I cannot believe I wrote this :S

I was in need of a fic to focus on the other night, and was prompted by NoCleverSig to write a dark smut H/J fic. Next thing I know, it's 4:30am the next day, and I've just written this entire thing in one, frenzied sitting. Darkest thing I've ever posted, but I hope that it makes people think, question things, feel something, and keep reading even if only out of morbid curiosity. If you absolutely hate it, that's fine – please explain why in your review so I can either explain myself, justify things, or beware of what not to do next time :)

That all being said, unending thanks to The Best Beta, NoCleverSig.

Enjoy!

Visitation

(Copyright MajorSam 2010)

He watched her sleep. He watched her face, peaceful only in this rare time when she let her mind go. He watched her chest as she breathed, clad in some kind of satin nightgown, moving up and down.

He loved to watch her.

It had been too long since he'd last been able to do this… simply observe. All their interactions in the last several years had been filled with frantic, chaotic action. Why was it the only time he got to see her was when something was wrong? When someone was in danger? When someone had died and he wasn't allowed to help her pick up the pieces

Then there was the last time, when he'd been freed. For those few short hours, he had been himself again, pure of body but not of mind. He might in time be able to forgive himself for his crimes, the creature's crimes, but he would never forget, and he knew she wouldn't either. Still, he'd held a fleeting hope, during that time of freedom. For decades he hadn't let himself think of her, of their sweet time together. He couldn't risk it, but when he was Himself again? Suddenly his mind raced with possibility, with plans, how he could win her back again so they could live as happily ever after as they could, after all the tragic events of their long lives.

But then all those hopes had been dashed. The creature had been on the verge of destroying everything; her, her friends, her work… and he couldn't let that happen. He just couldn't. So he'd done the damned heroic thing and taken the Madness back into himself. She had been there, offering help, but the moment his eyes had opened to see her face, the urge to kill had almost overwhelmed him. The creature had been thwarted in its attempts to take over the Sanctuary, and it wanted John to make amends. It needed to release all the anticipation it had felt with the prospect of such a grand mass kill. And Helen had been the first thing it saw.

It fed on the hope that had sprung up, the illicit dreams, the fantasies that had coursed through his mind, and it twisted it into hate, rage, and anger. John had never despised the creature more than in that moment, taking the only good thing in his life, his unending love for Helen, and turning it into something dark and perverse.

He had fled as soon as he could and started killing. John tried to control the blood lust, rein it in, but it had been rampant like never before. The only thing he could do was try to choose out-of-the-way places, find people who were either derelict or wouldn't be missed. It was a horrible thing, having to judge people on their worthiness to live, but he had no other choice.

It hadn't helped.

The hunger he felt didn't disappear, didn't dissipate in the slightest.

After weeks of torment and self-loathing, John realized what was wrong. It wasn't the killing that he wanted; that he needed.

It was Helen.

The creature fed on emotion, negative emotion, and when it had turned the light of Helen into a dark plague there was only one thing that could satiate the beast. John had railed against it, fought it with his whole being, horrified and terrified, but in the end, the creature had won.

So here he was, watching, the tools he needed in his hands.

He'd already drugged her tea. Even when she slept she never really let go. She would wake up too soon if he'd left her to her normal few hours of night's rest. He'd been about to try it last night, but she hadn't gone to bed at all.

Now that he was finally here, in her bedroom, a strange calm settled over him. John knew what could happen tonight, but the voice in his head, the constant whispering, taunting, encouraging that had had him on edge for weeks had stopped as soon as he'd seen her. The beast and the man became one, hate merging with love, lust and hunger overflowing with the target in sight.

He gripped the objects in his hands and strode silently to her bedside, a phantom, the only evidence of his presence the shadow that was cast over her sleeping form. She had left the heavy curtains of the window open, and the light of the half-moon shone lightly across her prone figure. In his eyes, her fair skin was glowing. She was a beacon, calling to him, promising the end of his mad hunger, a chance at peace. Her dark hair was like black water, flowing out across her pillow, a river that he wanted to touch, to plunge into.

