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Death by Murder, My Dear Watson
A Sherlock Mini-Bang fic on Tumblr. Co-authored by singthestars
Find it at AO3, here

Summary:
John, on the other hand, still tastes metal. When he sleeps, it is no longer the harsh grit of sand and rock that fills his mouth, no longer gunpowder and sun-cracked lips. Instead, he tastes blood.
Notes:
Special thanks to johnwatsonsass and the-sass-of-the-ass for getting excited about this story and for the 2 cow.
Very very dark. Gory. Seriously, incredibly dark. Death and gore and violence and m/m sex.

Chapter 2: Howlin' For You

"How long have you been following me?"



John is impatient, and turns toward Sherlock as the sky breaks overhead. Rain begins to pour and the already silent graveyard seems to empty further, leaving the two of them beside a false gravestone and an overhanging tree. He wonders how many more bodies he would have been rid of before Sherlock had caught a clue. "How long, Sherlock?!"

"Since the beginning." Sherlock's voice is almost lost in the rumble of thunder, but neither are prepared for John's fist connecting with Sherlock's jaw as the rain begins to fall. They grapple and fall hard against the grave marker, knocking the wind from their lungs as they clip it and their feet slide in the grass. John gets a few more punches in and is sure the only reason he was able to land them was the fact that Sherlock is allowing it.

John keeps struggling with Sherlock as they hit the ground, breath coming hard. He can taste blood when he's thrown on to his back and his head cracks against a marker half hidden in the grass. He can't stop, even with the thunder that rumbles through his bones and the blood that streams from his skin like paints. He has his hands around Sherlock's throat and rain is half blinding him. There's so much rage in him that he can barely think, and his knee slams up into Sherlock's midsection, eliciting a satisfying groan.

He flips Sherlock over onto his back, into the mud beneath him, fingers tightening around the detective's neck. Sherlock scrambles for a moment, fingernails digging into the skin of John's face, until John lets go and punches wildly, landing hard on ribs and kidneys and grinning when he hears the crack of bone. He's ill-prepared for Sherlock to headbutt him though, nose suddenly spouting bloody and gashed where it cracks.

He ignores it, spitting away from the two of them as he straddles Sherlock and pins him as best he can. He laughs as Sherlock growls and flails beneath him, bucking hard to try to launch him off. Lightning slashes across the sky as the shock of their erections rubbing catches both of their attentions.

John can't stop himself, snarling as he pushes Sherlock back. Their eyes are wild as they slam against each other again, too much pressure and sharp biting to be called a kiss. They don't stop struggling even as they rub against each other. John feels it in the pit of his stomach, the warm ache of arousal building as his bleeding face turns their kiss macabre. And he knows, more than anything, that Sherlock is the same.

Sherlock pulls away, quicking undoing his fly and John pushes his scrubs down over his hips, not stopping until Sherlock's long pale fingers are wrapped around the both of their cocks, stroking them. He digs his hands into the sod on either side of Sherlock's head, breathing harshly as he's squeezed just at the edge of too tight.

"John." One word, torn from a half strangled throat, and they both stripe Sherlock's torso with cum, shuddering. It's not enough, not nearly, and John finds himself shoving away and pulling his clothes up angrily. He can't bear to be there one more moment, and strides off for home.




It's only when they've made it up the stairs past Mrs. Hudson's rooms when they begin again, Sherlock shoving John bodily against the arch leading to the kitchen. He feels the molding press bruises deeper even than he remembers, and cries out, rage rising to fever pitch again. He manages one solid punch again, blacking Sherlock's eye. John bares his teeth, cock hardening and loving it when Sherlock manages to throw him hard against the refrigerator instead before heading out of the room.

With each room, again they tussle, trading blow for blow. By turns, John has Sherlock winded and on his back in the living room, then finds himself on his knees on his bathroom floor. Over and over until again, John's pinned face first against a wall in Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock's cock riding the cleft of his ass. He pushes back, tossing his head roughly where his erstwhile flatmate's head should be and missing entirely. Sherlock's hand grabs the back of his head and slams him back against the wall, just narrowly missing his broken nose, holding him there.

John feels like he's on a hair trigger, and only stops fighting when he feels Sherlock's breath against his ear, the low rumble of his voice. "Unless you want this to be over before I've been inside you, I suggest you stop fighting me." And for that, he's never needed any more encouragement.

He allows Sherlock to slip the scrubs down to the floor, although the palm holding his head to the wall never moves. He's hard enough for it to be painful but he relishes it, craves how electric and alive he feels now.

He moans when Sherlock bites down on his back, teeth only just breaking the skin while the barest slick of lube is given him. There's no room even for thought anymore as it all turns to static as Sherlock lines himself up and roughly pushes in. John's gasps are desperate, and he jerks himself as Sherlock slams into him over and over. Sherlock's hand moves to grip the back of his neck and his other digs into his hips so hard that John knows that there will be bruises.

