Halloween Fic: "I Can See You" Part Two
Title: “I Can See You...”
Genre: Horror, Supernatural, H/C, Slash
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan (brief mention), Harry Watson, Mummy and Daddy Watson, other ;)
Warnings: PG-13 I think for the most part...
Word Count: Oh....something along the lines of... 5'249 words! O.O
Summary: “John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he’s in his mid-thirties and running around London like he’s some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he’s normal and ‘pedestrian’ but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...”
Author’s Note: Well this should be fun for me to write since I’m making it up as I go along (oh I love my mind!) and I should be doing Chem revision so... this is far more fun in my opinion! I thought that since we’re coming up to Halloween and such that I should get into the spirit of things and do something spooky!
P.S: The only difference between this little ‘verse and the Sherlock!Verse is the fact that I’ve made John into the oldest sibling (because it makes it SO MUCH EASIER for me!)
Tell me what you think of this please people and I hope you all enjoy it, Kasey >=]
...
“I Can See You” Part Two
...
“Sherlock! Would you please stop that?” John exclaimed as Sherlock ran around the front room of Baker Street with a cape whirling behind him as though he was some deranged Dracula wannabe. The scariest part of the whole get up, in John’s opinion at least, was that Sherlock really suited the Dracula look.
“Whatever for John?” Sherlock asked as he spun on the spot and brought the side of the cape up, held in his hand, and covered the lower half of his face with it; if John didn’t have his army training he might have shivered and gone running for the hills.
“You look like you’re auditioning for the part of Dracula in a revamp of that Hammer Horror with Christopher Lee!” John exclaimed because Sherlock really did look like the Count; it was strangely arousing...
“I don’t have the height,” Sherlock replied but he let go of the cape and stood staring down at John with a slight smirk on his face, “and I don’t think anyone would appreciate me trying to suck them dry.”
John blushed at the wording of the statement and scowled at Sherlock as the smirk became more pronounced, “Why the hell are we doing this anyway? I thought you hated holidays.”
“And you’re quite correct John, I am indeed not too keen on holidays but in this case it would be advantageous to our current case if we attended this fancy-dress party; I also believe Lestrade will be there, and it would be a good idea if we kept an eye on the bumbling fools of Scotland Yard,” Sherlock explained in his usually sarcastic drawl as he moved away to the mantle where he picked up the skull and looked at it measuringly.
“You’re not taking the skull Sherlock,” John declared firmly as he stalked across and snatched it from the younger man’s hand, “it’s bad enough that you’ve dressed up like Count Suckula, we don’t need you freaking out people by telling them it’s a real skull!”
“Count Suckula, really John; I thought you were above such childish things,” Sherlock remarked and John repressed the urge to whack him one with the skull as he placed it back on the mantle. Sometimes he hated Sherlock, he really did.
“Just shut up and go get a cab for us, I need to put on my shoes,” John growled as he stalked away only to be pulled up short as Sherlock grabbed his arms and encompassed him in the detectives cape, “Sherlock! What are you doing?” John squeaked as he tried to free himself from Sherlock’s embrace but the detective had obviously taken John’s lessons about self-defense to heart because he couldn’t disengage the taller man.
Sherlock dipped his head down low so that his lips brushed behind John’s right ear and his breath caught in his throat; damn Sherlock and bloody well damn Halloween. Though he was enjoying Sherlock’s attention being focused on him, or more specifically his pulse-point on his neck, John couldn’t help but tense-up as he had always done whenever someone showed him such affection. It brought back memories that he wished he could just forget but his mind was anything but forgetful.
Sherlock paused, lifting his head slightly so that his lips were no longer caressing John’s now taught flesh, and he asked quietly, “Why do you always do that?” he sounded genuinely curious and if John was right, a little hurt at John’s reaction, but John couldn’t explain it; how could he explain it! He barely understood it himself!
As John licked his lips, trying to figure out how he could explain, he was saved by the sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing from its place on the kitchen table, “You should answer that,” he said, “it’s probably Lestrade asking where we are?”
Sherlock didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let the doctor go but he understood that John didn’t want to discuss it; he never did, so Sherlock released John and moved across the front room, as though he was gliding across the ground, and answered the phone as John took several hasty lungfuls of air.
“Holmes, what do you want?” Sherlock drawled his attention not really focused on the speaker on the other side of the call; his eyes followed John as the shorter man sat down on the sofa and tied up the boots he’d bought especially for his costume. It took him almost a minute to realise who he was speaking to, “No Mycroft! I will not be visiting this Halloween! I have plans!”
He hung up before his brother could argue with him and said loudly, “Ready John?”
John’s head snapped up, his eyes locking with Sherlock’s grey ones and Sherlock was sure he saw something in those blue orbs but it was too fleeting for a self-proclaimed sociopath to identify. John stood up and nodded, “Yep. We’d best get going, or we’ll be even later than we already are.”
Without another word John disappeared down the stairs and Sherlock, after a moment’s hesitation, followed after him, coming down the stairs just in time to see John open the door and hear him ask, “Where exactly is this party?”
“Oh, it’s at The Grove Spa Resort,” Sherlock answered as he fumbled with his mobile which he couldn’t find a pocket for; maybe the costume wasn’t all that practical really. Because he was fiddling with his mobile he never saw the way that John started or paled. In fact, he didn’t notice anything was wrong until they were half way there and he looked up from his mobile to John; the question of whether or not John had any pockets dying on his lips as he observed the doctor.
“John?” He asked quietly, worry colouring his voice enough for it to be noticed by John but John just shook his head; he didn’t want to talk about it, now wasn’t that familiar? “John, what is it? And don’t say nothing,” he warned as he reached out a hand and laid it lightly on John’s leg.
If it was even possible John tensed even more and his voice was curt and strained as he answered, “I had a bad experience there Sherlock; just a bully who had one too many,” John avoided looking at Sherlock and he took a deep breath, mentally ordering himself to relax. One by one each of his muscles loosened and relaxed until he felt somewhat calm and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.
