Work Text:
October 1st
It all starts with a cat.
It shows up at their flat the first of October, sleek and black and arrogant. John can’t get rid of it; every time he places the thing outside it shows up in his room glaring at him with eyes bright and green; always in his room, always on his windowsill—a hissing, judging shadow.
John thinks Sherlock might be the one letting it back in. He wants to complain about it, but his flatmate seems to have taken a liking to it and John just doesn’t have the heart. So he stops putting the cat outside and even picks up a bit of food for it on his next TESCO run.
If only can figure out how it’s still getting into his room at night. He’s even started locking his window and door to keep it out but it’s always there, watching him sleep, eyes wide and unblinking.
--
October 9th
John comes home one night to Sherlock painting a rough lump of rock black; strewn about him are odds and ends John catalogs and then ignores: cheap paper, black yarn and aromatic bay leaves.
“What are you doing?”
“An experiment.” Sherlock doesn’t look up from his work, deliberate brush strokes making the grey of the stone disappear beneath the gloss of wet black. John cringes at the mess on his fingers and the kitchen counter, knowing he’s going to be cleaning at least one of those things up by the end of the night. He hangs his coat and goes about making tea.
“Try not to make too much of a mess,” John says as he places a cup next to Sherlock’s elbow and wanders into the living room. He switches on the telly, cursing when it flickers and statics for a moment before settling onto something inane and pointless.
--
October 10th
The next morning his alarm doesn’t go off. Instead, he’s brought to consciousness by the incessant buzzing of his phone on the nightstand. He gropes around, grabs it and answers.
“Dr. Watson, are you planning on coming in today?” The voice on the other end is irritated and smoke destroyed.
“Wha?” comes his intelligent response. He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes before looking at his digital alarm clock: it’s flashing 12:00 over and over and over again, a monotonous message that translates to only one thing in John’s brain: ‘I am a useless piece-of-shit machinery that can’t handle a simple power outage.’ John groans. “Shit.”
The woman on the other end tsks disapprovingly. “It is already ten, Dr. Watson, can I expect to see you today?”
“Ten? Shit, fuck—um, er—sorry.” he’s turning red as he tries to untangle himself from his sheets. “Yes, yes—I’ll be there, I’m sorry.” He hangs up, tries to swing his legs to the floor and tumbles over the edge when one stubborn corner of white cloth refuses to let go of his ankle. He bites his tongue when his jaw slams down on the wooden floor, the taste of copper flooding his mouth so suddenly he almost vomits.
The cat yowls from its perch, mocking.
--
When John finally makes it downstairs, he forgoes a shower in favor of tea and toast. The toast burns, there’s no milk and when he goes to pull out the box of tea sachets a slew of bizarre items tumble down—he catches sight of Spanish moss and black peppercorns before yelling: “SHERLOCK!”
“What?” Sherlock responds, the word sounding petulant as he wanders from his room, dressing gown the only layer between him and the chilly flat. John glares and points at the mess on the floor, catching sight of rusty nails and are those mustard seeds skittering across the floor?
“The fuck is all of this?” The words come out slurred from the swelling of his tongue, but he tries his damnedest to sound angry anyway.
“It’s for an experiment.” Sherlock’s eyes close off, the quicksilver green shifting to abraded pewter and John just doesn’t have time for this.
“Great. Lovely. Just, clean it up, would you?” And he dashes out the door, nearly running head first into the wall when he misses the last step.
--
He makes it to his locum work at just before twelve. He’s already worn out, hungry and cranky from a lack of caffeine but as he walks into the waiting room he knows the day is only going to get longer. The place is as packed as he’s ever seen it.
“Look who finally showed up," the nurse at the desk rasped in the same god-awful voice as the one on the phone. John cringes both from guilt and more-than-mild irritation.
"Had a bit of a mishap," he lisps back, sticking out his tongue to show the mangled pink and red muscle; he gains some satisfaction from her cringe before he wanders back to his temporary office; settles into his chair and prepares to weather the flood without coffee or tea as fortification.
--
By the time he arrives at 221B it's well past ten in the evening and he can smell the day on himself, a brine of vomit and spilt coffee (it just was not meant to be!) assaulting his nostrils with every movement. He needs a shower. He needs food. He needs sleep.
"Sherlock, I'm home!" He calls out after cresting the stairs leading up to their flat. He isn't looking up as he crosses the threshold and hangs up his coat on the hook to his left, so he doesn't notice Sherlock looming as he is at the kitchen entrance.
