Author's Notes: Sorry if Sherlock seems out-of-character during the non-con scene and afterward: obviously it's a little hard writing someone who's never been raped as being raped. And it's just a hard thing to write in the first place. I drew on my personal experiences as a survivor of sexual assault, so I don't know if his detachment seemed accurate or appropriate. I apologize to anyone who might be offended by this chapter or by its characterization.
Also, the reason I wanted the assault scene to come out of nowhere is because remember - John is a sociopath in this 'verse. Part of sociopathy is impulsiveness and a complete disregard for social mores or rules. Part of the reason that sociopaths get 'outed' is because of this impulsiveness and need to gratify themselves at inappropriate times.
And I have the feeling that Sherlock wouldn't want to tell anyone about it or would try to justify it in his mind, both to keep himself from having to feel the full effects of being traumatized, and so that he could focus his attention on other things - namely the murder investigation. That's why you see him focusing on trying to make it make sense in his head.
Sceaduwe – Chapter 4
Baker Street remained as silent and pensive as when they had left, the eaves of the shops shuttered against the late hour. John, roused from a doze in the back of the cab, blearily fumbled his way to the door of their flat, dragging his bag along behind him as Sherlock followed close behind.
"I can't believe you didn't get damage charges on the rental," John yawned, clomping up the stairs.
"Home again, boys? Have a nice vacation?" Mrs. Hudson sprang out from behind the door of 221A, her heels clucking against the carpet. Sherlock embraced her as John simply nodded in recognition.
"Very much so – picked up a fantastic case. We'll be out again in a minute, just dropping off our bags."
"I'll leave you lovebirds to it," she replied affectionately, patting Sherlock's arm.
"We're not!" John called after the landlady, sighing in frustration.
"Mm," the detective mumbled as he pushed past his flatmate to drop his bags in the living room.
"We aren't."
"The sniper's killer. Soo Lin Yao's brother, probably, obviously."
"We're not together."
"Death by strangling, all of them have had a connection to the past cases that we've solved regarding Moriarty's organization, hence it is most likely Soo Lin Yao's brother, The Spider."
"Sherlock, I mean it, we're not like-"
"Location specific, but we don't know what the myth is. But we do know-"
"You're not listening to me!"
"I've heard you perfectly clear, John. I choose to ignore you because what you're talking about has no bearing on the current situation and hence is decidedly unhelpful in figuring out where our victim is going to be. If you could kindly stop insisting that you're perfectly heterosexual and perhaps offer some useful input as to the solving of this case, I'd greatly appreciate it." Sherlock shot John a particularly acerbic look before smiling distractedly, diving back into his headspace to further parse out the crime.
"The Black Tramway maybe?"
"Also, the fact that you moved in to kiss me after the disruption of the first kiss suggests that on some level, subconscious or not, you recognize that you are bisexual."
"I thought you said that has no bearing on this case."
"It doesn't. But it needed to be said." The detective sprang up, clapping his hands. "So. Black Tramway. Most likely location of our murderer-cum-victim. Let's go have a look."
The ride to the tramway was filled with silence, Sherlock swimming deeply in his own deductions while John merely stared out the window. The detective, surfacing suddenly to note the frosty tension between them, regarded his flatmate curiously.
"Have we always been this cold toward each other?"
"Hmm? What do you mean?"
"The not talking. Has it always been like this, have I just deleted all of the interactions that demonstrate this uncomfortable air?"
"I. . . didn't realize it was uncomfortable. I thought you were just busy thinking."
"I was. But then I stopped thinking and noticed this."
Well, if it consoles you any, Sherlock, I don't think it's always been this quiet, but I also don't think the quiet is necessarily a bad thing. We just don't have much to say to each other. It happens when you spend a lot of time with someone."
"Does it? I've never spent enough time with anyone to find out."
"This is relatively natural."
"Yes. . . but yet, no. No, there's something off." Sherlock turned to face his colleague with a speculative gaze. "The cadaver heads."
John huffed. "These again? How does this have anything to do with the case?"
"You said you called and reserved them for me. Fresh shipment, perfectly good heads – why would Molly call you instead of me?"
"She didn't. I called her. Knew they were expecting them in because I'd talked to her about some specimens for you before we left. She still can't remember my name, you know."
"Yes, but then why didn't she mention them to me? Why were you talking to her about them instead of asking me if I'd want any?"
"You had a list of requested body parts on the fridge at the flat."
"But why didn't she mention them to me?" Sherlock hissed, growing agitated.
"Why is this even important right now?"
"Because it's off. That's why it's important, because it doesn't make sense and hence I want to fix it before it takes up any more space in my head!"