“It was a long time ago; I thought I got over it,” John explained, and he wasn’t lying; he had thought he’d got over it, “Though I guess I was wrong,” he smiled, or grimaced really, and Sherlock searched him with his eyes; observing, deducting and cataloguing everything he saw.
“Alright, but do refrain from reacting as you just have when we arrive; I don’t think our cover would survive such an event,” Sherlock said, his voice its usual tone but John detected the hint of worry and concern still present. He was eternally thankful that Sherlock hadn’t challenged him; he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself under control if he had.
“As long as you don’t try and seduce some unknowing girl I think we’ll be fine,” John replied, his voice sounding more relaxed and more like it normally was. He smirked as Sherlock pouted at his comment and couldn’t help but laugh as Sherlock turned to him and did the traditional Dracula pose; arms raised by his head, fingers gnarled like branches and sporting a coloured set of fangs.
...
It took them an average fifty-nine minutes to reach The Grove, which Sherlock complained about since according to Google Maps the journey should have only taken forty-six minutes. John didn’t really care how long it took, he didn’t even want to be there but for the sake of the case he was swallowing his absolute terror and ploughing on like a good little Demon Soldier; and he hated his costume, he really did.
They walked up, side-by-side although it looked more like John was clinging to Sherlock, and Sherlock knocked on the door with a gloved hand. It took mere moments for the large, archaic-looking door to swing open and a rather creepy-looking staff member dressed as Renfield waved them inside, “Welcome to The Grove of Despair gentlemen,” the Renfield drawled, sounding as though he was already tired of having to say such a boring line and John supposed the fella had already had to say it a couple dozen times.
Sherlock looked at the man, his almost silver eyes rapidly dissecting him, before nodding and striding away in the direction of the main hall where the sound of chattering was loudest. John gave Renfield a tight smile and hurried after Sherlock, resolutely deciding that he wasn’t going to leave the detective’s side for the rest of the night; and it wasn’t because he was scared, it wasn’t. Oh who was he kidding! He was bloody terrified and he knew it!
As he entered the rather large room he briefly noticed that Sherlock was standing near the entrance talking to what looked like a deformed scarecrow. The closer he got to Sherlock the more and more relaxed he felt and he reasoned it was because Sherlock’s presence was, for him at least, calming. As he reached the taller man’s side he did a double take as he finally figured out who was the deformed scarecrow, “Lestrade!”
Lestrade looked at John and gave him a lop-sided grin, “Didn’t recognise me huh?” at John’s surprised face he laughed and said, “Donovan threatened to find embarrassing photos of me if I wore my usual attire; said I had to blend in.”
John smirked and shook his head, “Well, at least Sherlock’s not the only one who’s obsessed with this bloody season!” Lestrade raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock in amusement.
“So I was right, you did insist on costumes! You wanted to play dress-up!” Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock glowered at him and then glared at John who began to laugh quietly, “I should have known you’d go for the dramatic though.”
Sherlock pouted and it looked so strange because of his outfit, and the make-up and the fangs that Lestrade had to look away before he fell apart in fits of laughter; John too had to do the same as Sherlock said petulantly, “It would have been harder to get information if I hadn’t dressed up; it’s simple logic.”
“Of course Sherlock,” John said patronisingly, his voice tinged with amusement, and Sherlock glared at him again but it didn’t bother John in the slightest; he actually found it kind of endearing really.
Sherlock was about to open his mouth when what looked to be a partially decapitated woman up on the small stage in the room and declared into a microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m so very happy to see so many ‘unfamiliar’ faces here tonight,” there was a half-hearted titter of laughter amongst the crowd, “and I am happy to announce that our annual Halloween Hunt will begin in the next five minutes. The members of staff will be hiding away shortly and it is your job to figure out the creepy clues to find them and bring them back here. The first person, or team, to find three staff members will win first prize, with whoever discovers two in second place and those who discover one will get a gift-card,” there was a polite clapping as the woman nodded and said in conclusion, “Happy Halloween everyone, let’s get started!”
“So much for figuring out who the killer is,” Lestrade muttered as he looked around searching for someone, “I’m going to have to see if I can organise it so Donovan and I can observe rather than participate,” he disappeared into the now moving crowd and left Sherlock and John alone to talk in private.
“What are we going to do Sherlock?” John asked, he didn’t want to do this ‘Halloween Hunt’, it sounded as though the end result would be a mad-man wearing a Hockey-mask stabbing the winner with a kitchen-knife; he was going to murder Harry for making him watch those bloody Jason films!
“We are going to hunt John! What else?” Sherlock declared as he moved away over to where the clues were being put up on the clear notice board, “‘Echoes of drip, drip is all around you, ice in your veins and fire in your heart, reflective sheens to blind you if you see: 3259, 14:22:1.’ Not very original, though it does save us time.”
Sherlock turned around and hurried away, barely pausing long enough for John to catch up, and began to ascend up the spiral staircase which would take them to the second floor. John for the most part was busy trying to not walk into one but he spared enough of his attention to ask, “What does it mean?”
“Oh John!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation, “It’s really quite simple; our first staff member is in the en suite of room 88.”
John would have stared at the taller man had it not been for the fact that someone rudely ran into him and he stumbled to the side. He didn’t have enough breath to shout out to Sherlock and the last he saw of the man was him ascending the staircase and not looking back.
...
By the time John managed to escape the clutches of one particularly handsy old woman he knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t find Sherlock anytime soon, so he did the only thing he could think of; he went to have a look at the second clue, hoping that he could figure it with his limited intelligence.
When he reached the notice board he realised one thing; there was about nine people stood in front of it blocking the second clue so he had to push his way through until he reached the front and read the clue. Re-reading it over and over, making sure he had read it correctly, a familiar feeling of abject fear began to worm about in his gut and John hurried away from the notice-board; finding the nearest open window and taking in lungfuls of cold air to try and calm himself.