"Fuck—Jesus, are you trying to kill me?" John demands, hand over his heart. Sherlock tilts his head to the side, scrutinizes John and then nods his head as if confirming something.
"You've had a terrible day." John can't help but snort at that as he pushes his way into the kitchen. There should be leftover curry in the fridge if he's lucky and Sherlock hasn't appropriated it for one of his frankly horrendous experiments. Sherlock follows him in and continues talking. "It started when you realized you were late for work, no less than three people have vomited on you or in your general vicinity and you never did get a cup of coffee or tea."
"Don't forget the tongue or the extra paperwork or the Tube running late." John gives Sherlock a humorless smile, wincing when the abused bit of tongue runs against his molars. He goes back to searching the fridge and finds his curry; the only thing that has gone right.
"How could I?" Sherlock responds and he seems in good humor. "Tea?"
John looks up from where he was fiddling with the microwave. In Sherlock's hand is a cuppa, steam weaving in tantalizing undulations across the milky surface. John almost groans.
"Yes."
One loving sip does pull a pleased noise from John's throat. It must be a new brew—the taste of poppy and almond is heavy against the milk.
--
John wakes to a weight dipping in the foot of his bed. When he opens his eyes he has to blink once, twice then three times to clear the sleep away. His body should be alert, should be singing intruder to the tune of a military cadence, but instead it thrums honey slow.
"Sherlock?" He slurs, catching the glow of white sclera. "What're you doing?"
"Testing a hypothesis." His flatmate slithers up the bed, has his thighs bracketing John's before John can even blink. He tries to squirm away only to find his movements are truncated and jerky against an unseen weight in his veins, lead slowly cooling and dragging him into the mattress.
John wants to thrash and panic but he can't move. Sherlock rocks against him and suddenly there is lightning arcing across the lead, his whole body alive with sensation and pleasure. He sobs, horrified.
"Sherlock, what are you—?" Sherlock places his left hand over John's mouth, his full lips pulling open into a grin.
"Shhh, John. You'll enjoy this, I promise." When Sherlock pulls his hand back John's voice goes with it. The pleasure builds where Sherlock rolls his cock against John's; fabric tears and abrades but it just doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter when Sherlock shows the blade he has hidden in his right hand, a slim wicked slip of silver. Doesn't matter that the cool steel splitting along his abdomen should sear and burn like ice, that the blood flowing freely and black like the stuff of organs and vital veins has stained the white of his sheets, that the yellow of fat shines in the open air.
Doesn't matter that he comes when Sherlock does, pink intestines and oily organs on rancid display.
"I told you you would enjoy it."
--
John wakes screaming silently at the ceiling, sweat slicking his brow in a clammy sheen. His hands fly to the sheet over his abdomen, finding immediate relief when his arms move at his command, finding lasting relief when he sees an expanse of flesh unmarked save for a liberal dusting of fair hair.
A dream, a nightmare. Thank god.
He tries to ignore the wet mess between his thighs and across his stomach. He doesn't want to think about what that means, doesn't want to acknowledge the cooling weight. So he gets up, collects the ruined sheets and tries to sleep on the mattress without them.
The black cat blinks it's bright eyes and purrs.
--
October 11th
John doesn’t think he can look Sherlock in the eye when he finally forces himself out of his bed and into their shared living space. He avoids it as long as possible by hemming and hawing over clothing choice, taking the longest possible cold shower (damn pipes), attempting tea with his back to the living room. When he reaches for the box of tea sachets, he barely registers that it is now the only thing residing in the cupboard. On the stove something rank is boiling and John almost vomits as the cloying scents of patchouli and peppercorn lodge themselves at the back of his throat. Not for the first time he wonders what exactly Sherlock is experimenting on, but he finds himself less and less willing to ask as the days fade away.
“John.” John nearly, nearly manages not to scream but the sound is out of his mouth before he can clamp his teeth around it.
“Jesus, Sherlock.” Sherlock is sneaking up on him a lot these days. Had he always been so quiet? “Don’t scare me like that.”
Sherlock chuckles. “I thought you heard me approach, I would have made more noise otherwise.”
John waves the concern away, eyes resolutely locked to the left of Sherlock’s head. “I’m just tired, is all.”
“Bad dreams?”
