A/N: Happy Halloween!

The Composition of a Good Man

A silly thing, the human race is. We are supposedly the dominate species, yet we seem to have more issues then most animals. We destroy things for our own personal gain. We rape and steal and lie and for what reason? A bit more satisfaction in our belly to get us through the day? Humans are such corrupted creatures. Sometimes I have difficulty distinguishing man from beast. But then again, I am one of them am I not? I am no different from the corporate fat cats and the bloodthirsty rapists and the kleptomaniacs that just steals to give their victim a sense of vulnerability. In fact, I may be worse then them all. I am the killer.

When I was 9 years old I killed a mourning dove with a slingshot. I cut it openand pulled out all of it's intestines so I could see what was inside. I was fascinated by it's make up and how every organ, vein, and cell was connected to create life. I was even more fascinated by how I could destroy it so simply. All of that work of pumping blood, stretching lungs, especially the labor of the brain, all of it just stopped. Of course it wasn't completely immediate, but almost. I had the power to take life despite all of the cells working against me to preserve it.

It was exhilarating.

Strange how the only way I can feel alive is by taking the life from others. It's like they give me a little gift when I kill them. It's very thoughtful actually, I should probably thank them before I take their life.

Despite my hatred for human kind there was one man who will always be my exception.

John Watson.

I am not capable of feeling love, but if I could, I would love John.

When I was just 5 and John was 11, his family (or excuse for one) moved in next door. I did not like John at first. He was older then me and therefore knew more then I did. I saw that to be unfair, but as time went on I developed a sort of soft spot for him. He listened to me and stayed by me even when I was being difficult He understood me like no other human or creature could. If I were to speak, John would hear each word, letter, and syllable.

John's home life was not ideal. His father was a drunkard and his mother lacked any motivation to take proper care of her children. He would often show up to my house with bruises and cigarette burns on his body. He never spoke of what his father did to him, but it was obvious enough.

10 years later I would ask John if I had permission to kill his father.

Despite his unruly upbringing, John was a good kid. He had a very powerful moral compass, something I lacked, and he acted based what he felt was right. If he sensed there was an injustice done he would stick up for his own opinion and fight until things were set right. This often got John into trouble as well. Igot John into trouble quite a lot.

We were always together, John and I. I had no interest in making any other friends. John was all I needed. He was what made me good. I didn't tell John of my urges, but something told me he already knew. When I got angry, which I did a lot, he would get a glimpse of the monster beneath my skin. I suppose he just never expected it to be so strong.

Strangely enough, John always stood up for me. He protected me even if he knew I was in the wrong. John never associated with the "bad" kids, until me. Funny how he was my exception and I seemed to be his.

When I was 13 I made my first human kill. A 10 year old boy named Anderson. I told him I found a dead body. His own curiosity forced him to follow me into the woods. There was no body obviously, at least not yet. Being older and physically superior, it was fairly easy to overpower Anderson. Before long I had him pinned to the dirt, my hands around his neck. Pressing, pressing, pressing. His face turned purple, his body spasmed, his eyes starring straight at me, pleading, begging. I was in complete control of whether this boy lived or died. I chose the latter.

When Anderson died his muscled stopped contracting and his eyes no longer looked at me but stared over my shoulder. They looked far away. I still wonder what he was searching for.

I didn't let go of Anderson's neck until I saw John in front of me. His eyes were wide like how Anderson's were when his face was purple. For the first time I became very scared of what another person might do. Though, I was not afraid that John would hurt me or yell at me. Strangely enough, I was terrified that he would leave me.

John's eyes darted from Anderson, to me, to Anderson again. He covered his mouth with his hand and whispered:

"Oh God."

It wasn't much of a whisper actually but more of an intake of breath with words in it. I remember feeling sad in that moment. I never meant to hurt John, he was the only one I could trust, the only human I liked. I had never wished I could take back a kill, except this one. I know this one broke John's heart. This was the moment when he saw what I really was. A monster.

"Oh God, Oh God Sherlock."

"Hello John." In retrospect, I could have chosen a better phrase to answer him with.

"What have you done?" He said, still in that whisper breath. "Why?"

I did not know why, to be quite honest. There was no logical reason other then 'I wanted to'.

"I don't know."

Anderson's eyes were still open, bruises on his neck that I made, his face wasn't of normal color. I was still straddling his hips in a sort of manor. It didn't look good at all.

"John." I spoke, and he flinched at my voice. It's a peculiar sight seeing an 16 year old young man fear a 13 year old child. I almost liked it a bit. It made me feel strong, but I remembered that John was special to me. I simply could not loose him.