"Sherlock. She mentioned them to me two days ago, the last time I went to Barts with you, while you were out of the room. I said I would call her to tell her what to do with them when they got them in, and she gave me the expected time of arrival. When you came back in you were agitated and ready to leave because your experiment wasn't going how you expected; hence why neither of us mentioned it to you. By the time the shipment came in, you were asleep, so I just called and told them to put them in the freezer and expect to hold them for a while. End of story, mystery solved."
"Your left eyelid is twitching."
"Eyes do that sometimes."
"Typical signal of a liar."
"Why the hell would I have any reason to lie to you about something so stupid? You're being paranoid, Sherlock. No wonder we haven't gotten far on this case, because you're spending half your time trying to figure out whether I'm deceiving you!"
The car jolted to a stop and Sherlock stormed out, spinning on his heel to stare down his colleague. "Then so be it. Then you are part of the puzzle as well."
John's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. "Fine."
Their footsteps echoed eerily in the dark tunnel, lit only by a low fire near the back. Both pulled out their weapons, turned to look at each other, and with a nod, remembering their last experience in the tunnel, pocketed their guns again.
"Our killer has already been here – that means we're too late to save Yao."
"Pity," John replied sarcastically.
Sherlock's eyebrow twitched in silent alarm at the doctor's tone, but the man said nothing, merely trudged further into the tunnel before stepping back suddenly.
"Oh. Much too late to save Yao."
At their feet laid a thawing, headless corpse, smelling strongly of formaldehyde. A gouge in the chest showed the ribs had been pulled back to remove the heart. Sherlock, kneeling beside the body, took in all the details quickly before inviting John to do the same.
"Well, the blood has been removed and it was preserved quickly after death. Time of death isn't obvious because it's been preserved, but if I had to say, judging by the slight signs of decay, it's been about six months since this person died."
"Do we know it's The Spider?"
John looked up, shaking his head. "Headless corpse – we'd need fingerprints, and they might not even have his on file because he's not a British citizen."
"This is a break in the pattern."
"What's that?"
"This man here could not have killed our Black Annis. So someone else killed her, and then brought out the body here. Or several people. The preservation of the body destroyed any meaningful data as well, so we have nothing else to go on other than the mutilations to the body, which – here's my phone – start looking for anything you can find British-specific about headless corpses with the hearts taken out."
"I'll burn the heart out of you."
Alarmed, Sherlock stared at John.
"That's what Moriarty said, wasn't it? He'd burn the heart out of you," John continued, typing slowly on Sherlock's phone.
"Yes . . . yes, that's it! That's the break in the pattern. Because now they're getting personal. We go from two victims I've never seen before, have no connection to, to one I know slightly because I was there the night he killed his sister. I can only presume the next ones will be people I know personally. And that's why he broke the pattern – to underscore that shift. Very, very clever. I love a clever enemy."
"Found your murder myth," John replied, tossing the phone back to Sherlock. "The Revenant. The British version of zombies, I'm gathering: people who started to walk about after death, they cut the heads off and took the hearts out to stop them from hurting people."
"Just like this man has come back from the dead to serve as a warning. Oh, this one's good."
"Any leads from this, then?" John asked, gesturing to the corpse.
"No, of course not. We're not dealing with a typical murderer here, John, but a group, training in killing people and showing the least amount of evidence possible. Anything we weren't supposed to see has been conveniently removed to keep us from finding anything of value. Even the nails weren't a mistake of course, because the body could have been posed whenever – there was no need to worry about us finding it because they'd know when we were on our way back to London. Shropshire wasn't a clue after all; in fact, we were supposed to figure out it wasn't from Glasgow so we would return at once to London and figure out the next puzzle before anyone else chanced upon it. It wasn't a mistake. It was guidance. Of course."
"Okay, good?"
"So our next victim is the murderer of the sniper, and most likely also the poser of this body as well. But . . ."
"But what?"
"The last victim. Her teeth. Where were her teeth? Obviously the murderer took them, but where? Wherever we find the teeth will tell us if I was right."
"I'm not following."
"We know the victims don't know they're going to be killed – well, except for this poor sod – so whoever it is will likely not get rid of the teeth. They have no need to, and disposing of evidence like that – something as specific as teeth – will surely lead someone straight to them. Too risky. That means that the teeth will likely still be with them when they're killed, and what would their murderer need with them? That would just lead to suspicion on them for carrying around a bag of teeth."
"How do you know it's a bag?"
"Assumption. Regardless. I doubt that any of the operatives know about the chain of murders: they're just following the orders given to them, and why would they bother to ask questions about what they're told to do? If they knew that others had been killed before them, they would quickly realize they were next – survival instinct that I was talking about, they'd find a way to disappear. No, that tells me that they don't know."
"But wouldn't they notice that operatives are suddenly disappearing?"
Perhaps . . . ah. They don't know about each other. That's how Moriarty maintains such strong control over them. It's the way to run any organization based on fear; don't tell everyone everything, only tell them what they need to know. Operatives are given assignments, they perform them, then are disposed of as soon as it's convenient."