He gently laid his tools on the ground, kneeling beside her bed, near her head, and placing his hands just on the edge. He leaned in towards her, stopping just shy of touching his face to her hair, and inhaled. The scent of her filled him, and his eyes almost rolled back in his head. She was flawless.

He allowed himself the luxury of observing her for another few moments up close. She wouldn't be waking up until he made her.

Her face was beautiful in its serenity. Soft skin relaxed over strong cheekbones, full lips. He couldn't wait for her to open her eyes so he could gaze into their cerulean depths. His gaze trailed lower, the expanse of her neck. His hands twitched at his sides, wanting to touch it, grasp it, squeeze it. She took a deep breath, and his gaze lowered to her chest. Her nightgown was deep blue satin, looking almost black in the moonlight. Thin straps crossed over her shoulders, barely holding it to her body, and the neckline was deep, a whisper of a covering over her ample breasts. His mouth watered.

He needed to begin now. His pants were already tight, his mind growing heady with anticipation of possessing this goddess before him. It would be the crowning achievement of his entire life.

He swiftly picked up the first item he'd laid on the floor, reaching out to grasp her limp hands in his own, standing up and pulling them over her head. With swift, sure movements he tied her hands to the headboard, one on each corner. Silk ties, of course. This was to be his masterpiece. He let his hands fall deep into the lushness of her thick hair, spreading it out above her head so he could tie more silk around her eyes and under her head. He didn't want her hair tied down. He let his hands trail down the length of her arms, seeing goosebumps erupt even in sleep. His fingers trailed to the edge of the blanket, resting mid stomach, and grasped it, peeling it down to the very foot of the bed, uncovering her to his gaze. He gasped at the sight of her long, slender legs, scarcely covered by the short nightgown. He took a deep breath, reeling himself in, letting his hands continue their voyage, skimming lightly down her curves, her legs. He paused at her ankles. Should he?

No.

His ultimate goal, the climax of this night, would be for her to want this too. To accept whatever he did to her, to submit. He would leave her legs free as a sign of trust, of his love. He let the silk ties intended for her legs fall to the ground, and proceeded to strip down. He carefully placed his clothes on the chair at her vanity, ready to be quickly donned after it was all over and he made his escape, finally free of her.

He climbed up onto the bed, feeling its softness adapt to his limbs, the fine sheets caressing his skin. Helen always did like to splurge on bedding.

He started at her feet, lightly touching her heels, to her ankles, starting up her calves. He was very pleased to discover her skin was perfectly smooth. He savoured the feel of her, touching every inch of her skin. He knew that when she woke, she wouldn't just lie there and let him fondle her. When he made it to her thighs, he sighed in remembrance. Silky skin over hard muscle. She was a paradox, such potent femininity wrapped up in strength and will. He had encountered no other such woman in all his 160 odd years.

He kneaded the muscles of her thighs, loving the way her supple flesh was like putty under his hands, pliable, conforming however he pleased. He lightened his touch, whispering over her inner thighs, and even in deep sleep Helen sighed and shifted, rubbing her thighs together, trapping his hands between her as if coaxing him to keep going. He grinned in the darkness. Her subconscious knew it was him.

He grasped the bottom of her nightgown, pushing it up to rest on her stomach, and his eyes went black as he saw she wore no panties. He'd always wanted her to do that for him, back in London, but though their love life had been far from proper, he'd never had the will to ask. Helen had grown up in their time apart. No longer was she the innocent young woman he'd tutored in the ways of the body. She had become a fully independent, sexually confident woman. The things she could surely do to him if they'd ever reconciled… He quelled the thought. It wasn't meant to be.

