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Title: Angels of Darkness
Author: speedy
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: M
Summary: Sherlock discovers John's darkest secret.
Notes: Another abandoned start that is being cleaned off the hard drive. Title comes from an unpublished play Doyle wrote based on the American bits of “A Study in Scarlet”, starring Watson without Holmes. This was going to be Dexter-style serial killer!John and enabler!Sherlock, set during the beginning of A Scandal in Belgravia after the pool scene.
It was the muffled scream coming from upstairs that drew Sherlock's attention before he went in to 221B. The upstairs two-story flat was empty save for John; the third floor had been mostly gutted when Mrs. Hudson had bought the building and the funds set aside to do the necessary renovations had ended up going to other repairs before she herself could move in, so she'd chosen to use the bedrooms on the second floor as extras for the other three flats. He'd taken to using the empty third floor as storage for the chemicals and experiments John complained about being kept in the kitchen.
Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's for the weekend and John was out at the pub with the girlfriend of the week, the house should empty.
"John?" he shouted, leaning on the banister going up to the second floor. He received no answer.
The upstairs flat was unlocked; John's door was open and the room was clearly unoccupied. He could hear someone moving around on the third floor, plastic sheeting crinkling in the enclosed space. He could just barely make out soft groans- pained, not sexual- and a male voice. He crept up the stairs slowly, far enough to get a good view into the kitchen at the top.
His breath caught in his throat.
Sherlock stood on the stairs, shocked. He blinked, trying to dispel the image from his eyes. It was wrong. He was seeing things. A hallucination. That was the only reasonable explanation.
John Watson wasn't kneeling over a bleeding woman. Couldn't be. Not John, who was disappointed in him for not caring about Moriarty's victims. Not John, who wore woolly jumpers and dressed like Sherlock's father. Not John, who had gotten under his skin like no one else.
Other images flashed in his mind. Two dead prostitutes. The five he'd refused last month; the three from two months ago that he took one look at the case file and declared it too boring, just last week. Lestrade and Donovan hadn't connected them, of course.
He should be calling Lestrade. Or at least Mycroft. Anybody.
Sherlock's heart clenched at the thought. He couldn't do that. He couldn't be the one to send John to prison.
He watched John with the poor woman. She was still dressed; he didn't seem to be interested in her sexually. That was something. John caressed her breast; no, he was running his fingers through the blood pouring out of the stab wound in her heart. He was playing in her blood, completely fascinated by it. The woman didn't seem to be of any interest to him beyond the blood.
Not sexual, not sadism. That actually made Sherlock feel a bit better, that perhaps he wasn't completely wrong about John.
The bleeding body on the floor took one last gasp and her chest stopped moving. Her killer didn't notice, he continued running his fingers through her cooling blood.
Sherlock couldn't turn him in, nor could he ignore what he was seeing. He couldn't just walk away.
He made the unforgivable decision to help.
"John," he said softly, stepping up onto the landing with his hands in the pockets of his coat.
The older man froze and slowly turned towards the voice, his fingers dripping blood. "Sherlock?"
"Is she the third? Another prostitute?"
John swallowed. "Ye-yes," he stuttered weakly.
"Congratulations, I suppose. That makes you officially a serial killer."
"Have you called Lestrade yet?"
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Not Mycroft?"
The edges of John's mouth tugged upwards. "It'd take something significantly worse than this to make you voluntarily call your brother." He stared down at his hands, at the rapidly drying blood. "It's okay. Turning me in, I mean. I'm not angry, not at you." He held up his hands. "You caught me red handed."
Sherlock couldn't stop a small, sad smile. "You're not supposed to joke at crime scenes," he replied. "I haven't called anyone. I'm not going to."
John looked at him, confused. "What? Why?"
"We'll talk later. Now, do you have a plan for disposing of the body? I ask because your last two victims were found. The police, of course, have no leads, but it's best not to give them another body to work with."
"They... How do you know that? I know neither of them would've ranked higher than a four and we certainly haven't worked those cases."
