Work Text:
Sherlock ran his fingers over John’s body, feeling the beads of sweat gathering on him. John squirmed, impatient. Sherlock still straddled him, and leaned closer to John’s face, his dark curls falling in a curtain, surrounding John’s head like a halo. What a sentimental thought, John an angel.
“Stop teasing,”
John breathed, and pushed against Sherlock, and lifted his head, trying to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock reacted immediately, and drew back from John. John whimpered, and scrabbled at Sherlock’s steely grip that held him in place.
“Patience, John.”
Sherlock released his grip on John’s other hand, only to run his fingertips along John’s jawline.
“Fascinating.”
He whispered, so quiet that John couldn't hear him. John looked flushed and irritated, and he pushed against Sherlock again.
Sherlock stared him down, and straightened up, and slid off of John’s small body, his feet hitting the cold floor.
He straightened his white dress shirt, before turning to face John again, still laying on the bed, looking very frustrated.
Sherlock walked leisurely over to the closet doors, and drew one open with a small squeaking sound. He rustled around for a few moments, before turning back to John, holding a blindfold in his right hand.
He walked over to John, looming over him. God, he was a sight. Sweating and panting, completely at his mercy. Beautiful. If God had created a masterpiece, it lay on Sherlock’s bed at this very moment.
“Do you trust me?”
He said, fixing John with a piercing stare. John gulped, then nodded.
“Of course.”
Sherlock stepped close to the bed, and leaned over John’s body, to tie the blindfold over his eyes, knotting it tightly. Once he had tied it, he withdrew, watching John react. John moved his head around for a few moments, then settled back onto the bed.
“Wait here.”
Sherlock let the words hang in the air, loving the effect. The tension seemed to build palpably.
Sherlock swished his shirt, and walked out of the bedroom. This was the moment. His footsteps resounded on the hardwood floor, as he made his way to the kitchen.
The tool was just where he had known it would be, seeming to wait for him, the handle gleaming invitingly. He grasped it with long, white fingers, loving the feeling of adrenaline that came with holding it in his hand.
He sighed, fulfilled.
When he got back into the bedroom, John perked up at the sound of his footsteps.
Sherlock made his way over to the bed, and climbed onto it, on top of John once more.
John moaned uncontrollably, and Sherlock leaned down and pressed a kiss to his fevered lips.
Then he raised his head, and looked down at John’s prone form. It was the perfect moment. Why not preserve it forever? The curve of John’s hips, the shadows on his face, the red of his cheeks- a vision.
He repositioned himself on top of John, and prepared himself.
One deep breath- and then he had done it. The knife flashed downwards, glinting in the half-light. John jerked upwards as the knife penetrated his fragile skin, and his shrill scream was better than a symphony.
Sherlock cried with the sheer perfection of it, and he stabbed down again, reveling in the screams.
The blood poured out of John in a rush, as if it were fleeing. It gurgled, spurted, bubbled, it did the things blood does.
When John had stopped breathing, Sherlock rolled off of his dead body, lying next to him on the newly-stained sheets.
“You look beautiful like this.”
He whispered, as if John could hear him. He inched close to John’s still warm body, and kissed his neck, his cheek, his forehead.
“I had to, you know.”
He breathed, centimeters away from John’s ear.
Sherlock rolled off the bed, and stood hastily to admire his handiwork. The blood had flowed just right, and the curves of John’s body were beautiful. There was blood on John’s perfect face, little flecks on his nose and cheeks, even some on his forehead.
Sherlock looked down at the blood staining his hands, and rubbed them together, still feeling the rush of adrenaline.
“Thank you, John. You'll have to visit again sometime. I do so enjoy our sessions.”