Fic : We Meet Again (3/4)
Title: We Meet Again (1/4)
Pairing: John/Sherlock ( Alphabetically)
Word count: ~ 16,500 overall. ~4000 this part.
Rating: R
Beta : The awesome hopeinashes
Summary: In a world world where vampires and human co exist (mostly), being a personal donor to a vampire was a highly coveted position. Unfortunately for John Watson, he didn't share that opinion.
Warnings: Vampires, violence, blood and sexual themes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really.
A/N : Thank you for the lovely feedback. Look I have some more!
Beta’d by the lovely hopeinashes. Mistakes are mine , all mine! Oh and since I am not English , any advice about colloquialisms is welcomed. My lack of knowledge is not total, having lived in the UK for a year, but I do like to make characters sound authentic.
On with the show!
Part Three :
Thirty minutes later, John had cut out a neat gun shaped hole into his old copy of Greys Anatomy and carefully placed his handgun in it. That done, he stuffed a couple of his old medical journals, pants and shirts into his bag and zipped it up. It had taken a total of 15 minutes for him to come to a decision.
He did not want to become a PD.
Harry had told him how it was for people who were chosen. Glorified whores and hamburgers, she had called them, laughing. He had always heard rumours when he was in Afghanistan about how vampires treated their PD’s but no one gave it much importance. ‘Just because some husbands beat their wives doesn’t mean everybody doesn’t want to get married,’ one vampire had tried to explain, while John had been stitching him up. It didn’t sound very comforting.
He surveyed his room, feeling clear headed for the first time in months. He wasn’t going to ‘run’ as the Holmess’ so crudely called it. He was going to escape. While Sherlock may have picked him in front of witnesses, there was yet to be any paperwork that he had signed. More importantly, Sherlock hadn’t even bitten him yet. In vampire speak, that was as good as not staking claim at all. He would take a cab to Euston station, take another cab to a rental agency he knew, drive to Milton Keyes, get on a train to Holyhead, and then take a ferry to Ireland. The government would never get into a squabble over a personal donor with Ireland. Especially after that car bomb that had exploded a week ago in Belfast. After that, it would be child’s play to get onto a flight to Europe.
Satisfied, he scribbled “Cannes?” on a notepad and then tore off the page and threw it in the bin. If Sherlock did indeed remember to come fetch him, it was best to let him think he was on his way to France. That would be the conventional and quickest way to get out of the country.
But John had learned from Afghanistan that sometimes you needed to think out of the box to survive. He had no doubt that the vampires would check his trash for clues. It hadn’t escaped him that both brothers had taken one look at him to conclude that he was a doctor, and it had taken Sherlock merely a few seconds to deduce what he did about the others in the room. He took a deep breath, shaking away his nervousness. Working under pressure, that’s what surgeons are best at, right Watson?
He picked up his phone and dialled Molly’s number.
*
Molly Hooper was terrified. She had often dreamt of Sherlock Holmes in her home, preferably naked and helping her cook dinner. But never, ever , even in her wildest nightmares did she imagine him raging at her in her living room, fangs bared like he wanted to rip her head right off her shoulders. She didn’t know whether the presence of his brother, legs crossed and sitting calmly in her armchair, made the situation worse or better.
“You said he asked you if you had any Euros!”, he roared.
Molly shrank back into the couch, “B - but he did.”
Sherlock turned on Mycroft, “And your flunkies said they found a note with Cannes written on it in the bin.”
“They did,” Mycroft said, serene in the face of his sibling’s wrath.
“Then why isn’t he on that boat or the train or the flight!” Sherlock snarled, pacing the room.
“He was spotted at Euston, Sherlock. It’s only a matter of time we find out where he went.”
Sherlock stopped pacing, suddenly still. “He didn’t take any train, did he?”
“No,” Mycroft provided.
Sherlock groaned, both hands in his hair, “Oh how could I have been so stupid! Of course he didn’t take the train. Too traceable! Check all the car rental agencies around Euston.”
“I already have.”
Sherlock glared at his brother, “No! Stop it, stop it! You are not going to find him before I do.”
