NOTE: Warnings: Bloodplay and major character death. Again, if you're easily grossed out by blood, don't read this.

There's some implied Johnlock in this chapter, too. (Oh, and sorry for the massive cliffhanger)

- 4 -

John darted him a questioning look. A look that said 'Where the hell have you been last night?'

"I was out, on the hunt." he said, answering John's unspoken question and heading right for his bedroom.

"Wha- Where are you going?"

Sherlock looked exhausted, the dark circles beneath his eyes causing them to appear even more lucid. Even his skin seemed to be a shade paler, more like porcelain than alabaster.

"To get some sleep. It's been a long night for me, John." He ran a hand through his messy curls.

"Aren't you the one, who keeps bugging me about how overrated sleep is? What are you not telling me, Sherlock? Why are you keeping me and Lestrade out of this?"

"I'm not I just- I-" Sherlock had a hard time focusing on his words, distracted by Johns mesmerising heartbeat. His hearbeat. So loud and presend, steady and strong. His gaze fell upon Johns neck. He could feel, the blood beneath John's skin calling out for him, inviting him. And god the smell. John smelt of tea, iron and sweat, traces of aftershave still clouding his natural scent. Sherlocks eyes locked on the spot, he had missed to shave this morning, just on the edge of his jawline, above his pulse point.

"I dropped the case. As I said earlier, it wasn't worth getting up."

Sherlocks response surprised him. Something was very wrong.

"The killer is still out there!"

"But the game is over." he murmured, turning to face John once more.

"I'm sure the police can handle this on their own."

Sherlock fled to his bedroom, leaving John dumbfounded.

...

Rest. Sleep. Yes, good. Primitive thoughts took over his mind. So tired. He grasped at his bedsheets, pulling them closer to his face. So comfortable. At the sound of a boiling tea kettle his eyes shot open. John. Careful, to not cause any noise, he sat up and turned to face the door. Everything he ever wanted was just outside that door. And he could simply take it. His feet tiptoed over the wooden floor, as he cautiously moved forward. He could hear John's steady heartbeat just metres away from him, hear him move from the kitchen to the sitting room. Familiar footsteps. Slowly turning the knob, Sherlock let the door fall open and took a step backwards. John hadn't noticed him yet and was about to sit down, and before Sherlock could realise, what was happening, he had his prey pinned against a wall. A mug shattered on the floor, spilling hot tea over their bare feet. Neither of them minded. Johns eyes spread wide in shock.

"H- H- How did you? Wh- Wha-" He was cut off by Sherlock lips, ghosting over his neck.

"Do you even realise, how hard it is to hold myself back?" He purred into Johns ear, stretching every word.

"I- I don't understand." John was breathing heavily now.

"And did I ever tell you how amazing you smell?"

Unable to respond, John found himself immobilised beneath the force of Sherlocks body.

Slowly, careful, to not let his prey get away, Sherlock bent down to pick up a shard. He pressed his free hand on Johns chest, keeping him in position.

"Let's have some fun, shall we?" Icy blue eyes, almost white, burried behind dark curls met John's as Sherlock moved back up. Dry, pale lips framing a pair of long, razor sharp cannies, formed into a wicked smile. Sherlock placed the sharp edged piece of broken porcelain on Johns neck, his other hand still pinning him down. There was no point in fighting back, he was too strong. John winced, as Sherlock pressed the shard against his jugular vein, slowly but forcefully, waiting for it so pierce the skin. And when it finally did, he applied more pressure, dragging it across the sweaty surface. A breathless cry escaped Johns lips as the shard left behind a deep cut, oozing with blood. He shivered involuntary and at the same time winced in pain when he felt Sherlocks tounge flick over the wound. Not wasting a single drop, he licked and sucked at it. He thought the bagged blood had tasted like heaven but my was he wrong. This was like entering heaven. Warm and sweet and thick and completely enveloping him. More. Sherlock bit down greedily, tearing at the wound, desperate for more. Tingling sensations crept through John's body, numbing the unbearable pain as his eyes lost focus. More, more. There was the sound of even more skin ripping mixed with John's hoarse, almost silent screams and the gulping noise of Sherlock, draining him. Everything shifted into slow motion and his vision started to blur, as he felt the life being sucked out of him. So, this was it then? These were the last breaths he'd ever take. It was nothing like he'd expected death to be. He'd also never expected to die by the hands of Sherlock Holmes. But somehow, in a strange way, it felt right, to die in his arms. In the arms of his dearest friend. He somehow managed so smile at the thought of it and let a single tear roll down his face as he closed his eyes. In the end, Sherlock was the one who kind of saved his life. And, thinking back on everything, the time he had spend with him was the most beautiful time in his life. He had given him a new motive for living, a home and most importantly a friend. Deep inside he somehow even regretted, that they never got the chance to... to- His thoughts wandered off and drifted into a pool of light. It felt right.

A sudden silence filled the air in 221b. Sherlock only realised, that Johns heart had stopped beating, when there was not a single drop of blood left. He let his limp body drop to the floor in horror. At the sight of what had happened, his bloodstained face froze. No, no... no. Feeling dazed, he slowly allowed himself to drop onto his knees. A warmth -John's warmth spread through his body, making his muscles twitch in ecstasy and it made him feel sick. How... why? His thoughts spun, as he was trying to compensate what had just happened. He killed him. He had killed John Watson, his flatmate, his companion and his only friend. A lump began to form in his throat as his eyes welled up with tears. He swallowed it, letting out a sob.

"Wow." Sherlock raised his head to meet Moriarty, leaning casually against the wall. He started clapping.

"I didn't expect you to be so... eager. Luckily there was a doctor around." A grin crept over his face.

Sherlock glared at him, his eyes full of agony and rage.

"My, don't be so hard on yourself. This would've happened anyway, someday."

A split second later he was crouching next to Sherlock, purring into his ear.

"Little Johnnyboy never belonged into this world of ours. Even before all of this."

He pointed at the bloody mess on John's neck, a deep and ragged wound. Trails of crimson had run down to John's jumper, now stained with blood. With his eyes closed, his expression somehow even seemed peaceful. Sherlock closed his eyes to stop the tears from falling, but it didn't help. He swallowed. Slowly, emphasising every word, Moriarty whispered into his ear.

"This is what you are now."