Fill: Human For A While (1a/?)
anonymous
June 7 2011, 11:28:18 UTC
Human For A While
Part One: Harry
John was a total wreck when he came home from Afghanistan: shoulder useless, hand shaking, a limp his therapist said was psychosomatic, if you wanted to listen to that sort of bullshit. Staggering along on an Army pension, no way he could stay in London permanently on that sort of money, but would he take anything from Harry? Would he buggery. Except the phone, and she was pretty sure he'd only accepted that because of Clara. Always thought he had an eye for Clara, though he denied it. His gaydar really was nonexistent, poor sap.
“Keep in touch,” Harry had said, pressing the phone into his hand. He'd said he would, but she knew he wouldn't. When she'd tried to kiss him goodbye, he'd flinched away, then looked guilty because he'd hurt her. Fucking typical on both counts. She'd needed another drink after all that. Never could stand the smell of hospitals.
She knew he'd got some grotty bedsit, probably just sitting there staring at the walls and going quietly crazy. You just can't help some people. Knew he'd still got the gun, too, but she wouldn't let herself think about that. Other people have lives as well, you know.
When the letter came from their great-uncle's solicitors, it seemed like a godsend. Get John out of the way for a bit, make him feel he's doing something useful, he always liked that. She got on the phone right away.
“What do you want, Harry?”
“And hello to you too,” she said tartly. “Look, John, Hector's died and the solicitor wants us to go and sort out his stuff. I can't go, I'm all tied up at work. Do you think you could-”
“OK,” he'd said, not even letting her finish. Must be more desperate than she thought. “Where do I have to go?”
“They said you can fly to Aberdeen and then hire a car; I'll pay for that - no, look, don't argue, you can pay me out of the estate when it's settled, OK? It's about half an hour's drive from there, on the coast.”
“Just as well it's July,” John said.
She remembered that freezing Christmas in Fife with Hector just after their father died. It's not like John to refer to their childhood, however obliquely.
“Yes, just as well,” she'd said, and they'd talked practicalities, got the rest of the call over as quickly as possible.
She hadn't expected John to tell her how it went, certainly hadn't expected to see him so soon after he got back. She was in the middle of packing up Clara's books - why the fuck anyone needed that many books she'd never know - when the doorbell rang. It looked like John through the glass, but there was someone else with him, tall thin figure with dark hair.
“Harry, this is Sherlock,” John said.
Fucking hell, she thought, knowing she was staring and she really shouldn't be. If she'd had a straight bone in her body she'd have been all over this man. A face almost too weird for beauty: hair as black as coal, ash-pale skin, knife-sharp cheekbones, strange light sea-coloured eyes, and that mouth - dear God, that mouth... Where the fuck had John picked this one up, and what on earth did he see in John?
Jumping to conclusions, Clara would have said, but you'd only got to look at the body language: the way this man stood just too close for casualness. The expression in his eyes when he looked at John, as if he wanted to melt into him...
Jesus, H, ask them in, why don't you, don't just stand here gawping and channelling Mills and Boon.
“Come in,” she said. “How was Collieston?”
John looked up at Sherlock, blushed, for fuck's sake, then looked away again and cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said, “good. It was all fine.”
Re: Fill: Human For A While (1a/?)
anonymous
June 7 2011, 11:29:22 UTC
“Hector left us the house, Harry,” John said shakily. “It's a mess, but structurally sound. And the money - did you know he was that well off?”
“No,” Harry said. Good news for John, though; at least it would cushion things till he found a job, though presumably probate would take a while.
“I've found a flat to rent,” John said. “Mike Stamford knows someone who's just moving out, and Sherlock and I are going to share it.”
Too good to be true, Harry thought uneasily, but what was the point in saying that? John might look concussed, but he also looked happier than she'd seen him in years, and she wasn't going to rain on his parade.
They talked paperwork and house prices, Sherlock still gazing silently at John. Harry was almost starting to wonder if he could speak, but as the two of them were leaving he turned and said “You'll be wanting John's new address; it's 221b Baker Street.”
Deep voice, musical, with a sort of growl in it. Probably a smoker, Harry thought.
She didn't see much of them over the next few weeks, but whenever she did it was always the same: Sherlock apparently completely wrapped up in John, and John looking exhilarated but also uneasy. She remembered that look in the mirror from her own first gay relationship, no surprise there - but she didn't understand what was going on with Sherlock. Obviously crazy about John, couldn't take his eyes off him; but with a sense of sadness coming from him, so powerful she could almost touch it. Harry wondered if he was ill and not saying - it'd be just like John's luck to fall for someone who was utterly gorgeous and devoted to him and then lose him to some awful disease.
No use worrying about that. Might never happen, and she'd got other things to think about. Selling the bloody marital home, for a start.
She was making lists for the removal men when John turned up. Alone, which was surprising - she hadn't seen him on his own since he came back from Scotland. Carrying a bundle of something wrapped up in an old green velvet curtain.
