Author's note: Warning! There is some demony passion up ahead! (Don't worry, it's not too passionate) There is also a bit of gore in this chapter.
You've been warned!
A few days had passed since Sherlock and John's altercation. With every day that passed John seemed to become more and more comfortable while Sherlock became less and less. Not a moment passed when Sherlock wasn't looking over his shoulder to check on John and every time John smiled Sherlock's muscles tensed in fear. He kept on telling himself that it was ridiculous to be afraid of John, his flat mate, his friend. But every time Sherlock thought this there was a distant voice in his head that whispered "He isn't John." Sherlock chose to ignore the voice because it was illogical to think that John wasn't John.
Then Lestrade called.
Sherlock was grateful for the distraction from the unusual events at Baker Street and rushed down to the crime scene with John mere moments after he received the call.
"Eight victims, one survivor, who happens to be in a coma. We found them this morning strung up in some basement, we haven't touched them yet so you could get a proper look, but there isn't much left to look at." Lestrade said as Sherlock opened the door to the room. The scene he saw before him was enough to make even his stomach churn. There were eight victims as Lestrade had said; only the victims were dispersed through the room as though someone had thrown about their innards like confetti. Sherlock could see various devices of torture, whips, knives, dentist equipment, blunt weapons, kitchen utensils, and every last one of them was thoroughly soaked with blood. There was also an overpowering scent of sulphur. Sherlock was not one to have much of a reaction to anything, but what he saw before him was nothing short of horrific. As Sherlock stepped forward his foot came down with a wet plop, Sherlock looked down at the ground and even in the dimmed light he could see that the concrete floor was completely flooded with blood. Donovan walked up to Lestrade and shook her head.
"Any clues as to who did this?" Lestrade asked in a small voice.
"None, but I will tell you that whoever did this wasn't a man. It would've taken nothing short of a monster to do something like this." Donovan said with a sickened expression before walking out of the room. Sherlock swallowed hard and began to investigate the entirety of the room. When he finished his investigation he knew that:
• The murderer was male.
• Five foot six inches tall.
• Left-handed.
• Possessed extensive medical knowledge.
• Did not own his own vehicle.
• Lived in London with another man who had very uncleanly habits.
• Owned a gun, but did not leave it at the scene of the crime.
• Wore a pair of size eleven, leather top, and rubber bottom shoes with laces.
• Had short, dirty-blonde hair.
• Had served in the military at one point and had sustained a gunshot injury at some time.
• And occasionally walked with a slight limp on his right side.
Sherlock froze where he was squatting and slowly turned to look at John. John who was five foot six inches tall, left-handed, possessed extensive medical knowledge, did not own his own vehicle, lived in London with Sherlock, owned a gun, wore a pair of size eleven leather top rubber bottom shoes, had short dirty-blonde hair, had served in the military, been shot, and occasionally walked with a limp on his right side. Sherlock stared at John with wide eyes and much to Sherlock's horror; John gave the crime scene a look over, and smiled the same smile that turned Sherlock's blood to ice. Sherlock stood quickly and the smile vanished from John's face to be replaced by polite disinterest. The John Sherlock knew would've been disgusted and horrified by the crime scene. Yet somehow John appeared completely at ease, if Sherlock didn't know better he would've sworn that John wasn't John at all. Lestrade interrupted Sherlock's thoughts by walking over to him and asking
"Anything?" Sherlock looked into Lestrade's dark brown eyes, into the tired, worn eyes of a man who had seen and dealt with too much crap without nearly enough sleep in between. Sherlock looked into the detective inspector's eyes, and he lied.
"Nothing." Lestrade raised his eyebrows in obvious disbelief but he didn't question the consulting detective; he just shrugged his shoulders and told Sherlock to text him if he got anything. Then Lestrade walked away with his shoulders hunched, and Sherlock had no doubt it was because of the severe weight that was laid upon them. Sherlock then turned to face John who smiled at him, Sherlock smiled back and turned away to hide his anxious expression from that bone-chilling smile, then hailed a cab back to Baker Street.
After a quick text clarifying the time of death of the victims Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his hands steepled beneath his chin pensively. John was making himself another cup of tea and although Sherlock appeared calm his mind was racing at a thousand miles per hour. Finally Sherlock built up his courage and asked the question he had feared the answer to for hours.
"Where were you the last three nights?" The noises in the kitchen ceased and Sherlock waited for an answer.
"Why do you want to know?" John asked in response as he entered the room.
"I'm just curious because you weren't here." Sherlock said with a forced smile. John smiled back and Sherlock did his best not to shudder.
"Sounds to me like you're asking if I have an alibi." John said with a slight chuckle.
"Do you?" Sherlock asked and his eyes met John's in an intense stare.
"No." John stated simply.
"But if you want I could have one tonight." As John said this he placed both arms on both sides of Sherlock's chair and leaned in close, closer than what would be considered normal for two friends.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked and John laughed gently, his warm breath wafting across Sherlock's face. Suddenly John grabbed Sherlock by the collar and flung him against the wall, pinning him there. Sherlock's breaths became shorter and his heart sped up. Then Sherlock felt something he rarely felt, and certainly never in relation to John: fear. Sherlock was afraid of John. Then John did the last thing Sherlock would've expected, he kissed Sherlock. John's lips crashed into Sherlock's and his tongue forced its way into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's mind went completely blank for a moment, but when it started again Sherlock didn't pull away or fight back, he pushed forward. His own lips began to move against John's and his fingers found their way into John's short hair. It was as though there was something inside him, an animal, and it was hungry, hungry for John. He pushed back against John and drove him into the sofa. Sherlock fell on top of John but it only took a few seconds for John to roll so Sherlock was underneath him. John continued to kiss Sherlock ferociously as his hands pushed up underneath Sherlock's neatly tucked in shirt and his nails dug into the smooth skin of Sherlock's back. Sherlock let out a soft moan and arched up into John in response. Part of Sherlock's mind was still trying to tell Sherlock that this was a bad idea, that he and John's relationship was platonic and nothing more. This part of his mind was warning him that John was the lead suspect in an octuple homicide and what's more he hadn't even been acting like John lately. This part of his mind shut up the moment John's mouth found Sherlock's neck, John began to suck and bite on a patch of Sherlock's skin and then it was all over. Tingling sensations ran from that point down to Sherlock's toes, the little electrical feelings of pleasure spread throughout Sherlock's body and his mind shut completely off. It was as though John was a bolt of lightning, and he had knocked out the power to Sherlock's mind palace. John's teeth sunk into Sherlock's flesh and he let out a louder moan that was almost a whimper. Sherlock could feel as blood trickled from the wound and dripped onto the couch cushions, and then the warm liquid was lapped up by John's tongue. Sherlock's hands grabbed fistfuls of John's shirt as he licked at Sherlock's wound and Sherlock's entire body felt hot with the pleasure and pain that were coursing through it. John tore open Sherlock's shirt and he raked his fingernails down Sherlock's bare chest. Sherlock could barely stand all the new sensations he experiencing but somehow he didn't want it to stop. He wanted something he couldn't yet describe, something he had never wanted before in his life, yet never had he wanted anything more in his life. The closest he could come to describing it was to say he wanted John, in every way possible, and he wanted John to want him back. John seemed to understand this and he began to kiss his way down Sherlock's chest on which John's claw marks were already growing red and puffy. As Sherlock lost himself in John's possessive arms he didn't notice that when John brought himself up along Sherlock's body to capture his lips in a fierce kiss, his eyes were completely black.