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Chapter Two-
Weeks passed after the consult on the disappearance of Lord Leslie and time found that Sherlock was only half right.
They never found anything on Lord Leslie. No more bank receipts, not CCTV footage, no body, no anything.
The tabloids and gossip telly had latched onto the story of how Lord Leslie had (probably) run away with a previously unknown mistress and was probably relaxing in Majorca or Gibraltar, laughing at his wife. She had become a laughingstock, the image of the clueless wife who refused to believe that her husband had been unfaithful and was still waiting on him to come home.
Sherlock felt something akin to pity for her, especially considering how wrong the theory was. How right the wife was that he had not been unfaithful to her, had not run away...
It bothered him, though, the thought that Lord Leslie had simply vanished into thin air. Nobody could simply vanish like magic. Not even Mycroft was that good. It was the thought of things being unfinished and it made his fingers itch.
Weeks passed and became months. Lord Leslie slid into the pages of memory and crap telly specials that repeated the grossly inaccurate rumour of his running off with a paramour. Cases came and were solved, but the mystery of Lord Leslie remained.
It was nearly Christmas when Sherlock noticed the tie. It was hanging on the corner of his armoire door. Grey silk with a Chinese plum blossom painting.
He picked it up, running the silk through his hands, measuring it, weighing it.
The length was too long for John and not in his usual fashion. Not a gift, or he would have shown it off despite the wrongness of it.
A trophy.
It hit Sherlock with the abruptness of a lorry. He took the tie and returned to his chair, marvelling at the sense of completion, of lucidity, of clarity. He kept touching the tie, deciding a course of action that would protect John- even from himself- and allow him to continue his work as a medical professional and serial murderer.
X-x-x-x-x-x-
The sky was dark when John finally returned from his day at work, Tesco bags crinkling as he took the stairs up. Sherlock had put the tie under the cushion of his chair, delving deep into his Mind Palace, perfecting his plans for his doctor. He stayed there as John put away groceries except for one bag, taking that bag upstairs to his room.
Sherlock counted heartbeats as John searched his room with quiet sense of panic. It took less than one hundred adrenaline-fuelled heartbeats before John was standing before him, shoulders tense, eyes shuttered, fists curled. This was the beast that he had previously heard serial killers refer to.
Dangerous. Oh, so very dangerous, purred a part of his Mind Palace that had newly awakened.
"You... have been in my room," John stated. It wasn't a question, but he treated as such.
"Yes."
"Give. It. Back."
Straight to the point. No beating around the bush. Not with John.
Sherlock pulled the length of silk from beneath the cushion of his chair and watched John's eyes track the fabric, pupils dilating slightly. Sherlock ran his thumb over it and John's mouth thinned, nostrils flaring.
And what kind of killer is the good doctor?
Sherlock had, for a brief moment, considered doing the right thing and turning John into Lestrade. After all, was that not how Sherlock made his living? Turning in murderers, thieves, kidnappers, rapists, and other deplorable individuals?
Would John lunge for him, bring Sherlock to his knees and make him beg for mercy? Would he run and try to find some dark corner of the world to disappear into? Would he cry, begging for mercy and forgiveness? Would he ask that Sherlock turn a blind eye to his... extracurricular activities?
He watched as John's mind worked, racing and wondering. Where did Sherlock stand? Why had the police not already burst in?
The expressions that crossed his face were ones that Sherlock had never seen before on John Watson. Calculation, scrutinization, options weighed and dismissed. John's eyes were dark with an unnamed passion as they watched Sherlock, his thumb caressing the fabric.
Sherlock stood, leaving the tie in the chair as he stepped towards John with practiced grace. They studied each other, a silent communication that was never clearer. Neither dare to blink, to twitch, unless it signal a surrender that could be deadly.
"Tell me, John. Tell me how you did it."
"Does the how matter more than the why?" John asks, studying Sherlock's face intently.
Yes. Of course it does. What kind of killer is my doctor? Sherlock replies silently, keeping his expression open. Take your time. Come to a decision, John.
"Quid pro quo. Give it back and I'll tell you everything."
How curious.
John could have easily reached around him to retrieve the incriminating fabric. He could have tackled Sherlock to the ground, incapacitated him for hours or forever, and retrieved the tie, disappearing until he did something to attract Mycroft's attention- because every criminal eventually slipped up, given enough time. Not to mention that Mummy would be very unhappy if Mycroft didn't avenge Sherlock...