"Sherlock…You parent's have been looking for you. They've got 6 different adults in these woods. If they find you…like this. Oh fuck-"

I had never heard John curse before that day. He didn't like to curse. It made him think of his father.

John had his hands in his hair now, breathing very fast.

"You're too young." He said. "You're just a kid, if they take you in…you'll just get worse."

"Don't be mad." I said.

He wasn't mad, he was scared. Not of me, but of what might happen to me. There was a dead boy at my feet and John was worried for my well being. A remarkable man, I assure you.

He took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut for a long time.

"Okay, okay. C'mere Sherlock."

I went to him.

"I want you to run to my house, there is a cooler in the back yard by the cellar door. I want you to grab me a beer and run back with it. Do you understand?"

I didn't ask why John wanted a beer when he didn't drink, or say that this was hardly the time for a cold one. I just nodded and ran.

When I returned John had his hands pressed against Anderson's neck. When I asked him why he was doing this he replied with:

"You're hands are smaller then mine. This way the evidence can't ever point to you."

He then grabbed hold of Anderson's hand and scratched very hard with it along his own arm. I hadn't known then, but what John was doing was creating false defensive wounds.

He called for me to give him the beer and then he grabbed me by the shoulders. John's eyes were red and shiny and he was trembled a bit.

"I want you to know that I will always always protect you Sherlock. I love you, don't you ever forget that. No matter what anyone else says, you have to remember that. I want you to be good while I'm gone. None of…none of this at least not until I get back. It's only a few years, can you handle that? While I'm gone I'll think of a plan for us. Just stay safe for now. Can you do that for me?"

I nodded. Back then I hadn't a clue that John was making the ultimate sacrifice for me. Me of all people.

John hugged me, then he downed the whole beer in one smooth chug. His eyes squinted and his nose wrinkled while he swallowed. John never liked beer.

"I want you to go home and tell you parents that you heard Anderson screaming out in the woods. I want you to bring them here, but you don't come with them, got it?"

"Okay."

"Good. Be well."

That is the last thing I heard John speak to me for over 5 years. I did what he said and told my parents about him and they went into the woods and I heard them screaming and yelling for someone to call 911. An officer arrested John and pushed him into the back seat of a police car and John didn't resist in the slightest. I stood by my parents as I watched the police car drive away. They muttered words like:

"Terrible tragedy"

and

"Just a matter of time."

and

"Just like his father."

John's worst fear was becoming his father. I am not able to feel remorse, but I still wish that day had never happened. I wish that John had never found me and he had never gone to prison and I had never learned The Code so that one day I would be the one being pushed into a police car and not him.

While I waited for John I took up hunting. It was a fine substitute but it was not the real thing. I still needed to kill humans, it was not something I could control. Of course since I was still only a child at the time, I would hunt on my own with just my slingshot. I mostly killed birds and rabbits and cats, which never felt like enough. I buried the corpses in the forest and I named them all John. I felt since they had to sacrifice their lives for my own benefit, they should be given the name of someone noble.

I missed John while he was gone. I had no one to listen to me and I always could think more clearly if I knew someone was listening to me. I often went to the John animal graves and spoke to them. It never felt the same but it was close enough. When I felt like the John's weren't listening hard enough I'd go hunting and add another pair of ears to the mix. By the end of the first summer, I had a full circle of 31 creature graves. I planted phalaenopsis orchids in the soil.

I'm quite fond of orchids. Their unusual shape is strangely comforting to me. People like orchids, despite their strange appearance I think they look a bit like a cobra. His eyes squinting and his jaw unhinged and open agape. Sometimes I am able to see a tongue. There is a Greek myth to do with orchids that I rather enjoy. Orchis was the son of satyr and an ugly nymph. One wouldn't expect too much from him. This man made his way into a festival thrown for the god Dionysus. Orchis, drunk on wine and excitement, attempted to rape one of Dionysus's priestess. As a result, he was torn limb from limb by the citizens of the festival. Orchis' father begged for him to be restored, but they simply laughed at him and changed Orchis into a flower.

It's a funny story isn't it? I told it to John once but he seemed to grow more uncomfortable with every word of it.

I told it to the John animals and I'm sure they appreciated it. The orchids grew in the soil quite well and soon enough I had created my own garden of the dead.

I had wished the real John could see it. By then he had been gone for 2 and a half years.