“Something like that.” John turns his back on Sherlock, knowing he can’t hide the revulsion crinkling his face; that puts him directly over whatever monstrosity is roiling away on the hob and he can’t tell which is worse: the invasive smell or the image of Sherlock overtop him, knife in hand. He’s going to vomit, he knows he is, but before he can move Sherlock has a hand on his shoulder no doubt meant to be comforting but the electricity that flows from skin to skin is too much, is too intimate and arousing even with the layers of jumper and collared shirt between them.
John’s knees give way, Sherlock grabs him and the smell of almond and poppy tangle with the copper blood pounding it’s way north and south. He doesn’t think, can’t think as he turns and traps full lips with his own. Hands grabbing at skin, hands grabbing at cloth, hands grabbing at hair—the sensations all too much, too much too—
“Fuck-shit, oh god—Sherlock.” Sherlock has him up against the hob, towering over him as he devours John’s mouth and John has to put a hand out to balance himself and it lands directly on the eye heating for his tea.
“CHRIST!" John yells, jerks so hard upright he topples Sherlock over onto his arse before realizing what exactly has just happened. "I--ohgodohgodohgod." He just kissed Sherlock. Why did he just kiss Sherlock?
"John—"
"I-I'm, oh Christ, oh god, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm—" it's just too much. He bolts.
--
John finds himself prodding the burn covering half his right hand anytime he thinks about Sherlock. He's at work, managed to make it on time today but he's not got his head screwed on right and he thinks the nurse is intentionally filing ornery walk-ins his way.
Everything has gone to shit.
He can't go home tonight, not after he had practically molested his flatmate. Do not think about the fact that Sherlock obviously enjoyed it, that Sherlock never pushed him back, that Sherlock dominated—
"Bloody buggering fuck," he curses as he digs his finger into blistered flesh. The erection trying to make itself known flags immediately. "I'm not gay, I'm not." Something he's been repeating to himself for hours like a well-worn mantra deprived of any real meaning.
"I'm not."
--
He grabs a pint with the pretty nurse who actually likes him. He charms his way home with her, fucks her hard and brilliant, and falls asleep after her. The warmth of another body seems to chase away the potential for nightmares and for the first time in days he’s experiencing some semblance of peace.
He wakes as the clock turns over to three AM, convinced he’s being watched but the pretty nurse is sound asleep beside him. He’s wide-awake, body on alert and he knows he won’t get back to sleep now.
“MrrrrOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWW.” John’s head jerks to the left and there is that goddamn cat, watching him from the open door. There is something cruel in the sleek lines of its shoulders, in the squint of its bright eyes and John is inexplicably terrified.
The nurse stirs beside him. “John, what is it?”
She’s reacting to him, not the noise, hasn’t even realized the cat has joined them. John doesn’t know why he lies. “It’s nothing, Mary, go back to sleep.”
--
October 20th
John starts to relax about nine days after The Incident. He spends a good bit of time with Mary and when he’s around the flat Sherlock is either completely engrossed in an experiment or not present at all. His flatmate never once mentions the kiss, seems content to work on whatever the hell he’s been so wrapped up in the past two weeks. Things seem normal, or as normal as they can be rooming with your sociopathic best friend.
“John, a case!” Sherlock is practically vibrating with energy as he shoves the phone at John over the paper he is pretending to read.
Murder on the Thames. I think it might be your sort of thing.
“That’s all it takes?” John asks with a little laugh.
“I haven’t had a case in ages! A four would do at this point!” Sherlock bounds away, dropping his dressing gown to the ground as he goes and John is gifted with a large expanse of white skin.
John turns red and looks away.
--
No. Nope. Nu-uh. John is ready to get off this train, ready to board another car and head anywhere unattached to his reality. His reality can go fuck itself.
Sherlock is bouncing around the corpse, ecstatic to have something to do. That much is fucking obvious.
John is vomiting in the bin a five meters off unwilling to come any closer.
Just, no.
“John?” Greg approaches slowly, wary of John’s strong reaction. John the unflappable one, the calm and collected one, the sane one. John the one fragile as new formed ice. John vomiting in the bin again despite there being nothing but bile left to discharge. “Jesus John, are you okay?”
“Oh yes, wonderful. Peachy keen and dandy.” He dry heaves, wants to sob but can’t bring himself to do so. Pulls up long enough to grimace, sees the body and heaves again. “Goddamn happiest person in the world.”
“John…” John spits out the taste of bile, thinks he can handle resurfacing.
“Greg, that’s Mary Morstan on the ground.”