He focused his attention on her inner thighs, stroking and touching just so, so that her sleeping body responded to him, but didn't wake. She was probably having a glorious dream by this point. He teased her until he caught the first scent of her arousal. He thanked the gods that he had already disrobed, or he would be hurting even worse than he already was. He moved just barely up her body, taking hold of her right hip as he slid his fingers between her folds, feeling the silkiness of her skin for the first time in decades. He found the beginning of her arousal and gathered it on his fingertips, spreading the slickness on his skin. He brought his hand to his mouth, taking in his finger, tasting her essence. She made a sound again, hips shifting. He looked up at her face and found her still fast asleep. Time to wake her up.

Without preamble, he plunged three fingers fully into her. She was aroused, but barely, and hadn't had intercourse in years, as John suspected. The sudden, dry intrusion was brutal, and with a gasp Helen's eyes flew open, her hips bucking.

She couldn't see, her arms weren't working properly, and her mind felt like it was wading through molasses. It took her a moment to come to the conclusion that she was even awake. Her brain was sluggish trying to fight off the effects of the drug, not that she recognized that as the cause for her slowness. Pain suddenly seared through her, and the fog lifted significantly. She snapped to several conclusions at once. She was blindfolded. Her hands were bound. Someone had their hand up inside of her. She immediately cried out for help, bucking her hips wildly to throw off the intruder. The fingers slipped out of her but then two hands grabbed her hips with brutal tightness and pinned her to the bed. She opened her mouth to scream, but a soft voice interrupted her.

"Sssh," it said, and she froze.

It sounded like… but no, it couldn't be. John was in another country right now, another continent most likely, wrestling with the energy being that haunted him. Even if he was anywhere close there was no way he could get into the Sanctuary, her bedroom undetected.

Was there?

She opened her mouth again to scream, but a hand left her hip and clamped like a vice over her lips.

"Sssh."

She jumped at the voice, right next to her ear, breath hitting the side of her face. Oh god, if it wasn't John, then who? Her ever awakening mind raced, finding and cataloguing potential attackers, someone who would want to hurt her in this way. Her thoughts were cut off instantly as she heard someone chuckle.

It was John.

"I can hear you thinking, Helen," he spoke softly, suddenly at her other ear, amused. He let go of her mouth.

Her growing panic halted for a moment, then shifted to a new kind of terror. The voice, while unmistakably his, was different. She used to melt at the very thought of his smooth, velvety speech, but now he sounded off, discordant, menacing. Was this John talking, or Jack?

"What's going on, John?" she asked, letting him know she knew his identity.

His other hand left her hip to trail up her side. She shivered in spite of herself.

"I've come back to you, my love," he said. A frission of fear ran through her. He had contorted his mouth when he said love. It sounded almost cruel, mocking. The hope she'd had that this was Her John was rapidly dwindling. She needed to get untied and quickly.

"How long have you been here?" she asked, trying to distract him while she planned her escape, minutely working her wrists to see how tight the bonds were.

"A while," he replied, exploring the curve of her waist.

"How long do you plan to stay?" She worked to keep her heart rate under control, calm herself, subtly coiling her muscles for her strike.

"As long as I need to."

She could tell without seeing that he was grinning. Her stomach knotted. She nodded her head, as if accepting his words, letting her body lay docile underneath him. She prayed he would believe her submittal. She could hear him shifting as she strained her ears to make up for the loss of sight. When she felt his body move close to hers, the heat of him that she'd always been so attuned to, she struck.

With all her force she bucked upwards, bringing her knees to her chest in a lightning quick move, placing her feet on the chest she found and pushing hard enough for him to fly completely off the bed, crashing into the chair he'd so carefully laid his clothing on.

She knew she only had seconds, immediately pulling herself into a sitting position against the headboard, running the back of her head against it to try push the blindfold off as her long fingers fumbled with her bonds. Her limbs still weren't fully cooperating.

He recovered even quicker than she'd expected, and with a roar, he launched himself back onto the bed, grabbing her hips once again and pulling her forcefully down. Her head bounced off the headboard painfully before her body was forced to lay flat.

Damn it!

"Do not dare do that again!" he shouted. She ignored him, trying to wriggle her hips from beneath his grasp. He lifted a hand, bringing it down to slap her upper thigh, hard enough to make her skin turn red even in the dim light. She failed to suppress her flinch, and he chuckled again.

