A/N: Disclaimer and all that see Chapter One.

Chapter Five: Enemies

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."

(Terry Pratchett)

I know what he believes. Everyone else might find it hard to look through those steel blue eyes, but I don't. I see through them without any effort. I know he believes I'd like him before me, on his knees. I know he believes I'd like to hurt him, burn him, humiliate him.

He is wrong.

Not that I don't want to do all those things to him, but I don't want to do it like he imagines. I don't want him stretched out before me, pinned and nailed to the ground. Oh, I have thought about it, but just with the passion of aesthetic.

He is very aesthetic, Sherlock, with his thin body, the long fingers, the porcelain skin and this exciting jaw. I sometimes imagine how I would step onto those fingers, hear the thin bones crack. I imagine to scratch his chest, cut it open and drink the blood dripping from it.

Only, it wouldn't break him. All those nasty naughty little things I might do to him – they wouldn't break him. He would think about it, for some time, and maybe scream my name in his nightmares, but Sherlock isn't a physical man. He's not wasting time about his body. He's only dressed fairly because he appreciates the style. He'd walk around in old fashioned, Norwegian style jumpers if he'd taken a liking on it.

You can see it in his hair, this curly, messy hair that he doesn't give a damn on how he's looking.

It's a failure. In this world, clothes stand for everything. Poverty, wealth, stupidity, smartness. Weakness. And might. That's the reason I keep playing with them, with clothes. You can be everything, if you only wear the right clothes. It's the perfect, the easiest masquerade.

No, no. It would be quite fun to take him, bounded, helpless, even screaming, but it wouldn't be the ultimate solution.

I realised that very quickly, even when he didn't.
He's so arrogant, believing he's untouchable. Everyone on the good side is touchable.

I was underestimating him when I called him his pet. I had a slight idea of how their relationship was, but I realised the true nature too late. If I had done it earlier, I wouldn't have messed with the bomb jacket. I'd broken both of them before.

He's cute, in a puppy, adorable way, with his small body and the big puppy eyes. Oh, he's so on fire. You can see it in every expression, every gesture, hear it in every word – well, me at last. Sherlock doesn't. He doesn't because he doesn't want to.

He's weak.

He's just so not an army man. A doctor, yes. A shooter, a killer, no.

I suppose women like to clasp their arms and legs around him and tell him he's so adorable.

Phew.

I know Sherlock wants to clasp his arms and legs around him and tell him he's so adorable.

That's a laugh.

I will take him, the good, dear, loyal John. I will take him as my puppy, on his knees, like the dog he is.

I will undress his belt and use it to whip him bloody, though I will not drink from his blood. It's too weak.

And I will whisper to him, tenderly, like Sherlock probably would, in that somehow shadow, distracted voice. That will really break him. To think about him when I have him, hear his words while I will shout out my success.

To break him means to break Sherlock.

He wouldn't stand it, dear Watson, to look at him again after I would have humiliated him. He's an honourable man. Man like that shudder with the weakness of being raped. Shudder and shatter.

Yet, without him, Sherlock is nothing anymore. A poor shadow from his former being. That's the true nature of love. It's the fall down; never the absolution.

(Two more before we come to the two ending chapters, well, if you like to continue.)