In order to kill four grown men in their homes, in their sleep, one needs to be clever. This man was. So much so that he had even managed to send Sherlock a clue through his lackey. Hornsey Wood Reservoir, is what the idiot had said first, when he told Sherlock the meeting place he had later changed it to Finsbury Park. And even though the two where close in distance there was no way for even the foolish to confuse the two. The lackey must have himself met the butcher at Hornsby Wood. That's where Sherlock would find him. Getting away from New Scotland Yards finest, well that was the easy part. Sherlock could be quite the actor when the need called for it. The hard part, had been not responding to Johns text. He knew that John would worry. He knew that John would come after him. But Sherlock had to ignore the guilt? He felt. This monster needed to be dealt with, innocence people where dying and as if that weren't enough, he had hurt John. And that Sherlock would simply not let stand.
Finsbury Park, or Hornsey Wood Reservoir was a gargantuan labyrinth of stunning brick archways and after ten minutes of silent wondering Sherlock found what he was looking for. A long wooden table covered from one end to the other in bright shining metal. Knifes. Curved ones, serrated ones, straight ones, and long ones just like the one the killer had left stuck in John.
"No, not you, " A voice echoed off the millions of red bricks from some where off in the darkness. "Tall and thin, pale. Not golden like the other one." The man's voice was a drawl, each word too long, too breathy.
"Show yourself." Sherlock's own deep baritone resonated into the dark surroundings. "Or are you too much of a coward? Always hiding in the dark and shadows." Sherlock taunted the man, hoping to draw him out. But this psychopath was not goaded. Instead he was the one doing the provoking.
"I want the other one. The one with the golden skin. Watch his blood run red over his beautiful golden skin split open." The sick nasty words reverberated off the walls and made Sherlocks skin crawl. His eyes scanning the darkness for movement. There! Sherlock moved back as the man jumped from the shadows swinging wildly and although Sherlock was by no means a fighter, he was still quite strong, and he was after all a genius. Sherlock, side stepped as the killer lunged at him and used his momentum to push the man to the ground. The butcher scrambled up reaching for the table full of knives. Sherlock, grabbed the closet blade and stepped back at the ready.
"I'll bleed you, but not the way I'll bleed him. The golden one." The butcher smiled slow and vile.
"Stop it!" Sherlock spat as they circled each other.
"That's what he'll say. But I won't stop, not until he bleeds his life away for me. Just like all the others." That's when he lasted out, messy but quick, catching Sherlock across the chest opening a long gash. Sherlock hissed in pain but was not deterred.
"You will never touch John Watson again." Sherlock had positioned the killer in front of the table where he wanted him, that had been the reason for the circling and stalking, the reason Sherlock had pushed himself close enough to get cut, to end this. Sherlock, pressed his advantage and shoved the man hard into the table behind him. He fell back against the wood, sending a clatter of metal to the ground his own knife with it and he looked behind him to see it all rain down, and that's when Sherlock struck the fatal blow. Sherlock dropped his own weapon and crowed into this monsters personal space he placed one large hand at the back of the mans head and held his chin with the other, their eyes met for the briefest of seconds shocked disbelief meeting cold determination before Sherlock twisted sharply with all the force he could muster, snapping the mans neck in one smooth motion.
When Sherlock pulled himself up out of the resivor it was to a crowd of police and EMTs, but the only person Sherlock saw was John, the rest was just noise. John Watson, scanning the crowd with anxious worried eyes, that fell on Sherlock the second he was clear of the entrance. Sherlock smiled wide at the sight of John, knowing that he was safe, happy in that knowledge he collapsed into a hep on the ground, not unconscious, just exhausted. And then John was there on the ground with him. Right there, holding his face gently in both hands speaking words that Sherlock never thought anyone would be saying to him, let alone a man as good as John. Those deep ocean blue eyes where worth every bit of every single thing Sherlock had been through or would go through in this life. And then there was the voice. Johns voice had always made Sherlock think of hot tea, strong not too over powering with a hit of sweet.
"Sherlock love, look at me. Can you hear me?" Johns voice was gentle, but this wasn't his doctor voice, this was something new and Sherlock couldn't help but think, is this voice mine? Could there be a voice just for the person that John calls his love? And was that now me? As lovely as the thoughts were the was more pressing business to deal with right now. Sherlock needed stitches and Lestrade needed answers. Thankfully Sherlock's wound was shallow enough that John was able to stitch his chest at the crime scene, while he gave Lestrade all the details of what happened below. John had listened to Sherlock tell his story without speaking a word. Now the silent in the cab throbbed more then the pain of his chest if you had asked Sherlock. Once home Sherlock showered and changed into his flat attire (threadbare t-shirt and paper thin pajama paints) and took his chair in the sitting room. John set about making tea still silent.
"You're angry with me." Sherlock stated.
"Yes. I am. Brilliant that." John put Sherlock's tea on the arm of his chair and sat down.
"I can hardly see how you could be angry. Not only was this man a killer, and a horrible person it was more or less self-defense."
"You think I'm upset with you because you killed a man?" John was stunned.
"Obviously."
"Wrong. Obviously wrong. I know why you did what you did. If it had been you he hurt I would have done the same. You killed him, because he hurt me. And I couldn't care less. I'm angry because you put yourself in danger."
"I didn't have a choice. He would have kept coming for you and I had to stop him at all cost."
"And if the cost had been your life?"
"Then so be it. Your safety..."
"No, Sherlock not 'so be it.' Don't you understand, I can not live without you! And that's not wide eyed love talking, its a fact! You are my reason for everything. Have been since the the second I gave you my god damn mobile. I essentially handed you my heart that day. I love you. In every way. And at this point I know, I can't go on without you. That's why I'm angry. I'm nothing without you." John waited. He'd said the words. He hadn't intended this to be the way he confessed his feelings, but with Sherlock Holmes things rarely go to plan.
"You love me?" Sherlock's voice was small.
"You lovely idiot. Course I do."
They went to bed, knackered beyond words. They kissed, noses bumped and nuzzled into each other's necks, they touched, hands gliding over lean muscle exploring, thighs brushing, they melted into one another all arms and legs and they slept like the dead.