"I really wanted you to let me do this, dear Helen." His voice was soft again, the closest he'd sounded to himself yet.

"Will you join me?" he asked. Will you submit, will you be my plaything? What exactly was he asking of her? If she did yield, what would happen? They had experimented like this before, but it had always been planned, always with the knowledge that it was completely consensual. This was different. She had no choice in this. She was beginning to think her lethargy was even somehow part of his plan. What was the end he was hoping for with this sick game?

"I really don't want to restrain your legs," he continued. "I want to feel them around me again, digging into my back, pushing me deeper into you."

She couldn't help the heat that blossomed within her at his words. Good lord how she had longed for him on so many cold, lonely nights! Her longing had only increased after their most recent encounter. He'd said he loved her, would always love her, and she knew she would always love him. Her thoughts came full circle back to questions. Was this even him? With a sinking heart, she knew the answer. No. John would never do this to her, not like this. No how her body responded to his, his mind was gone, and she knew she couldn't submit to this. She only hoped she could get through to John before anything happened.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. The hand on her hip stiffened.

"John, please, I know you're in there somewhere, you have to…"

Her plea was cut off by another hard slap, to the exact same spot. She gritted her teeth against the pain.

"Damnit Helen!" he swore. "Why can't you let go? Give me control, full control, for once in our cursed lives?"

She tried not to be offended by his words. She had surrendered complete and utter control of her heart and soul to him, and he knew it. His tirade only confirmed her knowledge that this was not Her John.

"I only ever wanted to make you happy, my love," he whispered, and her heart clenched. It sounded like John again. He was there, fighting to break through!

"You did, John," she said to him. The hand on her hip loosened. "You can make me happy again, you know," she whispered conspiratorially in a breathy voice that she knew he loved. She felt the heat of his body move closer, and she tried to ignore the want that sprang up, uncontrollable.

"I'll help you," she breathed, and she heard the breath catch in his chest.

"If you untie my arms," she finished sweetly. She swore she could feel his body tense though they weren't touching.

"Come on, John," she tried again, her voice low, seductive. "I know you want to see what I've learned in the last hundred years." She injected as much promise into her words as she could. She waited, keeping as still as possible while he decided what to do. After several tense moments, he laughed, a deep, dark sound that made her heart plummet.

"You are a vixen indeed," he complimented her. "Too bad I be here longer with you."

She didn't have time to figure out what he meant by that last statement because in the next moment she felt the cool touch of a blade against her skin.

When had he picked up a knife?

Her body was rigid as he trailed it up her leg, under the back of her knee, inside her thigh. She resolutely stayed still, refusing to show him the fear she felt. He brought it almost to the apex of her thighs before sliding it along the seam of her leg instead, and she breathed in relief. With her vision erased, her other senses were over active, overly sharp, and every touch was intensified. The blade moved to her flat stomach. He dipped the tip into her belly button, twirling it around a bit. It barely touched her, but it was sharp, and it was just enough of a hint of pain to set her on edge.

This is not John. She repeated to herself. This is not John, and you will find a way out of this.

His unencumbered left hand slipped under her nightgown, feeling her bare curves. His touch was still so gentle…

This is NOT John! Remember the knife in the other hand, you stupid woman?

He shifted his body again so that he was sitting on her legs, his own bent so that his shins dug into her thighs, the length of them pressed along her, his feet reaching to tuck almost under hers. Her heart raced – bound and pinned down. Distracted by his skin on hers, she hadn't realized he'd moved the knife from her stomach to her chest. A ripping noise filled the air and pain trailed down her torso as he cut her nightgown clean through, from top to bottom, the tip of the blade barely brushing her skin underneath. Two quick flicks of the blade and the thin straps were sliced away. He placed the blade on her bedside table, close at hand, and reached under her to grab the ruined gown and pull it completely off of her in one swift move, tossing it aside. He settled his hands by his sides and gazed down at her, awestruck by her naked perfection.

