Smiley Face, gen, horror
TITLE: Smiley Face
PAIRING: Gen Sherlock, John, Dark!Sherlock
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS/FEATURES: Horror, dark themes.
SUMMARY: Written for this prompt: Sherlock over that razor-thin edge alluded to by Donovan, a serial killer not motivated by enjoyment but by his characteristic boredom.
A/N: This fic isn't so much new, as it is new to my LJ. It's been on the meme for a while, so if it seems familiar, that's why.
John looked at the corpse, but his mind wasn’t on the twisted body. It was on the prickly feeling at the back of his neck. Sherlock was standing behind him at an angle so that he could observe John’s reaction whilst not be observed himself. Or so he thought. John could see him, blearily, in the plate glass window of a shop every time he looked up.
He was getting used to this. Part of him was flattered that Sherlock would pay that much attention to him. He’d been so much of a nobody all his life, but now, this amazing, brilliant man seemed to think he was worthy of a long stare. A second’s glance could tell Sherlock reams about a person’s life. What possible thing could Sherlock divine from John from that long, long gaze.
John felt a blush crossing his cheeks. I’m being dissected. John thought. If I were sane, I’d be scared.
He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t sure what he felt, other than the pressure to say something about this corpse in front of him. “Uh…” He felt Sherlock shift behind him. A slight warmth of body heat against his shoulder. “She was dropped. Off the top of the building. N - no injuries before that. No defensive wounds. Finger nails are clean. The one who did it must have lured her to the roof and then pushed her suddenly.” He turned his eyes to the corner.
“Pushed? Really?” said Sherlock scornfully. “Suicide,” said Sherlock. He turned to Lestrade. “Look at her face. She’d been crying a great deal before hand. Mascara on her fingers tips, where she attempted to wipe the mess. And look at those clothes, see how they hang loose on her. She’s lost weight recently.” He reached down and pulled on her hair, some came up in his fingers. “Stress causes hair loss.” He sniffed, then looked at her hands. “Nicotine stains but no cigarette smell on her or her clothes.” He turned to Lestrade. “Is that her handbag?”
Lestrade reluctantly handed the bag over. After a few cursory pats Sherlock lifted up a vial. “Varenicline. An anti-smoking drug with documented psychotic and suicidal side effects. Boring. If anyone is to blame for this, it’s the drug manufacturer.”
“What about the smily face?” asked Lestrade, pointing to the spray painted graffiti on the brick wall, three feet down.
“Coincidence. I’d suggest you take it up with your anti-vandalism task force.”
“But it’s been there at three murders now and four suicides,” said Lestrade, exasperated. “I’d have thought you’d seen some connection.”
“No similarity in M.O. No connection between the victims. Coincidence. Everyone and there brother knows how to make a smiley face symbol. It means nothing.” Sherlock touched the bright pink smiley face and rubbed his fingers. “Besides, the paints dry. It was painted hours before the woman suicided.”
“I see. Well thank you for your time, Sherlock.” Lestrade scratched his neck.
“Come on John. Our time has been wasted here long enough.” Sherlock smiled a weird, inappropriately gleeful smile.
John didn’t smile. It had been murder. No one jumps off a building facing backwards. But Lestrade was so used to Sherlock being right about things that he didn’t question it further, and Anderson was too brow beaten to really protest. He knew no one would listen to him. He met John’s eyes with deep resentment.
Sherlock looked at John, then at Anderson and back. “Come, John,” he said, grinning widely. “Let’s go home.” And for the first time John felt a little bit scared.
Don’t say anything, John said as they entered the flat. Normal boring day, let it pass. Sherlock surely has his reasons.
Sherlock's lips quirked up as he closed the door. “John,” he said as if he just remembered something, “Come with me a moment. I want to show you something.”
John followed. He was suspicious now, but trying his best to hide it. Maybe it was nothing. “What do you want to show me?” John asked.
“This,” Sherlock reached into a drawer and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer attached. He pointed it at John’s face.
John froze. Slowly he raised his hands to either side of his head. His mind raced. He couldn’t get back through the door before Sherlock shot him. He couldn’t reach forward and deflect the gun before it shot him either. Sherlock was smiling brightly at him as if this were a fun game.
