Archive of Our Own ^beta

Delicious…

It’s the first thought Sherlock has when he sets eyes on John Watson, the prospect of a such a generous meal too long denied simmering in his blood. It’s startling how quickly the saliva pools in his mouth at the very scent of the retired army doctor; he can almost smell the scorched sand and the blazing heat of the Afghani sun. The faint traces of gun metal lingering on his skin, bitter and metallic, and the underlying sweetness of a meat that Sherlock hasn’t detected in months.        

He turns away to look at his phone, breathing in the smell of the wholly unappetising Mike Stamford to curb his hunger. He can already feel it, his kakugan trying to take hold. Breathes slowly, deeply, focuses on his experiment until the hunger fades and he can thank John for the use of his phone. Can touch his hand when the phone is passed to him without John realising how much danger he’s in. 

Normal, ordinary John Watson who honestly believes that nothing happens to him.

John doesn’t realise that, since the day they met, Sherlock has been fighting the all-encompassing urge to pin him to the nearest flat surface with the sole intent of devouring him.

Sherlock knows he’s expecting too much, of course.

John will never be that observant.

oOo

Sherlock wonders what John’s bullet scar tastes like. It’s tantalising enough that it keeps him up at night, gentle melodies from his violin echoing through the flat as he imagines the texture of the flesh against his mouth. Imagines how hard he would need to bite down to pierce through the toughness of the scar tissue.

John had little hesitation in showing Sherlock his injury after he moved in, even going into explicit detail regarding the nature of the wound and the full extent of the damage when he noticed Sherlock’s curiosity. Sherlock had been allowed to touch, to press at the scar with gentle fingers as John verbally confirmed the facts Sherlock was already storing in his Mind Palace, but he hadn’t been allowed to taste.  

It’s a missing piece of information that niggles at him in the quiet hours; he can’t help but wonder if he sank his teeth in, right to the core, whether he would detect faint traces of the metal left inside John’s shoulder, inside the wound that almost killed him. The thought of never meeting John Watson leaves a bitter taste in Sherlock’s mouth; it leaves him yearning to tear John’s shooter apart for the atrocity of the act and thank him on bended knee for hitting John in the first place. As, without that shot, John would likely still be in Afghanistan and far from Sherlock’s reach.     

Never mind.

John is here now. That’s all that matters.   

oOo 

It’s just gone five in the morning when John awakens from a fit of nightmarish sleep and stumbles down the stairs in nothing but a dressing gown, his face as haggard as the detective has ever seen it. Sherlock passes him a cup of coffee, black with no sugar, in silent commiseration as he takes in his flatmate’s bedraggled appearance. Neither of them mentions the nightmare that has startled John from his rest, an all too familiar occurrence in 221B since John moved in.  

“Thanks,” John says, sipping at the cooling brew and sighing appreciatively. “How do you do that?”

Sherlock curls his fingers around his own cup, feeling the heat seep into his skin. “Do what?”   

John gestures with his cup, taking another sip and smiling. “How do you make such good coffee? I’ve only been here a week and you already know how I like it.”

Sherlock regards him, eyes cool. He’s careful not to let it show how much John’s words make him burn on the inside. “It wasn’t difficult to deduce.”

John is, as ever, impressed by Sherlock’s cognitive ability. “If it’s always this good you can make my coffee any time.”

It’s become something of a joke between them. They both know Sherlock always makes the coffee when they fancy it, something John had ribbed him mercilessly about until he’d actually tried one of Sherlock’s brews. The ribbing stopped almost immediately, replaced by John’s seemingly endless penchant of praise and awe where Sherlock’s concerned, and now it’s become a familiar routine for them.

John has yet to try and make coffee for Sherlock, but the detective has made it quite clear that he is very specific in his tastes. As expected, John immediately backed off with an amused, “fair enough,” and he hasn’t offered since. It helps that he seems to prefer the way Sherlock does it anyway, not even querying the type of bean the detective uses.

Not that Sherlock would ever tell him. John has been very forgiving of his eccentricities thus far, but he’s not convinced the ingredients in his particular brand of sugar would ever meet with the doctor’s approval.

oOo

John adds the finishing touches to the Sunday stew under Sherlock’s careful direction, caramelising some small onions in butter and a teaspoon of sugar before adding them to the pot. “This is going to taste absolutely heavenly,” John says, adding the onion juices from the pan and a handful of sliced mushrooms. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

Sherlock folds his hands under his chin, resting his elbows on the kitchen table as he awaits the results of his latest experiment; a study in the long-term effects of citric acid on human fingers, which, if he’s timed it right, should come to fruition shortly. “I’ve already eaten.” He neglects to mention that the smell of the French classic, Coq au Vin, is enough to turn his stomach; he’s managed to stop himself from gagging while giving John advice on the cooking techniques, but only just.

John hums under his breath; he’s not buying it. “It’s all very well not talking for days on end, but eating is another matter entirely.” He puts the lid on the stew and takes it to the oven, setting the timer on the fridge for three hours, before coming to Sherlock’s side to peer at his finger experiment. “Almost done?”

Sherlock barely hears the words. He’s awash with John’s scent; the latest Lynx product is strong, but there’s the unique tang of the man underneath it all. The minute traces of sweat on John’s skin and, beneath that, the unmistakable sound of his heartbeat.

The steady thump-thump of the beating muscle has a deliciously moist rhythm in John’s chest. Sherlock can almost visualise it, the blood pumping through John’s veins. He imagines slitting one of John’s wrists open for a taste, pressing the wound to his mouth and savouring each mouthful of the crimson fluid like John savoured the wine in the Cog Au Vin.

Ah. His experiment is ready.        

oOo

Three weeks pass since he asked John to move in. Twenty days, twenty-three hours and fifty-six minutes by Sherlock’s understanding. In circumstances such as this, he would prefer for the figure to be exact.

John would likely view it as a good sign if Sherlock ever told him. Their silences are companionable; they have a better understanding of each other’s habits and faults and are more likely to argue over a game of Monopoly than living expenses. The perfect flat share.

John doesn’t know, Sherlock reminds himself, watching as the sun rises at the start of the fourth week. He doesn’t know. 

oOo

Two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

If John has caught the Underground on time, he’ll be on his way back to Baker Street from a half day at the surgery. It’s easier to take an early train to avoid the afternoon rush and it also means he’ll have time to pop into The Volunteer on his way back, if he has enough cash on him to warrant such a visit, of course.

Sherlock is opposite the pub in question, the flow of traffic doing little to obstruct his view. Dressed in jeans with scuffed trainers and a pale blue hoodie that’s drawn up over his head, it’s highly unlikely John will recognise him from this distance.

He will recognise John.

The doctor is, like most humans, a creature of habit. Likely formed during his military service, John finds comfort in having his routines. He likes having a set schedule of ‘things to do’, which also happens to include visits to the local pub for a hump-day treat.

It’s a useful skill. Knowing what John is going to do before John knows himself.

His flatmate has a fondness for toasties from The Volunteer. Ham and cheese sandwiched between white bread, served with a small portion of chips and a pint of house ale to wash it all down. John doesn’t have vinegar with his deep fried potato on these occasions, just salt to bring out the flavour, with strong cheddar to complement the salty sweetness of the ham the pub have chosen.

It all tastes like something from the bottom of a sewer to Sherlock, but he likes the expressions John makes when he’s eating it. Like human food is something to be relished rather than discarded.           

oOo

For all his protestations, John quickly grows accustomed to Sherlock experimenting on human remains with an ease that Sherlock finds remarkable. He finds himself testing the full extent of John’s acceptance just to see how much the doctor will take before he actually says something. Anything to show that Sherlock has crossed that invisible, but oh so tangible, line in the sand.

He leaves toes in the fridge next to the bacon.

Eyes in the microwave.

He even puts a man’s testicles on boil over his Bunsen burner, the glass jug more than capable of handling the heat and perfect for offering an unobstructed view of the contents bobbing in the water.

All have been met with a casual eye roll and an inquiry as to their purpose, not the reaction Sherlock was looking for, but an interesting result nonetheless. 

The head in the fridge to measure saliva had a more positive response, even prompting the use of a curse word from the usually tight-lipped doctor, but it’s a moment of sheer brilliance when Sherlock decides to use John’s own belongings in his experiments. The questions don’t arise immediately, the missing item going undetected for about a week before John finally notices.

“Sherlock, have you seen my jumper?”

Sherlock doesn’t know when the idea came to him, nor has he ever questioned it. They both use the same laundry basket so the washing gets done at the same time and John’s jumper had been on top, still warm from the man’s body heat. Curiosity had nudged Sherlock to pick it up for that first whiff of scent, so much stronger than the remnants that were left in the flat, and temptation had seduced him into keeping it. God, it had been better than he’d ever imagined it, pressing the fabric close to his face and nearly swaying with heady abandon as John’s natural musk filled his senses. 

Torturous, he thinks now. To be this close and to never have.

An impatient huff distracts him and the detective cracks one eye open from his position on the sofa to see John standing over him, hands on his hips. “Which one?” he asks, because it’s expected.

John’s lips purse; he’s frustrated. “The beige one. You know, the one I was wearing on the Study in Pink case.”

Sherlock opens his eyes, pushing himself up from his horizontal position and curling his arms around his knees. “That ghastly one? I used that in an experiment four days ago.”

“What?”