"I estimated the last one as a five before I refused it. Lestrade asked me to look at the case file for the first one last week. I told them it was punter. I was right."
"You usually are." He glanced at the body. "I didn't really think ahead with this one. I saw her and couldn't stop myself. It's been a bad night."
"It might be easier to dismember her. I have chemicals at another location that can dissolve flesh."
John nodded. "Okay. It's just surgery, right? I can do that."
Sherlock watched his friend. He was clearly coming down from a high, albeit one produced by his own body. "John, are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Just adrenaline."
"Good. There's some gear from the Met I've stashed in the sitting room. We need the luminol."
Sherlock and John ended up at an all-night diner near St Bart’s. John was hungry after everything; Sherlock was nauseous. He had no experience in crime outside of drugs. He’d never been involved in a violent crime, not as the perpetrator. Any knowledge he had was academic. No more. He had a body dissolving in piranha solution in one of his lesser used boltholes.
It was ironic. Everyone thought him to be the psychopath, but the true psychopath was John. Perhaps he should stop referring to himself as a sociopath. It really didn’t fit anymore. It was currently leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
“The only way this is going to work is if you tell me everything. Answer my questions fully. Do not leave anything out.”
“Alright.”
“You didn’t sexually assault them.”
“It’s not like that. I’m not impotent or anything. Look, if you’re looking for explanations, I don’t have any. I’m sure you’ve already got a theory and it’s probably right.”
“It’s a compulsion. You’re drawn to the blood.”
“As long as I can remember.”
“It’s what drew you to medicine, acceptable access to blood and circumstances to be covered in blood.”
“Bit more complicated than that.” He sighed and put down his fork. “I used to be able to control it. I’d cut myself or there was the occasional animal,” he said, looking away. “I’d be okay. But in Afghanistan, it was too much. Gunshot wounds, IEDs, I could be up to my wrists in blood whenever I wanted.”
“Army doctor, I imagine you were up to your wrists in blood every day.”
“I’d left the Medical Corps by then. I was regular infantry, but everyone knew I was a doctor. I was generally roped in for serious injuries, even though I wasn’t officially a medic. It was... too much.”
“Too tempting.”
“Yes.”
“You killed the first before we met.”
“Nine days. I just couldn’t control it anymore.”
“Do you have issues with prostitutes?”
He hesitated answering. “No. Victims of opportunity.”
“Three of them?”
“How many women go off to a dark alley with a strange man?”
“In my professional experience, far too many. You’re not targeting prostitutes specially. Anyone would do, if you could get away with it.”
“Yes.”
“But you do have an issue with prostitutes.”
“I don’t,” John protested. “I don’t.”
“You knew a prostitute. Someone close to you.” John glared, but said nothing. “You agreed, John.”
“I didn’t realize that was a question,” John replied testily.
Sherlock studied him. “Your mother then.”
“Mycroft didn’t tell you?”
“If I didn’t know about your military history, do you really think he told me about your family? I only know what you’ve told me and what I’ve deduced.”
“So what have you deduced?”
“She died when you were young. Your maternal grandparents were strict and Harry is resentful. You did not side with her and your grandparents were angry because you supported her when she was disowned. You were overlooked because of Harry’s problems. They’ve never approved of anything either of you have done.”
“Well, you’re not wrong. Nothing was ever good enough for them.”
“They resented having to raise you as there was no father in the picture.”
“It was their Christian duty, Grandmother always said.”
“You and Harry were trick babies.”
“I prefer the term occupational hazard.”
Sherlock bit down a smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“We’re Irish twins, too.”
“Eleven months, twelve days apart.”
“Yes.”
“How did she die?”
“Murdered by her dealer. He did ten years.”
“Stabbed in the heart. You were present.”
“She was holding me. Harry was in her cot. No one found us for nearly two days. I don’t remember it.”
“Just you and all that blood.”
“You think that’s where it started.”
“Obviously. It was a traumatic moment, burned into your immature brain. You don’t think about it? About her?”
“I was two. I don’t remember her at all.”