“Maybe if you stopped behaving like a child, I wouldn’t be forced to find him at all. You should have taken him home Sherlock -”
“Oh, not this again! It was important! Lestrade said there’d been a third murder-”
Mycroft’s phone buzzed and Sherlock stopped talking, eyes hooked on his brother. The older vampire sniffed, read the message and carefully put the mobile back into his pocket. Molly had a feeling he was being slow on purpose. Cruel, she thought. Sherlock already looked like he was ready to tear the apartment to shreds.
“The car was abandoned at Milton Keynes,” he said finally.
“Milton Keynes?” Sherlock frowned, “Milton Key.. why Milton.. Oh! Oh!” He grabbed his phone and typed into it, his eyes flicking across the screen at inhuman speed.
“France?” Mycroft inquired politely.
“No, Holyhead! ” Sherlock said, grinning like it was the best news in the world. He tossed his phone to Mycroft. “The last train leaves at 8:40.”
“He’s already on it, then.” Mycroft said, squinting at the screen.
“Yes, but you can get your idiots to Holyhead before that. If you don’t, he’ll be in Ireland before dawn!” Sherlock looked delighted by the news, like John had surprised him by his cunning. Molly looked at him in wonder. The only time she had seen that expression on his face was when he was examining corpses.
Mycroft had picked up on that as well, going by the sly expression on his face. He didn’t reply for a long moment. “I could. But why would I want to, Sherlock.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looming over the other vampire. There was a hint of fangs as he sneered, “Can’t resist an opportunity , can you?”
“How can I, when you rarely make it so easy.”
“Fine! I’ll take a look at your stupid case.”
“As well as the next five I give you. And you won’t be looking, dear brother, you will be solving.” Mycroft said, smiling. His eyes were ice, and Molly felt fear curling in her stomach.
Sherlock’s face was quickly turning red , “Two cases!”
“Three.”
Sherlock threw his hands up in frustration, “Fine! Just get me him. Now!”
Mycroft’s smile reached his eyes for a split second, “Whatever you wish, Sherlock.”
He left and Molly was suddenly left to deal with a furious and excited Sherlock Holmes.
“He’s smarter than I thought, Molly!” He was grinning, wide and happy. “Ireland! Maybe he’ll last longer than the others.”
“How did you know it was Ireland?” Molly asked despite herself.
Sherlock collapsed into the armchair his brother had just vacated.
“It was obvious really. Watson is a reasonably smart man. The note and the call to you were attempts to throw us off his trail.”
“Ireland uses Euros too!” Molly defended, hating the thought of John using her like that.
Sherlock was unimpressed, “Don’t be daft, Molly. He knew that the first thing we would do was check his phone records, and that would lead us right to you. Coupled with the note and your reluctant admission that he asked you for money meant that our first assumption would be France. After all, wouldn’t that be where an average person wanting to leave the country’s influence go to?
He then rented a car and abandoned it at Milton Keynes. There could be a number of places to go from there, even France, but he needed to leave the country quickly, and that meant using the train or airport. But going out of the country directly would entail a passport being scanned and would lead us straight to him. His only other option would be to take a train or a flight to the furthest part of the country and then travel illegally by boat from there. Again it could be France, but Milton Keynes, why such a specific place. It was obvious in the end. He wouldn’t want to go anywhere near an airport, too many cameras. So , what train, directly preferably, would reach a port that sent ferrys out of the country and passed Milton Keynes junction at around 8 pm on a Thursday night?”
Molly was breathless as she listening to him speak. “Er, the train to Holyhead?”
“Exactly! Ireland is only an hour away from there. It was surprisingly clever for a human.” Molly had heard him say ‘idiot’ the same way several times.
“John’s a nice man.” Molly felt compelled to add.
Sherlock ignored her.
She swallowed, wanting tea but that would mean passing Sherlock on the armchair, so she stayed put on the couch, hoping he would leave.
Oh John, she sighed. I hope you’re all right.
**
Squashed between two hulking men in grey suits and back ties, John couldn’t help but feel hopeless. He had almost made it, he thought bitterly. Being accosted in the empty loo, mid piss, in Hollyhead station by two armed men had been a unpleasant surprise. He had tried fighting, a dark part of his mind willing the men to just use their guns and get it over with, but common sense had prevailed, the painful right hook to his jaw might also have had something to do with it, and he had accepted defeat. It had ended with him being pushed into a black car with tinted windows, sitting in between one smirking vampire and another stony faced human. They both looked like part time bouncers, so it was with great regret that John accepted that escaping was going to be impossible.