A grin threatens to split Sherlock’s lips, his eyes almost shining with an amusement that John would pick up on in a heartbeat. Finally. “It looked horrid on you,” he says, looking calmly at John’s seething expression. “I was doing you a favour.”

“My mother made that for me, you inconsiderate twat!”

“Was it a Christmas present?” Humans only seemed to receive such gifts from families at Christmas, not that Sherlock has ever experienced this.

“No, she made it for me before I went to Afghanistan. I can’t believe… You just…”

“Ah.” Easy enough to fake repentance. The misuse of his jumper appears to have genuinely upset John. “You’ll be pleased to note that I haven’t disposed of it. Your jumper is in my room and completely unharmed.”

As predicted, John’s relief is beautiful in its intensity. “Thank God. Can you go and get it please?” 

Huffing, Sherlock gets up from the sofa and wanders to his room under John’s watchful eye. He still closes the door to his bedroom so John can’t see inside, opening a drawer and taking out the requested garment. He doesn’t resist pressing his face into it for one last lungful, pushing his nose into the pit of one sleeve to detect the last traces of John’s body odour. It’s almost dissipated, gradually overcome by his own scent, but there’s enough left for one last blissful inhale. Oh, but he’s going to miss this.

John almost snatches his jumper out of Sherlock’s hands when it’s passed back to him, his eyes roaming every inch for damage. “Do I want to know what you’ve been using it for?”

Ah, the memories. Of late nights and the winter rain pattering on the windows of his bedroom; of Sherlock’s own breathy moans, trying to stifle them as he fucked his own fist. The neckline of John’s jumper had provided the perfect stimulus until he pressed the fabric over his cock, he remembers. The little dribbles of his precome oozed out onto the threads, interweaving with them until he became as much a part of the jumper as its owner, made all the more satisfying by the intense feeling of possession the act implied.

John is his now.      

He says none of this to John. “Nothing that won’t come out in the wash.” 

oOo

The harsh sound of his own gagging accompanies the fingers Sherlock shoves down his throat, a bottle of water clutched in his free hand as his stomach clenches violently in reaction. He encourages it, tensing his abdominal muscles to keep the pressure on, retching and coughing as he finally upheaves the small amount of dinner John made him eat.

It wasn’t without good intentions on John’s part; the man’s a doctor, he never acts without good intentions, but he has no way of knowing that Sherlock just cannot digest the food John’s made for them both without it making him sick. 

The urge to scrub his tongue with the toilet brush is nearly overwhelming, but Sherlock reasons that it would probably taste better than the stir-fry John placed in front of him barely ten minutes ago. He rests his head on the rim of the seat, feeling the sweat cool on his brow as his body uncurls from its crouched position, strained muscles protesting the move despite the relief the action causes.

“Sherlock?” John knocks on the door, testing the door handle. “Sherlock, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says, loud enough for John to hear. It’s a small comfort, knowing John can’t get into the bathroom when Sherlock’s locked the door. He won’t see Sherlock on his knees, bent over the toilet as he recovers.

Small draughts of water sooth the acidity of the bile at the back of his mouth; he swirls it around his teeth before spitting into the toilet. Sips follow, cautious and measured as he allows the water to settle in his stomach. He’s thankful that he hasn’t eaten recently, unable to bear the thought of a wasted meal.

John’s face shows his worry when Sherlock finally unlocks the door, leaning against one wall as he waits for Sherlock to come out of the bathroom. He goes to step towards Sherlock, only pausing when Sherlock waves him off. “Jesus, you look awful,” John says, hovering as Sherlock heads to the living room to lie on the sofa. He kneels down beside the sofa once Sherlock gets comfortable, tentatively resting one hand against Sherlock’s forehead to test his temperature.

Sherlock closes his eyes, fingers still wrapped around his water bottle. Dressed in a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his clothing isn’t constricting in any way, allowing him to breathe as the last of his nausea dissipates. John’s concern is touching, but ultimately useless. Now that Sherlock’s rid himself of the food making him ill, it won’t be long before he’s back to full health.

Better to not share this little fact with John. 

“I hope you’re not coming down with something,” John says, removing his hand after a minute; apparently Sherlock’s temperature is normal.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Sherlock says, grabbing his silk dressing gown from the back of the sofa and draping it around his body. John, helpful man that he is, assists by tucking the material in to help ward off the cold.

“Well, let me know if you need a hand,” John says, giving Sherlock a reassuring pat on his shoulder before leaving him alone.

Sherlock watches John walk away to his chair, imagining the shift of muscles beneath John’s clothes. He neglects to mention that, if John really wanted to help, a hand is exactly what he would need. 

oOo

“How long do you think you can keep this up?”

Silence.

Mycroft continues, unhindered by Sherlock’s lack of response. “And how long has it been since you’ve last eaten?”

Sherlock glares at his older brother, cracking the knuckles of one hand irritably when the other man just stares at him. Mycroft has always been able to see straight through him. “It’s none of your business.”

“You’ve never been able to resist for longer than a month and a half,” Mycroft drawls, his tone questioning. “You do know that coffee will only do so much.”

“Yes, I’m perfectly aware of that,” Sherlock snaps. “I’m handling it.”

“Ah, yes. What is it you call it? The maturation process?” Smugness pours off Mycroft in waves; it makes Sherlock want to stab him with his own umbrella.

“And how is the life of the resident binge eater? I’m surprised you still have staff in your offices,” Sherlock says, looking pointedly at Mycroft’s stomach. “Given the size of your gut.”

Mycroft barely flinches, but he still pushes himself up from John’s chair and takes his leave. Sherlock decides this is still a win. “I’ll have some supplies ordered for you,” Mycroft says, his tone infuriatingly understanding. “Do try and control yourself, Sherlock,” he adds, pausing in the doorway. “You dear doctor is more observant than you realise.”

If there’s one thing Sherlock’s hates more than feeling indebted to his older brother, it’s the feeling of being lectured by him. Like he’s the five year old toddler who couldn’t keep his teeth out of the other children in the classroom. Any gratefulness he feels for Mycroft’s offer is pushed aside; appearances must be maintained, after all. “Piss. Off.”

His brother gives him a nod and another condescending smirk, his footfalls echoing on the stairs as he finally leaves Sherlock alone. Being the nosy, intrusive git that he is, Sherlock knows it won’t be long until he sees the older Holmes again in the near future.

The thought of the package on its way to him goes a long way in helping calm any ire that this inspires.  

oOo

As promised, a delivery reaches them within a day. John doesn’t question the unmarked brown parcel when it arrives, more than used to Sherlock’s unusual orders though the post, but Sherlock barely stops himself from ripping it open in front of them both in his eagerness.

The scent alone is maddening; he’s lost track of just how long it’s been since he last had a proper meal and his body is more than ready for it. So close now, he forces himself to wait until John leaves for the surgery, until he’s sure Mrs Hudson won’t make an unannounced visit, before locking the door to the flat and taking the parcel to the bathroom.

He rips open the paper in the bath, the tub catching the splatters in his haste. The meat is still raw and bloody when he gets the packaging off, staining his hands in crimson, but it’s perfect. Sherlock can’t stop the groan that escapes him at the first mouthful, the texture smooth and the flavour rich as he devours it with his bare hands. The meat has been bashed with a wooden hammer to tenderise it; Mycroft must have known Sherlock wouldn’t have the patience to cook it and therefore asked for it to be prepared accordingly.

There are five pieces in total, all from different parts of the body. Sherlock names each one as he eats and quickly deduces that they are all from the same person. He wonders who Mycroft chose, knowing his younger brother’s preferences as he does. He wonders if his face looks the same as John’s when he eats that ridiculous cheese and ham toasty on a Wednesday afternoon.

No. Nothing could ever be as satisfying as this.

The clean-up takes less than ten minutes. After he’s finished in the bathroom, he lights a fire in the living room and burns the leftover packaging until nothing but embers remain. Ridiculous having to hide it, hide who he is, but it won’t be long now. He watches his kakugan change in the mirror above the fireplace, the black and red receding to the pale blue John knows so well, and promises himself that his new flatmate will be more than worth the wait in the end.

oOo

It occurs to Sherlock, four months into their flat-share, that John is still alive.

Standing in front of the windows with his violin, he watches as John potters about in the kitchen, washing dishes and placing them on the draining board. The man is methodical in his actions, ensuring each plate is completely cleaned by using the same rotation with his dish-cloth, wiping a hand over the surface afterwards before it meets with his approval.   

It occurs to Sherlock that he has never waited for four months before.

Lifting the bow to the strings, he lets the music flow from him as he allows his indecision to guide him through an original piece. In the kitchen, John looks up to watch him play, enthralled as ever by how Sherlock uses the instrument in his hands. Having John’s attention on him, for him, makes something inside of Sherlock unfurl and glow, like it was made for John’s eyes alone.

Sherlock shakes his head, the music stopping before any crescendo can be reached.

What a ridiculous thought.  

Any human that manages to capture Sherlock’s attention usually doesn’t last long once he’s made the conscious decision to eat them. However, picky as he is, careful observation must be made before he makes that decision, checking the person’s habits, their diet and their overall physical wellbeing. Considering the fact that eating humans is strictly taboo and likely to end in persecution, he figures he may as well be picky in his choices in the highly unlikely event that he’s ever caught.

All that aside, he knows what he likes in a person. They don’t always have to be beautiful. Smart or athletic people have also made fine dishes and Sherlock has always learned something from them, refining his taste with each man and woman he consumes.  

