(no subject)
Title: Midnight Sun - Part Two
Summary: The world has moved on, leaving vampires, humans and werewolves trying to co-exist.
Pairing: Lestrade/Mycroft and Sherlock/Watson and whoever else I add in.
Rating: NC-17 overall but PG-13/R for a little male/male
Warnings: AU. Unbeta'd and unpicked.
Spoilers: Language for this chapter. Unabashed smut later. I promise.
Author Notes: I've tried to explain things. Feel free to smack me if I didn't.
Chapter One: http://morningstarzip.livejournal.com/40295.html (because I'm too lazy to do a link)
-------------
Sherlock
-------------
After we left Lestrade, the silence kept with us as we returned to Baker Street. I had no desire for a cab, wanting the space to think. Muggers or the like didn't worry me. With John and his gun at my side and the words passed among my Irregulars, the night didn't hold many fears for me. I was one of the few who would work any side of the fence be it vampires or human, prostitute or prince. It kept me from being bored although I didn't tell them that unless pressed for an answer. I may not have cared what their tiny minds thought, but it did make repeat business difficult.
It was the clove of garlic that stayed with me, remained while the other images faded into background noise. Even without the autopsy snaps in front of me, I could see each clearly. It would be wedged at the back of the tongue, resting against where the soft and hard palate met. There was nothing special about it, the sort anyone could buy at a market despite it not being in season. Garlic was one of those new vogue things that the insipid took to the moment some idol of theirs did. Crosses were making a come back as well. It wasn't hard to see why.
Four vampires murdered in three weeks, two in this one alone which meant the killer was either building up or had been overtaken by arrogance or a fit of need to kill. The latter seemed unlikely. There was planning in this. It wasn't something that had been done in an uncontrollable urge that couldn't be defeated. All of them were women, killed elsewhere and the bodies dumped in public places where no one had seen them.
One thread led to another to another and so on.
“Donovan said she had an idea on it, and I didn't think she would figure it out before you did. She and Anderson do make a good team though”
Lestrade was never more foolish than when he was trying to be superior. Donovan. As if.
“Sherlock?”
The tone of John's voice told me that he had called my name multiple times.
“What?” I asked, irritation made clear to him. Only John could pick up on those small hints and understand them. I hated being interrupted from my thoughts, needing to think when all others could do was talk, talk, talk. Even if they weren't as brilliant as I was, at least they could do me the service of shutting up so that their betters could think. John, of course, didn't fall into that category of fools. He knew I couldn't articulate my thoughts into all the words other people would understand. He understood and anyone who has ever been accepted cannot grasp what a freefall relief that is to those who stand outside the 'normal' world. One person who truly understands makes all the difference.
“You're about to walk into traffic,” he said, holding onto my arm.
“Oh. Well. Yes. I was testing the stopping time with the element of surprise.”
That lie wouldn't have convinced a four year old, but it was a skill I was still learning. Sociopaths had little need to lie when the truth got us what we wanted and gave a few seconds of shock that stripped the masks of others away.
“Of course,” John replied, not bothering to comment on what we both knew was true. We had reached that comfortable place where it was unnecessary.
I let myself be steered along, leaving John to worry about my physical being as I fell back into my thoughts. I trusted him as I did not other, something I could never articulate. For all my far-reaching thoughts and complex turns of intelligence, I couldn't say those words. And John didn't expect me to. Even when my sharp tongue turned on him, John shrugged it off. He would get angry, but he was always there despite the occasional eyeballs in the microwave or hedgehogs in the bathtub.
An answer finally occurred to me as dawn was creeping over London in an ugly gray shroud that promised rain, spats already hitting the panes in uneven amounts. It was the clove of garlic, that small piece of vegetable matter that was always out of place and a signature by now. Even the dailies had begun to pick up and publish news of the Dead Slayer or Vampire Killer. Give them a human criminal and they could think of a hundred mildly clever names. Use a vampiric one (and I refused to use the word 'Dead', even in the privacy of my mind) and even those motes of intelligence refused to spark. Typical of the media.
It was that bloody clove.
I drew John against my chest, resting my cheek against his hair as I stared out the window. More droplets were spattering against the glass, still in uneven amounts. Even the rain wasn't reliable.
I thought of Lestrade then, knowing full well where the vampire had gone to when he left us. Right now, he was probably the most secure creature in all of London if not all of Europe, perhaps the world. Mycroft had spared no expense, changed designers at least fifteen times so no one person knew the layout and only Mycroft himself knew the security codes to where Lestrade slept away his daylight hours. Like all vampires, Lestrade was at his most vulnerable when the sun ruled the skies. I should know. I sat there watching him for two weeks straight to fully investigate the vampiric condition. I had pinched, slapped, stabbed (non-lethal, I'll have you know) and even shot Lestrade once. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. I was beginning to suspect that this was how our killer was getting to his victims. It was the only scenario that made sense.