Once he was sure that he wasn’t about to throw-up, or faint, he turned his mind to the second clue, dissecting it and trying to figure out what it all meant; but he wasn’t Sherlock and he always hated riddles, “‘Run rabbit, run run away, don’t stray from the path down by the Brooke. Harker’s lay in wait where you can’t navigate. Close the door and bar the windows, flickering candles guide your way’ what the hell does it mean!”
Leaning against the window frame he stared forlornly out the window at the dark surrounding grounds of the hotel, not really seeing it so he did a double take as his eyes picked out a solitary light about twenty-feet from the window. He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the window, surprised when he spied another light about ten-feet behind the first one, he stared at it and was startled when it flickered and died; flickering candles guide your way! Of course!
Hurrying away from the window John crossed the room, deftly dodging people and trailing costumes until he came to the archaic-looking door and he shot out of it and out into the dark night. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change in lighting before hurrying towards where he’d seen the first light. It took him almost five minutes to find it and he looked at the ground closely, picking out a faded tarmac path running alongside the flickering ‘candles’.
Without hesitation, his mind focused on the clue and finding Sherlock, John set off, following the lights for what felt a century before he found himself outside a house which had a single flickering light in the upstairs window. Suppressing a smirk of achievement he hurried to the door and pushed it open, surprised when it swung open; he gave the downstairs of the house a quick check, flickering the light switches only to find they didn’t work, before ascending the stairs carefully and cautiously.
Reaching the landing he padded along it, his boots making hardly a sound on the wooden floor, until he reached the room he’d seen the light in only minutes ago. He pushed the door open gently and entered the room, looking about himself but he saw no-one; sighing in annoyance at his stupidity, John turned around only to have the door slam shut, locking him in.
The single flickering light in the room; spluttered and dimmed, but John dived at it and almost curled into himself as he collapsed next to it in paralysing fear. He reached out a shaking hand in an effort to reach the light before it died but his hand never touched it. He was slammed backwards into the wall beneath the window, winded and stunned, as something began to constrict his breathing. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t call for help; couldn’t breathe.
As everything began to get dimmer and dimmer John thought he heard the sound of someone downstairs but he couldn’t think properly as whatever it was that was crushing him began to touch him; he shivered and tears began to break free of their confines of his eye lashes and roll down his cheeks. The only sound he could make was a desperate sound of keen of terror and fear, and then a whimper of pain as it began to scratch him, boil him, burn him and make him bleed.
“John!”
He knew that voice, he was sure he did; it made him feel safe, usually, made him feel alive and happy. But he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t call back; couldn’t beg for him to make him safe... Sherlock!
“John!” the sound of thundering footsteps echoed around the room as someone came careening up the stairs and rammed into the door; the wood splintering but not giving, as though it was being held up by some supernatural power, “John! Answer me!”
“Sher....” John croaked, his voice was so weak, so pained, so constricted that he was sure Sherlock hadn’t heard him, but he was wrong as the detective renewed his efforts to ram the door open; so determined was the detective that mere seconds after John’s croaked call, Sherlock came careening into the room. The cape he was wearing whirled around him dramatically and John could have cried in relief at the sight of his best friend.
The thing, whatever it was, seemingly disappeared and John was left coughing and choking on the air his lungs took in mouthfuls of air. Sherlock hurried over to him and crouched down next to him, concern and worry clearly etched on his face; it seemed that the light had returned when Sherlock had entered the room.
“John? Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, reaching out a hand and placing it lightly on one of John’s shaking arms. John couldn’t answer him, it hurt to breathe and he settled for shaking his head and pulling the detective closer to him; burying himself in Sherlock’s cape, shivering uncontrollably.
“Come on, we need to leave,” Sherlock said suddenly, he looked around the room and reached out his other hand so as to help John stand only his hand never touched John.
John watched in horror as Sherlock was bodily thrown away from him with so much force that the detective slammed into the wall opposite him, landing in a heap on the ground and not moving, “Sherlock!” John exclaimed as he scrabbled towards to the unmoving detective. He reached out and pulled on Sherlock’s shoulder until he could see the detective’s slack face, gasping in fear and worry as he noticed a small cut on his forehead. Quickly John pulled off the cloth he’d tied around his arm to complete his Demon Soldier image and pressed it against the cut, stemming the dangerously strong flow of blood. He looked around himself, hoping desperately that someone was going to come running up the stairs and rescue them both; but his hope was entirely misplaced because the door, which Sherlock had splintered because of his determination to get into the room, shut again, but slowly this time as though the thing was taunting John.
John looks down at the detective, staring into the slack face, and inside he feels something beginning to form; not the usual paralysing fear he normally felt whenever the thing was around him. No, this was something different, this was something hot and seething and it was building and building, more and more, stronger and stronger until he snarled in absolute anger.
He rose up slowly and turned around, protecting Sherlock with his body, and growled, “You want me you fuck! Well tough ‘cause you fucking can’t have me!”
The light in the room flared, growing brighter and brighter as John snarled in protective anger, “You can’t have me so fuck off! Go! I banish you!” The sound of screaming, hissing, snarling and snapping echoed around the room as a fierce wind whipped his hair and froze his skin, but he didn’t stop; he just thought of Sherlock, Sherlock hurt, and he raised his voice, shouting, “I banish you shadow of the dark! I banish you! I cast from my hearth and from my life! Do not challenge my will, give me no more strife! I order you to be on your way! In this realm you can no longer stay!”
An almighty scream deafened John as he collapsed onto the floor just as the windows exploded with so much force that shards of glass came hurtling towards him and the prone Sherlock. Instinctively John dived onto Sherlock and protected him from the worst of the shards until a deathly silence fell in the room.
The last thing John recalled before he lost consciousness was the sound of shouting, and Sherlock’s hand touching his face as the detective finally came to.
...