Hunting is the best part. It’s so easy to track their movements, to place himself in their orbit until they notice his interest, often mistaking it for carnal intent. Sex is a convenient excuse to get them alone, an advantage Sherlock isn’t above using for his own gain if required. As a rule, it’s not difficult for him to seduce them into bed, giving them what they desire before he decides to satisfy his own hunger. Always so unsuspecting and eager to please.

Until the moment Sherlock sinks his teeth in their throats, piercing their hearts with a deftly placed kagune to ease their suffering. Oh, but the final struggle is delicious…

John would struggle, he thinks. He would use every dirty trick he knew to try and overpower Sherlock, aiming for sensitive places to try and gain the upper hand. Not that it would matter; Sherlock knows he’s stronger than John. It would be a game, ridiculously easy to pin him down, keep him suspended until Sherlock was ready for the first taste.

He wonders if John would ever want it; if he would ever yearn for Sherlock’s teeth in his flesh as Sherlock yearns to feel John’s body in his mouth. He imagines John begging him, just a little piece, just one for now until he’s healed enough and then Sherlock can take another, but he has to let him heal first. Just for a little while.

Sherlock doesn’t understand how John can still be breathing. It shouldn’t be possible. It can’t.

“Dammit!”

The curse from the kitchen startles him from his reverie. Too late, he realises that John is bleeding from a kitchen knife, having accidentally cut himself with it whilst preparing his evening meal. John has staunched the flow with a paper towel, the closest thing to hand, while he roots around for the medical kit, searching for a plaster to hold the wound closed. Only he fumbles with the plaster, unable to wrap it around his finger properly. Eyes rooted to the spot, Sherlock watches as  the wound begins to bleed again, his breath stuttering as a thin red trail works its way down John’s finger and onto his hand.

Oh… He really should have anticipated this.

“Stop rushing,” he scolds, referring to John’s fumbled attempts to stop the bleeding as he puts the violin down and walks to the kitchen. John curses and throws a useless plaster away, grabbing an antiseptic wipe to clean the wound. No, that won’t do, Sherlock thinks, holding out a hand to stop John from wiping the blood away; John pauses, questioning, but Sherlock doesn’t give him an answer. He carefully takes the injured hand in his fingers instead, examining the wound. The cut is deeper than John anticipated, but it won’t need stitches. John just needs to be careful with it.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” John says, keeping his hand still.

“It shouldn’t require stitches,” Sherlock agrees, keeping his eyes on John’s finger. “Still, you should be more aware of your body’s limits with kitchen utensils.”

John rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’ve never had an accident with a kitchen knife before.”

Sherlock glances up at him, eyes narrowed. “I haven’t. Now hold still.” He pulls a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and gently wipes the blood from John’s hand, paying careful attention to the wound so he doesn’t cause more damage. The handkerchief is wrapped around John’s finger to stop the blood and Sherlock asks for John to hold it in place while he gets an antiseptic wipe and another plaster.

The cut is cleaned and another plaster is wrapped around it, John watching Sherlock’s hands as Sherlock makes sure the plaster won’t come undone. “Thanks,” John says when Sherlock releases his hand, already turning back to the vegetables he was cutting. “What are you going to do with that?” he asks, motioning towards the stained handkerchief on the table.

Sherlock picks it up and puts it back in his pocket, humming non-committedly. “I’ve been working on an experiment to remove blood stains from various fabrics,” he says finally. “It should come in handy.”

“What, because it’s a handkerchief?”

Sherlock slants his eyes back towards John, a smirk playing on his lips. “Exactly.”

Back in the safety of his room, he pulls out the handkerchief and unwraps it so it lies across his hands. For such a small wound, John’s finger had bled copiously, and the fabric has taken up most of the spillage, resulting in numerous patches of red amongst the white threads. Lifting it to his face, Sherlock feels his stomach pang and twist at the first inhale, stifling his moan into the handkerchief as he drags his tongue against one of the red splotches.

Mon dieu…

Against the flavour of the handkerchief, John’s blood is dark and tangy; he imagines it tastes like the wine John used in the Coq au Vin, pursing his lips around the fabric to wet it with his saliva, coaxing John’s blood from it firmly with his tongue. Dimly, he’s aware that he’s breathing too quickly, his kakugan leaving trails of red around his eyes as the hunger fully takes hold, but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t want to; he wants to give in to it. It’s been so long since he last indulged and the meat Mycroft sends him is never truly satisfying, not in the way he desires.

In the kitchen, John starts humming a piece of music he’s heard on the radio as he begins to stir-fry the vegetables he’s been chopping. Sherlock listens to the spit of the oil in the wok as the chopped peppers and spring onions hit the heat. Listens to the sound of John’s voice as he hums a top ten hit out of tune and imagines sliding pieces of John’s body into the same wok, selecting only the tenderest morsels for cooking. Vaughan Williams’ The Lark Ascending would provide a suitable atmosphere, he thinks. It’s only fitting that a beautiful dinner is accompanied by equally beautiful music.    

oOo

“There’s been another one,” Lestrade gasps, panting at the top of the stairs to the flat, imploring Sherlock for his assistance.

Again.

He half listens to Lestrade’s frantic words, something about a lipstick poisoning, and is about to dismiss the case entirely when the DI interrupts him.

“It looks like they’ve been eating the body,” Lestrade says, a last ditch effort on his part to get Sherlock to take this case.

Ah… A bit not good.

It’s enough for Sherlock to seize his coat before Lestrade has had a chance to catch his breath, John already in tow as they head to the crime scene. 

oOo

The scent of days old blood fills Sherlock’s nostrils once they arrive, tainted only by the smell of the forensics team as they try to figure out who the culprit is of this grisly murder.

In the kitchen, a frying pan continues to cook something in the remaining heat before the hob was switched off. The slab of meat is still mostly raw when Sherlock looks at it, but the smell alone has already forced most of the team out, unable to stomach the idea of another of their kind being treated like a prime cut of steak. It’s definitely human, Sherlock can smell it, but the humans here didn’t realise it at first. Not until they opened the fridge and found a dismembered female who has been partially devoured.

Sherlock prods at it with a gloved finger, testing the give and working out where it’s come from. Looking at the cuts on the remaining body parts, the meat is from the back of the thigh, a tough section to chew through if it’s not prepared properly. Whoever decided to cook it before their hasty departure clearly knew what they were doing; the oven has already been preheated and the frying pan is oven-safe. It’s a shame really; it would have been done to perfection.

He pulls the body from the fridge, ignoring Lestrade’s verbal warnings that they haven’t even photographed everything yet so he can examine the lips. The lipstick is still there (sloppy work, not removing the evidence), poisoned as Lestrade suspected. Sherlock makes a show of taking a sample but he can already smell it, the one they decided to use. Botulinum toxin, the same ingredient used in Botox injections; the woman ingested the poison just by licking her lips and was carefully monitored under the watchful eyes of his people until the paralysis set in, nearly a week after the lipstick was given to the unsuspecting victim.

They’re patient, he’ll give them that.     

“Oh my God.” John holds a hand over his mouth when he takes in the enormity of the crime scene, his eyes widening in their sockets. For all his experiences in Afghanistan, it’s highly unlikely that he’s ever seen anything like this before. “We’re actually looking for a cannibal.”

Sherlock nearly bites through his own tongue to stop his retort. It’s not cannibalism. Not when the suspects aren’t human. 

oOo

The night air is chilly as it swirls around Sherlock’s coat, crouched as he is on the roof of a block of flats. He’s two hundred yards from the site of the murder; his eyes fixed on the alley below him as he watches another of his kind stalk a woman through the streets. Sherlock can understand why the woman was chosen, why the suspect couldn’t wait for another botulinum poisoning when he met her, but she’s not the one Sherlock’s after. 

Sated as he is, it’s easy to wait until the man is beneath him before he steps neatly off the edge of the building, landing just behind the suspect and wrapping an arm around his neck, pulling him back into the seclusion of an alcove. The woman scurries off, hearing the scuffle behind her; she doesn’t turn around to watch and it’s the only thing that saves her life.  In Sherlock’s arms, Brody Tennington gasps in shock and goes completely still; it may be that Sherlock has genuinely taken him by surprise, which is very likely, or it’s the press of Sherlock’s kagune to Brody’s kakuhou at the base of his spine.

Yes. That would be it.

Brody, perceptive man that he is, already knows it’s too late. That doesn’t stop him from talking. “What the hell are you doing?” Brody snarls at him, turning his head to glare up Sherlock through turned eyes. Sirens wail in the distance; Lestrade has finally cottoned on.

Evidently, Brody has done the same. “What the fuck? You’re that detective!” His voice grows incredulous, his disbelief making him bold. “You can’t actually be helping them!”

Sherlock smirks, willing his kagune to a sharp point. “I’m not helping them, Brody,” he says. “I’m helping myself.”

It’s the last thing Brody hears before Sherlock pierces his body, ripping into his kakuhou and shredding it from the inside. Brody’s scream is muffled against Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock forces his way through the wound, piercing Brody’s vital organs in quick succession to ensure death before allowing the body to drop to the ground.

Sherlock withdraws his kagune, letting the blood slide off before sheathing it and crouching low, inspecting Brody’s corpse with a critical eye. It’s one of his cleaner kills, if not the most effective, but it was fast, leaving no time for Brody to cry out for help. There shouldn’t be any need for an autopsy, but Sherlock’s not concerned about what happens to the body. Should the humans decide one is needed, Mycroft will intervene before Brody comes anywhere near a mortuary knife. They will remain hidden. They will remain safe.  

