Since I hate The Blind Banker, we're going to skip that particular episode. Sorry.
The day after he called Mikey, John told himself he'd ask Sherlock why he didn't sleep. It had something to do with uni, which honestly made John feel awful. His nightmares stemmed from a battlefield and deserts, while Sherlock's had to do with...well, university! Someone must have scared him so badly as to sleep with one eye open, or not at all, and that awakened a sense of protectiveness that would be considered sick to any outside individual.
Why would John feel this protective of a target? James would kill him slowly for even thinking it.
John steeled himself and prepared to walk into the darkened room where his friend was performing some sort of experiment involving his floor compared to the floor in the hallway. "Sherlock?"
He barely looked up. "You obviously have something to ask me, so please continue what you were going to say."
How did he know? Never mind, Sherlock knew so many things that John couldn't comprehend. "Your brother told me something that I want to check with you as to its truth value."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I don't know anything about the solar system. Is that it?"
Joh laughed aloud. "So, you don't know that the earth goes around the sun?"
"Why would that matter? People cram their heads with so much useless information, it's a miracle they don't melt into a puddle of ill-conceived sludge. I delete things so I can keep the actually vital information, like how many kinds of tobacco ash there are." It was made clear to John how little Sherlock would budge on this, so he proceeded to ask his real question.
"What was it about uni that makes you unable to sleep?" he asked abruptly, not wanting to stall. John had a penchant for stalling whenever he was in a dangerous or emotionally-straining situation. When he was a kid, his mom and dad would fight all the time, and to keep them from going at each other, he'd have to distract one or both of them until they forgot what they were fighting about. It was almost a defense mechanism nowadays. If a target had a weapon or doubted John was who he said he was (undercover missions were common), John spoke incessantly, being a diversion of his own. James had often told him diverting was one of his best skills. He hated it.
Sherlock finally looked up at him. "My brother told you that?"
"After much persuasion. I was worried about you, otherwise, I never would have asked anything," John placated. He tried to build up some level of trust. In his head, it made perfect sense. In his soul, or what was left of it, he wanted to throw up.
Sherlock stood and took John's hand, pulling him into his bedroom. Both men were barefoot, so John hoped absently that whatever was on the floor was harmless. "Do you really want to know the story?"
"If there's anything I can do, I have to know."
He sighed. "I got into uni very early. I was a child of sixteen in first year courses; learning meant everything to me. Without meaning to, I began passing all the other students in my classes. Mycroft just congratulated me, but he didn't understand that the other students didn't take it as well as he did. As threatened people often do, they lashed out at me.
"It started small. Every few days or so, someone would knock my books out of my hands, push me into walls, little things like that. Then, it became more often, and with the same people. A gang of inferior boys would punch me or bruise me whenever they found me. I got used to it, I fought back with deductions, but it only seemed to make them angrier. One male in particular, Victor Trevor, decided to make me his pet project of sorts. He wanted to know how long it would take him to get me to kill myself. He even told me once."
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" John wondered, running his thumb over Sherlock knuckles, realizing he hadn't let his hand go yet. He didn't want to.
"Really, John? Do you think anyone would have believed me? Victor was the captain of the footy team."
"You could have, though." His tone was so soft and sad. James could really pick them.
"It wouldn't have made any difference. Victor was getting worse by himself. Every day, he'd find me, and I'd go back to my dormitory covered in bruises. This went on for months. Finally, in March, I started using cocaine. He thought that was a sign he was getting to me, and so he let up for a few weeks. The day he punched me again, I threw out my last deduction at him, trying so hard to make him leave me alone." Sherlock's voice broke.
"What did he do to you?" John had to keep from rushing out the door with his gun and filling Victor with so many bullets he would have to go back to get ammo before he finished.
"I told him he was actually gay, and he enjoyed torturing people because it turned him on. At that point, I just wanted a moment of shock or something to help me get away, but there wasn't. Victor...he kissed me. He kept kissing me, and since we were alone in the halls, I couldn't yell for anyone. I struggled, I know I did, but it felt so useless. I felt like I wasn't going to be a wall of deduction and strength anymore. I know I thought briefly that I should have just gotten out before." Sherlock paused, and his face became like a rock again, unreadable. "When he was done, he smiled and told me that if I ever came after him, he would kill me."
"You got the police after him, didn't you? Please tell me you did," John begged him.
"My brother has him shoved so far down in the system that it'll take him a long time to get out of prison, but prison was the best Mycroft could do. Victor could get out at any time and find me, and he'll...he'll..." Sherlock dropped John's hand and moved away from him, maybe a meter or more. "So there, I told the sob story. Now leave me alone."
John nodded slowly and put his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender. "I'll go if you want me to."
"I do. Just go, John." Sherlock's tone was hard and ugly and John hated it so much. He hated that he had to ask anything, and he hated that he was so powerless. Powerlessness was something John couldn't deal with, not without distraction.
"Okay."
John left the flat, wandering the streets of London with all the care of a child with its toys. He didn't care that he was getting lost, he didn't care if there was an entire gang behind him. It didn't matter, not compared to how jittery and in need of a kill he was.
Killing people, while a terrible thing morally, helped John blow off steam. As a target bled out on the ground, John imagined the congealing liquid to be his troubles, oozing out and leaving him calm and untouched again. The only thing left after a kill was vague regret, and numbness reaching over a new area of John's body. John needed it, however wrong and twisted it was. The sooner he had a dead body beneath him, the better he would feel.
He yanked his phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed. "James? I need a job. Can you get me the location of Victor Trevor?"
"Is this because of Sherlock?" James giggled. "Don't bother answering that, darling. I know. Yes, I'll get the naughty little boy's location for you."