The sound of beeping was what woke him up from his comfortable sleep, it was definitely the sound of beeping; but the hand that was firmly grasping his own kept him awake. Blearily he opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the room and slowly turned his head to the side; catching sight of a set of silvery-grey eyes staring at him. If he had had the energy to be startled then he would have been but John felt so tired that he settled for blinking rapidly before giving the detective a real, if a little tired, smile which Sherlock returned.
“You’ve been unconscious for almost three days,” Sherlock said quietly, his hand tightening slightly on John’s own, “I was scared you wouldn’t wake up,” John frowned at Sherlock and opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock cut him off, “I know; a silly, emotional thing to think but I couldn’t help it... not after what I saw...”
John tensed up automatically but the usual fear that accompanied any comments relating to ‘it’ didn’t develop, leaving him a little confused until he remembered what he’d said; what he’d done. He blinked again and swallowed thickly, his throat was so dry, and it seemed that Sherlock was astute enough as to realise he was thirsty and quickly poured him a glass of water. Taking a couple of small sips John swallowed again and found that it didn’t hurt as much; speech wouldn’t be so difficult now.
“It’s always been in my life,” John whispered, his voice soft and low, and Sherlock stared at him; surprised and confused as to why John was talking to him, but he didn’t interrupt so John continued, “When I was a baby I never cried; it scared me too much, and it used to cry at me...” John shivered and Sherlock scooted closer to him, almost as though he could rid John of the bad memories with his close proximity, “I realised I was different to other kids when I used to see the ‘other’ children when no-one else could; it scared my mam and she made me promise to never mention it to people. She was right to make me promise; I’d have been committed otherwise,” John gave a bitter chuckle and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but thought better and closed it again; allowing John to continue unimpeded, “When I was fourteen they took me to Alton Towers for the day; it was brilliant to begin with. I went on the newest rides and had a brilliant time; but when I was on the Skyride it... it kind of broke down and I was trapped in one of the cabin’s about thirty-feet up in the air. I was so scared, but I still didn’t cry and shout for help, I hid in the corner but it didn’t help... nothing ever did... it found me and it...” John swallowed thickly and he tears began to form in his eyes, but they didn’t come free, “it hurt me....” he finished quietly.
Sherlock didn’t speak, he simply reached out with the glass of water and John took another couple of sips, nodding his thanks to the detective; he didn’t want to continue but after what happened to Sherlock, that night, he owed him at least this, “It didn’t bother me much... after that time... but when I was in college; my second year my mate, Haley, dragged me to the annual Halloween party. I hadn’t even wanted to go in the first place but Haley was stubborn; too stubborn really,” John shook his head at the memory of Haley forcing him into that God-awful costume! “Joey Lathers; the one who’s so thick that you can’t help but wonder how they managed to get into college, stopped me from going in. He didn’t like me because I knocked him out in a fist-fight a few months beforehand; it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it though... anyway, he wouldn’t let me in and I ended up heading back home... well I tried to at least...”
John’s grip on Sherlock’s tightened, so much so that it was almost painful, but Sherlock didn’t say anything about it and John didn’t realise as he continued to speak; staring at the wall opposite him, lost in the past, “It chased me in the dark, caught me... did things to me... well, let’s just say that what it did wasn’t that nice... when I came too it was morning and I was lying in the middle of the wooded area of the hotel grounds; barely clothed,” John blinked as the tears finally broke free and rolled down his face, “I didn’t tell anyone what happened, no-one would have believed me anyway; I went to medical school and then signed up and it didn’t bother me for almost fourteen-years... but I was shot and sent back to the UK; where it was... In Afghanistan I was safe; well, as safe as you can be when you’re getting shot at and nearly being blown apart on a daily basis, but here it was waiting for me-” he broke off abruptly as the door opened and a nurse poked her head through, smiling when she saw John was awake.
“Hello Mister Watson-” she started but Sherlock cut her off sharply.
“It’s Doctor Watson if you don’t mind,” he said coldly, not bothering to look at the woman, instead he kept his attention focused on John as the nurse entered the room and did the routine checks, “remember to close the door on your way out.”
If John hadn’t have been reliving some horrible memories then he might have laughed at Sherlock’s comment; though he most probably would have told him off for being so rude. He blinked rapidly and Sherlock said softly, “Continue please John... I would like to know what happened after you returned from Afghanistan.”
He would never had told anyone else this, but this was Sherlock and he felt obligated to tell Sherlock; so he did, “It bothered me when I was in that flat before I moved in with you, but it wasn’t that bad; it was mostly just scratches and throwing things. When I moved in with you it just... went away; you were like a charm or something. It wouldn’t come near me when you were around; I was safe with you and since Afghanistan I was able to relax and feel something other than fear. I was happy,” John smiled and looked at Sherlock’s surprised face, “You were the best thing that has ever happened to me because you made me feel so, so safe...”
It took Sherlock a few moments to recover from the shock of John’s admission and he asked curiously, “If I was protecting you from this... this entity, then why did it attack you during the Hunt?”
John shrugged, he didn’t know and he didn’t really care because he’d stood up to it; he’d chased it away, not the other way around, “I don’t know; maybe it was fed up of you protecting me? Maybe the Hunt was the perfect opportunity? It was on Halloween afterall; I’ve read that... that those sorts of things are stronger around Halloween...” he shrugged again.
Sherlock stared at him for another minute longer before asking, “It’s not coming back is it?”
John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes, not a hint of fear in his gaze; only determination, strength and fondness for the detective, “No,” he said firmly, “No it’s never coming back.”
...
END
Well! It’s complete at long last! This was so hard for me to write (but it wasn’t because of the content or anything actually; it was because my fingers feel like blocks of bloody ice!) Anyway, tell me what you think of this overall and don’t hesitate to call it a load of buggary... (please hesitate :p)
Hope you liked it and please comment on this; Kasey.
Genre: Horror, Supernatural, H/C, Slash
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan (brief mention), Harry Watson, Mummy and Daddy Watson, other ;)
Warnings: PG-13 I think for the most part...
