Disclaimer: I still own nothing…...but I wish these men were all mine.
It was John's favorite game. They would pick someone they liked and stalk them, but not together. Sherlock would go one way and John would go another. They would play with their prey, make them feel uncomfortable, frighten them, but never show themselves. The point was to see if Sherlock could see where John was hidden. It was John's favorite game because he had yet to lose. Sherlock was not happy. He knew how to blend into the shadows, he knew how to look for things that other people didn't see, but he could never see John. John didn't just blend; he literally disappeared. Sherlock knew that John was a well-trained soldier and this was a well-honed skill, but dammit he should be able to find him! He was Sherlock Bloody Holmes! Also, the winner of the game won the right to make the kill. As much as Sherlock loved to watch John work, he hated losing, and even more, he hated not being able to act.
Something was different this time. John won, as usual, thought Sherlock bitterly, but he hadn't closed in for the kill yet. He was still toying with the mouse, pushing him into making stupid decisions which would have sealed his fate had they not already chosen him. But he hadn't attacked, why not? Sherlock moved closer, trying to get a sense of what John was doing. Finally John showed himself, not to the mouse, to Sherlock. He was radiant, his confidence and superiority like a scabbard protecting him. He looked where Sherlock was crouched, and mouthed two words. The words themselves were not special, but the feeling they evoked in Sherlock was enough to drop him. No one ever surprised him, not really. People were predictable. They were so easy to read, so easy to deduce, it was why Sherlock was perpetually bored. But not John, never John. How could this man ever bore him when he was so delightfully capricious? He upended Sherlock's world constantly, and with two little words he did it once again.
"Join me?"
Sherlock and John had never killed in tandem before. But it was like a dance they were born knowing. John knew which way to move to allow Sherlock the angle he wanted and Sherlock knew when to jump back so John could lunge forward. Sherlock could even hear the musical accompaniment in his head. The composition was frenzied, each crescendo a stab of a knife, the two men performing a duet of violin and cello. Sherlock always thought of John as a cello, deep and smooth, soulful and pleasing to his ear and heart. In this moment he saw every movement John made as the slash of a bow against the cello's neck. Sherlock's movements were smaller, more contained, as though he were playing his beloved violin. He swayed gracefully, caught up in the beauty of the music in his head. He would have to write this music down, perform it for John.
When it was over, Sherlock was invigorated. He had never experienced such rapture. He wanted John, wanted to pound into him and make him scream, but he had a nagging idea building in his brain. He would, on occasion, leave a body for Scotland Yard to find. He did it for the pleasure of watching them flounder, knowing they would never connect him to the crime. He hadn't done it since finding John though. John was his audience; he didn't need to flaunt his skill at people who could never appreciate him completely. But this? This needed to be shared. The beauty of their collaboration had to be seen, not hidden away from the world. He convinced John to leave him to the cleanup as a gift for sharing with him and sent him home to prepare for his ravishment. He knew John would not approve so he had to do this without him. He would have to tell him of course, they would no doubt be called to the scene, but only after the scene was set.