A/N - From your reviews last chapter, I think all of you are in for a big shock (hopefully) as is my intention! Enjoy! (A/N continued at end).
Warning: Fleetingly mild thoughts of gore at end. If you have a trigger imagination, skip that bit.
Disclaimer: Oh for the love God, if I owned Sherlock I sure as hell wouldn't be writing fanfiction. I'd be doing much more... interesting things, like Benedict Cumberbatch.
Chapter One
"It says in Romans Chapter Seven, Verse 20, 'Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who does it, but it is the sin living within me that does it." The priest paused, drawing a breath.
The squawking of the birds echoed through the nave, and the beginnings of rain smatter against the stained glass of the crumbling church. An eerie tension had fell upon the small congregation, and they sank further into their pews, allowing themselves to hide in the impenetrable darkness, hiding from the priest's words.
"Pride – or to consider oneself without evil, to put it simply – is the considered the greatest sin, because it is the precursor to evil itself." Another pause. Someone coughed.
"The failure to accept the tension of humanity's duality is related to in Christian Theology, where Satan's fall from Heaven is due to his refusal to believe that he is a created being, rather that God himself." The priest surveyed the room. Several people bowed under his piercing gaze.
"Sigmund Freud was a pioneer in the study of the subject, himself personally interested in the mental condition that separates the sinful from the moral self. In Freudian Theory, the thoughts and desires that are banished to the subconscious mind motivate the behaviour of the conscious mind. An example of this concept is Robert Louis Stevenson's Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. The novella represents an aspect of Western culture concerning humanity's inner conflict in the sense of good and evil. In one aspect of interpretation certainly, the novella is considered an examination of the duality of human nature, and how failure to accept this tension – or 'evil' side – will result in the evil being projected on others."
Surveying the congregation for one last time, he spoke again. "Now join with us to together to sing our last hymn, number 666."
The congregation arose from their pew, and the ancient organ belched into life.
John couldn't take it anymore. He really had tried to change, to reform, but the vicar's sermon had struck to close to home this time.
Attending church had been the recommendation of his therapist, a final attempt to give purpose to his life, to cure his sinking depression. Recalling several hazy memories of attending church as a child with his mother and sister, John had heartily agreed. Anything to cure his problem.
Now it seemed he was back to square one.
His hands tremored slightly as he clenched the prayer book.
John was many things, but he was not a hypocrite.
Dropping the prayer book with a clatter, he stormed out of the church with controlled rage, ignoring the shocked and angry looks of the congregation and the knowing gaze of the priest.
Stepping out of the church and into the encompassing clouds, he ran. He ran through London, past the taxis, the cyclists, the pedestrians. He almost ran straight through Baker Street, stopping himself just outside 221b.
Entering, he closed the door as calmly as his anger would allow, not wanting to disturb Mrs Hudson. He cared for his great aunt deeply, and did not want to disturb his fragile health.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he closed the flat door and locked it behind him.
Divesting his jacket, he clenched his fists several times and wiped the forming perspiration from his brow. Locking the door, he paced to the sofa.
He could do this. He would do this.
Shaking, he withdrew the key from his jean's pocket and unlocked the drawer of the coffee table.
He locked the handcuffs onto the steel attachment drilled deep into the wall, and with a deep breath, threw the key across the room, far out of his reach.
Leaning against the wall, he waited for the worst.
.
.
.
The moon had risen and he can no longer take it. This night joins a long line of many others of aborted withdrawal.
Seconds later, he was in the kitchen, ripping open the locked draw and gulping down the elixir. The handcuffs lie snapped in half next to the crumbling wall.
Already, he felt the growth, and began to rip off his clothes in a flurry of tangled limbs.
The buttons of his shirt were still rolling when the transformation finished. He barely feels the pain now. In fact, he relishes it.
Turning to leave, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
He was transfixed. The moonlight from the window illuminated him, the beautiful monster. Inky curls, high cheekbones, angelic cupid bow lips. He is perfect. The monster's eyes sparkled like emeralds, embedded in his milky skin. Tall, lithe, muscled. Too perfect. Swinging out, he cracked the mirror side to side.
The rage bubbles over, and he is filled with the incessant urge to kill. To rip limb from torso, lick the ripe blood from his lips, to smear brains and intestines across a surface like a work of art.
The cracks in the mirror enraged him further, and he smashed it, the shards tinkling to the floor.
The monster stumbled over the shattered glass, pulling on a pair of trousers.
And then he was out the window, letting the pure moonlight embrace him, leaving a trail of red blood in his wake, the moonlight reflected in the shattered glass.
A/N – SURPRISE! So what do you think? Anyway, there are going to be 15 chapters and an epilogue in total, and I have written up to Chapter 8. I intend to update every Saturday, although that might vary depending on how much homework I have. I REALLY want to hear your thoughts on this chapter, I put a LOT of work into it, especially the vicar's sermon at the beginning (Yes, I did actually write that) and the imagery and ideas I tried to convey in this chapter. That's another reason I need you lovely people to review, I wanted to make sure if you got anything!
Thank you for all the encouraging reviews so far!