“I need you to hide this for me,” he said abruptly.
“Oh Christ, John, you do pick your moments. I'm trying to move house, if you hadn't noticed.”
“I know,” he said. “I thought that might help to - camouflage it.”
She stared at him and at the bundle. What the fuck was he up to now?
“Promise me you'll never tell anyone,” he said. “And especially not Sherlock.”
“Jesus, John, what is this?”
“It's his,” he said. “He mustn't find it. Promise me.”
She lifted a corner of the velvet, touched the smooth pelt that lay heavy in his arms.
Sealskin.
She stared at him.
“You have got to be fucking joking.”
But he wasn't, that was clear.
She'd heard the stories often enough from Hector. Used to know the Great Silkie ballad by heart. Never imagined for a moment any of the stories could be true.
“I love him,” John said desperately. “I can't let him go.”
“Oh God, John.”
She wanted to hug him, but he wouldn't want that, and the sight of that crazy bundle in his arms made her feel sick, thinking of what must surely follow.
What they both knew about the ballads and the stories, what everyone knows: the love between a selkie and a human always ends badly.
Fill: Human For A While, 2a/?
anonymous
June 8 2011, 20:47:18 UTC
Human For A While
Part Two: John
Even in July, Hector’s house oozed damp and cold. The rooms had that unmistakable smell, too long unaired. Wardrobes bulged at the seams with musty clothes, piles of yellowing newspapers and unexpected grim stores of food tins and packets long past their sell-by date. (John remembered his mother twenty years ago, going through the Fife larder like a small blonde tornado as Hector protested: “They just make that date nonsense up so they can sell more. Put it back, Jean, it’s perfectly fine.” “It is not fine, Hector, it’s fermenting.”)
He scrubbed the kitchen floor and work surfaces with industrial quantities of disinfectant - at least he’d be able to walk across the room without sticking at every step, and throw together something to eat. The conservatory was freezing cold, but smelt less bad than the bedrooms, so he set up camp there, blessing the instinct that had made him pack his sleeping-bag. He wolfed down the doorstop sandwiches he’d made and sat staring out at the harbour, drinking his tea.
The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in Northeast Scotland, he thought, grinning wryly. He wriggled into the sleeping-bag still wearing everything but his boots, and wishing he’d brought a woolly hat. Wondered how long ago Hector had stopped even trying to look after himself. Still, when you’re 96 you can do what you like, at least if you haven’t got kids to interfere and put you in a home.
Was this what his life would be like, if he survived long enough?
Shut up and go to sleep, Watson, for fuck’s sake.
For once, he didn’t dream of Afghanistan, but of a storm at sea, a boat poised on the edge of a whirlpool, held in place by fraying ropes. Something from an old black-and-white film he’d once seen.
He woke at 4 a.m., sweating buckets and with a raging thirst. Drank some water and fell heavily asleep again, waking to find it was gone nine already.
Late morning, and he was still sitting on the clifftop behind the house, staring mindlessly at the puffins wheeling and skittering through the air. He knew he ought to go indoors, do some more cleaning, but the thought of those moth-eaten garments and slippery eiderdowns made him feel itchy all over.
For a moment he’d thought it was a man swimming down there, and then he realized it was a seal. Grey seal, from the size of it. The sight gave him an odd feeling inside, a lift of the heart, Hector would have called it. So beautiful, solitary and strong, this sleek dark creature raising its head now to stare at him.
It’s not really staring at you, he told himself. Just an optical illusion. But it felt real, for a moment - and then the seal disappeared into the waves. John strained to catch another glimpse of it, but it was gone.
Better go back and face the house anyway.
The rest of the day was spent throwing things into binbags, till John was aching all over and covered in dust and cobwebs. The cranky boiler grudgingly produced enough water for a bath and a hairwash, and with clean clothes on he didn’t feel so bad. He made himself dinner - pasta and tomato sauce, pretty basic but the hot food was comforting - and then settled down to read himself to sleep with one of Hector’s books.
In retrospect, reading about how Slains Castle had inspired Bram Stoker to write Dracula probably wasn’t such a good idea just before bed. He tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound; he woke up shaking and whimpering. Put the light on, needing to see for himself that he wasn’t really covered in blood. Felt his neck: no wound there. Just his mind playing tricks on him again. Fuck it.
Fill: Human For A While, 2b/?
anonymous
June 8 2011, 20:48:30 UTC
He didn’t know what made him decide to go down to the sea in the dark, lie down on the slipway with his head hanging over the side, for all the world as if he wanted to get washed away. He’d had enough, that was all. Nothing worked. Nothing was any good. He felt the tears run down his face, couldn't even be bothered to feel ashamed of it any more, lying here crying stupidly into the sea.
A strange sort of howling from further along the beach made him scramble to his feet and peer into the darkness. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then rubbed them, not believing what he saw.
What kind of idiot would go skinny-dipping in the middle of the night off the coast of Scotland?
A bloody gorgeous one, apparently. He'd seen more than his fair share of naked male bodies - that went with the job - but never a man as beautiful as this.