Word Count: Oh....something along the lines of... 5'249 words! O.O
Summary: “John H Watson has never been what people would class as being an ordinary person, not when he was young and not now when he’s in his mid-thirties and running around London like he’s some bloody superhero; granted without the tights. Sherlock thinks he’s normal and ‘pedestrian’ but John wishes he was normal; normal sounds so much better than what he really is... a creep...”
Author’s Note: Well this should be fun for me to write since I’m making it up as I go along (oh I love my mind!) and I should be doing Chem revision so... this is far more fun in my opinion! I thought that since we’re coming up to Halloween and such that I should get into the spirit of things and do something spooky!
P.S: The only difference between this little ‘verse and the Sherlock!Verse is the fact that I’ve made John into the oldest sibling (because it makes it SO MUCH EASIER for me!)
Tell me what you think of this please people and I hope you all enjoy it, Kasey >=]
...
“I Can See You” Part Two
...
“Sherlock! Would you please stop that?” John exclaimed as Sherlock ran around the front room of Baker Street with a cape whirling behind him as though he was some deranged Dracula wannabe. The scariest part of the whole get up, in John’s opinion at least, was that Sherlock really suited the Dracula look.
“Whatever for John?” Sherlock asked as he spun on the spot and brought the side of the cape up, held in his hand, and covered the lower half of his face with it; if John didn’t have his army training he might have shivered and gone running for the hills.
“You look like you’re auditioning for the part of Dracula in a revamp of that Hammer Horror with Christopher Lee!” John exclaimed because Sherlock really did look like the Count; it was strangely arousing...
“I don’t have the height,” Sherlock replied but he let go of the cape and stood staring down at John with a slight smirk on his face, “and I don’t think anyone would appreciate me trying to suck them dry.”
John blushed at the wording of the statement and scowled at Sherlock as the smirk became more pronounced, “Why the hell are we doing this anyway? I thought you hated holidays.”
“And you’re quite correct John, I am indeed not too keen on holidays but in this case it would be advantageous to our current case if we attended this fancy-dress party; I also believe Lestrade will be there, and it would be a good idea if we kept an eye on the bumbling fools of Scotland Yard,” Sherlock explained in his usually sarcastic drawl as he moved away to the mantle where he picked up the skull and looked at it measuringly.
“You’re not taking the skull Sherlock,” John declared firmly as he stalked across and snatched it from the younger man’s hand, “it’s bad enough that you’ve dressed up like Count Suckula, we don’t need you freaking out people by telling them it’s a real skull!”
“Count Suckula, really John; I thought you were above such childish things,” Sherlock remarked and John repressed the urge to whack him one with the skull as he placed it back on the mantle. Sometimes he hated Sherlock, he really did.
“Just shut up and go get a cab for us, I need to put on my shoes,” John growled as he stalked away only to be pulled up short as Sherlock grabbed his arms and encompassed him in the detectives cape, “Sherlock! What are you doing?” John squeaked as he tried to free himself from Sherlock’s embrace but the detective had obviously taken John’s lessons about self-defense to heart because he couldn’t disengage the taller man.
Sherlock dipped his head down low so that his lips brushed behind John’s right ear and his breath caught in his throat; damn Sherlock and bloody well damn Halloween. Though he was enjoying Sherlock’s attention being focused on him, or more specifically his pulse-point on his neck, John couldn’t help but tense-up as he had always done whenever someone showed him such affection. It brought back memories that he wished he could just forget but his mind was anything but forgetful.
Sherlock paused, lifting his head slightly so that his lips were no longer caressing John’s now taught flesh, and he asked quietly, “Why do you always do that?” he sounded genuinely curious and if John was right, a little hurt at John’s reaction, but John couldn’t explain it; how could he explain it! He barely understood it himself!
As John licked his lips, trying to figure out how he could explain, he was saved by the sound of Sherlock’s mobile ringing from its place on the kitchen table, “You should answer that,” he said, “it’s probably Lestrade asking where we are?”
Sherlock didn’t want to move, didn’t want to let the doctor go but he understood that John didn’t want to discuss it; he never did, so Sherlock released John and moved across the front room, as though he was gliding across the ground, and answered the phone as John took several hasty lungfuls of air.
“Holmes, what do you want?” Sherlock drawled his attention not really focused on the speaker on the other side of the call; his eyes followed John as the shorter man sat down on the sofa and tied up the boots he’d bought especially for his costume. It took him almost a minute to realise who he was speaking to, “No Mycroft! I will not be visiting this Halloween! I have plans!”
He hung up before his brother could argue with him and said loudly, “Ready John?”
John’s head snapped up, his eyes locking with Sherlock’s grey ones and Sherlock was sure he saw something in those blue orbs but it was too fleeting for a self-proclaimed sociopath to identify. John stood up and nodded, “Yep. We’d best get going, or we’ll be even later than we already are.”
Without another word John disappeared down the stairs and Sherlock, after a moment’s hesitation, followed after him, coming down the stairs just in time to see John open the door and hear him ask, “Where exactly is this party?”
“Oh, it’s at The Grove Spa Resort,” Sherlock answered as he fumbled with his mobile which he couldn’t find a pocket for; maybe the costume wasn’t all that practical really. Because he was fiddling with his mobile he never saw the way that John started or paled. In fact, he didn’t notice anything was wrong until they were half way there and he looked up from his mobile to John; the question of whether or not John had any pockets dying on his lips as he observed the doctor.
“John?” He asked quietly, worry colouring his voice enough for it to be noticed by John but John just shook his head; he didn’t want to talk about it, now wasn’t that familiar? “John, what is it? And don’t say nothing,” he warned as he reached out a hand and laid it lightly on John’s leg.
If it was even possible John tensed even more and his voice was curt and strained as he answered, “I had a bad experience there Sherlock; just a bully who had one too many,” John avoided looking at Sherlock and he took a deep breath, mentally ordering himself to relax. One by one each of his muscles loosened and relaxed until he felt somewhat calm and Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.