The blood soaked scrubs are pooled at his ankles, and everything is aching, but everything can be forgotten with the sound of Sherlock hissing in pleasure, in the last stutter thrusts of his cock.




It's not until they're both in the shower, watching the blood pour off them and down the drain, that Sherlock speaks, "You're sloppy, John."

John's eyes flash, and he grits his teeth, "Brilliant, Sherlock. Just brilliant."

Sherlock scoffs, turning John and pressing him bodily against the tile, drawing his attention through reawakened wounds. "If I hadn't stepped in, you would be caught. How long do you think it would take before someone saw what I see?"

"What do you see?"

Sherlock turns the water off and steps out of the bath, grabbing a towl to wrap around his waist. John follows him into the bedroom watching as he towels off his hair and slips into a pair of pants, "You keep trophies. The right hand. The eyes. Every serial killer keeps a trophy." Sherlock seems to only halfheartedly dry, whirling his robe around his arms and turning back to face John. "But it's so obvious, John. A soldier in Afghanistan for 10 years, you would assimilate some of their punishments. Cutting off the right hand of a thief who'd come to steal away Mrs. Hudson's life, leaving him only the ability to be unclean. Hanging him as a murderer, as I have no doubts that Moriarty had requested they continue their mission to kill you all."

John nods, dropping his own towel in the hamper before leaning against the post at the end of the bed, giving his assent although it isn't needed. "He was a madman, Sherlock."

He carries on without giving any indication he'd heard him. "I tried to warn you about the one following Lestrade. No one can explain away a constable's murder. I'm sure the Detective Inspector will no doubt be thrilled you removed the spy within his midst, but really John. The eyes?" He twists his mouth in a moue of disappointment as he climbs over the trunk at the end of the bed and throws himself onto the mattress.

"I thought it fitting." John is beginning to feel the aches and pains as the endorphins and shock of seeing Sherlock wear off. The conversation is done for him, really, and he slides into bed beside Sherlock, nudging one knee out of the way of a particularly aching bruise.

"Boring. Cliché. I hadn’t thought you’d be so ordinary, John. Fortunately for you, I've cleaned up this mess." Sherlock goes quiet for a moment before propping himself up on his elbow and tentatively reaches you to rest his hand over John's heart.

"You didn't have to yell so loudly, John."

John yawns, wrapping a possessive arm around Sherlock's hips and pulling him back down onto the bed. "How else would I have made you come back to me?" In the dark, as he begins to drift off, he can hear the soft, happy tone of his lover's voice.

"I have ideas for what we can do with the next one, John. Such ideas."



The Sniper

John has become the epitome of patience. Sherlock has changed, and John has changed along with him. Time no longer matters to him. There is simply The Moment.

The Moment begins when they've finally tracked down the sniper who'd had a bullet with John's name on it. He's not necessarily hard to find. He's just more aware of the retribution coming to his world. Retribution that he couldn't outrun across 2 continents and 23 countries.

John has the patience of a saint, toying with the man, coming just within range of his would-be killer so that the man would jackrabbit away again. It's a game. One with rewards... like Sherlock biting kisses on split lips, bruised ribs and scraped knees where they weren't careful about how John landed to suck Sherlock's cock. A reward system full of Sherlock's body and the copper tang of blood in his mouth.

He allows himself to reminisce about Brazil. The damp heat of the jungle warring with Sherlock's heat. Bodies pressed down in sand until it had gotten everywhere. He doesn't know how the beaches in Rio are so different to the desert of Afghanistan. The drugs and the gunpowder still linger in the air, no matter the span of the world.

But now, he is back in London. His jackrabbit must imagine he can catch John unawares, turn the hunt back on the hunter. John would laugh if The Moment wasn't ripe. He catches sight of one, then another, of Sherlock's Irregulars, subtle signals passing coded messages. John can feel the adrenaline making his blood rush, the anticipation heightening is senses.

"Are you ready to play?" Sherlock growls softly in John's ear, appearing at his side without a sound. The entirety of John's body is suddenly erect, like a dog set on a fox's trail. It's nigh on Pavlovian, but the scent of blood is in the air already.

He feels 2 syringes pressed into his palm, one colder and thicker than the other. His hand squeezes reflexively, causing them to clack together.

"Ice to paralyze. Heat to revive."

John's grin has no mirth, and chills a passing woman into a faster pace. He doesn't care. It's time. He doesn't even give a second thought, quietly & confidently into his prey's flat. He didn't think he'd walk in completely unsuspected, and he's not disappointed. They grapple a moment, and John notes the training that the man had in the way he fights. Thoroughly British, but with the flair of someone who'd dabbled, traits from Mossad and Quds forces coloring the blows.