Maybe it was just the moonlight; but the way the man’s skin shone made John catch his breath, made him want to stretch out a hand and touch. He was close enough now, close enough to feel the heat coming from the other man’s body, the warmth of his breath as he leaned closer still, their faces almost touching.
I’m dreaming, aren't I? I’m still fast asleep on that bloody sofa and any minute now he’s going to turn into another sodding vampire -
The kiss was like falling through clear water with the sun in it, dizzy and plummeting. His hands clutched and scrabbled, tangling in dark curls as he pressed into the embrace. Must be a dream but the body in his arms was so warm, warm and dry, how was that possible? The man’s lips and tongue teased and caressed, making him moan with longing.
But he didn’t do this, he’d never -
“Shh,” the man said. “It’s all right.”
Hands, sure and strong, stroking John’s hair and his neck, running down his spine, holding him together and he needed something to hold him together because kissing this man was going to shatter him into a million tiny pieces and he’d be lost forever. He was drowning in it, gasping for breath, sinking into the depths, clinging on to this man like his only hope of rescue, his legs buckling under him, the strength of those hands holding him up as he shuddered and cried out, shaken to his bones.
The hands relaxed their grip and John pulled back from the kiss, feeling the chill of the night air as pleasure ebbed, leaving him sticky and ashamed.
“Sorry,” he muttered, hardly daring to open his eyes.
“Are you?” the man said. “I’m not. I don't think you should be either.”
The intimacy of that voice in his ear made his hair stand on end. Pressure of lips on his neck, a lingering kiss just light enough not to leave a mark. There’d be no trace in the morning to prove he hadn't dreamt the whole thing.
“You’ll see me again, though,” the man said, as if he could hear John’s thoughts. “Once it starts it can't be undone, and it's started now.”
“What - how -”
“The usual way, of course,” the man said. “Look it up, if you can’t remember. Go back to bed.”
John stared at the pale figure walking away along the beach till he couldn't see it any more. Then he stumbled back to the house in a daze and collapsed on the sofa, tumbling into sleep as if sandbagged. He had no more dreams, or none that he remembered.
Re: Fill: Human For A While, 2b/?
anonymous
June 8 2011, 22:17:52 UTC
This? Is amazing. I love that you began with Harry and then went back to John to tell how it started - and oh my, that kiss! <3 Definitely bookmarking.
Fill: Human For A While, 3a/?
anonymous
June 12 2011, 23:37:13 UTC
Human For A While
Part Three: Sherlock
He'd seduced men before, of course; summer after summer, ever since he was old enough. Easy, when you know how, and it passed the time. He never saw them again, never wanted to. But this man was different.
Some relation of the dead man's, he'd thought, seeing the car pull up in front of the house. Not a son or a grandson, though. The old man didn't seem the type to breed.
As the land-dwellers said, It takes one to know one.
When he'd looked up from the water to see the man on the clifftop, watching him, the shock of recognition was so strong he'd had to turn away, plunge deep under the water. This one's mine. He was shaking with excitement, impatient to begin.
It had always been a game, before. He wasn't quite sure it would be this time.
That night, the man's sadness called to him so powerfully that he could hardly wait for the summons to finish, rushing from the water and shedding his skin before the last tear dropped into the sea. He couldn't resist a whoop of triumph. I knew it!
Skilful kisses and touches, polished moves in a familiar dance. The words were new, though; something more than the litany of curses and pleas wrung from his partners in the height of passion. He shouldn't have said what he did, shouldn't have spoken at all. But the thrill of feeling this man coming undone just from his kiss made him reckless.
Feeling desire after the act was new, too. The taste of the man's skin was still in his mouth, the scent of him still in his nostrils. It wasn't enough. He wanted skin against skin; wanted to lie with him all night, luxurious and slow, to tease and play till they were both spent and panting. He wanted to lick the sweat from every inch of him, to clean him with his tongue, swallow every drop of the precious fluid he'd seemed so ashamed of spilling. The memory of that choked cry made Sherlock clench inside with pleasure: he wanted to hear it again, and more, louder and unashamed this time. Wanted to possess this man completely, melt into him, wrap him close and tight around himself like a second skin.
He was careful, going back, and lucky; nobody saw him. He'd never felt the need to hide his conquests before, but he didn't want anyone to know about this one. Not yet, anyway. His mother would fret and his brother, pompous ass, would say the rules were there for a reason.
“Rules are boring,” Sherlock muttered defiantly. Boring, and irrelevant.
All the stories were of human men and Selkie women, human women and Selkie men. And children, always children. That was when the trouble started. Everyone knew that. What he did, what he'd just done, wasn't in the rules at all, but he couldn't get them to see it. If she knew where he'd been, his mother would ask him to promise he wouldn't go back. He didn't like saying no to her, but nothing in the world was going to keep him away from this man.