The car stopped and the vampire gripped his arm and pulled him out of the car. John tripped and his cane clattered to the ground . He resisted, trying to pick it up.
“Leave it,” said the human.
“Is this how you treat disabled veterans?” John snapped. The vampire hauled him to his feet with a casual flick of his arm and John paled at the show of strength.
“You aren’t a veteran anymore Doc, you’re a PD,” the human drawled. John glared at him in the dark, hoping the other man could see the full extent of his loathing.
The vampire nudged him. “’s not so bad. I would love to be a PD. Money fer nothing, innit. ”
John didn’t reply as he was dragged across, what was quickly becoming apparent, a tarmac. A bloody tarmac.
“Here’s your ride,” the vampire said, sounding almost envious.
John looked up to see a civilian helicopter, probably a AS350, standing innocently before him. He’d been told that it was exactly this helicopter that had transferred him to the Kabul military hospital when he had been shot. He gulped, thanking god that the rotators weren’t already on. He didn’t know how he would react to the familiar sound. Whether he would break down and cry, or laugh hysterically.
The vampire made sure he had secured all the seat belts before handing him a pair of mufflers. John put them on, numb. He didn’t even react when a grey suited woman handcuffed him to his seat. “Just so you don’t get any ideas,” she assured him, smiling and retreating to the next seat. He dug his nails into his skin and screwed his eyes shut as the helicopter started, his heart thumping in his chest. Shit, he cursed as the engine roared to life. The machine moved up with a sudden lurch and for a moment John was back in Afghanistan- Choking for air and screaming in pain, blurred hands soaked in blood, Bill mouthing something over the deafening sound of the blades, sand in his mouth, the velvety ceiling of the helicopter- John was absurdly glad that there were handcuffs. He didn’t trust himself very much at the moment.
The woman touched his arm and he startled, causing her to flinch back.
“You all right?” she yelled over the din of the blades.
He nodded, cataloguing his symptoms. Heart racing, palms sweating, throat closing, flash backs. He was having a panic attack. She offered him some water but he shook his head, concentrating on breathing. He would get through this, he promised himself. He just had to breath and block out the trigger.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Breath in.
Breath out.
*
By the time the helicopter touched down and John was bundled into another black car, he was exhausted. Mentally, physically, tired down to his soul. He slumped in his seat, watching London flicker by. It was early morning, probably 4, John guessed. He hoped Sherlock would just get the killing part over with, he didn’t seem like a sadist.
*
The first thing that John noticed about Sherlock’s apartment, when he was dumped unceremoniously on the floor, was that it was messy. Very messy. Books, boxes and papers strewn on every available surface. Was that a skull?
“What did you do to him?”
John looked up from his kneeling position on the carpet to catch Sherlock’s gaze. It was piercing in its intensity, looking him up and down as if he could read everything about John in the folds of his skin.
“Nothing,” the grey suited woman defended. “We got him like this.”
“Idiots,” snarled Sherlock, bending down to grab John's arm and hauling him up. John didn’t resist. He was too tired to. The vampire held him by the shoulders and peered at him, turning him this way and that. John refused to make eye contact, studiously looking away.
“I assure you, Sherlock, that my people didn’t harm him.”
John tensed, feeling a trickle of fear as he recognised the voice. Mycroft. What the bloody hell was the brother doing here?
Sherlock scowled, and then pivoted him towards Mycroft, still holding his shoulders.
“Do you really call this not harming?”
It was like he was complaining to his big brother about a broken toy.
Mycroft sighed. “If Doctor Watson resisted, it is no fault of mine.”
John’s temper clicked back into place like a switch. Something about the older vampire irked him. “Well maybe if your people didn’t try and kidnap me, I wouldn’t have to resist!” he snapped.
Mycroft ‘s eyes flicked behind John, obviously communicating something to his brother. “Well,” he said a moment later. “I really must be going. It’s been a pleasure, Doctor Watson, Sherlock.”
“Goodbye,” said Sherlock with a annoyed huff.
