Warning: Depiction of a dead child.

A/N: I have fan art! Check it out on my profile as I can't post the link here.

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John should not see him around other children.

The smell of the dead girl would have spurred him into a frenzy and that was a sight Sherlock knew he should keep from the small boy. Watching a pack of lions eat a gazelle was nothing in comparision.

Sherlock watched as John climbed the steep hill, calling out his name and being ignored. The boy kept sliding back down, unable to gain his footing right. There was a moment in which John turned back to glance at the girl, as if to make sure she was still there. An aborted wail came out of his mouth and he turned back, more determined to climb the hill.

Sherlock waited till John was out of sight.

The corpse was fresh, rigor mortis barely setting in. Not even the blood staining the girl's dress had dried. The cut was so deep she might have well been decapitated.

Sherlock moved closer, trying desperately to keep his limbs from trembling. The sight was almost too good to resist. Well why should he? He hasn't had a good meal in months, he should have what was laid out in front of him.

He reached out to touch.

"You're here."

Sherlock reared back from the girl so fast, the trees around him shook violently. Very rarely in all his existence has he ever been surprised, let alone someone sneaking up on him.

Stepping out from the trees came a man. He was tall, skinny, his hair brushed back neatly. Nothing about him distinguished him from the millions of men on Earth, or the billions Sherlock had met before.

In the man's left hand he carried a long pointed knife, designed to slice through thick pieces of butcher meat. The knife and his hand was red with blood.

"You're here," the man said again, stepping closer. His voice was tinged with awe. "I knew you would come but I didn't realise so soon." He walked closer and closer, his blood stained hands held up, reaching out.

"I'm Jim," he said.

Sherlock has never been in a situation like this before. In the past, humans have tried to appeal to him by sacrificing their animals or their fellow villagers. It was all rather pointless. You can't appeal to a nightmare any more than you can appeal to the weather. Watching these morons trying to decide who was the better sacrifice, a newborn or a virgin woman, provided endless entertainment.

However, none has ever dared to come close. Especially not in the way this Jim was coming towards him.

Sherlock was fascinated to see what he would do next.

Jim licked his lips. "I did this... for you," he gestured to the little girl. "She is perfect and she's all yours. Please... eat. Help yourself."

Jim made no movement to leave. Any other would have ran. John ran. This man, he wanted to watch, to see.

Sherlock slowly moved closer to the girl, his elongated hands stretching out. Jim trembled in excitement, his eyes huge, taking in everything he saw. Just as Sherlock stroked one finger over the girl's cheek, off in the distance, a voice echoed high above the trees.

"Sherlock!"

John.

Sherlock pulled back abruptly, curling his hand away.

Jim had heard John too, his head tilting to catch the last of the echoes. He blinked, confused. "What's the matter?"

No, if John came back with the proper authorities and there was no body to be found, John would be punished. Sherlock would not put such a burden on his small friend.

Jim awkwardly came forward, gesturing to the girl, still trying entice Sherlock to eat it. "Please, go on. If you want more, I can give you more!"

What a fascinating little man. But Sherlock was not here to impress humans. He had to make sure John got home safe.

Sherlock shifted in between the realms, disappearing so quickly it was like he was never there. The last thing he heard was Jim's anguish cry of betrayal.

()

John's mother got upset when he asked what the name of the girl was.

She shook her head and tried changing the subject. When that didn't work, she sent him to his room.

John sat on his bed and listened as his mother and father argued downstairs. They kept accusing each other of not watching John when they were supposed to. What if it was John's body the police found in the woods? It could have easily been him and nobody would have been the wiser.

Apparently nobody noticed John was missing for nearly three hours.

John bent his legs in, resting his chin on his knees. He couldn't get the image of that little girl out of his mind. Every time he blinked, all he saw was her pale face, bent brokenly to the side.

He wondered what her name was. Did she cry for her mummy and daddy near the end? How scared was she? How awful the thought was, dying alone in the woods and knowing no one was coming to help you, no matter how much you begged or pleaded.

This was going to give him nightmares for the rest of his life, John just knew it.

John's shoulders tensed up, the feeling of being watched suddenly itching over his skin. He lifted his head miserably. Sherlock was standing in the farthest corner of his room, quietly observing him.

For a few seconds, John was overwhelmed with emotion, so glad to see his friend and knowing Sherlock had not left him forever.

The relief was short lived and suddenly John was livid. He threw himself off his bed to stand in front of Sherlock, uncaring if tears ran freely down his face. "Why?" John wailed. "Why did you leave me there?"

Sherlock doesn't answer.

This only angered John further. "Do you even care? About me? What about that girl? I had to leave her there, all by herself! I had to- I don't even know her name..." He sobbed, dipping his head down. "She must've been so scared... so, so scared..."

He doesn't bother to smother his crying. His trust in his best friend was broken. His trust of his parents keeping him safe was broken. The world around him was suddenly darker, uglier, and it was only going to get worse.

John felt the sofest tickling touch across his forehead, brushing aside a few strands of hair. He knew this was Sherlock's way of apologizing but it wasn't enough. John lifted his tear streaked face at him. "Why?" he hiccuped.

The door to the room swung opened. "John?" His mother said, entering the room. "What's wrong sweetie, is-"

John turned to answer her, but she wasn't looking at him. She stared past him, at the tall faceless man in her son's room. The moment hanged in the air as she tried desperately to get her mouth to work, to voice the horror that was fogging her mind.

Finally, something snapped and she screamed.

She took a step back as if ready to run, and her eyes casted downward, back on John. An ingrained instinct to protect her child kicked in and she rushed forward, sweeping John up in her arms, crushing him against her chest."Get away from him!" She cried hysterically. "GET AWAY!"

Without another look, she twisted and ran out of the room, ignoring her son's protests.