When he swam out the next morning the man was sitting on the clifftop again, staring into space. Sherlock wanted to go to him there and then but he couldn't: too risky to shed his skin in broad daylight, so close to other people. All he could do was gaze up at the man, showing off his strength and grace as he dived and surfaced: see me, notice me, look how beautiful I am. He knew he shouldn't, but the smile that lit up the man's tired face was worth it. He stayed as long as he dared, then dragged himself reluctantly away to wait for nightfall.
Past the longest day now, but it felt as if the darkness would never come.
Fill: Human For A While, 3b/?
anonymous
June 12 2011, 23:39:03 UTC
“I thought I'd dreamt you,” the man said, sounding half-dazed still.
The same stretch of sand, darker tonight because of the clouds across the moon.
“I told you you'd see me again,” Sherlock said, trying to sound casual though his heart was hammering. “Should I leave a mark on you this time so you know I'm real?”
A sharp intake of breath. “Christ. I should not want that. I want that.”
Sherlock wanted it too, wanted it so much it made him dizzy. Put a mark on you, indelible, mine. He moved closer, till they were almost touching but not quite, savouring the ache of anticipation now it was almost over.
“We can't do this here,” the man said, glancing over his shoulder at the lights of the village. “It's not safe.”
Last night he'd been too far gone to care. Sherlock wanted to make him feel like that again, reckless with desire.
“I like it here in the open,” he said, reaching out to stroke the man's neck.
The pulse fluttered under his fingers.
“Ohh. Oh God,” the man said shakily. “I don't even know your name.”
Don't give him a name, you must never tell them your name -
“Sherlock.”
“Sherlock. I - my name is John.”
“John.”
The name felt good in his mouth. Heavy. He said it again, tasting it. John made a soft desperate noise and kissed him.
Good, so good, the kiss, and different from when he kissed John, not sure how, it didn't matter, this, just this, no, he wanted more, he wanted -
John was pulling him towards the house, saying “So beautiful, Christ, you're so beautiful, please come with me, please.”
Stronger than he looked, and Sherlock liked that, liked it too much for his own good.
“I can't -”
The oldest taboo: you don't cross the threshold. He knew he mustn't, but John's grip felt so good it made him weak. He felt drugged, half-asleep, knowing he was walking into danger but he couldn't stop himself.
“Lie down with me, please, I want you to, I want you so much,” John said. “Fuck.”
Hands fumbling with buttons, shoelaces, fastenings - Sherlock silently cursed the stupidity of humans' coverings - and finally, finally the relief of naked skin beautiful and warm against his own. John's scent making him dizzy with pleasure - just pheromones, he told himself, but that didn't explain the feeling, so strong he felt he was shouting it aloud. I've found my mate.
He'd thought it would never happen to him. Thought he'd die unmated and he wouldn't care, it was better that way. Why would you stay with someone once you'd got what you wanted? But he couldn't imagine ever wanting John less fiercely than he wanted him right this minute. Mine. Now. Always.
The makeshift bed was cramped and narrow, but it didn't matter; he'd never felt anything as good as this.
John's sex, thicker than his own and fully hard, beautifully heavy in his hand as if it had been made for it. His own aching arousal matching John's, the slippery wetness of their pre-come slicking Sherlock's palm as he tightened his fist around them both. Moving the ring of his hand, slow, then faster, harder, like that, yes, please, so good, too much, more. John's hand closing around his, pressing his fingers tighter, squeezing, now, right now. John tensed and cried out, coming hard, making a glorious mess of their joined hands and his own stomach and chest. John's hand was still clasping his fist and Sherlock went on thrusting into it, till he couldn't hold out any longer against the pleasure of that tight hot slide, couldn't breathe, shaken and helpless, coming apart in John's grasp, his mind emptied of everything but John's name.
Fill: Human For A While, 3c/?
anonymous
June 12 2011, 23:43:10 UTC
[sorry about the html fail in last paragraph of 3b! correct version should read as follows:]
John's sex, thicker than his own and fully hard, beautifully heavy in his hand as if it had been made for it. His own aching arousal matching John's, the slippery wetness of their pre-come slicking Sherlock's palm as he tightened his fist around them both. Moving the ring of his hand, slow, then faster, harder, like that, yes, please, so good, too much, more. John's hand closing around his, pressing his fingers tighter, squeezing, now, right now. John tensed and cried out, coming hard, making a glorious mess of their joined hands and his own stomach and chest. John's hand was still clasping his fist and Sherlock went on thrusting into it, till he couldn't hold out any longer against the pleasure of that tight hot slide, couldn't breathe, shaken and helpless, coming apart in John's grasp, his mind emptied of everything but John's name.
He was floating, suspended, heavy and weightless at the same time, so awash with pleasure he couldn't move. His blood felt thick and slow, and he could hardly open his eyes.
“Hello,” John said, sounding pleased and shy. “Are you awake again, then?”
John's hands stroking his back felt so good that for a moment he wanted nothing more than to abandon himself to the bliss of that touch. But the sounds of the birds outside and the colour of the sky made his stomach knot with panic. How long had he been asleep? He tried to sit up, and found he was dizzy.
