A/N: God, I am so behind. Why do I do this to myself. That's not a question; I know what's wrong with me.
I suppose I should warn you about the sex and possible psychological horror and abuse that shows up in this chapter. Rating has changed accordingly, because obvious reasons. Anyways.
12 Days of Christmas
Chapter 6
17 December, 2014
17 December, 1:20 a.m.
John has been poking at his food for approximately ten minutes, Sherlock notices.
"You should eat," he murmurs, gesturing towards John's plate with a nod.
John's brow lifts a worrying degree. "So should you."
Sherlock pouts stubbornly. "Don't eat during a case."
"Oh, so it's a case now?" John asks, brow finding a way to rise further. "Didn't seem that way while you were standing over that poor man's body."
Sherlock's lip curls slightly. Damn, he's been caught. "It was too early to tell," he retorts, aloof.
"Oh," John stays again, flicking a bit of food with his fork. "What changed your mind?" After a chagrined look, he takes a bite.
"I've a hunch," he says without consideration.
"A hunch?" John asks, incredulous.
"Yes, John, a hunch." If Sherlock sounds at all exasperated, it's because he is.
"All right, all right."
They sit in silence. When John has taken a few more bites, they leave.
The smell of disinfectant makes John's nose scrunch up in distaste. It's awfully strong today, but he doesn't mind. Much. He's more focused on keeping up with Sherlock's pace, eyes transfixed on the other man's coat as it whips this way and that. John is transfixed for a moment, watching, before Sherlock swoops into the morgue, on a mission. John follows, and nods in greeting towards Molly, who is rolling out the last of four bodies. By the way the sheets are draped over them, they seem to be all female. His thought is confirmed as Molly starts revealing their faces, one by one, starting with the first. Without hesitation, Sherlock starts scrunitising every inch of her. She is plain, with mousy brown hair. She's small, and John can't help but notice that her nose turns up a bit at the end. After a moment, Sherlock steps back, no longer interested. Molly uncovers the second, revealing an attractive (can he say that about a corpse?) woman with long, curly dark hair, uncannily reminiscent of Sherlock. The other man seems more interested in this body than the last, eyeing her over from head to foot, as if taking her measurements. John feels himself stiffen, and glances at Molly, who is straightening her blouse. Odd. John hadn't noticed her wearing it on the way in.
Onto the next, who is taller, but a little stouter than the previous two. Her hair is equally dark and curly as the second woman's, but thicker. John sees Sherlock smirk cruelly before moving on. Molly quickly pulls back the sheet to reveal the final woman, looking under her long lashes at Sherlock before brushing her hair behind her ear. John notes for a moment how pretty she is. Sherlock seems to do the same – he even smiles at her. Something in John's gut stirs.
There's something about the next body that instills in John a feeling of rage and betrayal- and, surprisingly, no small amount of sadness. Frowning, John steps closer, in order to get a better look at her face, but can only register than she is older and shorter than the other dead women, and has dyed blond hair, before Sherlock moves into his field of vision, with his cheekbones, and that coat. Oddly, though, Sherlock seems more interested in Molly than the corpse? Why?
Sherlock and Molly smile at each other before his friend motions for them to leave. Molly follows them. Why?
...
The thought of Molly coming to the flat with them must have kept John preoccupied – the next thing he knows, he's standing in the stairwell, alone. Laughter floats down from above. Frowning, John goes to investigate.
Sherlock has Molly entrapped in his long arms, hand casually on the small of her back, pulling her closer. He is smiling stupidly; she's giggling. John stands in the doorway, one hand on the handle, and finds himself unable to do anything but look on in shock. He takes in Molly's long, slender legs, her heels, her scandalous dress and tousled hair, before he realizes that this isn't Molly. This woman is taller, hair darker, and her face is all wrong.
"Oh, hello John," the woman says with a hint of an Irish lilt.
"Janine," John replies, throat hoarse.
Janine laughs as Sherlock nuzzles his nose into her neck. "Sherlock!" she reprimands, "What about poor John? The man looks traumatized!"
Traumatised would be the proper word for it. What is happening? John blinks, and Janine seems to get shorter, paler, more gaunt. Her hair is loose and damp, and she is dressed in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns.
"Hamish," John finds himself saying, and he clears his throat. "If you're looking for baby names."
Irene laughs musically at him.
"Come now, John," Sherlock says. "Surely you're not jealous?"
John isn't sure, but… yes. He thinks he is. But it's more than that, than mere jealously. This is betrayal. This is abandonment.
Sherlock and the Woman are leading each other towards Sherlock's bedroom, kissing, touching, laughing at John's discomfort. John feels himself moving forward, against his will.
John finds himself lingering in a doorway again when he's not supposed to, but he can't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's now-naked chest. The other man's pupils are blown as he grabs the hem of Irene's dress and pulls it slowly up her body. She arches into him, her body shifting, changing as more of her bare flesh is revealed.
"I never did love you," she says clearly as the dress falls to the floor.
John staggers back like he's been physically hit. All he wants is to be able to turn away, to run, to close his eyes against the sight of Sherlock standing behind her, planting burning kisses down her shoulders, her back, her neck, lavishing her in affection in a way he never did.
Mary.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks, and he can feel his voice breaking as they both ignore him. Mary turns her bare body away from him now to undo Sherlock's trousers, slide them down his pale legs. He's hard, painfully so. John swallows in agony.
It doesn't take long before Sherlock is completely naked, with Mary lying on his bed in front of him. John is leaning against the door frame like it's the only thing keeping him upright (it is).
Sherlock lines up, then makes eye contact with John, who is shaking against the door.
"You're such an idiot."
What?
"I'll never love you, you know," Sherlock purrs in a sultry, cruel baritone. Mary makes an impatient noise below him. Sherlock responds and slowly pushes inside her, causing her to sigh in relief. "How could I love you?"
"You're so ordinary."
"So plain."
"Nothing happens to you."
"You're so broken John. How could anyone love you?"
"I left you to rot for two years, alone. It would have been better of me if I had just killed you myself."
"I should have told you somehow – I could have. But I didn't. Do you know why?"
"Because you mean nothing to me. I didn't care if you suffered. It was the work. Always the work."
"You mean nothing to me."
"I will never love you"
Sherlock never breaks eye contact with John as Mary writhes beneath his lithe body, her nails digging into his arms in back. John slides just a little further down the wall with every word Sherlock says to him until he is finally sitting on the floor and is able to bury his face in his knees.
Why.
Why is this happening?
Why?
John hears Sherlock let out a small chuckle.
"STOP IT!" John shouts, emotion bubbling up in his throat. When he opens his eyes, there is nothing but darkness. Everything is silent. It occurs to him that he's sitting in his bed, every muscle stiff. He's panting, chest heaving, and his face is wet. John clenches the sheets with his fist and holds his face in his other hand.
The floor creaks from below. He can imagine Sherlock downstairs, still awake and doing whatever it is he does at this time in the morning. Sherlock's face from his dream lashes out at him from behind his eyes and John winces. The creaking stops at the foot of the stairs. John wonders if he shouted out loud. He sighs, then starts to laugh. He then starts to cry.
Why is this happening?
A/N: Well holy shit. Merry Christmas?