“It was a long time ago; I thought I got over it,” John explained, and he wasn’t lying; he had thought he’d got over it, “Though I guess I was wrong,” he smiled, or grimaced really, and Sherlock searched him with his eyes; observing, deducting and cataloguing everything he saw.
“Alright, but do refrain from reacting as you just have when we arrive; I don’t think our cover would survive such an event,” Sherlock said, his voice its usual tone but John detected the hint of worry and concern still present. He was eternally thankful that Sherlock hadn’t challenged him; he wouldn’t have been able to keep himself under control if he had.
“As long as you don’t try and seduce some unknowing girl I think we’ll be fine,” John replied, his voice sounding more relaxed and more like it normally was. He smirked as Sherlock pouted at his comment and couldn’t help but laugh as Sherlock turned to him and did the traditional Dracula pose; arms raised by his head, fingers gnarled like branches and sporting a coloured set of fangs.
...
It took them an average fifty-nine minutes to reach The Grove, which Sherlock complained about since according to Google Maps the journey should have only taken forty-six minutes. John didn’t really care how long it took, he didn’t even want to be there but for the sake of the case he was swallowing his absolute terror and ploughing on like a good little Demon Soldier; and he hated his costume, he really did.
They walked up, side-by-side although it looked more like John was clinging to Sherlock, and Sherlock knocked on the door with a gloved hand. It took mere moments for the large, archaic-looking door to swing open and a rather creepy-looking staff member dressed as Renfield waved them inside, “Welcome to The Grove of Despair gentlemen,” the Renfield drawled, sounding as though he was already tired of having to say such a boring line and John supposed the fella had already had to say it a couple dozen times.
Sherlock looked at the man, his almost silver eyes rapidly dissecting him, before nodding and striding away in the direction of the main hall where the sound of chattering was loudest. John gave Renfield a tight smile and hurried after Sherlock, resolutely deciding that he wasn’t going to leave the detective’s side for the rest of the night; and it wasn’t because he was scared, it wasn’t. Oh who was he kidding! He was bloody terrified and he knew it!
As he entered the rather large room he briefly noticed that Sherlock was standing near the entrance talking to what looked like a deformed scarecrow. The closer he got to Sherlock the more and more relaxed he felt and he reasoned it was because Sherlock’s presence was, for him at least, calming. As he reached the taller man’s side he did a double take as he finally figured out who was the deformed scarecrow, “Lestrade!”
Lestrade looked at John and gave him a lop-sided grin, “Didn’t recognise me huh?” at John’s surprised face he laughed and said, “Donovan threatened to find embarrassing photos of me if I wore my usual attire; said I had to blend in.”
John smirked and shook his head, “Well, at least Sherlock’s not the only one who’s obsessed with this bloody season!” Lestrade raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock in amusement.
“So I was right, you did insist on costumes! You wanted to play dress-up!” Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock glowered at him and then glared at John who began to laugh quietly, “I should have known you’d go for the dramatic though.”
Sherlock pouted and it looked so strange because of his outfit, and the make-up and the fangs that Lestrade had to look away before he fell apart in fits of laughter; John too had to do the same as Sherlock said petulantly, “It would have been harder to get information if I hadn’t dressed up; it’s simple logic.”
“Of course Sherlock,” John said patronisingly, his voice tinged with amusement, and Sherlock glared at him again but it didn’t bother John in the slightest; he actually found it kind of endearing really.
Sherlock was about to open his mouth when what looked to be a partially decapitated woman up on the small stage in the room and declared into a microphone, “Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m so very happy to see so many ‘unfamiliar’ faces here tonight,” there was a half-hearted titter of laughter amongst the crowd, “and I am happy to announce that our annual Halloween Hunt will begin in the next five minutes. The members of staff will be hiding away shortly and it is your job to figure out the creepy clues to find them and bring them back here. The first person, or team, to find three staff members will win first prize, with whoever discovers two in second place and those who discover one will get a gift-card,” there was a polite clapping as the woman nodded and said in conclusion, “Happy Halloween everyone, let’s get started!”
“So much for figuring out who the killer is,” Lestrade muttered as he looked around searching for someone, “I’m going to have to see if I can organise it so Donovan and I can observe rather than participate,” he disappeared into the now moving crowd and left Sherlock and John alone to talk in private.
“What are we going to do Sherlock?” John asked, he didn’t want to do this ‘Halloween Hunt’, it sounded as though the end result would be a mad-man wearing a Hockey-mask stabbing the winner with a kitchen-knife; he was going to murder Harry for making him watch those bloody Jason films!
“We are going to hunt John! What else?” Sherlock declared as he moved away over to where the clues were being put up on the clear notice board, “‘Echoes of drip, drip is all around you, ice in your veins and fire in your heart, reflective sheens to blind you if you see: 3259, 14:22:1.’ Not very original, though it does save us time.”
Sherlock turned around and hurried away, barely pausing long enough for John to catch up, and began to ascend up the spiral staircase which would take them to the second floor. John for the most part was busy trying to not walk into one but he spared enough of his attention to ask, “What does it mean?”
“Oh John!” Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation, “It’s really quite simple; our first staff member is in the en suite of room 88.”
John would have stared at the taller man had it not been for the fact that someone rudely ran into him and he stumbled to the side. He didn’t have enough breath to shout out to Sherlock and the last he saw of the man was him ascending the staircase and not looking back.
...
By the time John managed to escape the clutches of one particularly handsy old woman he knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t find Sherlock anytime soon, so he did the only thing he could think of; he went to have a look at the second clue, hoping that he could figure it with his limited intelligence.
When he reached the notice board he realised one thing; there was about nine people stood in front of it blocking the second clue so he had to push his way through until he reached the front and read the clue. Re-reading it over and over, making sure he had read it correctly, a familiar feeling of abject fear began to worm about in his gut and John hurried away from the notice-board; finding the nearest open window and taking in lungfuls of cold air to try and calm himself.