Captain John Watson is vocal in his anger when he finally catches up to Sherlock, panting as he takes in the image of Brody’s body on the ground. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he rages, gun drawn but held at his side, the safety engaged now the threat of danger has passed.

Oh, but Sherlock so very rarely sees John like this. The doctor looks positively animalistic in his anger, his fury a palpable thing.  Sherlock can feel his body responding to it; can feel the heat in his blood as he imagines pinning John to the wall. Can almost taste John’s skin on his tongue as he fantasises licking across John’s pulse point in lieu of more tempting alternatives. 

This must come to fruition soon, he thinks. Once John has been thoroughly prepared and brought to the peak of ripeness, until his flavour literally bursts over Sherlock’s tongue in an exquisite rush of pure sensation. Yes, then John would be something to savour. But he must be patient. He must.     

"Trying to stop a murderer,” Sherlock retorts, getting up from his crouch beside the body and straightening out his Belstaff. “A stab wound to the small of the back is the most probable cause of this fatality; it appears that someone has already beaten us to it.”

Later, when the body is being transported to the morgue, Sherlock laments his failed attempt at stopping another gang member from ending the life of their prime suspect. With the orange shock blanket around his shoulders, it’s easy enough to make his look of contrition appear entirely convincing. 

Lestrade palms his face in one hand, his shoulders huffing in exasperation. “Please tell me this is the last of these crimes that we’ll ever see.”

Over the DI’s shoulder, a crowd of people have gathered near the police tape. Two individuals have already captured Sherlock’s attention; they’re easy to pick out to Sherlock’s eyes, their shoulders hunched against the chill of the winter air and their faces determined. They won’t cause a scene here, too many witnesses, but they’re angry. They’ve lost one of their own at Sherlock’s hands.

Not that this matters to Sherlock in any case. They all know these are his hunting grounds.

“Impossible to guarantee,” he says after a moment, his own message clearly delivered in a body bag. “It’s likely they’ll move on to other jurisdictions, but they’ll be more careful now. More difficult to trace.” He looks back at the DI. “It’s highly unlikely you’ll catch them, not unless another murder is committed.”

“Which they won’t be doing for a while,” John adds, crossing his arms. “Whoever they are, they’re smart to have gone undetected for this long. They won’t be making the same mistakes any time soon.”

Lestrade huffs, unable to hide his displeasure. “Go on,” he says finally, when he’s certain he’s got as much information out of Sherlock as he ever will. “Thanks again for your help, both of you.”

John answers for them, apologising that it didn’t end the way they’d hoped. Sherlock ditches the shock blanket and heads towards the police tape, watching as the two men disappear into the crowd at his approach. If he really wanted to track them down, it wouldn’t be difficult, but it’s not important now. His territory is safe.

“Dinner?” John queries, preceding Sherlock when the detective holds the police tape up for him. “Or have you already eaten?”

The last is said with a vocal nudge on John’s part; they both know what Sherlock’s answer will be. 

oOo

“I can’t believe you just did that,” John wheezes, leaning against a brick wall to catch his breath. They’ve been running from a group of irate women of all things, incited to anger when Sherlock gets caught pickpocketing one of them for the evidence in their handbag. They’re a week into the cannibalism case and the poisoned lipstick is now safely in their grasp, mostly due to a poorly covered paper trail that led them straight to the manufacturer of the murder weapon, but the circumstances have John almost hiccupping with laughter. “I don’t suppose it really matters to her that you just saved her life,” John continues, “but it’s still ridiculous.”

“More ridiculous than Afghanistan?” Sherlock queries, his breathing already back to normal. He leans against the wall beside John and lets their arms brush in friendly camaraderie, testing his resolve.

“No,” John answers, still a bit breathless. “But definitely better.”

Sherlock really should have seen it coming. He’s a detective; his job is in the details. Yet he still fails to notice when John’s hand tangles with his where he intentionally brushed their arms together barely a minute ago. It’s the only warning he gets before John is pressing him back into the alley wall, grabbing a fistful of his coat to pull him into a kiss that is laced with John’s laughter and adrenaline and taste.

Stupid really, not to have seen it coming.

It doesn’t stop him from growling, the rumble low in his throat and chest as he wraps an arm around his blogger, deepening the kiss after only a slight hesitation. John’s tongue pushes insistently at his closed lips, sliding between them to tangle wetly with his; Sherlock locks his legs at his knees to stop himself from collapsing, moaning at the flavour of John’s mouth. The feel of John’s sweet, supple flesh millimetres away from his teeth. 

So easy to imagine it, biting down on John’s tongue, gnawing at it as John shouts into his mouth. To pierce a lip, softer than the tongue by far, swallowing a small piece the way humans swallow a fresh oyster. John, gloriously alive in his hands, scars dotting his body where Sherlock has bitten through John’s skin. Only small bites to start, he thinks. Not enough to do any lasting damage, just enough to sustain.

John presses his body closer, his erection tenting his jeans, completely unaware of Sherlock’s infatuation.

Oh, but Sherlock wasn’t expecting that.

His own body throbs in response, heat pooling in his abdomen as his own dormant flesh responds to the feel of John’s arousal. Twisting them round, he pushes John against the alley wall and grabs twin handfuls of John’s arse to haul him up the brickwork, nipping at John’s bottom lip when the doctor just moans. Ever eager to follow Sherlock’s direction, John responds by wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s neck, lifting his legs so his calves are pressing under Sherlock’s glutes, pushing their groins together in an action that leaves them both panting.

“God, fucking gorgeous,” John gasps, his hips rhythmically pumping under Sherlock’s hands. “Wanted you for ages, wanted to see how you’d look like this.”

“John…” Helpless to say anything else. Unable to focus on anything past the insistent throb of his own erection, the feel of John writhing under his hands and the sensation of John sinking his teeth into a spot under Sherlock’s jaw with the obvious intent of leaving a mark.

It’s impossible, the rational part of his brain thinks; his biological makeup won’t allow it, but the possession behind John’s actions speaks louder than anything John could ever adequately verbalise. His kakugan floods his eyes in response, the bright blue of his irises replaced by the physical manifestation of his hunger. With his face close to the brickwork, John’s mouth on his neck as he licks and bites at Sherlock’s skin, he knows John hasn’t seen it; hasn’t seen the change. More importantly, John still doesn’t know.  

He can’t know. It’s too soon for this, too soon to envision the act of eating John Watson. There’s so much more Sherlock needs to find out, so much to categorise and log and unravel before Sherlock can finally take what he needs. But he can indulge. He can consume John in other ways, ones that are equally as informative and more likely to meet with John’s approval until it’s time. Until that final, crucial moment…

Willing his eyes back to hide his nature, Sherlock seizes John’s mouth in another biting kiss before he slides to his knees, uncaring of the filth beneath his trousers. John supports his own weight again, inhaling sharply at the feel of Sherlock mouthing at his cock through John’s jeans, the dense fabric an unwanted obstacle to both of them. It doesn’t matter, not when he reaches up and undoes the button on the jeans, sliding down the zipper to get at the flesh underneath. John’s erection throbs in his boxers, already wet at the tip and straining against the thin material. Sherlock licks at the head of John’s cock, moaning at the briny taste of John’s precome which already dampens his boxers. Moans again at the thought of John already leaking for him, because of him.  

His fingers quickly pull down John’s boxers, already impatient to get to the bobbing flesh underneath. John’s muffled curse shows that he shares Sherlock’s opinion, his hips thrusting under Sherlock’s hands, a restraining force as he takes John’s erection between his lips and begins to suck. More of John’s precome oozes out, dribbling onto his tongue as Sherlock massages the glans under the head, encouraging more of John’s dark, earthly flavour.

In his abdomen, Sherlock feels his stomach growl, his body already thinking ahead to the wonderful meal John would make. The cock in his mouth is ripe with blood, salty-sweet and just begging to be tasted. He drags his teeth along John’s erection, unable to resist the feel of it, panting through his nose as he takes John to the back of his throat and swallows around him.

“Fucking Christ,” John groans, his breathing already laboured. “I can’t even... Oh fuck!”

Judging by John’s use of expletives, Sherlock knows this isn’t going to take very long. 

Sherlock doubles his efforts, cupping John’s testicles in one hand and repeatedly deep-throating him, forcing down his gag-reflex by sheer force of will. A hand slides into his curls, the fingers clenching every time John’s cock pushes down his throat, faint, muffled curses Sherlock’s warnings as John’s body hurtles towards orgasm. Withdrawing enough to take another breath, Sherlock pushes his face into John’s groin, wrapping his lips around the base and swallowing around John’s erection, moaning as it twitches and swells before it begins to come down his throat.

He pulls back at the last moment to catch the last few spurts on his tongue, groaning as John’s semen floods his mouth. His base senses are filled with John Watson, the taste and scent of his arousal a heady combination that threatens to make Sherlock’s world spin. His fingers are wrapped around the base of John’s cock, gently stroking to coax out the last tremors until John weakly pushes both his hand and head away. Oversensitive.

“Did you just…?”

Looking up through half-lidded eyes, Sherlock makes sure John can see his throat when he swallows. In front of him, John’s cock twitches with interest.