“How did you—”
“She’s my girlfriend. She was my girlfriend. We were fucking.” John starts laughing. Stares at the body crucified to the ground, eyes wide and sightless and he’s vomiting all over again.
“Christ John, I’m sorry.” Greg’s eyes crinkle with genuine concern but John is sure he’s now a suspect.
Sherlock flits back and forth like a spider, mouth split into a hungry grin.
--
John has another nightmare.
John hopes he’s having another nightmare.
He’s watching Sherlock crawl up his body, doesn’t have to see to know he has a blade tucked away somewhere, knows his body will react no matter what.
“Do you know what this is, John?” Sherlock holds up a doll made of rudimentary cloth stuffed with god knows what. It’s wearing a crude rendition of John’s favorite striped shirt, denim pants and the hair is too fine and blonde-shocked-grey to be anything else but his.
John tries to answer, has no voice, shakes his head.
“It’s a poppet.” Sherlock explains, pushes the arms together and John’s limbs react, snapping to his sides and remaining there even as he tries desperately to struggle free. “A voodoo doll, I suppose. It’s a wonderful tool.” He spreads the cloth legs open and John’s slide to each corner of the bed in response. Sherlock looks pleased from where he kneels over him. “It's made from bits of your old clothing, some of your hair. The spell required a good bit of organic material, so I included a tiny amount of semen as well.”
John tries to speak, to beg, to sob. Nothing.
"I'll make it feel good for you," Sherlock says even as he place the poppet beside John and pulls out a delicate length of scalpel. "You're a doctor, this should be fascinating."
John tries to scream and buck and pray. He feels the blade dip beneath the dermis, feels it split and curl. His cock grows heavy and hard even as he watches blood drip and drain away. Sherlock cooes, content.
"I told you this would feel good." Sherlock uses his free hand to yank John off, no finesse as he tugs in time with the pull of his blade.
John has grown tired of the sight of his own intestines.
--
Oct 21th
John calls in to work. He doesn't want to see the empty desk where Mary sat, doesn't want to go downstairs to face his flatmate.
The cat watches from the windowsill, nothing but eyes and he’s not sure he wants to be scrutinized that hard either.
“MRrrrrrrrooooOOOOWWWWRRRRR!” Nope, definitely not doing that. He scrambles out of bed, manages not to fall flat on his face and bolts out of his room, not bothering to change from his sleep shirt and shorts.
Downstairs, Sherlock is pouring over a series of papers not doubt tied to their...his new case. John is certain he won’t be able to help on this one.
“John?” Sherlock looks up from a photo, eyes wide. “What is it?”
“Don’t want to talk about it.” John wanders into the kitchen, sees tea on the counter and finds the contents still releasing wispy ribbons of steam. “Is this tea for me or another experiment?” John yells over his shoulder.
“You!” Sherlock yells back. John hears rustling and turns around to see Sherlock unfolding himself from his seat. He tries to block out his nightmare version of Sherlock and see just his flatmate, finding it possible only because this Sherlock looks genuinely concerned for John. "I didn't know who the victim was, John. I never would have asked you to come with me if I had, I—"
"Shhhh, it's alright, you didn't know." John feels relieved by Sherlock's words, doesn't think about why. He takes a heavy swig of tea, pleased to taste the poppy and almond flavor again, wonders if Sherlock has a hidden stash of exotic teas squirreled away somewhere. "This is lovely, thanks."
Sherlock gives a little nod, looking unsure of what to do next; he fidgets with the cuff of his shirt, shifts back and forth and then opens his mouth. “If it’s any consolation, I know Lestrade added you to the pool of suspects, he had to even if you’re obviously innocent, but I did find several pieces of evidence that would prove you are innocent beyond a doubt…”
“I appreciate it.” John feels warmth settle at the pit of his belly. It’s an odd, empty kind of warmth, as if everything but it had been stripped away. He thinks he should be more broken up over Mary, he had been not minutes ago, right? John looks up at Sherlock, meets his eyes before spreading his lips into a slow smile. Sherlock smiles back, holds out his hand and John takes it; doesn’t know why he takes it but the thrill of electricity sparking between their fingers is too wonderful to question.
John steps forward, wants to crowd in to get more of that contact, to create static at all points of flesh. Sherlock meets him, uses his free hand to tilt John’s face up and presses his full lips to John’s thinner ones.
