#killer john

The days were hot, they were always hot and dusty, so dry at times it would burn your throat to breathe. The dirt rolling in the wind as the scent of wheat and heat would linger in it. You always had sweat on the back of your neck, rolling down your chest and pebbled on your low back.

It was like that now and it was like that when you were young.

It was like that when you’d walk down the road, face warm and skin sweaty as you wandered down the long road from town. You’d lived far, not unbearably, but it took about an hour to walk there and back if you were fast. You’d never cared much, would have a bag in your hand watching the same land you’d watch almost every day.

Your shorts would be slightly damp, and your legs dirt covered and bruised. Even now they were perpetually dirt covered and bruised.  Loose tank top meeting the same sweaty fate. Boots clomping as they sat too big on your feet as you walked. Nearly reaching your knees with how high they came.

Old boots your mother would wear out in the mud when it would rain.

As a child your hair was always short, your mother cutting it with kitchen scissors into some sort of pixie cut. She never seemed to mind when you'd take the haircut into your own hands, no matter how bad it was.

As a teen you grew it longer, never any neater, but you were keen on keeping it in your face, the front of it at least, the rest was usually up because of the heat. While the look didn’t gain you many friends, there were many other things that put people off about you. Not to mention it was a small town (population wise) and people were set in their opinions.

As you would walk down the hot road back home. You’d walk slowly with your cd player clipped to your waistband on your short polyester shorts, and you’d pretend you were in a movie as you looked out at the vast fields full of yellow and brown. Passing into trees and houses in the distance, far from the road. Cattle in fields, and cars rolling past.

None ever stopped, a few would slow down and drive with you so your classmates inside could shout profanities or catcall you or something of that nature.

The only time anyone would stop was when it was an old truck that had creaking brakes and smelled of smoke and gas, and always had too much stuff weighing down the bed of the truck. Missing a mirror on the passenger's side and carrying a gruff classmate you knew well.

John Price.

The boy who always looked years beyond his age, and had big thick hands that were much too rough, but a surprisingly warm smile, and he smiled all the time. He was someone you knew well, not really a friend, but, not not a friend. You never spoke in school, and you never really ‘hung out’. But it seemed every time you were walking that road he’d find you there, and he would drive as fast as you were walking and talk to you. He’d talk about anything, and he’d never speed up when people would honk up a storm behind him. He’d never pull over when people could pass him on the two lane road, and flip him off as they’d pass. 

John would sometimes not even talk, he’d just play the radio loud as you walked beside his truck and he’d watch you. Like some sort of weird barrier or protector from the road.

The first time he’d done it you’d thought he was about to shout at you. Hell when you’d looked over you thought you were about to get picked up by some creep. But after a moment you'd recognized him.

After about a summer of this, you two had grown close. You’d never tell him when you were walking, but he’d always know, and he’d be there. It was strange to you. Like he had someone who would call him and tell him when you were walking. Or he was psychic.

(What you didn’t know was that he did have someone calling him, the lady who ran the local grocer was his aunt, and she knew he had a little crush on a certain someone, and she’d tell him when you’d leave and he'd hop in his truck and catch up to you.)

The day that changed things was the day that it had rained, unexpectedly, it had been hot the day before, so you’d dressed for hot weather, but you were halfway home when it started raining. By the buckets it seemed. By the time John had pulled up, you were soaked wet, clothes sticking to you and hair plastered to your face and neck. He was in work clothes when he’d screeched to a halt beside you.

“What’re ya doin’ out here?” he’d asked, panicked. His cap messily pushed back on his head, eyes looking you up and down.

You’d quirked a brow, holding up the items in your hand, “Wha’da you think genius?”

John rubbed his face, “Git in, you’ll get sick out here, or git hit or somethin’.”

You huffed, looking at the long stretch of road in front of you. Then back to John, you’d remembered the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed looking at you, brows pinched. You remember the way the air chilled your skin and the surreal feeling you had walking in the silence as letting the water soak you down.

You never would have guessed that getting in his truck would’ve led to where it had, but no one can ever really guess what the consequences of their actions will be.

(I think referencing this post)

Hey Lovely!

Ahhhhhhh do you have the post numbers? That’s all I’ll need hahaha! <3 Sorry Lovely, I am not finding it anywhere.

“How are you gonna kill my mama?” "That's not appropriate dinner conversation, Dottie.” "Unless you poison her.”

As always, Sherlock Holmes knew.

He paused to form an assessment. Heightened breathing. Digestion temporarily shutting down - blood rerouting itself towards deep muscle tissue; change of blood flow resulting in strange physical sensation in lower abdominal region. Elevation in sympathetic activity in the autonomic nervous system. Increase in adrenaline and cortisol production…His body was perceiving a potential unknown threat.

Sherlock Holmes always knew, but he never hesitated.

