A/N: a bit of Watson's POV here, leading up to what i hope to be the final two chapters. i recieved many wonderful reviews for the last chapter; thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! here's chapter 7, and please keep up with the wonderful motivation;) seriously, though, it's great, and i love you guys! keep reading!
~LoverBoyWonder
Watson slowly walked up the stairs at 221 Baker Street, relishing the sound each individual step made as he climbed steadily to apartment b. He appeared calm and collected; in reality, he was anything but. Underneath his mask of professionalism and cool demeanor, the doctor was shaking with anticipation; he could feel Holmes' skin under his hands, hear the detective moan…Watson shook his head. Control. He wasn't even inside the apartment yet.
The doctor approached the door and knocked gently. He waited a moment, but the door remained shut. Watson tested the handle; it was locked, which was strange, as Holmes had expected, probably even wanted, Watson to come. Watson smiled ruefully. He loved Holmes in his own way, he really did…but he hadn't expected to become so serious about one of his playthings. He wasn't serious about Holmes, the doctor admonished, it was just a game. He liked to give pain, Holmes enjoyed receiving it. Theirs was a business agreement in which each man gained the object of his deepest, darkest desires.
Watson sighed and called softly, "Holmes. I know you're in there…open the door." When no response came, Watson knocked a little harder, and called a little louder. "Holmes. Are you hiding in there? Open the door, Holmes!" Still there was no reply from Holmes. Watson let out a sound of annoyance, and rooted through his pockets in an effort to find his spare key, which he kept for emergency purposes only, of course. Finding the key, the doctor inserted it into the lock and turned it impatiently, barely opening the door before bursting into the apartment.
"Holmes!" Watson called. Then his voice softened. "Sherlock…come out, come out, wherever you are…I came to visit you…" Watson was frustrated and began to feel the first tendrils of anger brush the edges of his consciousness. "Sherlock," he hissed. Watson crept through the kitchen, the sitting room, and went into the bathroom. Where was Holmes? Surely he was not out. He had been expecting Watson, the doctor was sure of it.
The only thing that seemed out of place to Watson was the empty wine glass on the bathroom counter, next to a tarnished spoon. Watson had no explanation for this phenomenon. Holmes was either hiding, and for good reason, Watson thought with a wicked smile, or…Watson's eyes widened and he looked again at the glass near the sink. No. Sure enough, when the doctor studied the glass, he could see a strange residue around the inner curve.
Watson bolted into the bedroom, shoving the door open and barely feeling it. "Holmes!" he yelled, more frantically now. "No!" he cried upon seeing the body on the bed, an ashen pallor affecting the skin strangely. The anger now fully enveloped his mind. Riding a red-tinted wave of madness, Watson grabbed the body and shook it. He slapped Holmes' face. He took out his scalpel, slicing open the rock-hard torso and peeling the skin back, trying to resuscitate the frozen heart with his bare hands; his stiff, uncooperative hands. No no this wasn't supposed to happen no not him no anger not him no please MONSTER The last thought hit Watson so hard that he let out an inhumane howl of pain. Why did it hurt so much it was only a game he was only a plaything he was right he was a MONSTER he was beautiful red blood MONSTER beauty shadows darkness red Watson shivered uncontrollably as his mind went into overdrive.
The doctor staggered off the bed, locking all the windows and doors to keep anyone and everyone out of the apartment. That night, he carefully mutilated the beautiful body that was only a game. Watson burned it and swept the ashes into a bag, cautiously bringing it outside and leaving it with the rest of the garbage when he was sure that no one was looking. He slept in Holmes' bed that night, which was surprisingly spotless. It was the one thing the detective had kept meticulously, fanatically clean at Watson's insistence; and though it had observed much carnage that night, postmortem wounds don't bleed.
