly, "Look, John, I can't tell you what it really is, I can only tell you what it feels like. And, sadly, no, I don't love you. But I do find you physically attractive. There – are you happy now?"
And at that, confident the discussion was over as always, Sherlock picked up his paper again and started blankly at the words that were jumping around the page.
Suddenly, the paper was ripped away and replaced with John's twisted, furious face. His snarl made Sherlock uncomfortable, and his eyes even shifted past his lover and over to the whiskey bottle. Oh, how he loathed that thing.
Without thinking, he yelled, "John, what on Earth are you doing?"
But John didn't answer, only leapt on Sherlock's lap so he was straddling him and raised his hand high above his head. At first, Sherlock thought he was going to punch him, so he flinched violently and turned his face protectively into his shoulder. But instead of a first coming down and smacking him in the face, something pierced his throat and went straight through his windpipe.
And when Sherlock opened his eyes wide from shock, he saw John pull away the Swiss knife usually on the fireplace, his face still twisted into a menacing glare, his chest heaving heavily from anger. Sherlock grabbed desperately at John's face, only gargling sounds coming from his throat as he tried to tell John to call the ambulance. But he couldn't breathe. He was a dead man.
John jumped off of him, everything he had just done suddenly sinking in and horrifying him, and immediately dashed over to the phone to dial 999.
But it was too late.
The last thing Sherlock saw was John trying desperately to stop the rapid bleeding and scream out for Mrs Hudson. And then darkness consumed him.
I suffocate.
And right before I'm about to drown she resuscitates me, she fucking hates me.
And I love it, wait.
"Where you going?" Sherlock shouted, as he watched John run out 221B with a suitcase in tow.
"I'm leaving you." He called back, eyes fixed determined on the taxi waiting for him.
"No you ain't, come back!"
We're running right back, here we go again
It's so insane 'cause when it's going good it's going great.
I'm Superman with the wind in his bag, she's Lois Lane
But when it's bad it's awful.
Sherlock caught up to him just as he reached the curb, grabbing his wrist firmly and turning him so he was forced to look at him. John tried not to look at him, but when he finally did he saw his livid expression. After doing so, he turned away quickly, in order to stop the tears from overflowing, and focused on a complete stranger walking towards them.
Sherlock must have seen this, as he turned to see what John was looking at, and his eyes fell immediately on the stranger.
I feel so ashamed, I snap;
"Who's that dude!"
And at that, Sherlock's fist pummelled into John's nose, accompanied by a satisfying crunch. He didn't even know his name.
As John reeled back, it all sunk in what Sherlock had done, and he saw the blood trailing effortlessly from John's broken nose. He promised, right then, that he would never stoop so low to lay hands on him again – he just didn't know his own strength.
You swore you've never hit them, never do nothing to hurt them now you're in each other's face,
Spewing venom in these words when you spit them.
You push, pull each other's hair, scratch, claw, bite them, throw them down, pin them.
So lost in the moments when you're in them.
"You mean nothing to me!" John spat, ending his sentence – much like you would with a full stop – with a hard punch to Sherlock's face. The taller man stumbled back, leaning onto the mantelpiece to gain back his composure, before grabbing the blonde by his shoulders and throwing him down onto the coffee table. It smashed beneath his weight, scattering glass everywhere.
"Well then why don't you go?" Sherlock spat back, louder, as the shorter man got to his feet.
"You know what? I will!" He screamed, leaping onto the Detective until they both fell to the floor, and his pinned him down by his arms and he tried desperately to scratch and claw at any part of John he could.
Sherlock laughed in John's face as he lay on top of him. "You couldn't live without me!" He snapped, before lifting his head up and kissing John roughly, passionately, forcing his tongue in for entry and biting down on his bottom lip until it drew blood.
John groaned as he ripped his torn lip away, but went back down and grabbed Sherlock's head in both his hands as he caught him back in a forceful kiss, pulling his hair ferociously from the roots. Sherlock fought back, kissing rougher than before and scratching John's arms until he left deep red marks that would soon shallowly fill with blood.
It didn't take long until the clothes started getting ripped greedily away as both men fought for dominance, rolling around on the floor; blood, sweat and tears. As both began regretting everything they'd done, the tears ran freely and they held each other tightly as they let hot passion consume them.
It's the rage that took over; it controls you both,
So they say it's best to go your separate ways.
Guess that they don't know ya, 'cause today – that was yesterday.
Yesterday is over; it's a different day
Sound like broken records playing over but you promised her next time you'll show restraint.
You don't get another chance: life is no Nintendo game,
But you lied again now you get to watch her leave out the window,
Guess that's why they call it window pane.
"John, please!" Sherlock yelled, forcing his legs into the nearest pair of trousers he could find and running out after his lover. But John was beyond certain. This was it, now. He was going.
"It's for the best, Sherlock." The shorter man called out as he stepped into the bedroom to collect his things, bringing out a suitcase from under his bed.
"No, John, please! Is it about the fight? Because that was yesterday – yesterday is over! It's a different day now, please; give me another chance!"
John shook his head, not even having the courtesy to look at the hysterical man as he begged him to stay. "Not this time, Sherlock."
"John!"
But nothing he could say could persuade John to stay. So he stood beside the window, half-naked, and watched as his lover left. A sharp pain shot across his chest, and he decided that that is what it must feel like to have your heart breaking.
Now I know we said things, did things, that we didn't mean
And we fall back into the same patterns; same routine
But your temper's just as bad as mine is,
You're the same as me.
But when it comes to love you're just as blinded,
"Baby, please come back! It wasn't you, baby it was me!" Sherlock shouted, pleadingly, watching John run hectically around his bedroom gathering his things – leaving him. Again. "Maybe our relationship isn't as crazy as it seems!" He shouted again, in one last desperate attempt to win back his lover.
Maybe that's what happens when a tornado meets a volcano
All I know is I love you too much to walk away, though.
Sherlock followed John still, like a lost puppy, and tried to stop him walking out of 221B with all his bags in tow. "Come inside. Pick up your bags off the sidewalk."
John shook his head, turning to face a red-eyed Sherlock, determined to win, this time.
After John's silence, Sherlock shouted further, growing more and more distraught by the second. It seemed as though the whole of London (especially Mrs Turner's 'married ones') had come to watch them fight. "Don't you hear sincerity in my voice when I talk? I told you this is my fault – look me in the eyeball!"
John shook his head only once, this time in disbelief. He could smell the liquor on Sherlock's breath.
The Detective yelled louder, "Next time I'm pissed I'll aim my fist at the drywall!"
"Next time?" John yelled, anger overcoming him now, getting into Sherlock's face, uncaring for the people staring, "There will be no 'next time'!"
Sherlock then fell to his knees and held John by the legs, cuddling him close. He kept uttering his apologies under his breath, but loud enough for John to hear.
I apologize even though I know it's lies.
I'm tired of the games I just want her back.
I know I'm a liar.
If she ever tries to fucking leave again I'll tie her to the bed and set this house on fire.
~Fin~
A/N: Rated M INDEFINATELY. But I hope you enjoyed. It was actually a lot of fun to write this. :) I didn't even mean to make the end and the beginning interlink, but I hope it all painted a great big slashy John/Sherlock portrait. Aww.
Thanks! Reviews?
Kelly xxx