“What exactly is it about the blood? What is it you need? What is it you think about?”
“The blood pumping out of the body. The warmth of it, the life...”
“Your hands were actually in your mother’s wounds when she died. You felt her die through her blood.”
“I’m sure Lestrade would get you the case file if you asked nicely. We were in London then.”
“Would you be satisfied any other way?”
“At this point, I don’t know if I can go back to the way I was. Besides, there’s not a lot of blood in being a GP and I can’t operate anymore.”
The image of one of his failures popped into Sherlock’s mind. A child killer with an excellent barrister. It was terrible, what he was about to suggest, but John was more important than his own conscience and certainly more important than murderers. “What about another victim profile?”
“Sure. Worked in Afghanistan.”
Sherlock made note of that statement.
“Okay, this is how things are going to go. No more prostitutes, no more innocents. My targets only, from here on out. I choose who you kill and they’ll all be guilty of something. You tell me when you need it and we’ll go hunting. You do nothing on your own. If I find out you’ve violated my rules, I’ll hand you over to Mycroft. Do you understand?”
John studied his face, cautiously hopeful. “You’re going to help me? Really?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last few hours? I assure you, I’ve not been doing it for fun.”
“I don’t know, but I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Better them than you. Killer you may be, but at least you’re trying to do some good in this world.”
“I assume you have a list.”
“Only since we’ve been talking. I hope you’re not going to need to do this too soon. It’ll take time to properly set up what we’ll need. I don’t want to use my regular boltholes. Mycroft knows most of them and it’ll connect the evidence back to us.”
“I think I’ll be okay for a while. It just builds up sometimes, until I can’t control it anymore.”
“You’ll tell me before it gets that bad.”
“Of course. I just...”
“What?”
“I’m grateful for all this. I know how this must be bothering you.”
Something flared up in Sherlock’s heart, something that would never be reciprocated. John would never - could never - love him. His heart broke, but he would not change course. “You have no idea,” he replied, choking back the unexpected emotion.
Author: speedy
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: M
Summary: Sherlock discovers John's darkest secret.
Notes: Another abandoned start that is being cleaned off the hard drive. Title comes from an unpublished play Doyle wrote based on the American bits of “A Study in Scarlet”, starring Watson without Holmes. This was going to be Dexter-style serial killer!John and enabler!Sherlock, set during the beginning of A Scandal in Belgravia after the pool scene.
It was the muffled scream coming from upstairs that drew Sherlock's attention before he went in to 221B. The upstairs two-story flat was empty save for John; the third floor had been mostly gutted when Mrs. Hudson had bought the building and the funds set aside to do the necessary renovations had ended up going to other repairs before she herself could move in, so she'd chosen to use the bedrooms on the second floor as extras for the other three flats. He'd taken to using the empty third floor as storage for the chemicals and experiments John complained about being kept in the kitchen.
Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's for the weekend and John was out at the pub with the girlfriend of the week, the house should empty.
"John?" he shouted, leaning on the banister going up to the second floor. He received no answer.
The upstairs flat was unlocked; John's door was open and the room was clearly unoccupied. He could hear someone moving around on the third floor, plastic sheeting crinkling in the enclosed space. He could just barely make out soft groans- pained, not sexual- and a male voice. He crept up the stairs slowly, far enough to get a good view into the kitchen at the top.
His breath caught in his throat.
Sherlock stood on the stairs, shocked. He blinked, trying to dispel the image from his eyes. It was wrong. He was seeing things. A hallucination. That was the only reasonable explanation.
John Watson wasn't kneeling over a bleeding woman. Couldn't be. Not John, who was disappointed in him for not caring about Moriarty's victims. Not John, who wore woolly jumpers and dressed like Sherlock's father. Not John, who had gotten under his skin like no one else.
Other images flashed in his mind. Two dead prostitutes. The five he'd refused last month; the three from two months ago that he took one look at the case file and declared it too boring, just last week. Lestrade and Donovan hadn't connected them, of course.
He should be calling Lestrade. Or at least Mycroft. Anybody.