Another year past and the first circle of graves had grown and outer shell of more graves. I told the John animals everything that would happen to me every day. John's father raped and killed women in February when my orchids were blooming again. The police never had enough evidence to convict him, but everyone knew what he'd done. That is one of the things that angers me the most of the human race. When you know precisely that someone did something awful, but you are not able to get justice because you do not have every tiny atom of evidence with you.

John's father soon disappeared If I hadn't of promised John, I would have killed him before he could run away.

I discovered that John was sending me letters the whole time he was in prison. My parents would hide them away in the attic room in a chest. They never knew I found them.

According to the earliest letter, John was given a 5 year sentence when he was first imprisoned. By the time I read that letter he only had a month left until he was released. None of the letters described anything about prison life. In fact, they all were about things to do with the outside world, primarily me. One letter read:

One day I'll take you to London, Sherlock. You'll love it there, it's plenty exciting unlike our tiny neighborhood. Lots of things to do so you won't ever be bored.

Another one read:

You must be 17 now. Have you learned to drive yet Sherlock? I know it might be a bit dull, but it's mighty helpful. Especially when you want to get to the other side of the city very fast without running.

Each one was signed at the bottom 'Forever yours, John Watson' and I found myself feel a bubbling excitement in my stomach each time I read those words. John was still with me, I still had my exception of humanity. By the time I got to the most recent letter, I was thoroughly convinced that John was doing just fine in prison. His familiar sarcastic attitude and optimistic outlook was all there. The last letter was dated 3 months before I'd found it.

Dear Sherlock

Two months left. It hasn't been easy, I will tell you that. The inmates here do not take well to child killers. Juvenile detention was simpler then this. October 31st is the day of my release. Pack your bags, I want you to meet me in London. There is a place I know of that we can stay. 221 Baker St. Remember that. Once I see you again I won't be taking my eye off you. We're going to fix this. I have a plan.

-Forever yours, John Watson

That next month, I saw John for the first time in 5 years outside of Baker Street. He was so different but so much the same. His eyes were still a stormy blue and he still held himself in such a refined pose. There were new scars on John's body now. One particular bad one was done to his shoulder during a prison riot. John did not smile anymore. His mouth was forever formed in a thin line, but when I first saw him he looked more relieved then ever.

John hugged me, and I was unsure of what to do.

"I thought I'd never see you again." He said.

"That's ridiculous. Of course you would. Why else would you bother sending letters?"

John laughed a sort of sad laugh. "I really only wrote them to keep myself sane. I never knew if you'd get them. God, Sherlock."

He pulled away and didn't smile, but I could tell he was amazed.

"You've grown so much, look at you! You're bigger then me. And your voice! It must've dropped 5 octaves. That would've been hell during puberty."

That's true. Last time I'd seen John I was merely a child, now I am a legal adult. He missed my entire teenage hood. I would consider him lucky.

John's hands grabbed my shoulders like they did on the last day we saw each other. I gave him a questioning look and he took a deep breath.

"Just… just give me a minute. Let me look at you."

I let him, but I didn't know he would touch me. John cupped my face with his hands and just watched me. I watched him back and we stayed like that for a long time.

"This feels so unreal." He said.

"My face does?"

"No, not your face. The situation I mean. Seeing you again, being here, with you. It feels like a dream."

I did not fully understand what John meant by that. I do not dream of holding John's face in my hands and staring intently at him. But then again, I doubt John dreams in blood like me.

When he finally let go of my face, John ushered me into 221B

"Did you kill anyone?" Is the first thing he says once we are in the flat.

"No." I tell him. "Just animals. I named them all after you."

John got a little pale in the face and I wondered if I had said something wrong.

He said he had a plan for us and that he would explain it in the morning but he wanted to get some sleep then. He then asked if he could sleep with me for the first night. I asked him why since he had his own bedroom upstairs.

"I just want to wake up and know that you're there." He said.

I said it was okay but I still didn't really understand.

John slept with his arms wrapped around me and his face buried in my back. At first it was a bit uncomfortable and I was skeptical if I would be able to sleep that way. Soon though, the soft sounds and even tempo of John's breathing lulled me to sleep.

It was nice not to be alone again.

In the morning, John told me a few things.

"When I was inside, I met a lot of bad people. Really bad people that deserved much worse then what they got. Some got out before me and did much more damage. The worst part was, only the tiniest percent of these people are on the inside. The rest are out here with us, roaming around. They hurt and murder and do such awful things and you know what? They don't give a shit! Even the ones on the inside never learn. They need to learn that every immoral thing they do has a consequence. Sherlock…I've seen things now that I would have never imagined to exist before. They…they don't deserve this privilege of living." He looked at me then.