"Makes good sense."
"Right. I think we're done here so far, nothing of importance has been left on the body as far as I can tell – did you see anything?"
"No, not that I can tell."
"Very good, John. I'll text Lestrade and tell him to come pick up and ID the body." The detective whipped out his phone, beginning a text. "Also, John?"
"Yes."
"You're bisexual," he remarked offhandedly, his eyes still glued to his phone.
Sherlock had barely taken another step before he found himself pinned against the wall, his hands pinioned by John's. The shorter man was staring fiercely into his eyes, the blue orbs burning with such intensity that it nearly physically hurt.
"If I fucked you right now to prove I was bisexual, would you say no?"
"John," he growled warningly.
"Answer the question."
"I'm not interested in that," Sherlock replied coolly. "And your bisexuality does not need proving. I knew it the moment I met you. It was obvious to anyone with eyes."
"You didn't answer my question."
"I very nearly did."
"You wouldn't say no, would you," John growled, pulling Sherlock against him.
"I didn't say that."
"But I can tell that it's true. You're in love with me; you said so yourself. So why would you say no?"
Sherlock felt the older man's tumescence pressing into his thigh, and a sharp wave of dizziness overcame him. His knees buckled, but instead of falling to the ground, John lifted him up to turn him around; the detective automatically braced himself against the wall as his trousers were unbuckled and sent zipping toward the filthy floor.
Surely this couldn't be happening? A poor diet, lack of sleep – this could explain this exceptionally convincing hallucination, of course? Sherlock closed his eyes and recounted every study he could remember regarding stress-related psychosis and its various manifestations. Pages upon pages of PDFs flew past his shuttered eyelids, interrupted occasionally by the sudden need to yelp in pain as John pressed inside him and then, later, shifted about, thrusting viciously.
Somewhere in his brain he remembered that he could shout for help, or even better, fight John off. But isn't this what he wanted? He'd said he wanted John; Google told him he was in love with the man. Then wasn't he supposed to enjoy this, this physical activity most commonly associated with dating, romance, seduction, love? Just because he'd never been interested in it before, never felt the appeal – still didn't feel the appeal, even as it was being done upon him – that didn't mean he didn't want to, did it? Sherlock realized, a little hysterically, that he had no idea how relationships or sexual dalliances were supposed to work. Isn't this how it was meant to be? Nothing he'd researched had told him any differently.
Good thing John knew about these things, Sherlock accepted, or nothing would have ever happened. Surely this is how these things happen; John had simply hastened them along. It was perfectly normal, then, Sherlock decided, no matter how much the roiling nausea in his stomach or the horrified constriction in his chest seemed to think otherwise. He realized with a start that they had both came, and John was now forcing his trousers back up over his shaking, unresponsive legs.
"Wasn't that nice?" John asked affectionately, buckling Sherlock's belt for him. "A good bracing fuck to clear our minds?"
"Yes, very nice," the detective replied automatically. Sirens sounded in the distance – Lestrade coming to the crime scene finally – and he prayed silently that someone would notice his disheveled state and think to ask if something was wrong. He didn't hold much hope of that.
"You were right, you know."
"Yes, I know."
Lestrade's booming voice echoed off the curved walls of the tramway, saving the pair from any further dialogue. "What have we got, Sherlock?" As he came into view of the men, he took their appearances in, smirking slightly. "Well, other than that."
John adopted a flustered air, rearranging his clothes. "We're not-"
"Yes, of course, we know you're not," the DI agreed with a roll of his eyes, his smile dropping sharply when he saw the stricken expression on the consulting detective's face. "Sherlock?"
"I. . . I don't have anything. Just – take it."
"You alright, mate?"
"Yes. Fine. I'm – fine," Sherlock replied sharply. "This body has nothing of significance. Tag it and bag it, inspector."
"Sherlock – are we getting any closer to solving these murders, or are you just mucking about with your boyfriend?"
"We're NOT-"
"I'll figure it out," the detective growled, pushing past them. John gave an apologetic glance to Lestrade before following close after.
"Was I supposed to enjoy that?" Sherlock asked earnestly as they strode away.
"What, talking to Lestrade?"
"No – the – uh."
"I would hope you enjoyed it."
"Right."
"Back to Baker Street then, or do we need to stop off anywhere?" John asked, hailing a taxi.
"Just back to the flat."
"Everything alright?" The doctor set his hand on Sherlock's thigh, and it took all of his willpower not to flinch away. What used to send electric thrills down his spine now offered him nothing but a dull sense of horror. He would need to recalibrate his somatic responses to remind himself that John was his friend and flatmate, because anything else was unacceptable.
"It's fine. It's all fine," the detective replied dully.