“Sherlock,” he said, slowly, his voice creaking. “Are you going to kill me.”
“Haven’t decided yet,” said Sherlock. “I like you John. I really, really like you. But you’ve caught on to what I’m doing, and obviously I have to protect myself. I don’t want to kill you, John. So the question becomes, can I trust you.”
“Of course, you can trust me,” said John easily. “I’d never give you away.”
“You’d say that to save yourself, of course,” said Sherlock. “What would you do to prove it?”
“What do you want me to do?” asked John. He was utterly in the moment. Every thought, every feeling, all dedicated to now. Time stretched.
“Will you help me?” asked Sherlock. “If you kill with me, I won’t kill you. We’ll be in it together.” He grinned wider.
Killing. God. John had killed before in Afghanistan. It hadn’t been his primary duty, but when and IED goes off and you are suddenly being ambushed from all sides, it doesn’t matter if you are supposedly non-combatant support. You shoot your gun at the enemy just like everyone else, because that’s what you have to do to survive.
But was this really self-defence? Yes. Yes it was. Because Sherlock wasn’t going to let him live if he didn’t do it. And he didn’t think he could live without Sherlock. Without this … whatever it was they had. He couldn’t go back to living in that awful hotel, alone. Purposeless.
“Who would you have me kill.”
“Unpleasant people,” said Sherlock. “No one that the world wouldn’t be better without.”
“That woman who suicided…”
“Five years ago, she killed her children. Carbon monoxide poisoning. She made it appear that her furnace had failed. One night she sabotaged it. She’d closed off the vent to her room, but left the one in the children’s wide open. Then she waited. The two year old and eight month old died in their sleep and she had a very convincing case of poisoning herself. No one questioned that it wasn't a tragic accident.”
“Could it have been an accident?” asked John.
“Her behaviour afterwards suggests not. Far from being the torn and grieving mother, she basked in the attention she was given. Since then, she has taken up lifestyle she couldn’t have had with two small children weighing her down. But there was no direct evidence against her.
"For the last three months I have been seeing her at various pubs. She was positively aching for male appreciation, so it wasn’t difficult to make myself essential to her life. I convinced her to stop smoking and extolled on the merits of Varenicline. She eagerly did whatever I asked. Then, once I’d seen the drug having some effect on her mood, I said some very cutting remarks that brought her to tears. But still, even then, she could have run, but she was so in desperately need of my masculine approval that she let me take her to that building on the pretense of romance. She walked to the edge with doe-like trust, and I shoved her off before she had a chance to react.”
It made sense. Sherlock who could arrange all the clues he needed to solve the case wrong. It was clever. Horribly clever. John was certain that when Sherlock killed him (and really was there a doubt of that?) he’d take the time to craft the circumstances just as elegantly. Only one element didn’t fit.
“The happy face,” said John. “Why? It seems like an obvious calling card. Do you want to get caught?”
But Sherlock just grinned wider. “I did get caught,” said Sherlock. “By you. I did that for you. And you saw it, you put two and two together and got me.”
“You wanted me to know.” Horrible as it was, John was flattered.
“Yes. I want to share this with you John. You and I can make this world a better place. We can punish those the law will not. It will be… exciting.” Sherlock’s eyes danced.
“Exciting,” repeated John. Yes, it would be. Life and death in his hands? The power to carve the world into a better place, not through the clumsy, long, imperfect methods of law, but with the clean, decisive way of the scalpel. Like cutting out a cancer.
Sherlock seemed to sense his thoughts. The pistol slowly moved downwards, from John’s brain, to his heart, to his groin and then finally to the floor between his feet. Sherlock stared at him, his gaze never moving from John’s eyes, as if he could bore in through the pupils to John’s soul.
“What do you say, John. I know a not very nice dentist who has put two ex-girlfriends and a wife into the grave. Shall Karma catch up to him tonight?”
John swallowed. “Will the spray paint-“
“Stays home. It’s purpose is done.” Sherlock’s smile widened. “Well, John? Are you game?”
John took a deep breath, and a feeling of something - excitement, pleasure, fun? - exploded in his chest. “Yes,” he said, breathily. “Oh god, yes. Count me in.”
The fear and doubt fell aside. John felt alive.