“Careful,” John said. “You don't have to go, do you?”
I don't want to go. But he couldn't leave it any longer: it would be light soon, and the risk of someone finding his skin was too great.
“I must,” he said, pulling away from John's embrace.
Oh, but not touching John any more was agony, like having a strip of his flesh torn from him. The pain scared him. All the stories of captivity and suffering seemed to be pressing in on him till he couldn't breathe, everything screaming at him to get out of here, now.
“Will you - will I see you again?” John asked, sounding so lost and unsure that it made Sherlock's chest hurt.
Tell him no and walk away. Walk out of this trap and don't come back, if you value your life.
Part One: Harry
John was a total wreck when he came home from Afghanistan: shoulder useless, hand shaking, a limp his therapist said was psychosomatic, if you wanted to listen to that sort of bullshit. Staggering along on an Army pension, no way he could stay in London permanently on that sort of money, but would he take anything from Harry? Would he buggery. Except the phone, and she was pretty sure he'd only accepted that because of Clara. Always thought he had an eye for Clara, though he denied it. His gaydar really was nonexistent, poor sap.
“Keep in touch,” Harry had said, pressing the phone into his hand. He'd said he would, but she knew he wouldn't. When she'd tried to kiss him goodbye, he'd flinched away, then looked guilty because he'd hurt her. Fucking typical on both counts. She'd needed another drink after all that. Never could stand the smell of hospitals.
She knew he'd got some grotty bedsit, probably just sitting there staring at the walls and going quietly crazy. You just can't help some people. Knew he'd still got the gun, too, but she wouldn't let herself think about that. Other people have lives as well, you know.
When the letter came from their great-uncle's solicitors, it seemed like a godsend. Get John out of the way for a bit, make him feel he's doing something useful, he always liked that. She got on the phone right away.
“What do you want, Harry?”
“And hello to you too,” she said tartly. “Look, John, Hector's died and the solicitor wants us to go and sort out his stuff. I can't go, I'm all tied up at work. Do you think you could-”
“OK,” he'd said, not even letting her finish. Must be more desperate than she thought. “Where do I have to go?”
“They said you can fly to Aberdeen and then hire a car; I'll pay for that - no, look, don't argue, you can pay me out of the estate when it's settled, OK? It's about half an hour's drive from there, on the coast.”
“Just as well it's July,” John said.
She remembered that freezing Christmas in Fife with Hector just after their father died. It's not like John to refer to their childhood, however obliquely.
“Yes, just as well,” she'd said, and they'd talked practicalities, got the rest of the call over as quickly as possible.
She hadn't expected John to tell her how it went, certainly hadn't expected to see him so soon after he got back. She was in the middle of packing up Clara's books - why the fuck anyone needed that many books she'd never know - when the doorbell rang. It looked like John through the glass, but there was someone else with him, tall thin figure with dark hair.
“Harry, this is Sherlock,” John said.
Fucking hell, she thought, knowing she was staring and she really shouldn't be. If she'd had a straight bone in her body she'd have been all over this man. A face almost too weird for beauty: hair as black as coal, ash-pale skin, knife-sharp cheekbones, strange light sea-coloured eyes, and that mouth - dear God, that mouth... Where the fuck had John picked this one up, and what on earth did he see in John?
Jumping to conclusions, Clara would have said, but you'd only got to look at the body language: the way this man stood just too close for casualness. The expression in his eyes when he looked at John, as if he wanted to melt into him...
Jesus, H, ask them in, why don't you, don't just stand here gawping and channelling Mills and Boon.
“Come in,” she said. “How was Collieston?”
John looked up at Sherlock, blushed, for fuck's sake, then looked away again and cleared his throat. “Fine,” he said, “good. It was all fine.”
Your luck's changing, mate, Harry thought.
She had no idea how much.
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“No,” Harry said. Good news for John, though; at least it would cushion things till he found a job, though presumably probate would take a while.
“I've found a flat to rent,” John said. “Mike Stamford knows someone who's just moving out, and Sherlock and I are going to share it.”
Too good to be true, Harry thought uneasily, but what was the point in saying that? John might look concussed, but he also looked happier than she'd seen him in years, and she wasn't going to rain on his parade.
They talked paperwork and house prices, Sherlock still gazing silently at John. Harry was almost starting to wonder if he could speak, but as the two of them were leaving he turned and said “You'll be wanting John's new address; it's 221b Baker Street.”
Deep voice, musical, with a sort of growl in it. Probably a smoker, Harry thought.
She didn't see much of them over the next few weeks, but whenever she did it was always the same: Sherlock apparently completely wrapped up in John, and John looking exhilarated but also uneasy. She remembered that look in the mirror from her own first gay relationship, no surprise there - but she didn't understand what was going on with Sherlock. Obviously crazy about John, couldn't take his eyes off him; but with a sense of sadness coming from him, so powerful she could almost touch it. Harry wondered if he was ill and not saying - it'd be just like John's luck to fall for someone who was utterly gorgeous and devoted to him and then lose him to some awful disease.