Sherlock's heart clenched at the thought. He couldn't do that. He couldn't be the one to send John to prison.
He watched John with the poor woman. She was still dressed; he didn't seem to be interested in her sexually. That was something. John caressed her breast; no, he was running his fingers through the blood pouring out of the stab wound in her heart. He was playing in her blood, completely fascinated by it. The woman didn't seem to be of any interest to him beyond the blood.
Not sexual, not sadism. That actually made Sherlock feel a bit better, that perhaps he wasn't completely wrong about John.
The bleeding body on the floor took one last gasp and her chest stopped moving. Her killer didn't notice, he continued running his fingers through her cooling blood.
Sherlock couldn't turn him in, nor could he ignore what he was seeing. He couldn't just walk away.
He made the unforgivable decision to help.
"John," he said softly, stepping up onto the landing with his hands in the pockets of his coat.
The older man froze and slowly turned towards the voice, his fingers dripping blood. "Sherlock?"
"Is she the third? Another prostitute?"
John swallowed. "Ye-yes," he stuttered weakly.
"Congratulations, I suppose. That makes you officially a serial killer."
"Have you called Lestrade yet?"
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Not Mycroft?"
The edges of John's mouth tugged upwards. "It'd take something significantly worse than this to make you voluntarily call your brother." He stared down at his hands, at the rapidly drying blood. "It's okay. Turning me in, I mean. I'm not angry, not at you." He held up his hands. "You caught me red handed."
Sherlock couldn't stop a small, sad smile. "You're not supposed to joke at crime scenes," he replied. "I haven't called anyone. I'm not going to."
John looked at him, confused. "What? Why?"
"We'll talk later. Now, do you have a plan for disposing of the body? I ask because your last two victims were found. The police, of course, have no leads, but it's best not to give them another body to work with."
"They... How do you know that? I know neither of them would've ranked higher than a four and we certainly haven't worked those cases."
"I estimated the last one as a five before I refused it. Lestrade asked me to look at the case file for the first one last week. I told them it was punter. I was right."
"You usually are." He glanced at the body. "I didn't really think ahead with this one. I saw her and couldn't stop myself. It's been a bad night."
"It might be easier to dismember her. I have chemicals at another location that can dissolve flesh."
John nodded. "Okay. It's just surgery, right? I can do that."
Sherlock watched his friend. He was clearly coming down from a high, albeit one produced by his own body. "John, are you alright?"
"I'm fine. Just adrenaline."
"Good. There's some gear from the Met I've stashed in the sitting room. We need the luminol."
Sherlock and John ended up at an all-night diner near St Bart’s. John was hungry after everything; Sherlock was nauseous. He had no experience in crime outside of drugs. He’d never been involved in a violent crime, not as the perpetrator. Any knowledge he had was academic. No more. He had a body dissolving in piranha solution in one of his lesser used boltholes.
It was ironic. Everyone thought him to be the psychopath, but the true psychopath was John. Perhaps he should stop referring to himself as a sociopath. It really didn’t fit anymore. It was currently leaving a sour taste in his mouth.
“The only way this is going to work is if you tell me everything. Answer my questions fully. Do not leave anything out.”
“Alright.”
“You didn’t sexually assault them.”
“It’s not like that. I’m not impotent or anything. Look, if you’re looking for explanations, I don’t have any. I’m sure you’ve already got a theory and it’s probably right.”
“It’s a compulsion. You’re drawn to the blood.”
“As long as I can remember.”
“It’s what drew you to medicine, acceptable access to blood and circumstances to be covered in blood.”
“Bit more complicated than that.” He sighed and put down his fork. “I used to be able to control it. I’d cut myself or there was the occasional animal,” he said, looking away. “I’d be okay. But in Afghanistan, it was too much. Gunshot wounds, IEDs, I could be up to my wrists in blood whenever I wanted.”
“Army doctor, I imagine you were up to your wrists in blood every day.”