PAIRING: Gen Sherlock, John, Dark!Sherlock
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS/FEATURES: Horror, dark themes.
SUMMARY: Written for this prompt: Sherlock over that razor-thin edge alluded to by Donovan, a serial killer not motivated by enjoyment but by his characteristic boredom.
A/N: This fic isn't so much new, as it is new to my LJ. It's been on the meme for a while, so if it seems familiar, that's why.
John looked at the corpse, but his mind wasn’t on the twisted body. It was on the prickly feeling at the back of his neck. Sherlock was standing behind him at an angle so that he could observe John’s reaction whilst not be observed himself. Or so he thought. John could see him, blearily, in the plate glass window of a shop every time he looked up.
He was getting used to this. Part of him was flattered that Sherlock would pay that much attention to him. He’d been so much of a nobody all his life, but now, this amazing, brilliant man seemed to think he was worthy of a long stare. A second’s glance could tell Sherlock reams about a person’s life. What possible thing could Sherlock divine from John from that long, long gaze.
John felt a blush crossing his cheeks. I’m being dissected. John thought. If I were sane, I’d be scared.
He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t sure what he felt, other than the pressure to say something about this corpse in front of him. “Uh…” He felt Sherlock shift behind him. A slight warmth of body heat against his shoulder. “She was dropped. Off the top of the building. N - no injuries before that. No defensive wounds. Finger nails are clean. The one who did it must have lured her to the roof and then pushed her suddenly.” He turned his eyes to the corner.
“Pushed? Really?” said Sherlock scornfully. “Suicide,” said Sherlock. He turned to Lestrade. “Look at her face. She’d been crying a great deal before hand. Mascara on her fingers tips, where she attempted to wipe the mess. And look at those clothes, see how they hang loose on her. She’s lost weight recently.” He reached down and pulled on her hair, some came up in his fingers. “Stress causes hair loss.” He sniffed, then looked at her hands. “Nicotine stains but no cigarette smell on her or her clothes.” He turned to Lestrade. “Is that her handbag?”
Lestrade reluctantly handed the bag over. After a few cursory pats Sherlock lifted up a vial. “Varenicline. An anti-smoking drug with documented psychotic and suicidal side effects. Boring. If anyone is to blame for this, it’s the drug manufacturer.”
“What about the smily face?” asked Lestrade, pointing to the spray painted graffiti on the brick wall, three feet down.
“Coincidence. I’d suggest you take it up with your anti-vandalism task force.”
“But it’s been there at three murders now and four suicides,” said Lestrade, exasperated. “I’d have thought you’d seen some connection.”
“No similarity in M.O. No connection between the victims. Coincidence. Everyone and there brother knows how to make a smiley face symbol. It means nothing.” Sherlock touched the bright pink smiley face and rubbed his fingers. “Besides, the paints dry. It was painted hours before the woman suicided.”
“I see. Well thank you for your time, Sherlock.” Lestrade scratched his neck.
“Come on John. Our time has been wasted here long enough.” Sherlock smiled a weird, inappropriately gleeful smile.
John didn’t smile. It had been murder. No one jumps off a building facing backwards. But Lestrade was so used to Sherlock being right about things that he didn’t question it further, and Anderson was too brow beaten to really protest. He knew no one would listen to him. He met John’s eyes with deep resentment.
Sherlock looked at John, then at Anderson and back. “Come, John,” he said, grinning widely. “Let’s go home.” And for the first time John felt a little bit scared.
Don’t say anything, John said as they entered the flat. Normal boring day, let it pass. Sherlock surely has his reasons.
Sherlock's lips quirked up as he closed the door. “John,” he said as if he just remembered something, “Come with me a moment. I want to show you something.”
John followed. He was suspicious now, but trying his best to hide it. Maybe it was nothing. “What do you want to show me?” John asked.
“This,” Sherlock reached into a drawer and pulled out a semiautomatic pistol with a silencer attached. He pointed it at John’s face.
John froze. Slowly he raised his hands to either side of his head. His mind raced. He couldn’t get back through the door before Sherlock shot him. He couldn’t reach forward and deflect the gun before it shot him either. Sherlock was smiling brightly at him as if this were a fun game.