No use worrying about that. Might never happen, and she'd got other things to think about. Selling the bloody marital home, for a start.
She was making lists for the removal men when John turned up. Alone, which was surprising - she hadn't seen him on his own since he came back from Scotland. Carrying a bundle of something wrapped up in an old green velvet curtain.
“I need you to hide this for me,” he said abruptly.
“Oh Christ, John, you do pick your moments. I'm trying to move house, if you hadn't noticed.”
“I know,” he said. “I thought that might help to - camouflage it.”
She stared at him and at the bundle. What the fuck was he up to now?
“Promise me you'll never tell anyone,” he said. “And especially not Sherlock.”
“Jesus, John, what is this?”
“It's his,” he said. “He mustn't find it. Promise me.”
She lifted a corner of the velvet, touched the smooth pelt that lay heavy in his arms.
Sealskin.
She stared at him.
“You have got to be fucking joking.”
But he wasn't, that was clear.
She'd heard the stories often enough from Hector. Used to know the Great Silkie ballad by heart. Never imagined for a moment any of the stories could be true.
“I love him,” John said desperately. “I can't let him go.”
“Oh God, John.”
She wanted to hug him, but he wouldn't want that, and the sight of that crazy bundle in his arms made her feel sick, thinking of what must surely follow.
What they both knew about the ballads and the stories, what everyone knows: the love between a selkie and a human always ends badly.
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Part Two: John
Even in July, Hector’s house oozed damp and cold. The rooms had that unmistakable smell, too long unaired. Wardrobes bulged at the seams with musty clothes, piles of yellowing newspapers and unexpected grim stores of food tins and packets long past their sell-by date. (John remembered his mother twenty years ago, going through the Fife larder like a small blonde tornado as Hector protested: “They just make that date nonsense up so they can sell more. Put it back, Jean, it’s perfectly fine.” “It is not fine, Hector, it’s fermenting.”)
He scrubbed the kitchen floor and work surfaces with industrial quantities of disinfectant - at least he’d be able to walk across the room without sticking at every step, and throw together something to eat. The conservatory was freezing cold, but smelt less bad than the bedrooms, so he set up camp there, blessing the instinct that had made him pack his sleeping-bag. He wolfed down the doorstop sandwiches he’d made and sat staring out at the harbour, drinking his tea.
The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in Northeast Scotland, he thought, grinning wryly. He wriggled into the sleeping-bag still wearing everything but his boots, and wishing he’d brought a woolly hat. Wondered how long ago Hector had stopped even trying to look after himself. Still, when you’re 96 you can do what you like, at least if you haven’t got kids to interfere and put you in a home.
Was this what his life would be like, if he survived long enough?
Shut up and go to sleep, Watson, for fuck’s sake.
For once, he didn’t dream of Afghanistan, but of a storm at sea, a boat poised on the edge of a whirlpool, held in place by fraying ropes. Something from an old black-and-white film he’d once seen.
He woke at 4 a.m., sweating buckets and with a raging thirst. Drank some water and fell heavily asleep again, waking to find it was gone nine already.
Late morning, and he was still sitting on the clifftop behind the house, staring mindlessly at the puffins wheeling and skittering through the air. He knew he ought to go indoors, do some more cleaning, but the thought of those moth-eaten garments and slippery eiderdowns made him feel itchy all over.
For a moment he’d thought it was a man swimming down there, and then he realized it was a seal. Grey seal, from the size of it. The sight gave him an odd feeling inside, a lift of the heart, Hector would have called it. So beautiful, solitary and strong, this sleek dark creature raising its head now to stare at him.
It’s not really staring at you, he told himself. Just an optical illusion. But it felt real, for a moment - and then the seal disappeared into the waves. John strained to catch another glimpse of it, but it was gone.
Better go back and face the house anyway.
The rest of the day was spent throwing things into binbags, till John was aching all over and covered in dust and cobwebs. The cranky boiler grudgingly produced enough water for a bath and a hairwash, and with clean clothes on he didn’t feel so bad. He made himself dinner - pasta and tomato sauce, pretty basic but the hot food was comforting - and then settled down to read himself to sleep with one of Hector’s books.
In retrospect, reading about how Slains Castle had inspired Bram Stoker to write Dracula probably wasn’t such a good idea just before bed. He tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound; he woke up shaking and whimpering. Put the light on, needing to see for himself that he wasn’t really covered in blood. Felt his neck: no wound there. Just his mind playing tricks on him again. Fuck it.
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A strange sort of howling from further along the beach made him scramble to his feet and peer into the darkness. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, then rubbed them, not believing what he saw.
What kind of idiot would go skinny-dipping in the middle of the night off the coast of Scotland?
A bloody gorgeous one, apparently. He'd seen more than his fair share of naked male bodies - that went with the job - but never a man as beautiful as this.
