They Were Always For You...
As always, Sherlock Holmes knew.
He paused to form an assessment. Heightened breathing. Digestion temporarily shutting down - blood rerouting itself towards deep muscle tissue; change of blood flow resulting in strange physical sensation in lower abdominal region. Elevation in sympathetic activity in the autonomic nervous system. Increase in adrenaline and cortisol production…His body was perceiving a potential unknown threat.
Sherlock Holmes always knew, but he never hesitated.
He took a deep breath in attempt to supply more oxygen to his bloodstream. The chase had poetically ended at the place where it had all begun. St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The patron saint of origins, where Sherlock had first met the only friend he would ever have, where Sherlock would then fake his death to save him, and now where Sherlock had found himself browsing the office of Dr. John H. Watson, fingers brushing the length of a bookshelf stopping to hover over one title in particular. An early copy of Grey's Anatomy. Standard. Even as the information was updated, the book remained relevant for the sake of image. Every doctor would have one. A key hidden in plain sight. Dull and boring like John.
Dull and boring and Sherlock Holmes hesitated before tipping the book. Not because his body was preparing to face an unknown threat. No, Sherlock knew exactly what was on the other side of the bookshelf. Knowing was precisely why he hesitated.
The secret lever released the latch, and with a distinct click the bookshelf invitingly and silently slid forward.
"There you are."
John gently smiled as he continued to work on the body beneath him. "Took you long enough, though I knew you'd find me eventually."
Sherlock carefully stepped into the small room, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the perimeter of John's secret.
"You know my methods Doctor, I first had to eliminate the impossible. What remained, however much I did not want to acknowledge it, was the truth."
Sherlock glanced at the body John had been meticulously working on. She would make the 11th victim in a series of distinct prostitute murders spanning a three year timeframe in central London. All completely drained of blood. Hearts removed. Bodies cut neatly into square pieces, and always presented wrapped in bows – a beautifully elegant shade of sapphire blue - for Lestrade's men to find.
"You always did fancy blue."
John paused momentarily to admire his work, relating the matter-of-fact to Sherlock. He measured another strand of signature ribbon, "This one's a bit rushed though...knew you were coming so I didn't have much time...I had planned to make some tea-"
"The victims. They're for me."
It wasn't a question. John's working became still. He quietly placed his tools on the metal countertop and glanced upwards to meet with Sherlock's accusing eyes.
Sherlock found himself staring into the abyss; distant vacant spheres containing an insatiable hunger which had consumed John's eyes. Momentarily, a glisten echoed from their depths, and before Sherlock could stop himself, he read John: Eyes slightly sunken into sockets. Possible drug use, most likely alcohol. Discoloration of skin...not from crying - absence of ruptured blood vessels. Lack of sleep - PTSD induced nightmares. Distant and vacant appearance of pupils - nightmares resulting in dissociative reality as a coping mechanism, possible panic attacks following nightmares. New worry lines and thinning hair, both of which, much too early for his age. Body approximately 15lbs lighter - High levels of stress and anxiety Lack of emotion resulting in unused Muscle tissue - cheek tissue slightly sagging. Arms slightly scarred - Self Harm - attempt to compensate for...
The abyss tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings forcing himself to break eye contact with John. He couldn't keep reading. He averted his gaze taking a step back to create distance. The cool of the brick wall breathed against his neck, giving the impression that the already small secret of John's, was constricting around them, suffocating Sherlock. His pulse elevated; once more his body tensed in search of a potential threat. John isn't a threat, Sherlock reminded himself, he is simply a Hound of Baskerville, there's nothing to be afraid of.
John's vacant gaze followed Sherlock's movements in complete adoration. The doctor knew he was being deduced, and he relished it, even if it were at his expense. A slight smile tipped the corner of his mouth, another glimmer flickering through the dense water of his eyes as he answered Sherlock's accusation.
"They were always for you. You do love a good serial killer."
It was the same crooked smile that he had longed to see. Sherlock's mind accessed an archive of consciously collected memories of John to compare with current reality. Dozen's of remembrances, flooded his mind palace:
John, smiling proudly at Sherlock's side as he waltzed into a crime scene and commanded authority.
John, Hiding a smile towards Sherlock's blunt and inappropriate comment.
John, Smiling to himself, lost in thought as Sherlock made a particularly clever breakthrough on a case...he replied with that smile, the words 'amazing', and 'fantastic'.
It was the same. Same as always: boring, dull, smile, glimpsed countless nights, as John, while watching telly and eating Chinese attempted to steal a glance of Sherlock, only to find him already admiring his friend. When their hands or arms accidentally brushed. Unspoken emotion betrayed John's lips when he became suddenly aware of the inappropriate-for-flatmates closeness between them; a sweet nothing which had escaped from that broken smile.
Archived because Sherlock understood that smile was reserved solely for him. A sweet nothing and everything shared between only two individuals of 6.5 billion. And Now, John stood before Sherlock, offering a mutilated prostitute wrapped in a beautiful sapphire bow and that bloody sweet smile; whispering sweet nothings and shared secrets which kissed shivers down Sherlock's spine.
Sherlock's blood diverted within his system again; abdomen coiling upon itself in twisted hesitant emotions as his mind archived the new memory of John. A choleric taste stirred in his mouth as his flatmate returned to handling his newest skeleton.
"But let's be honest then, you've known since Mary, haven't you."
Read the rest
