Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock crossed off the third name on his list with a slow, lazy stroke of his pen.
“So smart…” He murmured to himself, tapping the pen against the paper before tossing it onto his desk.
 
Three names.
Three murderers apprehended by the detective - his detective - in the span of two months.
 
The first had been a careless fool, the second a bit sharper but ultimately predictable. This last one, though… Sherlock had thought he might last a little longer. Instead, he had been rather surprised to see that Louis had rooted him out just the same, and so quickly.
 
Sure enough, these men had been far beneath him in intellect; but still, he couldn’t deny that Louis had impressed him. How would he fare under his full, undivided attention? Sherlock certainly hoped he’d be able to handle it.
 
A slow grin spread across his face as he let himself fall onto the bed, stretching out with the easy satisfaction of a hunter who had just set his sights on the most intriguing prey.
 
“…and handsome…” Sherlock’s eyes trailed over all the wall in front of him. It had been blank, once; now it was filled with photo after photo, in a meticulous collage of different shots of the same subject.
 
Most of the photos were rather intimate in their innocent mundanity. Louis coming out of a bookshop; Louis at a market stall, buying fruit; Louis walking down the road, collar up against the wind, lost in thought.
 
And then Sherlock had followed him home.
 
The first time had been nothing but curiosity. He had waited for Louis to come out of the London Metropolitan Police building, and when he had spotted the detective, he had followed him. Simple as that.
 
He had told himself it was nothing unusual - he followed his victims all the time, after all. Studied them. Collected details, observed patterns. And it was useful, for a man in his line of ‘work’, to know his enemies as well.
 
But with Louis, it hadn’t stopped there.
 
It was trickier, of course, with the detective living in a flat on a busy street. Too many eyes. Too many cars.
But that only made the challenge more enticing, for there was always a way.
 
So Sherlock learned the rhythm of the neighborhood; the moments when the sidewalks were packed and when they emptied, the blind spots in shopfront reflections, the best places to linger unnoticed. He found vantage points from across the road, places where he could watch as Louis climbed the stairs to his building, as he moved past his window, as he flicked on a lamp and disappeared deeper inside.
 
And the city’s noise provided perfect cover. No one paid attention to another stranger standing at a bus stop that he never got on. No one noticed the figure pausing beneath a streetlamp, pretending to check his phone as his gaze trailed upward to a lit window.
 
He had kept taking photos, obviously.
 
That’s how he had gained the picture of Louis stirring a cup of tea at his kitchen window, or the one of him standing on his balcony, phone pressed to his ear, his expression one of quiet frustration - probably an argument with someone from the precinct.
 
Louis didn’t know he was being watched… not yet, at least.
But he would.
 
“…and just like me.”
 
Sherlock’s eyes flicked to a different section of the wall, his pulse kicking up as they landed on another set of photographs. He had been nothing but reckless to come back to the crime scene and get them - disguising himself as press, with a hat, a camera slung around his neck and a fabricated badge. Still, it had been worth it; he was rather proud of these shots.
 
Louis, crouched over a body, searching for details others had missed.
Louis, turning sharply when someone called his name.
But most of all… Louis with that look in his eyes. That unmistakable light.
 
Excitement.
 
Oh, Sherlock recognized it well. The rush of the chase. The thrill of getting somewhere before anyone else. Louis didn’t just solve cases because it was his job; no, he enjoyed it. He took pleasure in the hunt, just as much as the murderers took pleasure in their own games.
 
Sherlock leaned back, opening the zip of his own jeans and beginning to palm himself lazily.
 
Did he want to be hunted down? To leave breadcrumbs, just to see if Louis would follow?
Or did he want to be the hunter, leading Louis exactly where he wanted him?
 
He had already sent his first gift, after all, although he hadn’t stayed around to see how it would be received.
 
Would the detective see it for what it was – a courting gift? Or would he dismiss it as another sick joke, or some pathetic attempt at intimidation? No, Louis was too clever for that. He would start to wonder. He would start looking. And how would his first reaction be? Would he freeze, staring at it? Or would he react immediately, barking orders to the officers around him, already trying to trace its origin? Would he be pleased?
 
“He is the one for me.” He gasped into the empty room, while his hand worked tirelessly. “No one else will do.”
 
For a fleeting moment, he considered sending another gift; something more personal this time. A photograph, perhaps. A single shot from his growing collection. Just one. Enough to let him know. Maybe he would even stain it with some traces of his own pleasure -
 
But no.
That would be crass, and idiotic. Too obvious. Too soon.
It was how stupid people got caught, and Sherlock was not stupid.
 
He just had to play his cards well.
 
Louis had to be courted properly, carefully, in the way he deserved. If Sherlock moved too fast, too indecently, the detective wouldn’t be intrigued - he would be alarmed. And that wouldn’t do. He had to make Louis feel the thrill of being pursued, of realizing someone had their eyes on him. He would have to be drawn in, step by step, until there was nowhere left to go but exactly where Sherlock wanted him.
 
 
And Sherlock always got what he wanted.