A/N IMPORTANT TW! Right this is pretty dark stuff so expect: split personality, drugging, violence, rape and language. If any of this is a trigger for you tread carefully, I WILL POST ANOTHER CHAPTER SO YOU CAN READ THAT.
Prompt 34: "Don't make people into heroes"
He had not been himself. Or, to clarify, he had not been the self he had tried for all these years to be. He was, at moment, returning his mind to normalcy and waiting for the information about what had happened to arrive. For about a week now, he'd been more like his university self. Twisted, coniving, self obsessed and above all an empath, for that alone was the way to survive the hellish eternity that was third level education. As with each occasion he attempted to stave it off, or at least be alone. These episodes fell on him in fits and spurts, and had been a recurring theme of his existence since his drug days, locking the man he'd grown to be away in his mind palace to watch any number of horrors unleashed by his own, personal brand of demon. He'd known, it had been too easy, too long he'd managed to keep all of that under lock and key, hiding his ultimate derangement from John, but now, now Moriarty was back, now Mary Morstan had fallen to the wayside and John had returned to him, the carefully oiled machine of his mind was taking over, for what purpose he couldn't say, but he knew one thing was certain. Lying on his bed with no memory as of yet, Sherlock Holmes knew he needed to remaster his transport.
Two days. That was the extent of time in which Not-Sherlock had stewed in their bedroom, brooding constantly over plans that were without fail obscured from Sherlock's view in the palace. The dungeon he'd erected at the age of six at the behest of his father were at least above ground level. It had still been soul crushingly dull, very much the epitome of his biggest fear at the time - that being confinement in a mental institution- the soft white walls and otherwise barren room were a torture, but only knowing what Not-Him had done after the events were long over was even more so. Sherlock shook his head and refocused, stretching his limbs as he headed down to the bottom floor of his palace. Designed much like a drug den he'd once frequented, the room was empty but for a solitary pair of shoes. Once, a long time ago, they'd belonged to a boy, Carl Powers, but here they housed Not-Sherlock's memories. All he had to do was put them on and he would know the damage. So he did.
Not-Sherlock opened his eyes, looked around the bedroom and smirked at it, but the smirk fell away when he heard John's call of "see you later" as he went to work. The lecherous grin that replaced it was terrifying to say the least, and cold eels of doubt seated themselves firmly in Sherlock's stomach as he watched two days of silence pass. Not good. In fairness, it had been so long since Not-Sherlock had been allowed to take the reigns and the data Sherlock now had would require an amount of reading. Still, two days was far too long for someone of their intelligence to explore the main body of the palace. Only if you went upstairs, to the very top, would you take so long, and then what up there- and the penny dropped.
Carefully stacked away were lists of "Things I know but will never say" and Not-Him had gone through them, probably all, which meant that aside from knowing that at one stage Mycroft had wondered what it would be like if they'd seen each other naked, and that Molly had once told him that his face was one she often thought of during sex while he'd drugged her (for science!), or that Lestrade had, back in his youth, been a male stripper. No, worse than all of that combined, Not-Sherlock knew that John harboured a deep affection for Sherlock, and was going to do something about that. Probably (statistically speaking) something horrifically unpleasant and potentially friendship destroying. Definitely he'd ruin any hopes that Sherlock had for John to show his cards and allow them to enter an intimate relationship, and finally be together properly. The eels slithered to make their displeasure known and Sherlock carried on past that, waiting to see what Not-Him had done.
Not-Sherlock crept to the kitchen and reached into the recesses of the drawer of supplies he had for experiments, pulling out a little blue powder and pouring it into the only jam they had - ensuring John would ingest it. Sherlock was starting to get a picture of where this was going, and the drugs that would make John a bit slow and easy to manipulate were giving him a picture he didn't want to see. Still, he had to know. John jogged up the stairs from work, and his eyes wrinkled with the sincerity of the smile he offered at seeing Sherlock out of his room. "You hungry?" John asked brightly and Sherlock watched as Not-Him snickered to himself before turning to John with a bored expression. "No." and then flew to the box of fingers on the table. As he'd predicted, John popped some bread in the toaster, and the kettle on before heading upstairs to take off his shoes and put on some more appropriate clothes to lounge about in. He arrived back downstairs with the precise timing of someone who had repeated this ritual many times before, and the toast was ready when he was. God, this was too easy. Sherlock had gotten too close to John clearly, because now Not-Him could (and had) access to all the vast stores of information he had on John and was using it to play him like a violin. Within a matter of seconds the contaminated jam was in John's mouth and Sherlock was frozen in anticipation of what was to come.
