One day, he will tell someone. It will be the best day of his life. He will spell it all out for them, slowly and in great detail, illustrating with a juicy tone of voice and strained gestures just how wonderful the relief is. The end of the hunger that comes when he devours another. It is better than orgasm, better even than the triumph that fills him like God's first light when he solves a case.
And then the smothering, agonising disappointment; this one is not right either.
One day he will tell someone, and it will be the best day of his life, because their jaw will hang open and their heart will pound and then they will see what Sherlock truly is and they will kill him. It will not be relief, or triumph, or anything at all after that - but he will be dead, and that'll be something.
Polly Jameson was sixteen, and adored him because he was seventeen and broody. She asked him to take her to the Girls’ High formal. He said yes, so that she was so stunned by her success she didn't even question why he was inviting her behind the swimming sheds. She wasn't the first, but she was the first whose name he remembers. His first since he was eleven. The first time he knew that growing up would not fix him.
Callum Something-Swedish was on exchange, and was kicked out of his host flat for stealing. Sherlock can't remember where they met, but he remembers what Callum tasted like when they kissed on the gum-spattered street. The taste of his ventricles did not need remembering; they all taste the same.
Leroy Hale was one of Mycroft's cronies, so low in the rank and file that Sherlock is still pretty sure Mycroft never figured out where he went. Sandra P. Taylor was his landlady when he was twenty-four, that was a close one for sure but he managed to shift the blame onto her ex-husband. Donna Griffins cut his hair and asked him to dinner. Peter Szczepanski was a witness on a case, but they didn't need him to testify. Constable Rhodes was loud and blonde and Sherlock only learned her first name when he was writing her resignation letter to Lestrade and faking email exchanges with a fictional Latino boyfriend.
John Watson was an army doctor who took a flat with Sherlock. He wasn't the brightest of Sherlock's would-be victims, but he was good at noticing Sherlock. It was impossible to groom and tail a new heart with John around. He was always asking questions, "Are you alright?" and "You look paler than usual, want me to fetch the stethoscope?"
The hunger grew. Sherlock began to sit outside John's door at night, ear pressed against the wood, listening to the beat. Even across that distance could hear the rush of blood, the flex of well-timed muscles, the faint catch of a small atherosclerotic plaque forming in one artery. He knew for sure this time, this one would fit. The more he listened, the more convinced he became.
And then one night he didn't just listen. He had spent three days awake solving a double-homicide, he had eaten nothing but the petrol-station sandwiches John thrust into his hands, he was pumped with two fresh nicotine patches an hour. How the small, smooth-bladed fruit knife got into his hand was never clear. He turned it over and watched the reflection of the kitchen bulb wink back at him. Then the urge hit, sudden, crashing on him like being tossed down by rough surf at the beach. All he could do was let the wave carry him, disorientated and full of adrenalin, up the stairs and into John's room.
He climbed onto the bed and straddled John's legs, one hand pressed into the mattress beside John's head. His flatmate stirred and Sherlock waited for him to roll onto his back. He waited for John's eyes to open. He waited for John to see the knife, to cry out and struggle. When they struggled it was easier, it felt like he was being provoked, the hunger took over. He was ready to hold John down by putting his weight on the bad shoulder, ready to dig the knife in under John's windpipe and then drag across and up, severing plates of cartilage and the thick-walled carotid artery. Blood would rise like a fountain and gush, bubbling, into John's lungs. And Sherlock would be so, so hungry as he tore open the worn T-shirt and sliced away the join between John's breastbone and his ribs to expose the beating beauty within that he wouldn't think a single other thought until he was taking his first bite. And even then the thought would be 'yes...'
John's eyes opened. John blinked, adjusting to the darkness. He didn't look at the knife. He looked at Sherlock's face. His legs shifted as he realised Sherlock's knees were on either side of him. John's left hand, which had been resting on top of the duvet, lifted up and gently brushed the cotton blend shirt on Sherlock's chest, and hovered lightly there.
"Sherlock," he said softly. "Why are you crying?"
Sherlock's lips parted. He heard himself make a noise that was infantile and desperate. The fruit knife tumbled from his hand and landed on the pillow next to John's head, but John did not acknowledge it.
His left hand pressed harder against Sherlock's chest, and his voice - not angry, not afraid, only inquisitive and sympathetic - said, "Sherlock, you don't have a heartbeat."