"We need to fix this. You can fix this."

The Code of John Watson was born.

The Code of John Watson states that, while I am allowed to kill humans now, they must be evil humans. Humans that have no chance of turning their life around and honestly don't ever care to. I must have solid evidence that they did what they did. It doesn't have to be as hard evidence that they may be arrested without issue, but good enough. John may determine if the evidence is acceptable. My targets don't always have to be rapist or murderers. White collar criminals can also be targets. They may not kill anyone, but they do ruin lives, thousands of them at once. John said they deserve to choke under their own greed. I'm not sure if asphyxiation by pound notes is possible but I suppose I will find out.

More specific rules of The Code are: If I am taking care of a serial killer, I must kill him/her in the fashion that they killed their own victims.

I do not kill children.

I do not kill the innocent.

I do not kill John.

I thought that was a silly rule to include. Of course I would never kill John, I need him.

John said I am allowed to kill twice a month but no more. If I overindulge myself I may become addicted. He said he already found my first target.

John had met a man in prison who was given 5 life sentences for the murder of several woman. The man, named Peter, was completely innocent. His coworker however, was not. A French man, by the name of Edmond Banquier, who had a lot of power and little moral values, framed Peter. He threatened to kill his family if Peter did not take the fall for him. Peter, a timid man and afraid of what might happen to his family, reluctantly agreed to their little deal. Once Peter was sentenced, Banquier killed his wife.

John explained this all to me while he pulled on his coat and shoes.

"This is one of the evil ones, Sherlock. Lucky for you, there's a lot of them out there. An infinitive amount. You can have them all, I won't make you wait any longer."

He started out the door and I followed him out. This was the night I would kill again.

Banquier killed with knives, so I did too. He stabbed his women in the stomach first so he could watch the shock in their eyes, then he slit their throats. I did the same.

Banquier was different from Anderson. He growled and struggled and even when he was moments away from blacking out, he continued to glare at me and spit threats. He was very angry. I liked seeing his rage drain out of him with the blood.

John stared at me as I killed Banquier in the alleyway. He was supposed to be keeping watch but the only thing he was watching was me. I liked it a bit when he watched. It made me feel like I was putting on a show. I wanted him to see how I gutted this man and how I got off on seeing his blood pool in the dirty street. I wanted John to know what I was.

His expression remained the same, relaxed mouth muscles, droopy eyelids, eyes fixed in one place, blinking rarely.

He was somewhere else, not with me. I didn't like that. I wanted John to see me.

"John!"

Suddenly he snapped awake in a panic. For a moment I don't think he knew where he was.

"John, look here."

He did, he cringed at Banquier's dead body in my arms and looked away.

"Look."

He did, this time I didn't let him look away.
"Watch me." I commanded. I moved my hand over Banquier's neck and softly gripped it. The feeling of one's cut open throat under my hands is spectacular. Feeling their cause of death under my fingertips. I put that cut there with my own knife.

I smiled at my work.

I have smiled maybe 4 times in my lifetime. Not including the superficial grins I present to seem normal, I mean true smiles. John was the only one who had ever seen me really smile. He was the only one I had ever shown my true self to. Because of him I am not alone. Because of him I was not raised in a prison cell. Because of him I am a better man.

I looked to John finally and I smile at him.

"Thank you." I said.

"I'm going to hell." He said.

"I'll meet you there."

John smiled too.

We lived with each other for 10 years more in the same manor. Every month I would kill two evil beings, John usually helped me find acceptable targets. I was quite keen on discovering evidence but the targets I suggested weren't always evil enough to deserve to be killed. If I had my way, I would kill everyone in the world minus John, and we would live alone in our own little apocalypse for the rest of eternity.

I told John this once and he made a nervous laugh.

"We already kind of live like that Sherlock. Plus, you'd get bored without anyone to kill."

I probably would.

We didn't only take me to kill people in our time. We often went out and ate and watched all of the people around us. I would tell John all of their secrets and he would listen.

Sometimes John would leave me at home to go eat with women. I didn't understand why he needed to socialize with women when he lived with me. He could socialize with me anytime but instead he spent money on the women and bought them fancy dinners and then he would always come home angry and disgruntled and he would take two sleeping pills and pass out for the night. I never understood why he continued to see women even thought they always made him irritable.