Once he was sure that he wasn’t about to throw-up, or faint, he turned his mind to the second clue, dissecting it and trying to figure out what it all meant; but he wasn’t Sherlock and he always hated riddles, “‘Run rabbit, run run away, don’t stray from the path down by the Brooke. Harker’s lay in wait where you can’t navigate. Close the door and bar the windows, flickering candles guide your way’ what the hell does it mean!”
Leaning against the window frame he stared forlornly out the window at the dark surrounding grounds of the hotel, not really seeing it so he did a double take as his eyes picked out a solitary light about twenty-feet from the window. He narrowed his eyes and leaned closer to the window, surprised when he spied another light about ten-feet behind the first one, he stared at it and was startled when it flickered and died; flickering candles guide your way! Of course!
Hurrying away from the window John crossed the room, deftly dodging people and trailing costumes until he came to the archaic-looking door and he shot out of it and out into the dark night. He paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden change in lighting before hurrying towards where he’d seen the first light. It took him almost five minutes to find it and he looked at the ground closely, picking out a faded tarmac path running alongside the flickering ‘candles’.
Without hesitation, his mind focused on the clue and finding Sherlock, John set off, following the lights for what felt a century before he found himself outside a house which had a single flickering light in the upstairs window. Suppressing a smirk of achievement he hurried to the door and pushed it open, surprised when it swung open; he gave the downstairs of the house a quick check, flickering the light switches only to find they didn’t work, before ascending the stairs carefully and cautiously.
Reaching the landing he padded along it, his boots making hardly a sound on the wooden floor, until he reached the room he’d seen the light in only minutes ago. He pushed the door open gently and entered the room, looking about himself but he saw no-one; sighing in annoyance at his stupidity, John turned around only to have the door slam shut, locking him in.
The single flickering light in the room; spluttered and dimmed, but John dived at it and almost curled into himself as he collapsed next to it in paralysing fear. He reached out a shaking hand in an effort to reach the light before it died but his hand never touched it. He was slammed backwards into the wall beneath the window, winded and stunned, as something began to constrict his breathing. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t call for help; couldn’t breathe.
As everything began to get dimmer and dimmer John thought he heard the sound of someone downstairs but he couldn’t think properly as whatever it was that was crushing him began to touch him; he shivered and tears began to break free of their confines of his eye lashes and roll down his cheeks. The only sound he could make was a desperate sound of keen of terror and fear, and then a whimper of pain as it began to scratch him, boil him, burn him and make him bleed.
“John!”
He knew that voice, he was sure he did; it made him feel safe, usually, made him feel alive and happy. But he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t call back; couldn’t beg for him to make him safe... Sherlock!
“John!” the sound of thundering footsteps echoed around the room as someone came careening up the stairs and rammed into the door; the wood splintering but not giving, as though it was being held up by some supernatural power, “John! Answer me!”
“Sher....” John croaked, his voice was so weak, so pained, so constricted that he was sure Sherlock hadn’t heard him, but he was wrong as the detective renewed his efforts to ram the door open; so determined was the detective that mere seconds after John’s croaked call, Sherlock came careening into the room. The cape he was wearing whirled around him dramatically and John could have cried in relief at the sight of his best friend.
The thing, whatever it was, seemingly disappeared and John was left coughing and choking on the air his lungs took in mouthfuls of air. Sherlock hurried over to him and crouched down next to him, concern and worry clearly etched on his face; it seemed that the light had returned when Sherlock had entered the room.
“John? Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, reaching out a hand and placing it lightly on one of John’s shaking arms. John couldn’t answer him, it hurt to breathe and he settled for shaking his head and pulling the detective closer to him; burying himself in Sherlock’s cape, shivering uncontrollably.
“Come on, we need to leave,” Sherlock said suddenly, he looked around the room and reached out his other hand so as to help John stand only his hand never touched John.
John watched in horror as Sherlock was bodily thrown away from him with so much force that the detective slammed into the wall opposite him, landing in a heap on the ground and not moving, “Sherlock!” John exclaimed as he scrabbled towards to the unmoving detective. He reached out and pulled on Sherlock’s shoulder until he could see the detective’s slack face, gasping in fear and worry as he noticed a small cut on his forehead. Quickly John pulled off the cloth he’d tied around his arm to complete his Demon Soldier image and pressed it against the cut, stemming the dangerously strong flow of blood. He looked around himself, hoping desperately that someone was going to come running up the stairs and rescue them both; but his hope was entirely misplaced because the door, which Sherlock had splintered because of his determination to get into the room, shut again, but slowly this time as though the thing was taunting John.
John looks down at the detective, staring into the slack face, and inside he feels something beginning to form; not the usual paralysing fear he normally felt whenever the thing was around him. No, this was something different, this was something hot and seething and it was building and building, more and more, stronger and stronger until he snarled in absolute anger.
He rose up slowly and turned around, protecting Sherlock with his body, and growled, “You want me you fuck! Well tough ‘cause you fucking can’t have me!”
The light in the room flared, growing brighter and brighter as John snarled in protective anger, “You can’t have me so fuck off! Go! I banish you!” The sound of screaming, hissing, snarling and snapping echoed around the room as a fierce wind whipped his hair and froze his skin, but he didn’t stop; he just thought of Sherlock, Sherlock hurt, and he raised his voice, shouting, “I banish you shadow of the dark! I banish you! I cast from my hearth and from my life! Do not challenge my will, give me no more strife! I order you to be on your way! In this realm you can no longer stay!”
An almighty scream deafened John as he collapsed onto the floor just as the windows exploded with so much force that shards of glass came hurtling towards him and the prone Sherlock. Instinctively John dived onto Sherlock and protected him from the worst of the shards until a deathly silence fell in the room.
The last thing John recalled before he lost consciousness was the sound of shouting, and Sherlock’s hand touching his face as the detective finally came to.