Gentle, gentle, gentle. It’s too gentle. John wants more, needs that damn contact. He yanks at Sherlock’s hair to keep him close, forces his tongue into that open mouth and is greeted with warmth and poppy, wet and almond. He moans, Sherlock grins.
John doesn’t know if he pushes Sherlock to the living area or if he’s pulled there, he’s too busy trying to get a better taste, trying to pull away the cloth keeping their skin from connecting. He’s hard and his cock is chaffing against pants and denim trousers and he needs those gone too, but he’s too busy moving and kissing and tugging to stop long enough to free himself.
They turn, a one-two-step that has John bending over backwards where the couch hits his knees. Sherlock crowds over him, his face delighted and sharp and red with arousal. His spindly spider fingers make quick work of John’s fly and then tug away everything in one swift pull that has John’s cock jutting heavy and solid just above his stomach. When those fingers wrap around him John shouts and bucks, the contact too much, too gorgeous.
When full lips wrap around him, he can’t see beyond the pleasure.
One blunt hand grabs at wiry, tumbling curls.
The other grasps at the table and slips across paper and glossy photos, one breaking free and settling slowly to the floor face up.
Bright and shiny, Mary stares with empty eyes from where she is pinned to the ground, stomach split open like a science fair toad, intestines pink and ropey in the afternoon light.
--
John wakes in his bed.
John wakes sore and sated and terrified in his bed.
John has grown tired of waking up in his bed staring at the ceiling, confused.
The black cat yowls.
John wants to burn that damn cat and wake up in his bedroom alone.
--
The skin parts so neatly from his flesh, shows muscle in bright bloody lines beneath the tan, fat glistening and gold. A Cheshire grin from above, teeth so bright and blunt and eyes like a cat’s, delighted and backlit and verdigris iridescent.
Quite pretty.
Haha
Quite pretty indeed.
--
October 23rd
John tries to kill the cat today.
He gets his fingers around its neck, feels the flesh give against the larynx and the fur brush his knuckles soft and milky smooth.
Then his fingers burn where teeth sink deep and claw marks rake along the underside of his arms like nettle.
John calmly cleans the blood away from his skin with a discarded shirt and heads downstairs to handle the day.
--
John enters the kitchen intent on tea and finds on the table the poppet.
Crude as he remembers it, that ragged piece of cloth and hair roots him to the spot, epoxy glue attached to his heels.
“Ah, John, I didn’t expect you up so early.” He turns his head, sees Sherlock stand from the couch and saunter lithe and confident into the kitchen. He picks up the poppet and grins at John. “Do you know what this is?”
John doesn’t respond and Sherlock sees something in his expression that delights him; his grin turns positively dazzling.
“You do, I’m impressed!” He pushes the little arms up above the overlarge head and John’s arms drag up of their own accord to mimic the position. When Sherlock forces a pin through the hands to keep them together, pain lances through John’s and he can feel hot blood bubble and dribble from the wounds. “It took a lot of research to figure out how to get one of these to work. I had to practice a bit more than I thought. Mary was the last test run and when her stomach split open so perfectly I knew I had it right.”
Sherlock takes the poppet and moving with deliberate steps he approaches the refrigerator. “It’s all about intent. If you want to hurt someone—” He slams it against the cool white surface and John feels the impact, feels it rattle and jar him to the ground, arms still held above his head. “But if you want them to feel pleasure—” He strokes his thumb over where the crotch would be and John’s cock jumps to attention, pleasure radiating outwards against the pain.
“Want to play a game?”
--
John wakes screaming, the kind of scream that tears the throat to pieces. He can’t produce sound but he keeps screaming until he’s sobbing and the tears burn like blood across his face.
He can’t take another nightmare.
He moves to get out of bed but something stings as the sheets brush his knuckles. Thin lines of blood dot the white, inflamed pinpricks puncture his hands. His palms are pink and raw.
John starts laughing until he can no longer breath and the cat hisses in reply.
--
John enters the kitchen intent on tea and finds nothing on the table.
His stomach unclenches just a bit.
“John?”
John ignores him, starts rooting around the cabinets for tea and finds instead jars and jars of oils and liquids. He ignores those too. Where in the bloody fuck is the tea?
“John!”
His hands brush against the box and for a second he feels triumphant.
“John!!” Sherlock is right behind him, concern carved heavily into his face. John looks at him and smiles blandly.
“Yes?”
“Are you alright? I heard...laughing?” He sounds confused, uncertain and John starts to giggle. Sherlock's concern deepens.
“Quite alright.”