One day, when John was supposed to be out with a women, he didn't come home for a very long time. I wondered if he decided to live with her instead of me. I wanted to kill her for that. I waited for John to come home and he did eventually at about 3am, drunk. John had not drank any alcohol since the day he was arrested. He was mumbling all sorts of nonsense and he would then start laughing and then crying and then he cupped my face in his hands like he did when we had our reunion.

He said, "I hate you." And then he kissed me very hard on the mouth.

I didn't understand it.

He pulled away and cursed and then he kissed me again. After that he took two sleeping pills and passed out for the night.

I still don't understand it.

When John woke up the next morning he asked if I wanted him to move out. I said that was preposterous because I needed him and he needed me. So he had to stay or else both of us would come undone. Besides, I don't work and I wouldn't be able to pay the rent. John looked like he were going to cry for a moment. Then he smiled and he said he would stay.

Sometimes, after I killed someone, me and John would have sex. Sex was one of the few things I could really enjoy. It was not boring and I liked the sounds that John made while under me. I liked being inside him and I even liked it when I hurt him. Sometimes I would cut him with my knife while we had sex. I don't know if John liked being cut or not but he always moaned very loud when I did and he never complained so I'm 90% sure he consented to it. I liked to tie him up sometimes, like a present. John bought me toys on the internet to use on him. They were very much entertaining. Though, nothing was quite as enjoyable as carving my name in his skin. I wrote my name seven times on John. Sometimes it was just SH and other times I wrote the full SHERLOCK. I liked it when John was labeled this way. It made me think that he would never leave me because people would see my name on his skin and be forced to return him to me. My John.

Sex was appreciated but every time we finished, I would get up to go work on something and John would beckon for me to stay.

Once I said, "We're both spent and we can't do it again for at least another 30 minutes. There is no other reason for me to be here."

John looked very hurt, then very angry. He left the flat and didn't come back for 16 hours.

"Why did you leave?" I said, when he finally returned to me.

"Because I wasn't wanted."

"Of course you're wanted! You're not just wanted you're needed. Don't leave again."

"I can leave when I want to."

"I won't let you next time."

John scowled at me. He bolted for the door and I had to tackle him to the ground to stop him. He clawed at my arms and I punched him in the stomach to slow him down. He kicked me and I grabbed him and rolled him over so I was on top of him. I then straddled his hips and grabbed his neck. I didn't press down though, I think John was afraid I might. I leaned in and I bit really hard on his throat and John wailed and I kept biting until I could taste blood in my mouth. I licked and sucked out more blood on the spot I'd bitten. I leaned away to examine my work and I smiled. It was almost as nice as my slit throats.

John's breathing was ragged and there were tears in the corner of his eyes. I licked them away.

"You don't leave." I said. "You are not allowed. I need you."

John didn't leave. He slept with me every night now. I was lulled to sleep by his breathing and I dreamt of blood and sex and John.

I stopped killing twice a month and I just killed once every two months. Then once every four months. Then once a year.

John said that there were still evil people out there to be taken care of, but I didn't really care anymore. All the blood I'd ever need was being pumped through John's body by his beating heart.

John and I didn't just have sex anymore, we kissed and I held him and we went out for dinner at the fancy places John took his women once. He didn't see women anymore. He hadn't since the night he first kissed me. Some days he leaves work early to come and see me. Once he suggested we go on vacation.

Life went on like this for another 5 years. When I was 33 and John was 38, I hadn't killed for years. I hadn't had the urge or desire to. It just didn't interest me.

Then I had a dream I killed John. I cut him up into pieces until there was nothing left of him. I buried his pieces in the woods and planted an orchid on his grave.

I woke up screaming in a cold sweat and John had to hold me down until I calmed myself. He kept asking me what was wrong but I couldn't look at him because all I saw was him in pieces. I was even more horrified to discover I had a rather painful erection due to the dream. I don't remember much of what else happened that night. The next morning John would tell me I kept saying "Forgive me." over and over again that night.

"I forgive you, Sherlock. I don't have a clue of what you did, but I do forgive you."

"I'm sorry." I told him. "I'm not good for you John. I'm dangerous. Why do you stay?"

He chuckled, "I thought I wasn't allowed to leave."

I must've looked horrified because John suddenly looked apologetic. "No no! It's just a joke. I'm here because I want to be. Because I love you."

"You shouldn't. I am a bad person."

"Yeah, I know." He kisses me and then he pulls me back under the covers.

I never once told John I loved him, and I don't presume I ever will. John first told me he loved me when I was but 13 years old. He's told me every day since, whether it's through words or actions. I still do not believe I am able to love, but if I could, I would most definitely be completely and utterly in love with John Watson.