“Bloody hell,” John gets out, pulling Sherlock up by his coat and pushing him into the opposite wall, uncaring of his still open jeans as his hands find their way to the button of Sherlock’s own trousers. “Can I?” John queries, his fingers already undoing Sherlock’s trousers and snaking inside to palm at Sherlock’s erection. “Want to feel you…”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasps. “Anything. Anything you want.”

John’s inexperience shows when he tries to return the favour, unable to take Sherlock’s girth down his throat, but that certainly isn’t stopping him from trying. Sherlock doesn’t try to muffle his moans, freely expelling them into the open air as John works him with hot suction and a tight fist, twisting his hand in a corkscrew motion that threatens to make Sherlock’s knees buckle. John’s touch feels reverential on his body, every fibre of his being devoted to bringing Sherlock off in a climax that is shaping up to be one of the strongest he’s ever experienced at another’s hand.

With John’s mouth on him, Sherlock imagines spreading John out on his bed, smearing his human scent all over the silk sheets as he prises John’s arse cheeks apart to bury his face between them. The very thought of piercing John in such a depraved manner makes the fire in the pit of his groin flare to life and John moans around him, the steady slip-slap of his hand and mouth on Sherlock’s erection resounding in the small space.   

John would be begging him for more by the end of it. Once Sherlock has licked his way into John’s arse, fucking him with a speared tongue until he makes John sob with it, pleading with Sherlock to let him come. It’s the fantasy of John’s taste on his tongue, the ring of muscle clenching around him as he finally allows John to climax that catapults Sherlock into orgasm, holding John’s head in place as the other man swallows it down.

Tonight, he thinks, feeling John’s panting breaths on his hip as they both come down from the high. Feels his own breath catch at the sight of John’s lopsided grin, his satisfaction radiating off him in waves, and Sherlock knows it’s the right time now. John won’t leave him, not after this, and Sherlock realises his waiting is done. Tonight, his patience will be rewarded and John will become his before the sun rises.

Perfect. 

oOo

John’s laughter is muffled when Sherlock finally gets the front door open to 221, the door only closing behind them when John seizes his coat and pushes him back against it, taking his mouth in another kiss. They’d barely kept their hands off each other in the cab on the way home, the female taxi driver watching them with undisguised humour and a fair amount of interest as John near enough climbed into Sherlock’s lap to snog him senseless. Now, so close to their flat, John is attempting to keep them both quiet lest they wake Mrs Hudson, which is turning into a fruitless endeavour as he is the one making the most noise.

It doesn’t matter how much noise they make, Sherlock thinks idly. Their landlady has already taken her herbal soothers and he knows she won’t disturb them.   

“Christ, can’t wait to get you into bed,” John murmurs, already pulling Sherlock away from the door to lead them both up the stairs.

Sherlock grins, all sharp angles and half-lidded eyes, his tongue snaking out to sweep his lower lip. John’s eyes track the movement and Sherlock knows he’s remembering the blow job in the alley. “We have all night,” he says, taking one of John’s hands as he guides John to his own bedroom.

They show little patience when it comes to removing their clothes, each hurriedly divesting their own garments and leaving them strewn on the floor before Sherlock pushes John onto the silk sheets. John shifts back towards the headboard, watching through hungry eyes as Sherlock crawls up the length of the bed and parts John’s thighs, lowering his hips until they are flush against each other. John groans deeply, his hips thrusting up to grind his already hard cock against Sherlock’s hip. His hands curl around Sherlock’s buttocks, squeezing them appreciatively, but Sherlock already knows how this is going to end.

He takes John’s lips again, thrusting his tongue inside John’s mouth in mimicry of the act he is beginning to crave. John, perceptive as he is, keeps his mouth soft and pliant, giving himself over to Sherlock’s control. It’s just about all Sherlock can stand. “Over on your front,” he growls, nipping at John’s lips when the other man just moans.  

Showing little hesitation, John rolls over and spreads his legs, already having guessed Sherlock’s intentions. Sherlock is momentarily distracted by the exit wound on John’s left shoulder, a fierce spike of possessiveness poisoning his blood. John is his. He kisses the scar tissue reverently, as though one would a lover, feeling the vibration of John’s moan against his lips. Darts his tongue out for a taste, tracing the white lines where infection had set in before the medics were able to treat the wound, and can’t resist scraping his teeth across it, feeling John’s body undulate beneath him at the sensation.

John’s whimpers grow as Sherlock continues his exploration, revelling in the freedom of finally being allowed to examine his blogger in the most intimate ways possible. Running his hands along the back of John’s thighs produces a sound from the doctor that Sherlock has never heard before and the noise John makes when Sherlock snakes his tongue between John’s buttocks to lick at his hole leaves Sherlock nearly light-headed. John’s flavour is exactly as he thought it would be; salty and rich, the musk rising off his skin and filling Sherlock’s nostrils with his human scent. Spearing his tongue, he works his way into John’s body, holding John’s hips still when the other man muffles a shout into the pillows under his head.    

“Christ!” John twists his head to one side, freeing his mouth from the silk he’d previously been biting. “Sherlock…” A half garbled moan interrupts John’s words when Sherlock pushes his tongue in as far as it will go, swirling around inside John’s passage as his lips suck at the rim. The moist, smacking sounds of Sherlock’s mouth have John leaking into the sheets and it isn’t long before John is thrusting back to meet Sherlock’s tongue, unashamed in his pursuit for more.

Sherlock, the generous soul that he is, is only too happy to oblige.

The finger he introduces, slick with saliva, has John crying out and arching his back to try and impale himself on Sherlock’s finger. “God, yes, fuck me… Fuck me, Sherlock, please…”

Sherlock lifts his head to watch as his finger disappears into John’s body, his hole already wet and open, seduced by Sherlock’s tongue. The sight is everything he thought it would be, sliding it into the third knuckle and moaning when he feels John clench around him. “Top drawer on your right,” he says, his finger slipping free when John scrambles towards the drawer in question and fishes around for the lubricant and condoms Sherlock has stored there. Sherlock takes the lubricant when John passes it back to him, but raises an eyebrow when John puts the condoms away. “John?”

“We don’t need them,” John says, already settling back into his previous position. “We’re both clean, remember? We got tested after we landed in a skip full of needles that time.”

Ah, yes. Sherlock had neglected to mention that the needles didn’t actually pierce his skin, another of the wonders of his biology, but it wouldn’t have stopped John from insisting they were tested anyway. Now, with John in front of him and begging for his cock, he’s beginning to understand what all the fuss was about. “If you’re sure,” he says instead, coating his fingers with the lube and urging John to his knees.

“One hundred percent,” John replies, already spreading his knees so Sherlock can settle between them. “I want to feel you inside me.”

“You’ll get it,” Sherlock growls, sinking two fingers into John’s arse and pumping them, already envisioning how it’s going to feel when it’s his cock instead. “You’ll take every inch I give you.”

“Fuck yeah,” John groans, already pushing his body back onto Sherlock’s fingers. “Get that cock in me. I can’t wait.”

John isn’t nearly as prepared as he should be, Sherlock knows this. They should move onto at least three fingers, minimum, with a liberal coating of lube and lots of foreplay to ensure John is as relaxed as possible, but he finds he’s as desperate for this as John is. He pulls his fingers free from John’s passage and coats his erection with more lube, hissing at the cold before lining himself up. John’s body doesn’t tense when he begins to push his way inside, but it’s tight; Sherlock moans when the head of his cock eases its way inside, keeping his pace slow as John whimpers underneath him. He doesn’t stop until his hips are pressed against John’s buttocks, stroking a hand up John’s back soothingly as he waits for the other man to adjust to his girth.

“God, you’re big,” John gets out, his voice rough. “You feel incredible.”

Sherlock responds by wrapping his hands around John’s hips and pulling his erection free, watching as John’s hole twitches and contracts before it begins to close again. Panting, he pushes his way back inside, John’s own debauched moans rising with his as he builds a rhythm.  

He never imagined it would be this way. It’s always been slow in his head, unwrapping John from his clothes like a gift, peppering his body with sweet kisses and gentle touches until John is left panting for him, body slick with sweat and a hairs-breadth away from begging Sherlock for more. Only then does Sherlock take his pleasure, sating himself with John’s body, his blogger crying out incoherently, a slave to the passion Sherlock has so artfully crafted around them. As is often the case, the reality is very different. Not worse, Sherlock amends, growling when John kicks his hips back to take his cock to the root and clenches around him, spurring him to do it rougher, harder, to rut like animals in heat.

Just different.  

Soon the harsh sound of their skin slapping together resounds in Sherlock’s room, still audible above John’s moans and Sherlock’s gasping breaths. One of John’s hands moves from where he’s had them clenched in the pillows, moving down to his groin, and Sherlock knows John has taken himself in hand, jerking off to bring himself to climax. He feels an answering heat throb in his abdomen, the knowledge of John touching himself providing the perfect stimulus he needs to reach his own release. Heart pounding, he manages five more thrusts before he starts to come, feeling his cock spurt jet after jet into John’s body, made potent by the fact that there isn’t anything between them. He is inside John.