Twelve minutes and twenty four seconds. That was all the time it took for the drug to take effect, and once it did the affect it had on John was so blatantly obvious. He flinched when John had blurrily asked if Sherlock had drugged him, his eyes well on their way to being rather unfocused as he stumbled across the room to his chair, a destination he didn't quite reach. Not-Sherlock was jubilant, but coldly so, and the hunger splashed across his features was something that terrified Sherlock, that look had turned him off of people and relationships for fear of what he might do, no matter how much he might want them. Not-Sherlock slunk towards John, who (God don't) looked up at him as if he thought he would help him to get off the ground. Trusting. Has trust issues. Trusts (Potential alteration: Trusted.) Sherlock even when vulnerable. Save to hard drive. Too many seconds passed for that look to remain, and still Not-Sherlock loomed over John's pyjama clad form like a hunter over his prize.
"Sh'lck... what..." John blinked dopily and Not-Sherlock grinned, beginning to unbutton his shirt. Barechested and snarling he pushed John to the ground, popping the buttons of his pyjama top with one hand and holding him down with the other. The dawning realisation in John's body of what was happening was something awful, and when he desperately tried to fight, struggling for all his doped up body was worth, Sherlock almost couldn't bear to see what was coming next. Thud - John's head hitting the ground after a brutal left hook, Pop- his shoulder (the right one, small though that mercy seemed) being torn from the socket with a smile, Slap - the hand that crossed his face and then shoved a shirt into his mouth, quieting his yelps of pain. Again and again, the sound of John's beating went on until he lay limp yet awake on the ground and then, only then, did Not-Sherlock take off his trousers to display just how much of an effect the display had made on him.
John's hands did not even twitch when his bottoms came off and only groaned in muffled agony when he was rolled gracelessly onto his stomach. With only spit as a barrier to soften the experience, John cried out around his gag as two long fingers breached him and invaded him mercilessly. Jesus he's physically salivating, Sherlock thought to himself as he watched this caveman style preparation from the gaps between his fingers. Too soon for John to be fully ready (But there was never going to be a perfect moment to rape your friend) Not-Sherlock sheathed himself in John and God the whimper that came from John's mouth was the worst noise Sherlock had ever heard, and he'd heard some terrible things. The pace was punishing, and what could have been (should have been, would have been?) a symphony of skin on skin that Sherlock would have treasured, was like every slap of their bodies was a punch to the gut. He could only imagine (block thought) what this was like for John. The stimulation was causing the obvious physiological reaction, but whatever John was saying sounded vaguely like a mix of desire, pain and disgust, there was no way to hear it around the shirt and Sherlock was glad. He was tentatively thankful that John was on his stomach so at least a shred of his dignity remained his own, but that changed very little when he rather unwillingly came, going limper still and making Not-Sherlock even wilder, grasping his waist with both hands and grinding down so John was smeared in his own come while getting fucked like a dog takes a bitch.
Sherlock carefully stepped out of the trainers and opened his eyes, finding himself back in the now. He hadn't really needed to see more, "I said don't make people into heroes didn't I?" the low croon of it into John's ear was enough to make him want to tear the shoes off, his ears off. The only real question was just how long it had been since he'd (not you Sherlock not you) done this unforgivable thing. Could he leave the flat without John knowing? Was he even still here? The contrast between Sherlock now and this other man was so great it was hard for him to believe they could coexist in his one body, especially now that the acts of violence he committed while locked in his own mind were so devastating in their affects. Perhaps mother had been right in thinking a mental institution was the place for him. He didn't want to hurt anyone.
As silently as he could, Sherlock opened his bedroom door and crept out, stealing glances around the flat as he tiptoed towards the front door. Unfortunately, lying in his path was a very familiar man. Bruised and battered beyond belief, John was laying fully nude on his back, displaying the destruction of his body that Sherlock had carried out. Eyes shut, it wasn't unfeasible to think him dead, but for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Bile rose in Sherlock's throat as he saw a little river of blood dryed on the skin of John's thighs, and he turned quickly, flying to the bin to empty his stomach into it.
"Sherlock" three knocks and the clack of an umbrella. Mycroft. "Sherlock I am here, I can help you brother." The man sobbed "I'm not safe to be around them." "Who?"Mycroft asked, still outside the door he could have opened. "People Mycroft. I'm begging you. Put me away, please, I don't... I don't want to hurt them. I'm not safe for them. For him. God look at... Please." The door opened and the ragged intake if breath was almost as shocking as seeing Mycroft smile would have been. "Ok little brother, ok." Mycroft's fingers flew across the face if his phone and then through Sherlock's curls as he sobbed,
and sobbed
and sobbed.
A/N pt2: Yeah that one... I kinda felt like angst was the way to go but this is a bit much... Sorry if it's insensitive, offensive in any way or inaccurate.