I am actually speechless. I don't even know how to express what I feel about this. It's beautiful yet gory yet achy and jglhasjdhglsdf. I can't even. I was expecting a fill from John's POV and instead we get this look at Sherlock's backstory and his feelings and the lack thereof, and this is just. This is, excuse the pun, bloody amazing.
Thank you so much! I'm relieved you weren't disappointed about the POV switch, I figured the prompt was leaning towards John's. Thanks for setting the premise up, I really felt like writing some gore last night and this was perfect XD
And then the smothering, agonising disappointment; this one is not right either.
One day he will tell someone, and it will be the best day of his life, because their jaw will hang open and their heart will pound and then they will see what Sherlock truly is and they will kill him. It will not be relief, or triumph, or anything at all after that - but he will be dead, and that'll be something.
Polly Jameson was sixteen, and adored him because he was seventeen and broody. She asked him to take her to the Girls’ High formal. He said yes, so that she was so stunned by her success she didn't even question why he was inviting her behind the swimming sheds. She wasn't the first, but she was the first whose name he remembers. His first since he was eleven. The first time he knew that growing up would not fix him.
Callum Something-Swedish was on exchange, and was kicked out of his host flat for stealing. Sherlock can't remember where they met, but he remembers what Callum tasted like when they kissed on the gum-spattered street. The taste of his ventricles did not need remembering; they all taste the same.
Leroy Hale was one of Mycroft's cronies, so low in the rank and file that Sherlock is still pretty sure Mycroft never figured out where he went. Sandra P. Taylor was his landlady when he was twenty-four, that was a close one for sure but he managed to shift the blame onto her ex-husband. Donna Griffins cut his hair and asked him to dinner. Peter Szczepanski was a witness on a case, but they didn't need him to testify. Constable Rhodes was loud and blonde and Sherlock only learned her first name when he was writing her resignation letter to Lestrade and faking email exchanges with a fictional Latino boyfriend.
None of them were right. None of them fit.
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The hunger grew. Sherlock began to sit outside John's door at night, ear pressed against the wood, listening to the beat. Even across that distance could hear the rush of blood, the flex of well-timed muscles, the faint catch of a small atherosclerotic plaque forming in one artery. He knew for sure this time, this one would fit. The more he listened, the more convinced he became.
And then one night he didn't just listen. He had spent three days awake solving a double-homicide, he had eaten nothing but the petrol-station sandwiches John thrust into his hands, he was pumped with two fresh nicotine patches an hour. How the small, smooth-bladed fruit knife got into his hand was never clear. He turned it over and watched the reflection of the kitchen bulb wink back at him. Then the urge hit, sudden, crashing on him like being tossed down by rough surf at the beach. All he could do was let the wave carry him, disorientated and full of adrenalin, up the stairs and into John's room.
He climbed onto the bed and straddled John's legs, one hand pressed into the mattress beside John's head. His flatmate stirred and Sherlock waited for him to roll onto his back. He waited for John's eyes to open. He waited for John to see the knife, to cry out and struggle. When they struggled it was easier, it felt like he was being provoked, the hunger took over. He was ready to hold John down by putting his weight on the bad shoulder, ready to dig the knife in under John's windpipe and then drag across and up, severing plates of cartilage and the thick-walled carotid artery. Blood would rise like a fountain and gush, bubbling, into John's lungs. And Sherlock would be so, so hungry as he tore open the worn T-shirt and sliced away the join between John's breastbone and his ribs to expose the beating beauty within that he wouldn't think a single other thought until he was taking his first bite. And even then the thought would be 'yes...'
John's eyes opened. John blinked, adjusting to the darkness. He didn't look at the knife. He looked at Sherlock's face. His legs shifted as he realised Sherlock's knees were on either side of him. John's left hand, which had been resting on top of the duvet, lifted up and gently brushed the cotton blend shirt on Sherlock's chest, and hovered lightly there.
"Sherlock," he said softly. "Why are you crying?"
Sherlock's lips parted. He heard himself make a noise that was infantile and desperate. The fruit knife tumbled from his hand and landed on the pillow next to John's head, but John did not acknowledge it.
His left hand pressed harder against Sherlock's chest, and his voice - not angry, not afraid, only inquisitive and sympathetic - said, "Sherlock, you don't have a heartbeat."
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