Helen fought desperately not to squirm. She could feel his eyes on her, hungry, and she cursed as she felt her nipples tighten not from the sudden exposure to the cold air, but from his blatant stare. She clamped down on the heat that was trying to rise up. She had to focus on getting out of this situation, not exacerbating it!

He brushed his hands over her naked skin, scarcely touching, but reverent. He moved off her slightly and pushed on her lower back, turning her on to her side so that he could see her bare back. He touched the trail of freckles that spotted over her shoulders, moving to her spine and dancing downwards. She was shivering, focusing on the warmth of his hands instead of the incredibly awkward angle her arms were in. He found her bottom, firm yet soft, and gently kneaded it. She closed her eyes to the heat, so close to her center… His hot hand finally moved up, over her hip, pressing just below her hip bone and coaxing her onto her back again.

She felt him lean over the bed, using his long reach to pick something up off the floor while not losing the power of his weight on her legs. She speculated on what it was, and gasped when she felt the soft touch on her breast.

A feather.

It's not John. It's not John.

The touch was so soft she wondered sometimes if he'd even touched her. How long he tormented her, she didn't know, swirling the instrument just above her breasts, running it along the bottom swell, around in her curves in slow circles to finally tease at the peak of her nipples. She couldn't see where his next touch was coming from, could only guess, hope. She was getting wet, and she hated herself for it. Her mind was drifting away from thoughts of escape, towards thoughts of encouragement. Her breath was coming faster, the slow torture exquisite after so long without any touch at all.

John looked down at her, witnessing the failing battle that she fought. It was John himself who had had the idea of the feather. He knew the creature liked to relish its victories, and the chance to draw this out was too tempting to pass up. In the deepest recesses of his subconscious, John hoped it would give Helen enough time to escape his clutches, throw him off and beat him for his nerve, or lock him up before this went too far. He knew that if this went all the way, in that final moment with her, he would be more vulnerable to the creature than he'd ever been, and Helen would pay the price of his inevitable failure.

She was writhing slowly under him, chest rising up ever so slightly when he broke contact with her skin, trying to get it back, needing him to keep going, move further down her body... He needed to remind her of the danger she was in.

He reached between her legs and shoved three fingers back into her. She was completely wet, but it still stretched her way beyond comfort. He didn't see it, but her eyes, which had drifted shut, flew open beneath her blindfold.

"What the bloody he…" she started to say, stopping when he pulled out and shoved right back in again. She hissed in pain.

"John, stop it!" she demanded, but his fingers didn't slow. He dug his knees into her thighs and dropped down, wrenching her legs apart and continuing his assault.

"John, damnit, STOP!" she yelled, but he was mindless to her calls. Her pain awoke the demon inside, and its rage was swelling, growing, taking over. He fell down on top of her, taking a breast in his mouth and sucking hard. She cried out in pleasure, instead of pain, confusing herself. The pain between her legs was finally diminishing, and the feel of his hot mouth on her, his tongue rasping over her sensitive peaks was amazing. She tried to move her hands to grasp his head, pull him closer but remembered they were bound. The fact made a gush of arousal spring forth, and the passage of his fingers eased further.

No! No! No!

He lavished attention on her chest, determined to regain all his knowledge of her taste, her texture, before the end. Her breasts were bigger than last time he'd made love to her. If Ashley was still around, he would have thanked her. When he'd feasted enough, he raised himself above her, looking down at her heaving chest, pink with pleasure. He noticed a faint red trail leading from the top of her breastbone down to her belly button. It was the trail the knife had made as he'd cut her clothes off. The beast hissed with want, and he leaned down, licking the wound from bottom to top, tasting her blood. Helen trembled, biting her lip, rapidly switching between disgust and desire. When he had cleaned her, he kept moving up, biting into her neck then soothing the marks he left with his tongue. He worked his way all the way up, over her chin, and finally claimed her mouth. He clashed fiercely against her, biting her lip so hard that she bled as she opened her mouth to gasp.