"Do you mind if I take my time?"
Moriarty smirked. "Never. There's so much scum in this city, you can afford to have a bit of fun with some of them. Just for you, my pet. No one else."
"Thank you," John breathed.
"I can hear how excited you are. You deserve a present for working so hard."
"You are amazing." John didn't even mean to say it, it just slipped out. Compliments came easy when he interacted with mad genii every day.
"Enjoy, dear. Make him scream as much as you want to, I'll cover them up."
"Catch you later," John said, hanging up and checking his text messages as soon as he did. Cell 10A of Pentonville Prison. John smiled grimly. Victor Trevor was going to die, and he was going to savor every moment of it.
The prison wasn't very well protected. John easily snuck past the security cameras and the guards, some of whom winked at him as he passed. Inside men, he presumed. He couldn't help but be grateful for it right now. All the prisoners except his target were outside, not allowed to go back in until he was finished. Cell 10A housed a brown-haired, average-looking man with smart eyes and a brutishly built frame. This man lived to hurt people, John could see that without Sherlock's story blinding him.
"Hello," John began as he walked in. He wore his scrubs specifically to not get his clothes dirty (and to seem nonthreatening, but mostly the clothes thing). "You are Victor Trevor, yes?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Well, I do."
"Why? I haven't been sick in a while. No illnesses in at least a year, except allergies."
"I want to know if you're Victor Trevor to determine if I've got the right person."
The man snorted. "I'm Vic. What the hell do you want, doc?"
"I thought I would start by carving you up while you screamed. I also want to break a few of your bones before we're done here."
His face lit up in surprise and slight fright for a moment, but John knocked him out before Victor could do much more. John proceeded to tie the man to his bunk, securing the ropes so that he couldn't get away even if he was strong enough to break the ties. This is for Sherlock, he tried to convince himself. This is for me, he conceded, and for Sherlock. Mostly for Sherlock.
You're a filthy liar, John Watson.
"Should I start by breaking your bones, or carving you up? What do you think?" John asked once Victor was awake and could hear him. His vision blurred red dangerously, and John had to remember to take this slowly, and not explode, right here, right now.
"Which one will hurt less?" Victor gasped.
"You're right." John rapidly (brutally) used his fist to break a couple of the man's ribs. "Hurting more now makes me feel better."
"I'm your stress doll, then?" Victor laughed through his pain, chokingly.
"It's a little more than that, but if it helps you sleep at night..." John shrugged. "Wait a minute, that's the opposite of what I want."
"What did I do to piss you off?"
"Remember someone named Sherlock Holmes?"
"The Freak? The one I went to prison for? He was asking for it!" Victor got angry fast, and John thanked his rope-tying skills that the man wasn't going anywhere.
"He has powerful friends, some of which are dangerous, like me." John took out his favorite knife, courtesy of James' collection. Her name was Annie. "Now, let me hear you scream."
When John was finished, there was almost nothing left of Victor Trevor's face to identify that was indeed him. The adrenaline rush hadn't left John's veins yet, and he was on cloud nine. There was no regret with this kill, no self-hatred. He killed a bad man responsible for hurting Sherlock, and that was inexcusable. No one got to hurt Sherlock. Nobody would take Sherlock from him.
John washed his hands and took a quick shower at the prison before the inmates came back. He couldn't afford for Sherlock to see how much he got into this. The blood dripped from him and into the drain, never to be seen again. No more evidence. John liked it that way.
He thought he might as well go to Tesco while he was out, and so he did. John bought milk, and more of those chocolate biscuits Sherlock liked. He also purchased various cleaning supplies just in case his friend wanted to use the chemicals in an experiment. The grocery bags ended up full, and he went on home to the flat without any other stops, trying to make it seem normal and not out of the ordinary.
As John entered the front door, he called up the stairs, "Sherlock, I bought a few things." Sherlock didn't answer, so John shrugged and headed up the steps.
"I said, John can you pass me a pen?" Sherlock looked over at him like he'd been waiting impatiently ever since John left, and it punched a hole in his calm state of mind. Sherlock wanted him here. John was hoping Sherlock hadn't wanted him to move out.
"Yeah, here." John pulled a pen out of his pocket and managed to give it to his friend without dropping any of the groceries. "I'll just put this away, then." He went in the kitchen and began dispensing food items in their proper places, not pausing until Sherlock spoke.
"You didn't just go to Tesco. You smell like blood and metal, and bad hospital soap. You don't have a job at any hospital, so you went to another establishment with a need for disinfectant. You showered, then. It's all over you. Public shower? No, you have one here, and also, your soap doesn't smell like that. More likely a necessity shower in a dirty place where you..." Sherlock trailed off. "John, what did you do?"
"You told me a story, Sherlock. The villain of that story was in Pentonville Prison. I did what I had to do to keep you safe." His voice was soft, and he meant it. He would do anything to keep Sherlock safe at this point. Safe from everyone but him.
"He's dead. You know for certain that he's dead?" Sherlock was breathing hard, and he wildly looked at John for confirmation.
"Victor Trevor is dead. He can't hurt you anymore." John had to rush forward and catch Sherlock in his arms, because his friend nearly collapsed right where he was sitting. "Shh, Sherlock. It's alright now. He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, and I'm here."
Sherlock curled into John like he was a teddy bear, cradling him just as much as John was cradling Sherlock. Oddly enough, this had more impact on John's mind than torturing and killing Victor. It was as if a semi truck had crashed into him.
Was this what love did to people? If so, James had been orchestrating John's death as well as Sherlock's.
Is Dark!John scaring anybody else? I'm worried this story has surpassed a T-rating, but let me know. Pleas review, guys!