John’s voice reaches a crescendo at the feeling of Sherlock coming inside him and the rim of his arse tightens around Sherlock’s cock, the rhythmic clenching of his muscles accompanying the briny scent of John’s release as it splatters across Sherlock’s sheets. Sherlock runs his hands across John’s hips and stomach, easing him through it until John finally sighs, his body relaxing with small aftershocks of pleasure as they both recover. Eventually Sherlock softens enough that he slips out of John’s body, making the both of them groan when sensitive nerves are pressed. John flops down on the mattress once Sherlock releases him, a huffed laugh escaping him as his eyes track Sherlock’s movements, his entire face filled with warmth. When Sherlock takes the spot next to John, he’s unsurprised when he finds himself with an armful of sated, sleepy human, with John neatly wrapping himself around Sherlock’s body and nuzzling his face into Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock reciprocates, pulling John close and kissing his hairline, rubbing the fingers of one hand up John’s spine. He can feel John’s heartbeat pumping, slowing down as the oxytocin recedes and leaving behind a bone-deep lassitude that will take a while to fade. With every breath, Sherlock can smell the scent of their sex, cloying and sweet like perfume. It’s enough to bring his hunger into sharp focus, feeling every inch of John against him and wanting so badly to taste.     

Now, he thinks, his eyes flooding with his kakugan. While John is still pliant and dazed, blissfully unaware of the hunger which now pours through Sherlock’s system. His mouth waters, remembering in exquisite detail the texture of John’s flesh under his mouth, under his hands. He can almost taste the sweetness of John’s meat, the incomparable feeling of sinking his teeth into John’s shoulder to finally sample the scar tissue as he has yearned to since he first laid eyes on John’s war wound. Over his shoulder, Sherlock’s kagune threatens to emerge; he can feel the flood of cells at the base of his spine as they respond to his hunger, but he doesn’t release all of them.

Not yet.

A single red tentacle snakes its way around John’s body without touching him, the skin of the limb glistening as it places itself behind John’s back. It’s not ideal, the position John has chosen, but his body is so soft. It won’t be difficult to pierce his heart, a merciful death in comparison to how he has killed humans in the past, but John deserves nothing less. His kagune responds, the limb thrumming with energy, preparing for the final strike-

John sighs in his arms, tightening his hold around Sherlock’s body. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs, a small smile gracing his lips; Sherlock can feel the curve against his throat, the flutter of John’s eyelashes as he snuggles himself deeper into Sherlock’s arms. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, you know that?”

Sherlock pauses, eyes dropping to John’s hair, gleaming blonde and silver in the moonlight. At John’s back, Sherlock’s kagune  waivers. Does John…? What does he mean?  

John hums into Sherlock’s neck, unconcerned with Sherlock’s lack of response or the tension he must feel in Sherlock’s body as his lips pressing gentle kisses to Sherlock’s throat. “You’re everything to me.”

Oh…

Sherlock hasn’t accounted for this.

Unbidden, his body reverts back to his human form, his kagune withdrawing, his hunger entirely forgotten. John pulls his head back fractionally to kiss him, lazy with fatigue; he makes contented hums against Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock feels each one shiver through him. “What time is it?” John asks once he pulls back, looking at Sherlock with eyes that are brimming with affection.

Sherlock has no idea. “Late,” he says distractedly, more focused on the sensation of John’s hand as it sweeps across his shoulders and tangles into his curls, his fingers sliding through Sherlock’s hair. The tingling is unexpected as John’s fingers stroke across his scalp, making Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut as he arches into John’s touch.

John smiles at him, deepening the stroke of his fingers. “We really need some sleep, but that can wait until after we’ve showered,” he says, gently pushing at Sherlock’s shoulder to persuade him to lie back, allowing John to scoot over the rest of the way and drape himself across Sherlock’s chest for post-coital cuddles. Sherlock watches as John settles himself, his own heart beating fiercely like a small bird trapped under his ribcage.

He doesn’t understand; isn’t he meant to be eating John now?  

“Hey.” A tap on his nose jolts him from his thoughts, focusing again to see John’s face looking at him with amusement. “Everything okay in there?”

Words are on the tip of his tongue but he can’t say them. The usual lines burn and fizzle before he has a chance to voice them, meaningless phrases that feel hollowed out and worn when he toys with the idea of using them here. It used to be so easy, murmuring his adoration and savouring the afterglow before he finally took what he wanted, his hunger yearning for satisfaction from his partner’s flesh.

John is not like the others and that little fact is more surprising than it ought to be.

“Still thinking about the case?”

Sherlock meets John’s eyes and shakes his head minutely. “Not even remotely.”

John puts his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder, pressing their bodies close from neck to toe. “You do know Greg’s going to want you at the Yard tomorrow to write this up.”

Sherlock scoffs. “As if he really needs me there. He has the murder weapon and a written testimonial from the manufacturer. All he needs is a search warrant and that’ll be the end of it.” Along with a little helping hand from Mycroft to make the perpetrators disappear once they are sniffed out, but John doesn’t need to know that.  He turns his face towards John’s, kissing at his hairline again.  “There are more pressing matters that require my attention,” he continues, mind already working to catalogue the feel of John’s body against his own. Trying to work out what it was that stopped his hunger dead in its tracks. 

How are you so different to the others?

“Too right,” John says, arms squeezing around Sherlock’s body before he pushes himself up, crawling over Sherlock’s body to get up from the bed. “Come on,” he says, already reaching down to take one of Sherlock’s hands to tug him from the bed. “Into the shower; you can help me wash my back while you’re there.” 

oOo

As predicted, Lestrade did want him down at the Yard to write a report for the case, but it had proven easier to write the whole thing in an email to the DI instead. That, and John had been particularly insistent that he not leave the flat for anything less than a nine.

Given the choice between sitting in a chilly office doing paperwork and having John’s mouth and hands on his body, Sherlock had needed little persuasion to stay in.

Since the night they solved the case of the lipstick murders, already four days gone, John has haunted Sherlock’s every moment in a way he has never experienced with a human before. The days have been spent remembering the taste of John on his lips and the sounds of John’s pleasure in his ears, while his nights have been devoted to exploring all the different ways he can make John react to his touch. John is a surprisingly vocal lover, often praising Sherlock’s technique and gently guiding in others to show the detective what he most enjoys. He’s been especially eager to learn Sherlock’s body in its nuances, faults and all, and Sherlock hasn’t been able to dissuade him from it.

Hasn’t wanted to.

Since their first night together, Sherlock’s hunger has yet to make another appearance in John’s proximity. The empty panging in his stomach hasn’t stopped, but the thought of eating John no longer has the same appeal as it once did.

That’s not to suggest that John himself would be an unappetising meal. Sherlock knows instinctively that nothing would satisfy his body more; that John is as nutritious and wholesome as a human can get. Yet the thought of taking a knife to John’s body or slashing him with a well-placed kagune leaves an uneasy nausea that he’s never experienced before.

Sentiment, Mycroft would accuse, but Sherlock knows it’s simpler than that.  

In the end, it’s the thought of John coming to harm that provokes the strongest emotional reaction, the anger flooding his system in a torrent that leaves him pacing the length of the flat one day while John is at the surgery, his entire body taut with barely restrained rage.  

If anyone hurts John Watson, Sherlock will kill them.

And isn’t that an interesting thought. 

oOo

Mycroft, intrusive and bothersome man that he is, figures it out as soon as he steps into the flat to offer his congratulations on another successful case. His face scrunches up in distaste at the smell, the combined odour of Sherlock’s pleasure mixed with John’s that Sherlock is able to sense and hasn’t bothered to air out.

“Really, Sherlock,” Mycroft says, twisting his umbrella into a hole in their carpet. “You know this will never work.”

Sherlock continues applying rosin to the bow of his violin, unconcerned. “I didn’t ask you for your opinion, Mycroft.”

“This is veering dangerously into something you can’t handle,” Mycroft warns, ignoring Sherlock’s attempt to block him. “The more you fraternise like this, the more you put yourself at risk.”

Sherlock scoffs. “John is hardly your concern, brother mine.”

Mycroft eases himself into John’s chair, resting his umbrella against one armrest. “John isn’t the one I’m concerned about. You know I only have your best interests at heart, Sherlock.”

“So you say.” He knows from previous experience that Mycroft’s idea of what’s best for him differs greatly from his own.

Mycroft scowls at him, his mouth twisting unpleasantly; this has never been an easy subject between them. “John doesn’t know, does he?” It’s a phrased as a question, but they both know it’s a statement of fact. Mycroft strokes his fingers over the handle of his umbrella, affecting nonchalance when Sherlock doesn’t respond.

Sherlock grits his teeth, hand faltering as he makes the finishing touches to his bow. In the ceiling, the pipes rattle as John sings out of tune in the shower. Sherlock doesn’t recognise the song, not that it really matters, but John is singing it. Is happy enough here, at the flat with him, to sing at all.

“No, he doesn’t,” Sherlock says. It doesn’t need saying, not really, but Mycroft is smart enough to read the underlying threat under the carefully chosen words.

And you’re not going to tell him.

“Say he does find out eventually,” Mycroft says. “How do you think he’ll react to all of this?” The ‘all of this’ isn’t explicitly stated, yet Mycroft may as well have written it all over the walls, it’s so glaringly obvious.

Oh yes, Sherlock has thought about it. It’s only too clear to him how John would react if he ever found out about Sherlock’s true heritage, the disgust twisting his face when he realises that Sherlock has to eat people in order to survive. That he enjoys it, the ensuing hunt and final kill; the look of betrayal on his prey’s faces when they realise what’s going to happen to them.

John would leave, that much is a certainty; how unscathed he leaves Sherlock at the end of that conversation is something the detective has no desire to find out.