Maybe it was just the moonlight; but the way the man’s skin shone made John catch his breath, made him want to stretch out a hand and touch. He was close enough now, close enough to feel the heat coming from the other man’s body, the warmth of his breath as he leaned closer still, their faces almost touching.
I’m dreaming, aren't I? I’m still fast asleep on that bloody sofa and any minute now he’s going to turn into another sodding vampire -
The kiss was like falling through clear water with the sun in it, dizzy and plummeting. His hands clutched and scrabbled, tangling in dark curls as he pressed into the embrace. Must be a dream but the body in his arms was so warm, warm and dry, how was that possible? The man’s lips and tongue teased and caressed, making him moan with longing.
But he didn’t do this, he’d never -
“Shh,” the man said. “It’s all right.”
Hands, sure and strong, stroking John’s hair and his neck, running down his spine, holding him together and he needed something to hold him together because kissing this man was going to shatter him into a million tiny pieces and he’d be lost forever. He was drowning in it, gasping for breath, sinking into the depths, clinging on to this man like his only hope of rescue, his legs buckling under him, the strength of those hands holding him up as he shuddered and cried out, shaken to his bones.
The hands relaxed their grip and John pulled back from the kiss, feeling the chill of the night air as pleasure ebbed, leaving him sticky and ashamed.
“Sorry,” he muttered, hardly daring to open his eyes.
“Are you?” the man said. “I’m not. I don't think you should be either.”
The intimacy of that voice in his ear made his hair stand on end. Pressure of lips on his neck, a lingering kiss just light enough not to leave a mark. There’d be no trace in the morning to prove he hadn't dreamt the whole thing.
“You’ll see me again, though,” the man said, as if he could hear John’s thoughts. “Once it starts it can't be undone, and it's started now.”
“What - how -”
“The usual way, of course,” the man said. “Look it up, if you can’t remember. Go back to bed.”
John stared at the pale figure walking away along the beach till he couldn't see it any more. Then he stumbled back to the house in a daze and collapsed on the sofa, tumbling into sleep as if sandbagged. He had no more dreams, or none that he remembered.
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Part Three: Sherlock
He'd seduced men before, of course; summer after summer, ever since he was old enough. Easy, when you know how, and it passed the time. He never saw them again, never wanted to. But this man was different.
Some relation of the dead man's, he'd thought, seeing the car pull up in front of the house. Not a son or a grandson, though. The old man didn't seem the type to breed.
As the land-dwellers said, It takes one to know one.
When he'd looked up from the water to see the man on the clifftop, watching him, the shock of recognition was so strong he'd had to turn away, plunge deep under the water. This one's mine. He was shaking with excitement, impatient to begin.
It had always been a game, before. He wasn't quite sure it would be this time.
That night, the man's sadness called to him so powerfully that he could hardly wait for the summons to finish, rushing from the water and shedding his skin before the last tear dropped into the sea. He couldn't resist a whoop of triumph. I knew it!
Skilful kisses and touches, polished moves in a familiar dance. The words were new, though; something more than the litany of curses and pleas wrung from his partners in the height of passion. He shouldn't have said what he did, shouldn't have spoken at all. But the thrill of feeling this man coming undone just from his kiss made him reckless.
Feeling desire after the act was new, too. The taste of the man's skin was still in his mouth, the scent of him still in his nostrils. It wasn't enough. He wanted skin against skin; wanted to lie with him all night, luxurious and slow, to tease and play till they were both spent and panting. He wanted to lick the sweat from every inch of him, to clean him with his tongue, swallow every drop of the precious fluid he'd seemed so ashamed of spilling. The memory of that choked cry made Sherlock clench inside with pleasure: he wanted to hear it again, and more, louder and unashamed this time. Wanted to possess this man completely, melt into him, wrap him close and tight around himself like a second skin.
He was careful, going back, and lucky; nobody saw him. He'd never felt the need to hide his conquests before, but he didn't want anyone to know about this one. Not yet, anyway. His mother would fret and his brother, pompous ass, would say the rules were there for a reason.
“Rules are boring,” Sherlock muttered defiantly. Boring, and irrelevant.
All the stories were of human men and Selkie women, human women and Selkie men. And children, always children. That was when the trouble started. Everyone knew that. What he did, what he'd just done, wasn't in the rules at all, but he couldn't get them to see it. If she knew where he'd been, his mother would ask him to promise he wouldn't go back. He didn't like saying no to her, but nothing in the world was going to keep him away from this man.
When he swam out the next morning the man was sitting on the clifftop again, staring into space. Sherlock wanted to go to him there and then but he couldn't: too risky to shed his skin in broad daylight, so close to other people. All he could do was gaze up at the man, showing off his strength and grace as he dived and surfaced: see me, notice me, look how beautiful I am. He knew he shouldn't, but the smile that lit up the man's tired face was worth it. He stayed as long as he dared, then dragged himself reluctantly away to wait for nightfall.
Past the longest day now, but it felt as if the darkness would never come.