“You’re boiling all the tea.” John turns to look at the cooking pot on the hob and sees that it is in fact crammed full of tea packets and just enough water to cover them. He laughs harder.
“Would you look at that? It’ll be a bit of a strong brew, I’m afraid.”
“John.”
John smiles at Sherlock, gives him what he hopes to be a reassuring look and heads back to his room. He tries to hide his limp as he moves, the steps a particularly difficult challenge as he concentrates on rhythm of his stride.
The tea comes to a boil unnoticed.
--
October 29th
John sits at the cafe across from his current place of employ, sipping coffee and trying to keep his eyes open. There’s no more tea left at the flat after he tried to boil the lot of it, and he hasn’t made his way to TESCO to replenish it. Too many people crammed in queues, snotty children running under his feet as he tries not to limp, tries not to twitch and lash out at the slightest contact.
No, the tiny cafe is much better than all that.
Beside his mug his phone buzzes and he answers without looking at the ID.
"Don't bother finishing out your contract, Dr. Watson," The nurse with the smoky-harsh voice says, a cheerful barer of bad news.
John disconnects the call without responding. He wanted to go into work today, to escape the flat but days of absentees must have added up to the grand sum of unreliable doctor and he cannot fault them for cutting that bit free. It’ll look terrible when he tries to find new locum work, but that is the least of his worries right now.
“More coffee?” The waiter smiles at him and John nods, now sipping coffee across the street from his ex-place of employ.
The waiter leaves and John sighs content to be alone and seated away from people. He tilts his mug to his lips and draws hot liquid into his mouth savoring the coppery-thick red of the--
He spits the contents of his mouth back into the cup and sees red as black as garnet shimmering along the porcelain.
“Oh god.” John jolts up from the table, upending his chair in his haste. “Oh god.”
“Sir?” The waiter approaches him, his head cocked to the side with concern. “Is everything alright?”
“Nope, definitely not.” John is edging away and when he wipes his fist across his mouth it comes away stained crimson. Hysteria tries to force its way from his stomach through his mouth. “Can’t be real, this can’t be real.” He closes his eyes and waits a handful of moments before opening them again, expecting to be in his bed but finding himself still in the cafe drawing attention.
“Sir if you would tell me what’s—” But John has already run out the door.
On the table the brown-black surface of his coffee ripples and gleams in the lowlight of the cafe.
--
No one thinks to stop him.
There is blood on his hands, red and thick as syrup.
He runs.
He wants the safety Baker Street once held for him. His feet carry him there, weave him between people and cars and soon he is gasping in cold fall air as he stumbles onto the landing.
The door opens as he reaches for the handle and he falls into the folds of Sherlock’s Belstaff.
He smells of peppercorn and Spanish moss and John can’t decide if it repels or draws him in, that smell, so he doesn’t move, just grasps at him to keep his balance.
“John. John. John.” Sherlock is trying to get his attention but John has to focus on his breathing now. Each breath brings the scent in deeper pulls the tension out further and he is locking up against the tall, lithe frame against him.
“What is wrong with me?” John finally mumbles as Sherlock manhandles them back inside, slamming the door shut. “I’m going insane, I am!”
“Shhh, it’s alright John. We’re going upstairs now, can you walk with me?” John obeys the soft tones and still clutching Sherlock starts to step up the steps.
“My hands, oh my hands.” They are almost to the top when he lets go of Sherlock to pull back his hands; he falls, arse hitting the landing with a thud. “There’s blood all over my hands. And, oh god, it has to be on my mouth. But no one stopped me, why did no one stop me?”
“John, there’s no blood on your face or your hands. You just have a bit of coffee on your jumper is all and no one would stop you on the streets for that. Stand up.” John stands, wobbles a bit until Sherlock steadies him and then he waits.
“It can’t be, I tasted it. I know what blood tastes like, Sherlock.”
“And I know what it looks like. Into the sitting area.” John turns and limps into their shared living space. “Sit.” John crumples to the couch.
“Christ, Sherlock, I can’t tell what’s real anymore. I reckon I really have lost it.” He lets his face fall into his palms, feels the blood slip across the skin but if Sherlock says it’s not there then it must not be.
“You’re stressed over Mary.” Sherlock enters the kitchen, his voice filtering around the corners. Dishware clatters and the hob clicks on. “I have it on good authority that what you are experiencing is grief.”
