[FANFIC] until the fever dies
So the prompt itself was brilliant and just what I was looking for, and then suddenly I get inspired by inwhatfurnace's fanfic.
Fill: until the fever dies
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings: dark, some disturbing/slightly graphic imagery
Prompt: danger nights -- http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113895066#t113895066
Sometimes John gets a call or texts from Mycroft telling him to lock his door. He goes along with the requests. A while after he hears Sherlock walking around outside and his door knob being twisted.
"Don't open it no matter what you hear or what he says."
John stares at Mycroft, their shadows long and dark under bright lamplight.
"Why not?"
Flies buzz and the light flickers. Mycroft shakes his head and his shadow moves, fluid in its blackness.
The moon hides behind London clouds.
---
They are awake even in the blurry early morning, high on adrenaline and success. Sherlock's tall frame manages to pin John against the wall, but neither of them mind. The hallway is small and hardly bright, enclosing them in their own little world devoid of silence.
"I can't believe you managed to hit him," John says, grinning. Sherlock chuckles, quick and deep. He smiles, long fingers caressing the very edges of John's jumper.
"Of course I did," Sherlock whispers. "He would have thrown you out the window otherwise."
John shivers under the man's caress. His skin grows cold under the touch of wool and cotton and flesh.
---
Danger night.
Lock your door.
John places his phone facedown on his desk and stares at the wooden door, jaw tight. Sherlock is not here; he is away, off away somewhere. John imagines him ignoring Molly at the morgue or sending her out to fetch cadavers and reports. John imagines him arguing with Lestrade, avoiding paperwork or stealing evidence.
He knows it isn't true; Sherlock is somewhere else. He prefers not to imagine the other possibilities.
John's phone rings once again, the music sharp and dry as it cuts through the silence. He doesn't need to pick it up to know it's Mycroft again. Instead, he hesitates before bolting his door locked, his hands lingering at the knob and the keyhole.
That night, he finds himself unable to sleep. Whenever he closes his eyes, he meets a more solid darkness. He imagines pale skin glowing under the dark redness of fresh blood. He imagines teeth flashing, a mouth contorted into a wicked smile. He imagines the curve of bare hands muffling screams, fingers gripping flesh and leaving bruises. He imagines metal glinting under lamplight and digging deep into flesh, cutting through skin and wading through fat and nerves to reach bone.
John imagines the sound of footsteps outside his door and the doorknob turning. He imagines the twists stopping after being proven futile.
He knows he didn't imagine the last part.
---
John arrives home to the sound of gunshots. He hurries up the steps and finds Sherlock on the couch, firing bullets at the familiar smiley face painted on the wall.
"Sherlock, stop that!" John yells. Against the noise, his voice is angry and his words barely recognizable.
"But I'm bored, John!"
John wrestles the gun away from Sherlock. With a click, he turns the safety on and shoves the weapon into his jacket. He frowns, and the edges of Sherlock's mouth curve downwards.
"Guns are boring, anyway."
---
Of course he likes
you. That's why
you should lock
your door.
John hesitates before locking his door. What harm can Sherlock do to him? What is it that Mycroft tells him to protect himself against?
He stays still against the door, his hand on the doorknob. What harm can his best friend do?
(An experiment? An experiment, perhaps. Yes, an experiment)
But the man's footsteps are thudding at the steps and John locks his door. One more night, he promises himself. One more night.
(But what kind of experiment?)
He doesn't dream.
---
"I won't hurt you, John." Sherlock says, lips curved into a ghost of a smile, pale hands gripping a handful of John's jumper. "I never will. I don't want to."
John is silent, his breathing strangely regular.
"You never feared me."
"No," John says, his voice a small thing, weak and full of strangled air.
"I don't fear you, Sherlock."
He won't.
---
"You're beautiful, John."
"What?"
Sherlock laughs and the sound fills the room. John freezes, his hands on the kettle. Sherlock lumbers away, girth in his eyes. His coat is heavy with water and his hair is damp with rain. Outside, raindrops pelt their windows and their roofs and their doors. The streets are soaked, and Sherlock trails water along the carpet, his leather shoes noisy as he walks.
"You're beautiful. What are you made of?"
John tries to answer but all that emerges is a strangled word. Sherlock is gone.
---
Sherlock paces, speaking too quickly into the phone in his hand. John knows Lestrade is on the line, and he lifts his mug.
Sirens blare from the television. Lights go on and off. John ignores the reporter's disturbed eyes.
Sherlock solves the case but doesn't give a suspect. John walks away into the safety of the kitchen.
"...sliced to bits and organs extracted. This clean but gruesome murder has no suspects as-"
John switches off the television. Sherlock is calm.
---
Sherlock smiles something that can barely be called a smile. John doesn't regret not locking his door. It's not fun, but he is dazed. It's a dream, that's it.
This isn't a dream.
Everything is red and broken, but the blood isn't their own.
---
"But you're safe. You're safe. Nothing's wrong."
"Everything's wrong, Sherlock."
The scalpel slips. John doesn't even scream.