Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Established Johnlock.

Rated M for graphic depictions of gore.

Usually I give fat long summaries of what to expect in my stories, but not this time. What I've said above is all you get. You're just going to have to read to see what this one's about.

But, I should say, if you've read my stuff before and are looking for more light fluffy fun, then press the back button. This isn't what you're looking for.

Enjoy. ;D

Sherlock groaned loudly in frustration.

Paced around a little.

Stopped and stared at the ceiling.

Then whined, "Johhhhhnnnn!"

John looked up from the telly, exasperated. "Sherlock, would you quit that and sit down?"

"Lestrade hasn't gotten back!"

"Well it's only been ten minutes, now hasn't it? Have a sit."

"John, I need him to phone me."

"And he will when he has the information you asked for. You are aware you asked for the name of every doctor in Sweden, right? That must take time."

Sherlock let out another long bellow of a moan and John rolled his eyes.

"You're a child."

"It's important!"

John looked back up at Sherlock, but this time, with his eyes a bit more focused, looking Sherlock up and down carefully.

"What is it with this case? You're more obsessed than usual."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed so infinitesimally that there was no way John noticed. He hated when John had his occasional moments of keenness, because they were always at times that were the most inconvenient for Sherlock.

He had to sidetrack him. As John's mind was mostly average, it was easy to shove off a scent.

So Sherlock finally sat down, as John had been suggesting, and the detective put his head in the other man's lap.

"Now, that's better," said John, with the grin that Sherlock secretly adored. John's fingers, as they often did, tangled in Sherlock's hair, fingertips massaging his scalp. If Sherlock were capable, he'd probably literally purr every time John did that. No physical contact felt better to him—sex excluded.

But his happiness didn't last long. John apparently would not be distracted tonight. "But really, what's got you so excited about this case? I mean, more than usual."

Sherlock couldn't avoid it a second time. Too suspicious. So he said, careful to sound as bored as usual, "Well, it's certainly different. My mind is getting a work-out for once."

"It's disgusting, is what it is," said John irritably. "This bloke—or woman—"

"A man is statistically more likely," Sherlock interrupted. He loathed repeating himself, and he was sure he'd said that eight years ago. Oh well.

John ignored Sherlock's insertion, continuing. "—was trained to heal people and they're using it for murder." He shook his head. "Who the fuck does something like that?" Luckily, John was now in a silent, righteous rage, so he was done pestering Sherlock.

Who indeed? wondered Sherlock, closing his eyes and feeling John's fingers rubbing against his head, gentle and soothing even in his anger.

John. Sweet John. John would never look at him the same if he knew. Never. He'd think Sherlock was a monster.

And maybe Sherlock himself would agree.

Because why was Sherlock so obsessed with this case?

Because the crimes were flawless and it was simply intoxicating. They were so perfect that Sherlock was most surprised Moriarty wasn't behind them.

After Jim made his public return, he stayed ominously quiet. Then these murders started. Clean. Clinical. No evidence. Missing organs taken out with medical expertise. It had to be Moriarty because nobody else was enough of a genius.

Until Moriarty's body showed up. Every body was missing a different organ. Always the most damaged. The alcoholic was missing their liver, the drug addict their brain, the smoker their lungs. You see the pattern.

And with Moriarty... His heart was missing. It was poetic. It sealed Sherlock's obsession. This killer was an utter genius to get Moriarty under his knife.

And, yes, it could have been a fake body. It wouldn't be the first time. But, somehow, Sherlock knew it wasn't. He'd had a feeling as he was going through being with John again after being away two years, and the wedding, that Moriarty wasn't really dead. It didn't seem possible. Then there he was, on the telly, and he couldn't bring himself to be surprised.

Moriarty didn't do anything really after that. He was biding his time, of course. It was months. The accident happened, and then the funeral: one coffin, two corpses. The sign of three didn't matter after that, because now there was just one. John was a mess. He wasn't alone, because he had Sherlock, but he'd become so accustomed to having Mary, and to the thought of a child… he was truly broken. For ages. It killed Sherlock to watch it.

The last thing John needed was Moriarty to strike again.

But strike he did, about a month later. John had already moved back in with Sherlock by then, so he heard about it the same time Sherlock did.

The first corpse was a blind woman who'd had her eyes removed. Still alive when they were taken, no pain relievers. She had an anti-clotting agent in her blood that caused her to bleed out fairly quickly. Sherlock had been only mildly impressed, until he was on the case for a few months, two more bodies appearing in that time, with nothing at all leading to a killer. Serial killers were hard because you had to wait for a mistake.

But now, more than a year later, there were fifteen bodies piled up and there weren't any mistakes. Not one. It was unheard of.

It was intriguing.

And there it was. Sherlock was afraid of himself as of now because these murders were so perfect, so immaculate that he didn't want to find the killer in order to apprehend him. He wanted to marvel at him. Bow at his feet. Fuck him, if that's what he wanted. Anything. It was perfection and he was dangerously close to being in love with it. He on more than one occasion had gotten hard at the thought of whoever this genius was.

Well, once he figured out it wasn't Moriarty, that is. He was the twelfth body. The one that really got Sherlock going. If this person was clever enough to truly end James Moriarty... Sherlock's heart nearly fluttered at the thought of it.

But it was stupid. It made no sense. He and John had been dating for two months now, and it didn't take Sherlock long to realize dating John was all he really wanted from life, aside from solving cases. So what was he doing fantasizing about a murderer when he had his perfect John right here with him? John who adored him, John who would do anything for him...

Yet in the late hours of the night, as he sat in the dark sitting room long after John went to bed, he'd yearn for something more sinister.

When he slept with John, it was sweet, full of love they were both still too self-conscious to express with words.

But if Sherlock were sleeping with the murderer... A doctor like John, but different in every other way... he wouldn't be so gentle with Sherlock. Would he hit him? Would he enjoy blood-play? Was Sherlock insane for being aroused by that?

He'd considered that maybe he just needed some rougher sex to get rid of these thoughts, but he could never mention BDSM with John when the chance to do so came. He found himself unable to talk with something strangely like nerves stopping his throat.

So now they were sitting on the couch, John playing with Sherlock's hair as he sat with his eyes closed and imagined with only some shame the type of glorious mind that must be behind these pristine murders. And he wondered, not for the first time, if he would be able to turn the man in once he caught him.

He was sure he already knew the answer, and that was what scared him most.