“You don’t hurt him,” he says to Mycroft, putting the bow away with his violin in the velvet lined case. “I don’t care what happens to me, Mycroft. You don’t hurt John.”

The pipes rattle in the ceiling again; John has finished his shower.

“Any human who becomes aware of our existence is a threat to it,” Mycroft replies, his voice understanding, almost as though it hurts Sherlock to hear it.  

It doesn’t hurt him. It infuriates him.

“Then why don’t you do your job and find the men responsible for the lipstick poisoning,” he says, glaring at his older brother. “Since they are the ones who are putting us at the highest risk right now.”

Mycroft doesn’t deny Sherlock’s words, but it doesn’t matter. Sherlock already knows the lengths he would go to preserve John’s life; it’s not his fault that Mycroft hasn’t realised it yet.  

oOo

He needs a new mattress.

The rhythmic squeak of the springs is distracting him despite the image in front of him, although it doesn’t look like John’s bothered by it with the way he’s riding Sherlock’s cock, his head thrown back as he makes continuous “ah, ah, ah,”s each time his buttocks slap against Sherlock’s hips.

Okay, so the squeaking isn’t that distracting, but a new mattress is something to consider after they’re finished here.

One particularly sharp upward jab of his hips has John dragging his fingers down Sherlock’s chest, the nails catching on his nipples in friendly retaliation at the pain/pleasure crossing John’s face. Sherlock arches up into John’s hands, curling the fingers of one hand around John’s erection as he meets John thrust for thrust, his own moans rising in tandem as John uses his body, skewering himself on Sherlock’s cock again and again as he climbs rapidly to orgasm.

Sherlock can feel how close John is by the trembling in the other man’s thighs, the clenching of John’s rim around him growing tighter and more frequent. John’s speaking, half garbled phrases about how good this feels, how much he loves having Sherlock’s inside him, but anything beyond that is white noise.

He realises that he yearns for this now.

Where the hunger had once taken precedence above all else, John has smoothly insinuated himself into Sherlock’s existence until he is as integral as the air they breathe. Until he eclipses everything Sherlock experiences, his very presence as fundamental as the food the detective needs to survive.

John forces himself down on Sherlock a final time, his muscles spasming with his climax as his erection spurts thick jets of come onto Sherlock’s body. The briny scent of John’s release and the clenching muscle is enough to push Sherlock over the edge, curling his hands around John’s hips to hold him in place as he reaches orgasm, John’s own debauched moans mingling with his at the feeling of Sherlock coming inside him.

"God, you’re brilliant,” John gasps, leaning down to press kisses to Sherlock’s face and lips, both of them too exhausted to have a proper snog but each making a valiant attempt nonetheless. “I’m luckiest man in the world,” and the words are heartfelt, spoken gently and with reverence between John’s gasping breaths.

Sherlock has never been considered lucky by anyone before.

Intolerant, abrasive and mechanical, yes. But no one has ever felt lucky for having known him before John.  

Overcome, Sherlock wraps his arms around John’s torso and flips them over, burrowing his face into John’s neck and inhaling the intoxicating scent of the man in his arms. He convinces himself the trembling he’s experiencing is the result of exhaustion due to fantastic sex and not because John is holding him close like his life matters. 

oOo

It’s just touching six and John has yet to return from his day at the surgery. He kissed Sherlock goodbye this morning, promising to be home by five; John is never late, not without informing him first.

Nearly two hours and forty-six frustrated texts later, Mycroft makes a point of calling him when he finds John’s location. When Sherlock hears the words, “John has been kidnapped,” it’s all he can do to demand directions in lieu of hurling his phone against the wall. 

oOo

Poetic irony brings him back to a site close to where he killed Brody Tennington, a derelict factory dark and ominous against a background of flats. Outside the factory’s main entrance, Sherlock’s lips curl in a snarl at the familiar scent of the two men he’d seen at the crime scene and one other he doesn’t recognise, cursing himself with his stupidity. He supposes it was only a matter of time. He’d destroyed their ring leader, someone close to them given their behaviour at the crime scene, so it’s not surprising they chose to indulge a spot of revenge.

He should never have left them go. He should have hunted them down and torn their heads off when he had the chance. Yet he let them slip away, deeming them irrelevant because they’d never try to take him down in a fight.

Stupid not to realise that that they’d go after John instead.

Sherlock doesn’t try to keep quiet when he pushes the door open, making his way to the main hall. Four faces turn to meet him, but the only one he has eyes for is John.

John who is tied to a wooden chair, his face cautiously hopeful when he sets eyes on Sherlock.

“Well, look who decided to show up,” the taller of the three sneers, coming around to John’s front and blocking him from Sherlock’s view.  

Kenny Wright.

“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come here,” Kenny says haughtily, his posture arrogant. He’s still in his human form, but Sherlock can’t take the chance that he hasn’t shown John his ability to transform.  

Sherlock ignores the ringleader for now; his primary concern is John’s wellbeing. “Are you all right?” he calls, hearing an answering snort from John’s bound position.

“Yeah, I’m peachy,” John calls back. “Couldn’t be better.” Any further words are cut short when the shortest of the three slaps John around the face, John’s pained grunt echoing in the large hall.

The sound makes Sherlock’s blood boil.

Kenny walks to the back of John’s chair and motions the other two away, giving Sherlock an unobstructed view. John’s wariness increases, apprehensive of the enemy at his back, but Sherlock can’t do anything to help him.

Not yet.    

“So it looks like you’re about to be reunited with your beloved,” Kenny says to John, leaning down so his mouth is next to John’s ear. “But you have no idea what he’s been planning to do to you, do you?”

“I might be wrong, but what he decides to do with me is actually none of your business,” John retorts, refusing to look at his attackers. On his lip, a trail of blood begins to trickle from where his split lip has reopened. Sherlock can smell it as he walks closer to John’s position, keeping an eye on the two men on his flanks. This close, he can see the bruises forming on John’s face where he’s been beaten and he barely keeps his snarl in check.

Kenny traces a finger down John’s cheek. “He wants to eat you, John,” he says, accompanied by the chuckles of his subordinates. “He wants to tear you up into little pieces because he needs your meat to live. Not that he hasn’t been indulging on the side. I hear your detective’s brother is so very accommodating.” He straightens from John’s ear, motioning to the others. “Show him, boys.”

The other two unfurl their kagune like a second skin, their kakugan flooding their irises until it consumes them. John is unable to contain his shock, his mouth dropping open as he watches the transformations, but he doesn’t struggle in his bonds. When he makes eye contact with Sherlock, the detective gives him a nod, meant to reassure, but the odds of John surviving this have just stacked against them. If one of their kagune so much as grazes John in the ensuring fight, the doctor’s body won’t be able to heal itself in the way that his kind can.

He can’t worry about that now.

Sherlock notes the rinkaku is on his right, the bikaku on his left; not impossible odds, but it won’t be an easy fight should it come down to it. “What are you really aiming for?” he asks. “If I knew where to find you, that means my brother does too. So escape isn’t an option for you, is it?” Kenny’s mouth twists in a grimace, his face hardening. Sherlock watches with interest as his deduction hits the nail on the head, Kenny’s kakugan responding to the adrenaline coursing through his system. Kenny’s not looking for a way out. “You know my brother is on his way here,” he continues. “Why bother fighting?”

“Does it really matter?” Kenny says, pacing behind John’s chair. “You killed Brody like he was nothing better than a garbage rat.” A hand rests on John’s shoulder; John tenses under Kenny’s touch but otherwise he doesn’t move. “Now we get to take something from you.”

“If it was tat for tat you would’ve killed me already,” John says, his voice rough. “What do you want?”

Kenny grins, baring his teeth as he comes round to John’s front. “I want to make you suffer,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock. “We’re going to rip your detective boyfriend apart until he’s barely alive and then we’re going to make him watch as we eat you.”

“I’ll kill you,” Sherlock says. His eyes are fighting to change, already able to sense the red and black veins trailing around his sockets, but he wills it back.

It’s not time. Not yet.

“Oh will you? It’s three against one so the odds aren’t in your favour, Holmes.” Kenny wraps a hand around John’s throat, his fingers clenching threateningly. “Should I just end it all now? His body is so soft and malleable. It’s a wonder you didn’t break him when you were fucking him.”

It’s physically painful to pull his eyes away from the hand that could so easily end John’s existence, but Sherlock makes a show of checking his watch, huffing with impatience. “Are you finished?” he asks, affecting nonchalance when it’s all he can do to stop his kagune from driving straight into Kenny’s chest. In such a close proximity to his captor, John’s life must be considered before Sherlock does anything rash.            

Kenny straightens, his hand blessedly leaving John’s neck to rest on one shoulder. “What do you say, boys? Shall we give Holmes what he deserves?”

The bikaku on Sherlock’s left hesitates, cautiously scenting the air. “Boss… Something ain’t right here.”

“Something’s wrong with him,” the rinkaku says. “He smells off.”

“It doesn’t matter what he smells like,” Kenny says, ignoring their concerns. “Just gut him already so we can finish this.”

Sherlock shrugs his Belstaff from his shoulders, allowing the coat to pool on the ground as he watches the two men advance. He reminds himself that he’s not facing impossible odds, but he has to be quick now. He must keep John safe.