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The same stretch of sand, darker tonight because of the clouds across the moon.
“I told you you'd see me again,” Sherlock said, trying to sound casual though his heart was hammering. “Should I leave a mark on you this time so you know I'm real?”
A sharp intake of breath. “Christ. I should not want that. I want that.”
Sherlock wanted it too, wanted it so much it made him dizzy. Put a mark on you, indelible, mine. He moved closer, till they were almost touching but not quite, savouring the ache of anticipation now it was almost over.
“We can't do this here,” the man said, glancing over his shoulder at the lights of the village. “It's not safe.”
Last night he'd been too far gone to care. Sherlock wanted to make him feel like that again, reckless with desire.
“I like it here in the open,” he said, reaching out to stroke the man's neck.
The pulse fluttered under his fingers.
“Ohh. Oh God,” the man said shakily. “I don't even know your name.”
Don't give him a name, you must never tell them your name -
“Sherlock.”
“Sherlock. I - my name is John.”
“John.”
The name felt good in his mouth. Heavy. He said it again, tasting it. John made a soft desperate noise and kissed him.
Good, so good, the kiss, and different from when he kissed John, not sure how, it didn't matter, this, just this, no, he wanted more, he wanted -
John was pulling him towards the house, saying “So beautiful, Christ, you're so beautiful, please come with me, please.”
Stronger than he looked, and Sherlock liked that, liked it too much for his own good.
“I can't -”
The oldest taboo: you don't cross the threshold. He knew he mustn't, but John's grip felt so good it made him weak. He felt drugged, half-asleep, knowing he was walking into danger but he couldn't stop himself.
“Lie down with me, please, I want you to, I want you so much,” John said. “Fuck.”
Hands fumbling with buttons, shoelaces, fastenings - Sherlock silently cursed the stupidity of humans' coverings - and finally, finally the relief of naked skin beautiful and warm against his own. John's scent making him dizzy with pleasure - just pheromones, he told himself, but that didn't explain the feeling, so strong he felt he was shouting it aloud. I've found my mate.
He'd thought it would never happen to him. Thought he'd die unmated and he wouldn't care, it was better that way. Why would you stay with someone once you'd got what you wanted? But he couldn't imagine ever wanting John less fiercely than he wanted him right this minute. Mine. Now. Always.
The makeshift bed was cramped and narrow, but it didn't matter; he'd never felt anything as good as this.
John's sex, thicker than his own and fully hard, beautifully heavy in his hand as if it had been made for it. His own aching arousal matching John's, the slippery wetness of their pre-come slicking Sherlock's palm as he tightened his fist around them both. Moving the ring of his hand, slow, then faster, harder, like that, yes, please, so good, too much, more. John's hand closing around his, pressing his fingers tighter, squeezing, now, right now. John tensed and cried out, coming hard, making a glorious mess of their joined hands and his own stomach and chest. John's hand was still clasping his fist and Sherlock went on thrusting into it, till he couldn't hold out any longer against the pleasure of that tight hot slide, couldn't breathe, shaken and helpless, coming apart in John's grasp, his mind emptied of everything but John's name.
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John's sex, thicker than his own and fully hard, beautifully heavy in his hand as if it had been made for it. His own aching arousal matching John's, the slippery wetness of their pre-come slicking Sherlock's palm as he tightened his fist around them both. Moving the ring of his hand, slow, then faster, harder, like that, yes, please, so good, too much, more. John's hand closing around his, pressing his fingers tighter, squeezing, now, right now. John tensed and cried out, coming hard, making a glorious mess of their joined hands and his own stomach and chest. John's hand was still clasping his fist and Sherlock went on thrusting into it, till he couldn't hold out any longer against the pleasure of that tight hot slide, couldn't breathe, shaken and helpless, coming apart in John's grasp, his mind emptied of everything but John's name.
He was floating, suspended, heavy and weightless at the same time, so awash with pleasure he couldn't move. His blood felt thick and slow, and he could hardly open his eyes.
“Hello,” John said, sounding pleased and shy. “Are you awake again, then?”
John's hands stroking his back felt so good that for a moment he wanted nothing more than to abandon himself to the bliss of that touch. But the sounds of the birds outside and the colour of the sky made his stomach knot with panic. How long had he been asleep? He tried to sit up, and found he was dizzy.
“Careful,” John said. “You don't have to go, do you?”
I don't want to go. But he couldn't leave it any longer: it would be light soon, and the risk of someone finding his skin was too great.
“I must,” he said, pulling away from John's embrace.
Oh, but not touching John any more was agony, like having a strip of his flesh torn from him. The pain scared him. All the stories of captivity and suffering seemed to be pressing in on him till he couldn't breathe, everything screaming at him to get out of here, now.
“Will you - will I see you again?” John asked, sounding so lost and unsure that it made Sherlock's chest hurt.
Tell him no and walk away. Walk out of this trap and don't come back, if you value your life.
“Yes,” he said. “I promise you will.”
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