He immediately thrust his tongue into her, reacquainting himself with every part of her mouth, her teeth, her tongue, her cheeks, her throat. She groaned at the taste of him, mingling with her blood. She strained against her bonds, her arms aching from the continued restraint, wanting to touch him so badly, but only having her mouth to show him… what? That she was actually enjoying this? That somewhere deep inside she might be as twisted and dark as he was, and hopelessly addicted to him?

His hand between her legs resumed its work as he let his other grab her breast, kneading it, squeezing it, plucking at her nipple with his fingers. He kept a full three fingers inside of her while his thumb ground into her clit. She sucked his tongue in as hard as she could in response to a special twist of his hand, one that he'd discovered, much to his delight, during a picnic one summer in the secluded countryside.

Her moans grew louder as her body responded to him like it never had to anyone else. The build up with the feather had left her quivering with need. He wrenched his mouth way from hers and her cries filled the room as he nipped his way down her neck, taking her breast in his mouth again while his hand continued to work the other. She thought one last, feeble No, it's not John, before he gathered her nipple into his mouth and bit down, hard. Her back arched and she screamed as her orgasm slammed into her, out of nowhere. Her internal muscles clamped down on his hand like a vice, not letting go, as her body convulsed with waves of ecstasy.

The sight of her, so passionate, so unbridled, broke the last of John's restraints on the demon inside, and with a wild cry he tore his hand out of her. He grabbed her legs and pushed them even farther apart, as far as they would go, straddling her and entering her completely in one savage thrust. Helen, still lost in bliss, cried out again, shocked at the abrupt interruption of her come-down. She sucked in a deep breath and called out to him.

"John, no, it's too soon," she gasped, body shaking to accommodate his size. But he was mindless on top of her, thrusting into her harder than anyone ever had. The border between pain and pleasure was blurred, and she felt tears well up in her eyes. It was too much!

"John, please, slow down!" she cried, voice gaining strength as her resolve to stop him grew. He slapped her thigh again, then grabbed her already bruising hips and forced her body against his, deeper.

"Get off me right now you sick bastard!" she screamed at him.

She didn't know if it was her voice or some command of the creature's, but a hand left her hips and suddenly ripped off her blindfold. After the pitch black of the silk, his moonlit form glowed with light. Her first response was to appreciate his long, lean body, finally bare again to her gaze. She looked up to his face and felt like she'd been drenched in ice water. His face was alive with anger, hate, frenzied lust. His eyes were distant and hollow. Her body had been fooled, lured in by his touch, but seeing him now she knew John was gone. Unbidden tears trickled down her cheeks as he abused her body. He reached under her right leg, grasping it and forcing it up over his shoulder, opening her to him even further. She squeezed her eyes shut to try and stop the flow of moisture, biting her broken lip to keep from crying out as he tore into her. Her hands flailed, trying to gain some kind of hold on her headboard to keep her steady as their bodies rocked.

The tiny spark that was John, watching as if he wasn't even there, distant, unable to stop the madness, thought he would die at the sight of her tears. He fought the beast, railed at it, and managed to move a hand to her breast, taking it as softly as he could, trying to work it solely for her gain. She opened her eyes, looking up at him, so confused, and John fought harder. He slid his hand down to where they were joined, unable to slow down but trying valiantly to bring her along with him. His hand shook with the effort to keep his touch on her slow, soft, mindful of her sensitivity after having already come. She shuddered at his touch, completely disbelieving when it felt almost good.

What the hell was wrong with her?