Sherlock slowly handed John the tie and observed the momentary flutter of his eyes, the parting of his lips, the soft sigh as soon as his hand made contact with the fabric. This was John's seven-percent solution.
Oh, John. I understand. Of course, I understand.
Now, Sherlock knew John, as only one addict can know another. No lover's bond is as complete as the shared knowledge between two addicts, despite differing addictions, even if Sherlock didn't know everything.
This was not John's first murder. It was entirely too practiced, too efficient.
Serial killers kept trophies. How many trophies did John have? Would they be kept all together in a box or a storage unit? No, too common. Too easily traced. John was smarter than that, no matter how many times Sherlock had called him an idiot.
And if he was that stupid, Sherlock would soon fix that.
This was not a trophy from John's first murder. That trophy would be somewhere special, tucked away from public view. His kills in Afghanistan wouldn't have satisfied the beast within him, though they would have temporarily eased it's urgings.
He waited until John had finished the course of his high, smoothing the tie from whatever invisible wrinkles Sherlock may have put in the fabric.
"Lestrade isn't coming, is he?"
"You truly are an idiot if you think I would let them have you," Sherlock chuckled darkly, watching the good doctor much as a tiger would eye a lion. "Did you really think I would call Lestrade on you?"
"Is that not your job, Mr. Consulting Detective? Package up the cases, nice and brightly beribboned for the morons of Scotland Yard?"
Sherlock used his height to his advantage and placed a hand on John's shoulder. "I told you before. I am here for you and will always be here. Now, to the how...?"
John shrugged and twitched his wrist. A long, slim blade- not quite a scalpel, but of a similar make- appeared in his hand. It was an elegant blade that got Sherlock's approval. It would be efficient, silent, and quick.
All good traits for a serial murderer...
"How did you choose Lord Leslie?"
John shrugged again, causing the blade to retreat back up the sleeve of his jumper. "He was... there... flirting with some large-bosomed blonde from his classes, while laughing about how his wife was waiting for him at home. Oh, of course, he loved her, but she is sterile, so he needed to sow some wild oats because his wife couldn't give him what he needed," John ranted quietly. "He made a vow and was so ready to break it because his wife is infertile. A trivial matter, given the options for surrogacy, adoption, and IVF treatments. Something just... snapped... and it had to be him."
"And the others?" Sherlock inquired, nestling himself comfortably in his chair, elbows balanced on his knees with his hands steepled.
John, to his credit, did not flinch or deny the existence of other victims. "Largely the same type situation. A guy I caught molesting children in Kabul... A base bunny who liked to hop into the uniforms of enlisted men while married to their superior officer, but would say that the men in question had behaved inappropriately with her if they turned her down..."
"And the first...? How old were you?"
John sat down and sighed. "I was twelve. He was the phys ed teacher at the local school that Harry was attending. He liked pubescent girls, watching them shower, dress, and undress... Harry was a vulnerable teen, just coming into her sexuality as a lesbian, and he abused her for it. Raped her so she 'got to like the handling of men.' Compared it to breaking in horses... She had to learn to 'be ridden.'"
"Does Harry know...?"
"I think she suspects something about my involvement in his death and it's why she doesn't come around often. I know that the incident has a lot to do with her drinking."
Sherlock nodded softly and words escaped before he had the time to truly consider them. "I want to watch."
John looked flabbergasted. "I'm sorry. You want to what?!"
"I want to watch."
Time froze and they stared at one another. Sherlock's head was slightly tilted as he watched John with a small private sense of possession. He could only watch as John made more and more sense- ever the avenger, the soldier, the healer. John would do anything to protect Sherlock and the affection was returned.
Now, though, it was time to protect John, again.
He could almost hear John's argument about how his desire was 'a bit not good' or how it was private.
"Will... will you try to stop me?"
"Only if you should try harming someone close to us."
"Meaning?" John queried, obviously confused.
"Molly, Mary, Lestrade... The obvious," he drawled lazily.
"Never them. Mary is my wife, for God's sake."
"Then, no. I will not try to stop you."
"Even..." John paused, mentally reliving a moment in time before he could continue. "Even when they scream?"
Sherlock nodded softly and John gave a sigh that seemed almost relieved. "Very well, Sherlock. Very well."