The speed idea, the one that vampires move faster than humans, was true to a degree. However, it was only a certain bloodline that had that ability, and given that it was one of the more desirable and dangerous ones, the Hillerands kept close tabs on who was part of their line. To date, only ten in all the world were known. Then there was the shapeshifters. Long ago they had probably been something more pedestrian, but now they called their 'family' the Blackmoors. Pretentious idiots. Just because they could turn into birds, bats or in one case, a wolf, at will didn't give them right to make up ridiculous monikers. There were only fourteen of them, mostly in America. Then there were the mentalists that could make others do as they wanted, the Staints line. Only twenty of them roamed the world, although evidence said there were more with their abilities watered down to non-existence. I often suspected Lestrade was of one of those bastard off-shoots, although his line was known to be powerless besides the usual vampiric abilities of not aging and endurance. The last of the big four 'families' were the Castilles, the ones that had minor telekinetic powers. One felt himself superior because he could move a stone weight object a quarter inch. Despite that, only thirty of them existed in various countries. The powerful and 'old' families guarded their bloodlines like biddies did their coins on whist days. Vampires like Lestrade who had a license or those turned illegally were of muddy lines, immortality bought and sold cheaply. One always got what they paid for.
Ridiculous.
But the clove kept coming back.
John murmured against my chest, the syllables tainted with sleep. I couldn't make out what he said, only a word that sounded like 'flutter'.
Then it hit me.
I displaced John and left him tumbling to the floor as I raced across the cold floor of our flat and began pulling books off the shelf. Even as I did so, my mental race was going faster and had already grabbed the book in my memory and was flipping pages. My physical hands were slow, only now finding the one I wanted and cracking it open. Pages moved with that ugly whispering sound of secrets in the outer world as my mind re-read in that mental version what was written on the page. I found it and traced my fingertip over the words.
Acherontia styx
Death's Head Moth
Pages slipped under my hands in the real world even as the ones in my mind stayed still and replayed those words. When I looked down, my fingers marked a new place. John's coming-awake irritation and demand for answers went ignored. All I wanted was input and so I read:
“He wasn't born a criminal. He was made one through years of systematic abuse. He hates his own identity, you see..”
No, he wasn't. He couldn't be.
"What is the first and principal thing he does? What needs does he serve by killing?"
"Anger, um, social acceptance, and, huh, sexual frustrations, sir... "
"No! He covets. That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer now."
"No. We just..."
"No. We begin by coveting what we see every day."
My traitorous mind took it a step further. We not only covet that which we see everyday as that particular literary character would have put it, but we begin by hating that which we are. The book fell from my hands, and I watched it turn over and over in an endless fall even as my mind jumped leaps ahead of anything else. I was standing naked in the middle of our flat in the chill with a few scales of John's semen drying on my thighs, but none of that was felt. If anything, I was too hot. The book fell open and even with John's hand on my shoulder and his buzzing words in my ear, I focused on the printed words there.
“What became of your lamb, Clarice?”
“They killed him.”
Summary: The world has moved on, leaving vampires, humans and werewolves trying to co-exist.
Pairing: Lestrade/Mycroft and Sherlock/Watson and whoever else I add in.
Rating: NC-17 overall but PG-13/R for a little male/male
Warnings: AU. Unbeta'd and unpicked.
Spoilers: Language for this chapter. Unabashed smut later. I promise.
Author Notes: I've tried to explain things. Feel free to smack me if I didn't.
Chapter One: http://morningstarzip.livejournal.com/40295.html (because I'm too lazy to do a link)
-------------
Sherlock
-------------
After we left Lestrade, the silence kept with us as we returned to Baker Street. I had no desire for a cab, wanting the space to think. Muggers or the like didn't worry me. With John and his gun at my side and the words passed among my Irregulars, the night didn't hold many fears for me. I was one of the few who would work any side of the fence be it vampires or human, prostitute or prince. It kept me from being bored although I didn't tell them that unless pressed for an answer. I may not have cared what their tiny minds thought, but it did make repeat business difficult.
It was the clove of garlic that stayed with me, remained while the other images faded into background noise. Even without the autopsy snaps in front of me, I could see each clearly. It would be wedged at the back of the tongue, resting against where the soft and hard palate met. There was nothing special about it, the sort anyone could buy at a market despite it not being in season. Garlic was one of those new vogue things that the insipid took to the moment some idol of theirs did. Crosses were making a come back as well. It wasn't hard to see why.
Four vampires murdered in three weeks, two in this one alone which meant the killer was either building up or had been overtaken by arrogance or a fit of need to kill. The latter seemed unlikely. There was planning in this. It wasn't something that had been done in an uncontrollable urge that couldn't be defeated. All of them were women, killed elsewhere and the bodies dumped in public places where no one had seen them.
One thread led to another to another and so on.
“Donovan said she had an idea on it, and I didn't think she would figure it out before you did. She and Anderson do make a good team though”
Lestrade was never more foolish than when he was trying to be superior. Donovan. As if.
