Warnings: Dark!fic with Dark!Watson and Dark!Lestrade. Disturbing imagery I think.
The clock on the mantelpiece strikes nine, signalling the first signs of a summer night. The air is still heated from the day; shadows are elongating dramatically with every passing minute, every passing second. The ordinary, everyday inhabitants of London have long returned home, leaving much more space for the nocturnal filth of their kind. Tonight, the monsters of the world will come out to play as they do every night without fail, abandoning their careful masks and respectful professions in favour of a darker, more sinister cloak. Workers and aristocrats alike will disappear into the shadows for an hour or four, seeking a type of bliss only the dark secluded corners and guarded safe houses can provide. And provide they do; one would only need to provide the correct currency to openly pick their pleasure and not be judged or questioned about it.
People will go missing tonight, never to be seen again. This side of London is recognised by all who witness it, but so few of them will really understand just what goes on as the clock strikes ten. Even fewer will care. None will speak of it before the hour of nine. None will openly acknowledge that they partake in such vices, yet all will think about it constantly and have their eyes set about the clock, counting down to that very second where they may don the dark cloak and dagger. Nine is the official time, ten is when they meet. Eleven is never spoken about the morning after, even to those of the same base desires. Twelve is never spoken out aloud at all. Those who do find themselves locked out; scum amongst scum, traitors amongst thieves, damned amongst the deviants, murderers and rapists. Every single member who carries out their business after nine will damn those who betray them, for they all carry the invisible mark. Jewellers, carriage drivers and taxidermists are amongst them; members of Scotland Yard are involved as much as the next man from the next job. Even Doctors partake, and it is tonight that a certain Doctor Watson will take the stage for the amusement of all.
The stage itself is a perfectly square room, hidden beneath a pet shop named 'Dawney and Co'. It is run by a newly married couple, and it is the first time they have had the honour of hosting tonight's event at their work place. The building is not theirs, they simply own the business, which makes tonight's entertainment much more sinister and oh so much more exciting, brilliant and perfect. The real owner of the building is a highly respected gentleman who owns a string of premises, and is of course completely clueless as to what is about to unfold.
In the back room, Doctor John Watson stands in front of a full-length mirror, straightening the lapels of his jacket and retying his cravat. With a fond smile, he removes his bowler from the hat-stand and places it on his head. Tonight will be a good night, for he is prepared and enjoying the pure anticipation provided by simply being in a place such as this. He pats down the left side of his jacket, savouring the quiet tinkle of metal lining the inside; the trusty tools of his trade. He can hear the tick of his pocket watch and glances down at the time. It is sixteen minutes to twelve, yet he is alert and ready. He doesn't think he has ever been as ready as he is the moment it becomes fifteen minutes. With one last look in the mirror, he spins on his heels to face the door behind him and takes a deep breath. The door opens for him, for he is expected and welcomed with open arms.
He strides into the square room, instantly taking in his surroundings. He recognises some of the faces. Lestrade nods to him; there is an odd light trapped within his eyes tonight, but it is a light only seen past the hour of nine. John recognises the expression well and nods back. Compared with Sherlock, he was but an eager student in the presence of a master. Tonight, John Watson is the master of his own trade, and tonight he is to openly demonstrate his skills whilst the leering faces surrounding him watch with hellish glee. Tonight, they are the eager students and he is the aloof teacher.
A makeshift table has been prepared for him beforehand; four large packaging crates in a row, covered by an extensive white cloth. The 'table' is located in the centre, but it receives little or no attention at all for all eyes are upon the respectable John Watson. The room goes deathly silent for a moment; a penny could drop and there wouldn't be a single person present who wouldn't hear it. The silence is full of expectation. Watson clears his throat and bows. The entire population of the room break out in applause. Some even cheer and stamp their feet, knowing that they won't be heard from outside. There is a sharp cry and the room goes silent once again, for they know that the woman being dragged down the corridors deserves her fate at the hands of the Doctor. From that point onwards, the only things that exists in John's world are that woman and the tools held close to his heart. She screams again as three men force her onto the table. She is strapped down but not gagged. They are never gagged. John shivers as his hand disappears into his jacket. For the first time, he speaks out aloud, a silver scalpel now in hand.
''The subject is of approximately twenty five years of age and is of the female gender. Ladies and gentlemen, this woman is not only a serial adulterer, she attempted to betray us to the police. Luckily, chief inspector Lestrade here was the very person she spoke to. Her husband is amongst your ranks and personally requested my... services. If there is any man or woman amongst you that wish to see this harlot live past tonight, you are welcome to voice your opinion.''
The room remains silent. Watson nods to nobody in particular. ''Very well then.'' He runs the scalpel gently across the bare skin of her stomach, ignoring her frantic attempts to free herself. Of course, many have tried to escape before, yet only one has ever managed such a thing. John presses down harder with the cutting edge of his blade, happily recalling the memory as beads of blood well up from the shallow cut. The woman's struggles become more frantic.
''If I were in your position I would cease moving. My hand can only be so steady after all...'' He lets his voice trail off, sickeningly soft and in a reassuring tone. For a moment, brown eyes meet the Doctors ice blue ones. She will not live past the hour of twelve.
As always, reviews are welcome.