If it were anyone else doing this to her, anyone, she would probably have found a way to kill them by now. Even though she knew, at this moment, it was the creature, she wondered if it might have been John before after all, or at least part of him. He was in there, trying to make this as easy as possible for her, and she felt warmth in her heart again. What if this was the way for John to exorcise his demon? By pounding into her, was he releasing his bloodlust? His need to kill? If this was the way she could finally help him, where all other options had failed…

She fought to blank her mind to the pain of his forceful intrusions, the picture of his wonderful face contorted into hatred. She focused solely on the touch of his hand between them, stroking her clit in a halting pattern. She needed this over as soon as possible. She took a deep breath, and squeezed her internal muscles as hard as she could, wrapping his length in tight heat, and he cried out his approval. Sweat covered their bodies with the intense physical and mental battles that were being played out. She kept up as much as her sore body could handle until he finally broke. With a strangled roar he reached out and grabbed her hair with the hand not on her clit, her leg falling to the bed as he pulled on the thick strands that he'd purposely left loose, forcing her head back. He rubbed at her violently and to her great shock she came with him.

They fell apart together, crying out, jerking with sensation before John finally collapsed on top of her. Their bodies twitched in the aftermath, skin feeling like fire to the other's. Helen was still trying to catch her breath when John reached out towards the side table, curling his fingers around the shaft of the knife. He slowly brought it back to him, groggily raising his head to look down at the face of his lover. Her face was flushed, brows furrowed, eyes shut, and mouth caught in a grimace as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. He moved his right hand up to stroke her cheek, gently, lovingly, and she opened her eyes to him. She looked so pure, in the afterglow, looking up at him with a hint of the love she harboured.

He plunged the knife cleanly into her side.

Her face froze and she stopped breathing for a moment as she realized what he'd done. White hot agony sliced into her as the shock subsided, and she choked in horror.

John, No!

He looked down at her with a look of such love and adoration. He stroked some errant bangs from her face as he pulled the knife out of her. She let out a keening cry as the sharp blade minced against her insides as he slowly brought it out. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she continued to look up at him, unable to tear herself away from his cold, dead eyes.

He dropped the knife, and it fell onto the sheets, rolling once before falling, thudding on the floor. He stroked her side gently, under the hole he'd just made, feeling her warm blood stream silently out of her. He brought his hand up to join the other at her face, cradling it, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones. His blood soaked hand inadvertently painted the right side of her face red so that her skin was half white, half red. Good and evil, just like him. He leaned down and softly kissed her full lips. When he pulled back, her horrified, disbelieving face was still fixed on his, not knowing what to do, how to react. Tears continued to course down, marking a trail through the crimson paint.

John stirred.

Since the few moments before his climax, John had been truly gone, pushed so far back that he'd thought he'd left his body and been transported to some other realm. Jack had emerged, and gotten what he came for.

NO! John shrieked. The beast was unprepared for his sudden cry, the sudden attack as John burst forth, back into his body, reclaiming his control.

"Helen!" he choked, reaching up to cup her face, ground himself. He cried out at the sight of his hand, covered in her blood as she stared up at him with open fear. Tears sprang into his eyes, making his vision swim as he let go of her face, shaking, not knowing where to put his hands. He looked down, seeing himself still forcing her legs apart with his own, and he sprang off of her, stumbling and tripping over himself in his haste to get off the bed. He finally stood upright, still trembling, looking down at his love, his life, bleeding out on her own bed, by his hand.

Words bubbled up inside of him and exploded in a torrent. He screamed for help as he stood rooted on the spot, staring at Helen with morbid fascination. She slowly turned her head towards him, blinking slowly, her eyes glassy. The immediacy of her danger pierced him like an arrow, and he was flying out of her room, heedless of his state of undress, bellowing at the top of his lungs for someone, anyone, to help.

Helen, abruptly very cold, opened her mouth as he ran off, trying to say something, but only managing a weak croak.

John?

The End

Authors notes:

HELEN DOES NOT DIE! Don't worry. I have no plans for a sequel (My dark angstiness quota for the next while has been filled. For the next while it's fluffy Christmas fluff!) but I DO know that John finds help in time.

Now that we're all assured… What did you think? Horror, disgust, depression? I tried to make this as in character as a dark!smut could be, and these two are MADE of angst, so... I don't believe John would ever actually Kill-kill Helen. I realized that somewhere deep inside I think he'd be able/forced to get darn close! LET ME KNOW!

MSam