The bite of the syringe makes Moran drop like a sack of bricks.




John is grateful for the setup of the boat house, stainless steel table perfectly holding the body with wide eyes and panicked breathing. John checks the IV drip, making sure he's got enough fluids running into the body to start. He looks over to Sherlock, hands behind his back and a slight smile on his face.

"Begin."

John takes up his scalpel and begins at his lower legs, cutting just deep enough to separate skin from muscle. He's done enough research, practiced a few times to get the feel. He can peel away the skin just like a sock, all over the body if he's very careful. He works methodically, trading for sharper blades as each scalpel dulls.

Sherlock doesn't step over until the bag of fluids begins to dry out, hanging up a new one in its place and standing just behind John's left shoulder, the heat of him fairly warming John through. He pauses, giving in to the shiver of delight that rushes through him when he feels the faintest hint of Sherlock's erection rub against him before their bodies part again. He aches, and waits.

"Show me."

He nods, shedding crimson slick gloves for another clean pair, stretching his hands in the neoprene before gently stroking across one bared tendon in the body's leg. It jerks and shudders, impulses still firing. He glances up at the face, smiling when pain clears to show horror in his eyes. They move across to the other leg, muscle carved away to show the bone and ligament underneath. Sherlock makes a thorough study of it, both analyzing the structure and John's fine handiwork.

For his efforts, he receives a quirk of a smile. "Continue."

John carries on. An hour passes, and another, with nothing but the trading out of fluids and the occasional clink of scalpel hitting tray to keep time. Each time he exposes something new, Sherlock takes a moment to press close into his personal space, to allow the rumble of his voice to pass through their chests to narrate their encounter.

"I know about your little experiment with organs, and I appreciate your efforts for science. I want to see them still in the body."

John is careful to saw through the sternum before using the rib spreader to show the heart beating in the chest all the way to the clench of intestines below. He takes a moment to reapply his gloves and to take a breath. It's been hours and they've had to revive him twice due to pain. There's very little left to explore, but the excitement in Sherlock's eyes buoys him.



He's aware of how desperate he is to have Sherlock's hands on him, the way his body is responding to blood and the low rumble of his voice... He's not letting it affect him, only honing his senses even further so he can give him this-- a body, spread out for his intellectual pleasure, and his own body, for his carnal pleasure later. He steps back up, picking up an extremely long needle, not too unlike knitting needles.

He quirks an eyebrow at Sherlock, and is suffused with joy when he nods. He pierces the needle through the body's upper arm, not stopping until he hits bone. Four pins, skewering through muscles until they mirror each other. John flicks the forearm, setting off a chain reaction of twitches in the upper arm. The needles clack together, over and over, like a kinetic motion machine. Sherlock's hum of pleasure spurs John on, skewering more needles into the arm until a single tap sets off waves of needles.

John watches it and marvels at the sight. Amazing, what a pair of hands and an imagination can do.

"Enough." John snaps to attention at that, hands dropping to his sides. Sherlock raises a hand and a few people appear from the shadows, people who John was unaware existed. He strips of his scrubs and gloves efficiently, paraphenalia landing in a hazardous waste bag. They're very careful to leave no traces. What's left begins to look like a black market organ farm, something that could easily be passed off as immigrants and played up to British National Party fearmongering. John has no doubt that there's not going to be anything left.

As suddenly as they arrived, Sherlock's elves leave. John and Sherlock leave via another door. John hears the crackle of a fire before he's taken 10 steps. "Sherlock?" he begins, starting to turn. Sherlock doesn't allow it, walking him steadily to a waiting black town car.



Mycroft drops his newspaper only after they've both climbed into the car and sat across from him. "Have we finally accomplished our goal, gentlemen?" His customarily snide tone is subdued, the question more earnest in the orange glow of the fire consuming the boathouse and their latest kill.

Sherlock tuts, reclining against the seat back. "There will always be wicked men, Mycroft. The question is not if we've accomplished our goal."

Mycroft pales considerably, and swallows, mouth pursed and sour. "What is the question, then?"

"The question is," Sherlock sits forward menacingly, his voice dropping low in the close interior of the car, "which side you're truly on."




Epilogue: The Woman

Irene idly sips at the tea her new plaything brought her. Old habits died hard, and sex was never more useful for reconnaissance. She smiled, secure in the knowledge that Moriarty's reach was hampered by the grave. She could slip back into leathers and gather all the information her black heart could desire, creating a life to which she could easily become accustomed again.

Even rumors of the pair vying to take over the vast empire did little to disturb her. A grunt and a brain, no matter who they were, were as likely as Alexander's generals to keep the power structure.

Smiling, she checks her phone as she receives a text notification.

Not dead. Let's have dinner.
-SH & JW

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