“This isn’t grief. I know grief.” There’s a moment of silence before Sherlock enters the living area. John doesn’t look up until his hands are peeled away from his face and a cup and saucer are placed in them. Sherlock’s face is gently lined with concern and pity, expressions John is growing familiar with.
“Drink.” John drinks and Sherlock must have used his own brew again because the almond and poppy splash against his tongue. When Sherlock adjusts so he is kneeling at John’s knees the peppercorn from earlier tries to wipe away the pleasant, empty warmth settling in his stomach. John squirms, uncomfortable and only holds still when Sherlock places a large hand on John's knee, rubbing his thumb over the denim.
"You've been under a lot of stress lately. You're nightmares are getting worse and you obviously aren't sleeping because of it, the bags under your eyes are deep and bruised indicating that and now you are hallucinating.”
John listens to Sherlock’s deep baritone through layers of cotton as his body settles into listlessness against the couch, head heavy on his shoulders. His fingers loosen against the mug and saucer, nearly dropping them but Sherlock’s fingers catch the porcelain and set the pieces aside. “Up.”
“I’ve been sleeping,” John says around a thick tongue and Sherlock chuckles disbelievingly as he stands and helps John to his feet. “You just keep messing everything up.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you’re always the nightmare.” John giggles and sways on his feet. The thought seems ridiculous. “You and that damn creepy doll.”
“It’s called a poppet, John. Upstairs.”
John nods as he starts walking towards the stairs to his room. “That thing. It’s creepy as fuck, you know. Nightmare-you should burn it or-or something.” John trips and Sherlock catches him, his hand brushing against the bare skin of John’s wrist. Warmth like heat-lightning and static course into his veins and he buzzes with the power of it. “Oh, that’s nice.”
Sherlock says nothing as he guides John up the stairs and into his room.
The bed has been stripped of duvet and pillows, nothing but the fitted sheet and several dark towels laid out across the mattress. John freezes and stares and wonders why he does both. “That’s not right.”
“What’s not right, John?” Sherlock places a hand at the small of John’s back, the other remaining at John’s wrist, twin points of heat and comfort.
“The bed, it shouldn’t be like that.” John is distracted by the hands on him, feels his skin become fever sensitive and aggravated beneath his many layers of clothing.
“It’s as it always is, John. Lay down. You’ve had a long day, a long month.”
John lets Sherlock guide him to the bed. He climbs in and feels his body sink into the mattress and he doesn’t protest as Sherlock arranges his limbs so that they are spread wide from his body.
John drifts to sleep wishing for more contact.
--
John wakes to the weight of another body above him. He feels sleep-drugged, lethargic and warm despite a lack of any covering and he tries to force himself into alertness. The light outside has changed from yellow to silver.
“Don’t move, John, I don’t want to hurt you.” Sherlock shifts and John watches him slice through his jumper and collared shirt and vest with the delicate silver blade in his hand. John groans and tries to shift but he can’t past much of a twitch. Sherlock nicks him anyway as he gets through the hem of the layers. “John, really, I told you not to move.”
“Sherlock, why are you doing this?” John’s voice is slurred and thick and Sherlock shrugs.
“Because I can.”
“I’m your friend, Sherlock.”
“Yes.” Sherlock bends forward and places his lips to John’s. When John tries to tilt his head away, Sherlock uses his free hand to hold him still, something slick and oily and poppy scented spreading across the skin of John’s jaw. He face relaxes into the touch and his lips part letting in almond and muscle. John’s body explodes with sensation and want and need but his mind recoils against its bone cage; tears create pathways to the bed as his lips move and press against Sherlock’s, desperate to draw in more of that flavor.
“You shouldn’t—you wouldn’t do this to a friend.” John pants when Sherlock pulls back all grinning teeth and wide pupils.
“It’s only a nightmare, John.” He draws the scalpel down the center of John’s abdomen, follows the steps he’s taken every nightmare before this. John relaxes knowing he will wake up unscathed. Grin stretching wider, Sherlock lets the blade sink deeper, carefully splitting through muscle to show the organs beneath and John watches fascinated as black leaks across his skin, flowing in rivulets to the towels beneath. He feels nothing but heat and electricity and what is left of his blood flows south to swell and pulse in his cock.
When Sherlock shifts John moans and closes his eyes.
It’s pleasant if he doesn’t have to see himself bleed.
“That’s right, just a nightmare.”
--
October 30th
When John wakes up it is on top of clean sheets and beneath his duvet. He squirms and nowhere does he feel the plush texture of thick towels.