They both lunge at him at the same time, their kagune poised as they seek to skewer him with them. Sherlock leaps cleanly up into the air, avoiding their grappling limbs and using all his strength to plunge his fists into their chests when they try to follow him. John’s shout of shock is almost drowned out by the other men, their gasping breaths resounding in Sherlock’s ears as he grips their hearts in his fingers, their blood spurting out of the holes in their chests as he forcibly rips their beating organs from them.

Sherlock knows most wounds can be healed in moments. Organ removal is another matter entirely.

The men drop to the ground, their eyes disbelieving as they look at their hearts in Sherlock’s hands, no longer beating. They have minutes, if that, and, perhaps more importantly, they are no longer a threat. Sherlock lands cleanly and lets their hearts drop on the concrete, casually taking out a handkerchief to wipe his hands clean. “You were saying,” he says, putting the soiled cloth back into his suit jacket and making a mental note to wash it later. Their blood stinks.

John is silent in the chair now, but his breathing is too quick. Sherlock can feel John’s eyes on him, can feel John’s disbelief pouring off of him, but he doesn’t look away from the ringleader. Everything hangs in the balance now.

He will not allow John to die.

“You fucking arsehole!” Kenny shouts, his kagune ripping its way from his right shoulder and circling his arm to form a long blade. Sherlock leaps back out of reach as Kenny’s kagune swings towards him, encouraging the koukaku away from John.

No…

Something’s not right.

The blade is infused with armour he hasn’t seen in this form before, jagged and sharp as it lines the length of the sword-like appendage. Sherlock barely stops his grimace when he realises his opponent is a kakuja.

Nothing else to be done, he thinks, his kakugan swallowing his eyes until they’re consumed. His own kagune burst from his body, two red wings arching from his shoulder blades as the four tentacles trail from the base of his spine. Kenny laughs when he sees Sherlock in his full form, pulling his arm back to block across his chest. “A kakuja! I knew something didn’t smell right about you, Holmes.”

Sherlock growls, the fire-like shimmering of his wings crystallising as he dodges his opponent’s persistent lunges, firing projectiles mid-leap at the ringleader to force him to block against them. It works almost perfectly; Kenny can’t see beyond his own kagune, too preoccupied with his own defence to worry about Sherlock’s counterattacks. Using his tentacles, Sherlock twines them into a single reinforced arm, strengthening the binding between the cells before preparing to thrust the length of it through the ringleader’s body. Kenny makes one last desperate leap towards him, his kagune poised for a sideways strike.

A lightening flash of pain erupts along the left side of Sherlock’s torso, a pained grunt escaping him when he realises Kenny’s kagune has sliced the muscle below his ribcage. It’s deep, a lucky hit, but it’s not enough to stop him from using Kenny’s distraction against him, thrusting his own kagune clean through Kenny’s abdomen.  

The look of shock on the Kenny’s face would normally have Sherlock grinning from ear to ear; now he just wants to finish this. Using the last of his strength, he untwines the tentacles within Kenny, ripping his body apart. Screaming in agony, the other man doesn’t even think about using his own kagune, letting Sherlock tear him from the inside out.

It’s messy and extremely violent, but Sherlock can’t think of a better way to end this miserable excuse of a ghoul’s life.

He lands on his feet, watching through darkened eyes as the last of Kenny’s life ebbs away. The ghoul is staring at him; tears dripping down his cheeks as he exhales one last breath, his corpse twisted on the concrete floor. At Sherlock’s waist, he can already feel his wound sealing itself together, leaving him unharmed and his clothes stained with blood.

It’s done.

The factory is quiet now. John has slowed his breathing down, keeping himself calm in the face of a danger he has never faced before. Sherlock quickly scents the air, but the fight had taken place out of John’s range; unable to smell any more of John’s blood, it’s clear that he’s been uninjured in the struggle.

Thank God…

Sherlock may not agree with the faith behind the saying, but he can’t make himself think anything else.

He doesn’t put his kagune away as he goes to John’s back, using the red tentacles to easily pull the ropes free from John’s hands, ankles and torso. John twists in the chair, not taking his eyes away from Sherlock. “Are you all right?” Sherlock asks.

John doesn’t say anything at first, flexing his hands when the circulation causes them to tingle. Gingerly, he pushes himself up from the seat and turns to look Sherlock in the eye, his gaze sweeping across Sherlock’s body. “I’m fine,” he says eventually, his tone carefully neutral.

“Did they touch you?” Sherlock asks. Swallows against the bitterness of his next words, his voice faltering half way through. “Did they-? Did they bite you?”

“No,” John says and the word very nearly cripples Sherlock, the relief so beautifully intense that it leaves him shaking.

John hasn’t been eaten. His body is safe.

Unbidden, his knees collapse beneath him, his head bowed to his chest. He startles when he feels John rush to his side, gentle hands cradling his head, but he can’t make himself move away. 

“Sherlock…”

He can’t raise his head, doesn’t even try. John completes the action for him, tilting his face up so their eyes meet. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock gasps, his hands reaching up to grasp at John’s. “I couldn’t… I didn’t… But they’re dead now. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

I won’t hurt you anymore.

“Are you hurt?” John asks, his hands already moving to Sherlock’s waist, pulling the fabric apart to get at the skin underneath. The sigh he emits at finding Sherlock’s body intact leaves the detective baffled.

“I’m sorry, John. I’m so sorry,” the mantra repeating itself in his head. No, wait, he can feel his throat working around the sounds, the vibration of his vocal cords as he speaks the words over and over again.

God, what has he been reduced to?

Sherlock tries to push himself to his feet, pushes at John’s hands to dislodge his grip, but John won’t let go, his face hardening as he tries to match Sherlock’s strength. “Wait. Sherlock, wait, your brother told me everything.”            

A shocked silence settles over them both; or maybe it’s just Sherlock that’s feeling it, the implications crashing inside his skull.

John knows.

“What…?”

John pushes himself into Sherlock’s space, making the detective meet his eyes. “He told me everything when he realised there was a possibility I’d be used against you for Brody’s death.”

“Mycroft…?” Sherlock closes his eyes, his face twisting in a grimace. Mycroft told John everything before John became Sherlock’s lover. “Why didn’t you leave?” he asks, dreading the answer but needing to know all the same. “I wanted to eat you.”             

I planned to since the moment I met you, he thinks, but doesn’t say it.

“But you didn’t,” John says. “You didn’t lay a finger on me.” He goes to wrap his arms around Sherlock, wanting to placate, but the detective pushes him away, surging to his feet.

“I wanted to kill you,” he snarls, stumbling backwards. “Don’t you understand that?”

John stands too, his hands spread as he tries to close the distance between them. “Wanted being the operative word. The fact remains that you didn’t hurt me and I know you won’t now. You would’ve done it already if you still felt that way.”

Sherlock shakes his head, his dishevelled curls swaying in front of his eyes. “No, no, no…” He needs to make John understand, needs to make John see how dangerous he can be, he must…

Cool hands stop his backwards trail, his knees giving out again when John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s wait, mindful of the kagune which Sherlock has forgotten about. “When I said I was the luckiest man alive,” John says, “I meant it. I still mean it, Sherlock. You are the most amazing man I’ve ever met and you are beautiful.”

Sherlock has never been called beautiful in this form. Monster, yes. But he’s never been considered beautiful. “Has Mycroft drugged you?” he asks, his head in a daze. It’s the only reasonable explanation he can come up with for John’s complete disregard of the fact that he has to eat humans to survive; that he enjoys it. Nothing else makes any sense.

“Don’t be daft,” John huffs, pushing himself bodily into Sherlock’s space and stroking the fingers of one hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Mycroft wouldn’t be that stupid.” He pulls back marginally, meeting Sherlock’s kakugan with his own eyes. “Just to make sure we’re both on the same page, I am not leaving you, Sherlock. You were, and still are, the most important thing in my universe and I’m not letting go of that.”

As ever, John is just full of surprises.

Sherlock can’t bring himself to doubt the sincerity behind John’s words, feeling the beginnings of a sob crawl up his throat. He swallows it down, wrapping his own arms around John’s fragile body and holding him close. “John… John…” Wonderful, beautiful John who is still here. John, who knows everything, no more hiding now, and he doesn’t want to leave. He wants to stay, in spite of everything Sherlock is, has done and will do.

This isn’t real. It can’t be…

“There is one thing,” John says, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s face. “The next time you get hungry, go for a paedophile or a rapist, okay?”

Sherlock barks out a laugh, unable to stop himself. “That’s what you’re concerned about?”

“Think of it as another handy way of keeping them off the streets,” John jokes, and that finally tips them both over the edge, descending into giggles which are one-part humour, three parts relief at everything else.

“You do know that they taste awful,” Sherlock says after he’s gotten his breath back, pulling his kagune back inside and willing his eyes back to normal. John watches with interest as the extra limbs disappear and Sherlock knows he’s going to be quizzed about that later.

“I expect they do,” John says, stroking his fingers across Sherlock’s cheek to rest under his chin. “But you’re a good person and you’ll do the right thing. Because that’s the kind of man I’d fall for, right?”

Wordless, Sherlock nods his agreement, swallowing against the lump in his throat. He knows they’ll need to talk about this. There’s so much that needs to be considered and planned and thought about, but it can wait for another time. Wrapping his arms around John again, Sherlock realises his lover has him completely unravelled, both of them ignoring the sound of the factory door which heralds Mycroft’s arrival.

With John in his arms, Sherlock knows he wouldn’t have it any other way.