...
The sound of beeping was what woke him up from his comfortable sleep, it was definitely the sound of beeping; but the hand that was firmly grasping his own kept him awake. Blearily he opened his eyes, squinting at the brightness of the room and slowly turned his head to the side; catching sight of a set of silvery-grey eyes staring at him. If he had had the energy to be startled then he would have been but John felt so tired that he settled for blinking rapidly before giving the detective a real, if a little tired, smile which Sherlock returned.
“You’ve been unconscious for almost three days,” Sherlock said quietly, his hand tightening slightly on John’s own, “I was scared you wouldn’t wake up,” John frowned at Sherlock and opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock cut him off, “I know; a silly, emotional thing to think but I couldn’t help it... not after what I saw...”
John tensed up automatically but the usual fear that accompanied any comments relating to ‘it’ didn’t develop, leaving him a little confused until he remembered what he’d said; what he’d done. He blinked again and swallowed thickly, his throat was so dry, and it seemed that Sherlock was astute enough as to realise he was thirsty and quickly poured him a glass of water. Taking a couple of small sips John swallowed again and found that it didn’t hurt as much; speech wouldn’t be so difficult now.
“It’s always been in my life,” John whispered, his voice soft and low, and Sherlock stared at him; surprised and confused as to why John was talking to him, but he didn’t interrupt so John continued, “When I was a baby I never cried; it scared me too much, and it used to cry at me...” John shivered and Sherlock scooted closer to him, almost as though he could rid John of the bad memories with his close proximity, “I realised I was different to other kids when I used to see the ‘other’ children when no-one else could; it scared my mam and she made me promise to never mention it to people. She was right to make me promise; I’d have been committed otherwise,” John gave a bitter chuckle and Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but thought better and closed it again; allowing John to continue unimpeded, “When I was fourteen they took me to Alton Towers for the day; it was brilliant to begin with. I went on the newest rides and had a brilliant time; but when I was on the Skyride it... it kind of broke down and I was trapped in one of the cabin’s about thirty-feet up in the air. I was so scared, but I still didn’t cry and shout for help, I hid in the corner but it didn’t help... nothing ever did... it found me and it...” John swallowed thickly and he tears began to form in his eyes, but they didn’t come free, “it hurt me....” he finished quietly.
Sherlock didn’t speak, he simply reached out with the glass of water and John took another couple of sips, nodding his thanks to the detective; he didn’t want to continue but after what happened to Sherlock, that night, he owed him at least this, “It didn’t bother me much... after that time... but when I was in college; my second year my mate, Haley, dragged me to the annual Halloween party. I hadn’t even wanted to go in the first place but Haley was stubborn; too stubborn really,” John shook his head at the memory of Haley forcing him into that God-awful costume! “Joey Lathers; the one who’s so thick that you can’t help but wonder how they managed to get into college, stopped me from going in. He didn’t like me because I knocked him out in a fist-fight a few months beforehand; it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it though... anyway, he wouldn’t let me in and I ended up heading back home... well I tried to at least...”
John’s grip on Sherlock’s tightened, so much so that it was almost painful, but Sherlock didn’t say anything about it and John didn’t realise as he continued to speak; staring at the wall opposite him, lost in the past, “It chased me in the dark, caught me... did things to me... well, let’s just say that what it did wasn’t that nice... when I came too it was morning and I was lying in the middle of the wooded area of the hotel grounds; barely clothed,” John blinked as the tears finally broke free and rolled down his face, “I didn’t tell anyone what happened, no-one would have believed me anyway; I went to medical school and then signed up and it didn’t bother me for almost fourteen-years... but I was shot and sent back to the UK; where it was... In Afghanistan I was safe; well, as safe as you can be when you’re getting shot at and nearly being blown apart on a daily basis, but here it was waiting for me-” he broke off abruptly as the door opened and a nurse poked her head through, smiling when she saw John was awake.
“Hello Mister Watson-” she started but Sherlock cut her off sharply.
“It’s Doctor Watson if you don’t mind,” he said coldly, not bothering to look at the woman, instead he kept his attention focused on John as the nurse entered the room and did the routine checks, “remember to close the door on your way out.”
If John hadn’t have been reliving some horrible memories then he might have laughed at Sherlock’s comment; though he most probably would have told him off for being so rude. He blinked rapidly and Sherlock said softly, “Continue please John... I would like to know what happened after you returned from Afghanistan.”
He would never had told anyone else this, but this was Sherlock and he felt obligated to tell Sherlock; so he did, “It bothered me when I was in that flat before I moved in with you, but it wasn’t that bad; it was mostly just scratches and throwing things. When I moved in with you it just... went away; you were like a charm or something. It wouldn’t come near me when you were around; I was safe with you and since Afghanistan I was able to relax and feel something other than fear. I was happy,” John smiled and looked at Sherlock’s surprised face, “You were the best thing that has ever happened to me because you made me feel so, so safe...”
It took Sherlock a few moments to recover from the shock of John’s admission and he asked curiously, “If I was protecting you from this... this entity, then why did it attack you during the Hunt?”
John shrugged, he didn’t know and he didn’t really care because he’d stood up to it; he’d chased it away, not the other way around, “I don’t know; maybe it was fed up of you protecting me? Maybe the Hunt was the perfect opportunity? It was on Halloween afterall; I’ve read that... that those sorts of things are stronger around Halloween...” he shrugged again.
Sherlock stared at him for another minute longer before asking, “It’s not coming back is it?”
John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes, not a hint of fear in his gaze; only determination, strength and fondness for the detective, “No,” he said firmly, “No it’s never coming back.”
...
END
Well! It’s complete at long last! This was so hard for me to write (but it wasn’t because of the content or anything actually; it was because my fingers feel like blocks of bloody ice!) Anyway, tell me what you think of this overall and don’t hesitate to call it a load of buggary... (please hesitate :p)
Hope you liked it and please comment on this; Kasey.