A nightmare.
He pulls the heavy cover back, intent to start the day.
And stops.
A thin red ribbon of flesh trails the length of his stomach, raised and shiny like a new scar. It pulses white in time with his heart and when he runs his fingers across it, it is warm to the touch.
There is no blood anywhere—none dried to him, none on the bedding—but John is certain he would find bloody towels if he searched hard enough.
The cat mewls and splits its mouth open in a pink grin, laughing at John.
John grins back, manic and bright before reaching into the nightstand drawer to pull out his gun. “You think this is funny, you little shit?”
The metal feels solid and real in his hands, right against his palms as he takes aim and fires.
The glass of his window shatters but the cat has escaped across the room and out the cracked opening of his door, his door that he never leaves open.
“Fuck.” He leaps from his bed and tears after the cat, pounding down the stairs two at a time, almost falling as he hits the second floor. He can’t find the cat, but Sherlock is standing in the kitchen eyes wide.
“You,” John snarls, gun raised. “What did you do to me, Sherlock?”
“John, what are you—”
“I asked you a question!” John is shaking but he keeps the gun steady. He’ll deal with the cat later.
“I have no idea what you are talking—”
“Don’t you bullshit me.” He removes his hand to gesture at the line of red vibrant against his tan. “This—you did something to me last night, I know you did.”
“John, there’s nothing there,” Sherlock says, furrowing his brow. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
“Fuck off about the sleep!”
“Pardon me as I try to figure out why you have a gun aimed at my chest,” Sherlock snaps. Downstairs he hears a knock and Mrs. Hudson's voice frantic voice greets someone at the door. John pays no mind.
“You did something to me. Drugged me, I think. I would actually wager my life’s earnings on that. Reckon you got bored and now I’m losing days and waking up from nightmares with bloody scars.” He jerks his hand at the mark again.
“What are you two idiots up to?” Greg’s voice calls from downstairs, his feet fall heavy on each step as he ascends. “Got a gunfire report from someone who recognized the address and I thought I’d make sure one of you hadn’t done something—What’s this?”
John doesn't turn to regard Greg, but sees him stop on the landing in his periphery, dark eyes wide, stunned. John doesn't want to take his eyes from Sherlock, doesn't want to miss any twitch of emotion. He has to be lying.
"Sherlock's done something to me," he says. "He has to have. I mean, look!" For a third time he indicates his torso.
"John, all I'm seeing is you in your pants pointing a gun at Sherlock."
"The scar, Greg." John is beginning to doubt himself, the shaking at his core radiates to his hands making the steady aim of his gun tremulous at best.
"I told you there's no scar," Sherlock says but Greg hushes him with a harsh glare.
"Other than your shoulder I don’t see any scars." Greg approaches him slowly, body lax and nonthreatening but John flinches away nonetheless. "Come on, John. It's okay, just hand me the gun, alright?"
John lets his arms drop, allows Greg to pull the gun from his hands.
"Good, good." The tension leaves John's body immediately, his shoulders droop and his spine curves. He's exhausted. Across from him relief flickers over Sherlock's face and he slumps against the kitchen table.
"Now, how about you two tell me what in the bloody hell is going on here? You're lucky it's me here," Greg says as he engages the safety on the gun and slides it into the back of his pants. Poor gun safety, that, John thinks and has to bite down on a giddy reprimand.
“John has been under a lot of stress.” Sherlock says and then explains the sleepless nights, the nightmares and John’s job loss while Greg moves to the kitchen, but John isn’t listening. He’s let his eyes close and head drop. When he opens them again the tan expanse of his torso, red pants and carpet are what he sees. He wants to sit. As he shifts a glint of silver-white flesh stops him short, a tinsel ribbon where throbbing red had just stitched.
“Christ, this is creepy.” John’s eyes snap up and Greg is holding the poppet. “Is it meant to be John?”
“MreeeeeeeOOOOOOOWWWWWWWW,” the cat yowls from somewhere, mocking him. You fool. You fool.
Adrenal glands kick into gear, Greg shouts something and Sherlock makes to dart from the room.
--
October 31st
“The cat was mocking me.”
“John.”
“I should have known, of course they weren’t nightmares."
“John.”
“And the cat was mocking me. I should have know.”
“JOHN!”
John smiles across the table, eyes shuttered and dark. Greg looks this side of terrified, John doesn’t understand why. John’s gotten rid of the real threat. “Yes?”
“What cat?”