John was nudged towards a cosy looking armchair.
“Sit,” the vampire ordered.
John hesitated, but his stiff leg and shoulder soon made the decision for him. He half collapsed into chair, trying not to groan when all his aching muscles made themselves known.
“I would give you a painkiller, but I don’t like the taste of them in my food.”
John blinked open his eyes, embarrassed that he hadn’t even realised when he had closed them. Sherlock was sitting on the armchair opposite him, leaning forward with his elbows on knees, palms pressed together in front of his face in a parody of a Namaste .
John refused to shrink back into the cushions. “Are you going to... kill me?” Oh Jesus, what had become of his life.
“Haven’t decided,” was the instant reply.
“Right,” John said weakly. “Of course. I’ll just wait here then, shall I?”
Sherlock sat straighter, long arms coming to settle on the hand rests. “Are you making a joke?” he asked, sounding curious.
“Can’t you tell?” he couldn’t help but snipe back.
Sherlock looked away and into the fire place. “No one’s made a joke before.”
“Before you killed them?” John provided, eyes taking in the living room. It was quite homely, he conceded, if you ignored the mess.
“I assure you, Doctor Watson, that I have not killed any of my personal donors before.”
John grimaced, “How many have you had?”
Sherlock groaned, stretching his legs and slumping into the chair. It was like he had suddenly gone boneless, his hands dangling from the arm rests till his fingers scraped the floor. “Don’t remind me of those dullards,” he said to the ceiling.
John shifted in his seat. It seemed less and less likely that Sherlock planned to kill him. So just what was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t even considered what he would do if he was brought back alive. He sneaked a peak at the door, wondering if he made a run for it -
“Don’t even think about it,” Sherlock said sharply. John whipped his head around, frowning when he saw Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle. He was still staring at the ceiling.
“You should just let me go,” John blurted out. He had spied a chemistry set in the kitchen. If Sherlock was a man of science, then maybe he would listen to reason.
The vampire ignored him, apparently deep in thought. John ploughed on. “Look I’m not personal donor material, all right? I know you might think of me as a novelty. I don’t blame you, if those kids are all you’re exposed to, but I can’t do this! If you knew me, you would understand-”
Sherlock suddenly sat up, his hair tousled like a mad mans. “I do know you.”
“Excuse me?”
“I do know you,” the vampire insisted, jumping from the chair and looking down at him with hands on his hips.
“I think I would remember you if I’d met you before,” John said, alarmed at the sudden bursts of movement from the other man. It was like trying to keep up with a mini twister.
“Not like that,” Sherlock snapped. He swivelled away, the dressing gown he was wearing over his shirt and pants swirling around him. “I know you’re a disabled war hero recently returned from Afghanistan, or is it Iraq?” He didn’t wait for an answer, pacing the room. “Your limp is partly psychosomatic, going by how you forget about it when you’re standing. Mycroft said you’re a doctor so the fact that they discharged you after you got shot means that you lost full usage of your hands, but you seem like you have perfect mobility. Therefore you must have been a surgeon, since it’s a specialisation which needs long hours of fine motor control, confirmed by the shape and size of your hands. You’re 36 and yet you were compelled to come to a blood bank to complete your donation obligations, meaning you’ve been in the army for at least 7 years. Most interesting of all, you have never been screened,” Sherlock stopped mid pace, and in a second he was standing above John, so close that his shins knocked against Johns knees.
“Obviously any idiot can conclude that you have family that has been helping you out of your civilian duties. Close family, since the laws allow for alternate donating only to first degree relatives. Your phone would suggest a brother-”
“My - my phone?” John spluttered.
“You threw it in the trash outside your bedsit,” Sherlock said, grinning at him. “Your phone would suggest a brother, it’s a young man’s gadget,” he continued like he hadn’t been interrupted. “I know he’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. Why else would you be staying in that dingy little place and more importantly why would consent to come to donation camp if you could go to your own brother?”
Sherlock leaned down and this time John did try and burrow deeper into the sofa. The vampire would have none of it. In a flash he had straddled John, thighs caging him in and both hands coming to rest on the back of the armchair.
“Christ!” He hissed, trying to push the vampire away. The warm body didn’t move an inch.