“I’d left the Medical Corps by then. I was regular infantry, but everyone knew I was a doctor. I was generally roped in for serious injuries, even though I wasn’t officially a medic. It was... too much.”
“Too tempting.”
“Yes.”
“You killed the first before we met.”
“Nine days. I just couldn’t control it anymore.”
“Do you have issues with prostitutes?”
He hesitated answering. “No. Victims of opportunity.”
“Three of them?”
“How many women go off to a dark alley with a strange man?”
“In my professional experience, far too many. You’re not targeting prostitutes specially. Anyone would do, if you could get away with it.”
“Yes.”
“But you do have an issue with prostitutes.”
“I don’t,” John protested. “I don’t.”
“You knew a prostitute. Someone close to you.” John glared, but said nothing. “You agreed, John.”
“I didn’t realize that was a question,” John replied testily.
Sherlock studied him. “Your mother then.”
“Mycroft didn’t tell you?”
“If I didn’t know about your military history, do you really think he told me about your family? I only know what you’ve told me and what I’ve deduced.”
“So what have you deduced?”
“She died when you were young. Your maternal grandparents were strict and Harry is resentful. You did not side with her and your grandparents were angry because you supported her when she was disowned. You were overlooked because of Harry’s problems. They’ve never approved of anything either of you have done.”
“Well, you’re not wrong. Nothing was ever good enough for them.”
“They resented having to raise you as there was no father in the picture.”
“It was their Christian duty, Grandmother always said.”
“You and Harry were trick babies.”
“I prefer the term occupational hazard.”
Sherlock bit down a smile. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“We’re Irish twins, too.”
“Eleven months, twelve days apart.”
“Yes.”
“How did she die?”
“Murdered by her dealer. He did ten years.”
“Stabbed in the heart. You were present.”
“She was holding me. Harry was in her cot. No one found us for nearly two days. I don’t remember it.”
“Just you and all that blood.”
“You think that’s where it started.”
“Obviously. It was a traumatic moment, burned into your immature brain. You don’t think about it? About her?”
“I was two. I don’t remember her at all.”
“What exactly is it about the blood? What is it you need? What is it you think about?”
“The blood pumping out of the body. The warmth of it, the life...”
“Your hands were actually in your mother’s wounds when she died. You felt her die through her blood.”
“I’m sure Lestrade would get you the case file if you asked nicely. We were in London then.”
“Would you be satisfied any other way?”
“At this point, I don’t know if I can go back to the way I was. Besides, there’s not a lot of blood in being a GP and I can’t operate anymore.”
The image of one of his failures popped into Sherlock’s mind. A child killer with an excellent barrister. It was terrible, what he was about to suggest, but John was more important than his own conscience and certainly more important than murderers. “What about another victim profile?”
“Sure. Worked in Afghanistan.”
Sherlock made note of that statement.
“Okay, this is how things are going to go. No more prostitutes, no more innocents. My targets only, from here on out. I choose who you kill and they’ll all be guilty of something. You tell me when you need it and we’ll go hunting. You do nothing on your own. If I find out you’ve violated my rules, I’ll hand you over to Mycroft. Do you understand?”
John studied his face, cautiously hopeful. “You’re going to help me? Really?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last few hours? I assure you, I’ve not been doing it for fun.”
“I don’t know, but I wasn’t expecting this.”
“Better them than you. Killer you may be, but at least you’re trying to do some good in this world.”
“I assume you have a list.”
“Only since we’ve been talking. I hope you’re not going to need to do this too soon. It’ll take time to properly set up what we’ll need. I don’t want to use my regular boltholes. Mycroft knows most of them and it’ll connect the evidence back to us.”
“I think I’ll be okay for a while. It just builds up sometimes, until I can’t control it anymore.”
“You’ll tell me before it gets that bad.”
“Of course. I just...”
“What?”
“I’m grateful for all this. I know how this must be bothering you.”
Something flared up in Sherlock’s heart, something that would never be reciprocated. John would never - could never - love him. His heart broke, but he would not change course. “You have no idea,” he replied, choking back the unexpected emotion.
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