He took a deep breath in attempt to supply more oxygen to his bloodstream. The chase had poetically ended at the place where it had all begun. St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The patron saint of origins, where Sherlock had first met the only friend he would ever have, where Sherlock would then fake his death to save him, and now where Sherlock had found himself browsing the office of Dr. John H. Watson, fingers brushing the length of a bookshelf stopping to hover over one title in particular. An early copy of Grey's Anatomy. Standard. Even as the information was updated, the book remained relevant for the sake of image. Every doctor would have one. A key hidden in plain sight. Dull and boring like John.

Dull and boring and Sherlock Holmes hesitated before tipping the book. Not because his body was preparing to face an unknown threat. No, Sherlock knew exactly what was on the other side of the bookshelf. Knowing was precisely why he hesitated.

The secret lever released the latch, and with a distinct click the bookshelf invitingly and silently slid forward.

"There you are."

John gently smiled as he continued to work on the body beneath him. "Took you long enough, though I knew you'd find me eventually."

Sherlock carefully stepped into the small room, hands clasped behind his back as he paced the perimeter of John's secret.

"You know my methods Doctor, I first had to eliminate the impossible. What remained, however much I did not want to acknowledge it, was the truth."

Sherlock glanced at the body John had been meticulously working on. She would make the 11th victim in a series of distinct prostitute murders spanning a three year timeframe in central London. All completely drained of blood. Hearts removed. Bodies cut neatly into square pieces, and always presented wrapped in bows – a beautifully elegant shade of sapphire blue - for Lestrade's men to find.

"You always did fancy blue."

John paused momentarily to admire his work, relating the matter-of-fact to Sherlock. He measured another strand of signature ribbon, "This one's a bit rushed though...knew you were coming so I didn't have much time...I had planned to make some tea-"

"The victims. They're for me."

It wasn't a question. John's working became still. He quietly placed his tools on the metal countertop and glanced upwards to meet with Sherlock's accusing eyes.

Sherlock found himself staring into the abyss; distant vacant spheres containing an insatiable hunger which had consumed John's eyes. Momentarily, a glisten echoed from their depths, and before Sherlock could stop himself, he read John: Eyes slightly sunken into sockets. Possible drug use, most likely alcohol. Discoloration of skin...not from crying - absence of ruptured blood vessels. Lack of sleep - PTSD induced nightmares. Distant and vacant appearance of pupils - nightmares resulting in dissociative reality as a coping mechanism, possible panic attacks following nightmares. New worry lines and thinning hair, both of which, much too early for his age. Body approximately 15lbs lighter - High levels of stress and anxiety Lack of emotion resulting in unused Muscle tissue - cheek tissue slightly sagging. Arms slightly scarred - Self Harm - attempt to compensate for...

The abyss tugged at Sherlock's heartstrings forcing himself to break eye contact with John. He couldn't keep reading. He averted his gaze taking a step back to create distance. The cool of the brick wall breathed against his neck, giving the impression that the already small secret of John's, was constricting around them, suffocating Sherlock. His pulse elevated; once more his body tensed in search of a potential threat. John isn't a threat, Sherlock reminded himself, he is simply a Hound of Baskerville, there's nothing to be afraid of.

John's vacant gaze followed Sherlock's movements in complete adoration. The doctor knew he was being deduced, and he relished it, even if it were at his expense. A slight smile tipped the corner of his mouth, another glimmer flickering through the dense water of his eyes as he answered Sherlock's accusation.

"They were always for you. You do love a good serial killer."

It was the same crooked smile that he had longed to see. Sherlock's mind accessed an archive of consciously collected memories of John to compare with current reality. Dozen's of remembrances, flooded his mind palace:

John, smiling proudly at Sherlock's side as he waltzed into a crime scene and commanded authority.

John, Hiding a smile towards Sherlock's blunt and inappropriate comment.

John, Smiling to himself, lost in thought as Sherlock made a particularly clever breakthrough on a case...he replied with that smile, the words 'amazing', and 'fantastic'.

It was the same. Same as always: boring, dull, smile, glimpsed countless nights, as John, while watching telly and eating Chinese attempted to steal a glance of Sherlock, only to find him already admiring his friend. When their hands or arms accidentally brushed. Unspoken emotion betrayed John's lips when he became suddenly aware of the inappropriate-for-flatmates closeness between them; a sweet nothing which had escaped from that broken smile.

Archived because Sherlock understood that smile was reserved solely for him. A sweet nothing and everything shared between only two individuals of 6.5 billion. And Now, John stood before Sherlock, offering a mutilated prostitute wrapped in a beautiful sapphire bow and that bloody sweet smile; whispering sweet nothings and shared secrets which kissed shivers down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock's blood diverted within his system again; abdomen coiling upon itself in twisted hesitant emotions as his mind archived the new memory of John. A choleric taste stirred in his mouth as his flatmate returned to handling his newest skeleton.

"But let's be honest then, you've known since Mary, haven't you."