“Don’t you want to hear the best part?” Sherlock rumbled into his ear.
John turned his head away, trying to buck the other man off.
“Stop squirming,” the vampire complained.
“Then get off me!” John shouted, furious. He shoved the man’s chest with all his might and Sherlock leaned back. John took in huge gulps of air, forcing himself to calm down. Strong thighs still kept him trapped, but at least he could breath in without smelling the other man's aftershave.
“You’re not letting me tell you the best part, John,” The vampire said, irritation creeping into his features.
John looked at him in disbelief. Did this madman actually think he gave a shit? Sherlock must have read his mind because his eyes flashed. And then there were fingers in his hair and his head was being wrenched sideways painfully. His hands went automatically to pry them off but his right hand was pinned to the sofa the moment he tried. His left hand clenched uselessly over the long fingers that had fisted in his hair.
“Let - go,” he seethed.
There was a annoyed sigh from the vampire and John realised in horror that he could feel the other’s breath on his neck.
“The best part, John” Sherlock said patiently, soft lips grazing his skin, “is that not only have you never been screened before, I do believe you have never donated before. Ever.” The last word was whispered right into his ear, like a filthy promise shared between lovers.
John started struggling again, trying to twist out of the vampires iron grasp. “That’s - that’s not true!” he wheezed.
Sherlock tightened the grip on his hair, pulling his neck to an angle that made his eyes water.
“Not anymore, no.” he was informed . Fangs dimpled his skin, a pause before the inevitable, like a pendulum at its summit and then all John felt was white hot pain as they bore down, slicing into his artery. He let out a shout of agony as his body convulsed, limbs jerking to free themselves. The vampire just held on tighter, pressing him into the cushions until John struggled to breathe. Dimly, he realised that just two days ago he had been contemplating offing himself and here he was fighting for his life.
John lost track of time. He could feel the others man’s adams apple bobbing against his skin as he drank, smell the sweat that clung to him, hear the gentle gurgles of swallowing; It was almost unbearably intimate. He tried to laugh at the absurdity but it came out as a pained choke. Sherlock paused, using the grip on his hair to move his head again, this time to a more comfortable position. John refused to open his eyes.
“You taste marvellous,” the vampire told him. “Better than I’d hoped.”
“Is that,” John croaked, “Is that supposed make me feel better?”
“Yes.”
John suppressed a sob, “It - it really doesn’t.”
When Sherlock didn’t reply, John cracked an eye open to see the vampire considering him with a raised eyebrow. The other man's lips were stained red and he had a flush on his cheeks that made him look very young, even oddly attractive . John jerked away from the pale gaze, horrified at his strain of thoughts.
“I’m still hun-gry,” the vampire enunciated, gripping his jaw and forcing John to look at him.
John swallowed, hoping he was misinterpreting the predatory glint in the other man’s eyes. Sherlock smirked at him, swooping down and clearing his doubt by pressing a firm kiss to his mouth. It was a close mouthed, almost chaste kiss; a question rather than a demand, but John’s fear returned in a wave of nausea. He wrenched his face sideways, tasting his own blood on his lips. The vampire didn’t insist, fingers falling away from his jaw and sliding back up into his hair. They didn’t pull this time, just tangled.
“I won’t force you,” Sherlock said, pressing a kiss to his throat. John wondered whether the vampire thought he was being reassuring. He contemplated telling him that soothing kisses didn’t work when one had fangs.
“Just get this over with,” John finally bit out, feeling light headed. Just how much blood had he already lost?
“If you insist, John.”
The pain returned, but not as overwhelming as before. It was duller, shallower. A strange kind of torture, John decided with a distressed groan. Was the vampire really going to bleed him dry? How much time had passed? His brain felt like cotton, black and yellow dots clouding his vision.
“Stop, stop,” he mumbled, mouth dry. Sherlock wasn’t pinning his right hand anymore but he could barely feel it, his pinky twitching like it belonged to someone else. He could hear the disembodied voice of his biology instructor at the back of his mind. The average human adult male has 10-12 pints of blood...
“Shut up,” the vampire grumbled, “I can still take -”
John didn’t hear the remainder of the sentence.
*
End Part 3.
A/N : Poor John! :O >:D
>>PART FOUR>>