“Sherlock,” he said, slowly, his voice creaking. “Are you going to kill me.”
“Haven’t decided yet,” said Sherlock. “I like you John. I really, really like you. But you’ve caught on to what I’m doing, and obviously I have to protect myself. I don’t want to kill you, John. So the question becomes, can I trust you.”
“Of course, you can trust me,” said John easily. “I’d never give you away.”
“You’d say that to save yourself, of course,” said Sherlock. “What would you do to prove it?”
“What do you want me to do?” asked John. He was utterly in the moment. Every thought, every feeling, all dedicated to now. Time stretched.
“Will you help me?” asked Sherlock. “If you kill with me, I won’t kill you. We’ll be in it together.” He grinned wider.
Killing. God. John had killed before in Afghanistan. It hadn’t been his primary duty, but when and IED goes off and you are suddenly being ambushed from all sides, it doesn’t matter if you are supposedly non-combatant support. You shoot your gun at the enemy just like everyone else, because that’s what you have to do to survive.
But was this really self-defence? Yes. Yes it was. Because Sherlock wasn’t going to let him live if he didn’t do it. And he didn’t think he could live without Sherlock. Without this … whatever it was they had. He couldn’t go back to living in that awful hotel, alone. Purposeless.
“Who would you have me kill.”
“Unpleasant people,” said Sherlock. “No one that the world wouldn’t be better without.”
“That woman who suicided…”
“Five years ago, she killed her children. Carbon monoxide poisoning. She made it appear that her furnace had failed. One night she sabotaged it. She’d closed off the vent to her room, but left the one in the children’s wide open. Then she waited. The two year old and eight month old died in their sleep and she had a very convincing case of poisoning herself. No one questioned that it wasn't a tragic accident.”
“Could it have been an accident?” asked John.
“Her behaviour afterwards suggests not. Far from being the torn and grieving mother, she basked in the attention she was given. Since then, she has taken up lifestyle she couldn’t have had with two small children weighing her down. But there was no direct evidence against her.
"For the last three months I have been seeing her at various pubs. She was positively aching for male appreciation, so it wasn’t difficult to make myself essential to her life. I convinced her to stop smoking and extolled on the merits of Varenicline. She eagerly did whatever I asked. Then, once I’d seen the drug having some effect on her mood, I said some very cutting remarks that brought her to tears. But still, even then, she could have run, but she was so in desperately need of my masculine approval that she let me take her to that building on the pretense of romance. She walked to the edge with doe-like trust, and I shoved her off before she had a chance to react.”
It made sense. Sherlock who could arrange all the clues he needed to solve the case wrong. It was clever. Horribly clever. John was certain that when Sherlock killed him (and really was there a doubt of that?) he’d take the time to craft the circumstances just as elegantly. Only one element didn’t fit.
“The happy face,” said John. “Why? It seems like an obvious calling card. Do you want to get caught?”
But Sherlock just grinned wider. “I did get caught,” said Sherlock. “By you. I did that for you. And you saw it, you put two and two together and got me.”
“You wanted me to know.” Horrible as it was, John was flattered.
“Yes. I want to share this with you John. You and I can make this world a better place. We can punish those the law will not. It will be… exciting.” Sherlock’s eyes danced.
“Exciting,” repeated John. Yes, it would be. Life and death in his hands? The power to carve the world into a better place, not through the clumsy, long, imperfect methods of law, but with the clean, decisive way of the scalpel. Like cutting out a cancer.
Sherlock seemed to sense his thoughts. The pistol slowly moved downwards, from John’s brain, to his heart, to his groin and then finally to the floor between his feet. Sherlock stared at him, his gaze never moving from John’s eyes, as if he could bore in through the pupils to John’s soul.
“What do you say, John. I know a not very nice dentist who has put two ex-girlfriends and a wife into the grave. Shall Karma catch up to him tonight?”
John swallowed. “Will the spray paint-“
“Stays home. It’s purpose is done.” Sherlock’s smile widened. “Well, John? Are you game?”
John took a deep breath, and a feeling of something - excitement, pleasure, fun? - exploded in his chest. “Yes,” he said, breathily. “Oh god, yes. Count me in.”
The fear and doubt fell aside. John felt alive.