FIC. Sherlock Holmes. hunted willingly.
Title: hunted willingly.
Pairing: Watson/Holmes
Summary: a tiny werewolf AU ficlet.
Word count: 149. I can never write an actual 100 word fic, can I.
Warnings: I guess, if werewolves bother you, don't read? The lycanthropy is more implied than anything, though.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me in any capacity!
Notes: This ficlet demanded to be written as soon as I heard Howl by Florence + the Machine. Also, Jihye dared me to do it. :D
Holmes makes charts, observes the stars, watches the moon become a pendulous orb in London's foggy sky and knows it is coming. Watson starts to want: his eyes linger on Holmes's retreating back, catch on the shadowed hollow of Holmes's neck for a second too long. Holmes stares back; they need no words. Nightfall brings a certain anonymity behind which they pretend to hide. The city is a silver maze of surreal facades and Holmes lets Watson chase him over wraithlike bridges into alleys where the cobblestones shift liquid under their feet. The game will soon be up - Holmes plays at being caught, plays convincingly as Watson's bruising fingers mark his hips for the morning, draw thin ribbons of blood that shimmer in this strange light. This is what Watson needs; Holmes shall give it freely. In exchange, he’ll delude himself that he is more than prey.
Pairing: Watson/Holmes
Summary: a tiny werewolf AU ficlet.
Word count: 149. I can never write an actual 100 word fic, can I.
Warnings: I guess, if werewolves bother you, don't read? The lycanthropy is more implied than anything, though.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me in any capacity!
Notes: This ficlet demanded to be written as soon as I heard Howl by Florence + the Machine. Also, Jihye dared me to do it. :D
Holmes makes charts, observes the stars, watches the moon become a pendulous orb in London's foggy sky and knows it is coming. Watson starts to want: his eyes linger on Holmes's retreating back, catch on the shadowed hollow of Holmes's neck for a second too long. Holmes stares back; they need no words. Nightfall brings a certain anonymity behind which they pretend to hide. The city is a silver maze of surreal facades and Holmes lets Watson chase him over wraithlike bridges into alleys where the cobblestones shift liquid under their feet. The game will soon be up - Holmes plays at being caught, plays convincingly as Watson's bruising fingers mark his hips for the morning, draw thin ribbons of blood that shimmer in this strange light. This is what Watson needs; Holmes shall give it freely. In exchange, he’ll delude himself that he is more than prey.