“Sherlock?”
The tone of John's voice told me that he had called my name multiple times.
“What?” I asked, irritation made clear to him. Only John could pick up on those small hints and understand them. I hated being interrupted from my thoughts, needing to think when all others could do was talk, talk, talk. Even if they weren't as brilliant as I was, at least they could do me the service of shutting up so that their betters could think. John, of course, didn't fall into that category of fools. He knew I couldn't articulate my thoughts into all the words other people would understand. He understood and anyone who has ever been accepted cannot grasp what a freefall relief that is to those who stand outside the 'normal' world. One person who truly understands makes all the difference.
“You're about to walk into traffic,” he said, holding onto my arm.
“Oh. Well. Yes. I was testing the stopping time with the element of surprise.”
That lie wouldn't have convinced a four year old, but it was a skill I was still learning. Sociopaths had little need to lie when the truth got us what we wanted and gave a few seconds of shock that stripped the masks of others away.
“Of course,” John replied, not bothering to comment on what we both knew was true. We had reached that comfortable place where it was unnecessary.
I let myself be steered along, leaving John to worry about my physical being as I fell back into my thoughts. I trusted him as I did not other, something I could never articulate. For all my far-reaching thoughts and complex turns of intelligence, I couldn't say those words. And John didn't expect me to. Even when my sharp tongue turned on him, John shrugged it off. He would get angry, but he was always there despite the occasional eyeballs in the microwave or hedgehogs in the bathtub.
An answer finally occurred to me as dawn was creeping over London in an ugly gray shroud that promised rain, spats already hitting the panes in uneven amounts. It was the clove of garlic, that small piece of vegetable matter that was always out of place and a signature by now. Even the dailies had begun to pick up and publish news of the Dead Slayer or Vampire Killer. Give them a human criminal and they could think of a hundred mildly clever names. Use a vampiric one (and I refused to use the word 'Dead', even in the privacy of my mind) and even those motes of intelligence refused to spark. Typical of the media.
It was that bloody clove.
I drew John against my chest, resting my cheek against his hair as I stared out the window. More droplets were spattering against the glass, still in uneven amounts. Even the rain wasn't reliable.
I thought of Lestrade then, knowing full well where the vampire had gone to when he left us. Right now, he was probably the most secure creature in all of London if not all of Europe, perhaps the world. Mycroft had spared no expense, changed designers at least fifteen times so no one person knew the layout and only Mycroft himself knew the security codes to where Lestrade slept away his daylight hours. Like all vampires, Lestrade was at his most vulnerable when the sun ruled the skies. I should know. I sat there watching him for two weeks straight to fully investigate the vampiric condition. I had pinched, slapped, stabbed (non-lethal, I'll have you know) and even shot Lestrade once. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch. I was beginning to suspect that this was how our killer was getting to his victims. It was the only scenario that made sense.
The speed idea, the one that vampires move faster than humans, was true to a degree. However, it was only a certain bloodline that had that ability, and given that it was one of the more desirable and dangerous ones, the Hillerands kept close tabs on who was part of their line. To date, only ten in all the world were known. Then there was the shapeshifters. Long ago they had probably been something more pedestrian, but now they called their 'family' the Blackmoors. Pretentious idiots. Just because they could turn into birds, bats or in one case, a wolf, at will didn't give them right to make up ridiculous monikers. There were only fourteen of them, mostly in America. Then there were the mentalists that could make others do as they wanted, the Staints line. Only twenty of them roamed the world, although evidence said there were more with their abilities watered down to non-existence. I often suspected Lestrade was of one of those bastard off-shoots, although his line was known to be powerless besides the usual vampiric abilities of not aging and endurance. The last of the big four 'families' were the Castilles, the ones that had minor telekinetic powers. One felt himself superior because he could move a stone weight object a quarter inch. Despite that, only thirty of them existed in various countries. The powerful and 'old' families guarded their bloodlines like biddies did their coins on whist days. Vampires like Lestrade who had a license or those turned illegally were of muddy lines, immortality bought and sold cheaply. One always got what they paid for.
Ridiculous.
But the clove kept coming back.
John murmured against my chest, the syllables tainted with sleep. I couldn't make out what he said, only a word that sounded like 'flutter'.
Then it hit me.
I displaced John and left him tumbling to the floor as I raced across the cold floor of our flat and began pulling books off the shelf. Even as I did so, my mental race was going faster and had already grabbed the book in my memory and was flipping pages. My physical hands were slow, only now finding the one I wanted and cracking it open. Pages moved with that ugly whispering sound of secrets in the outer world as my mind re-read in that mental version what was written on the page. I found it and traced my fingertip over the words.
Acherontia styx
Death's Head Moth
Pages slipped under my hands in the real world even as the ones in my mind stayed still and replayed those words. When I looked down, my fingers marked a new place. John's coming-awake irritation and demand for answers went ignored. All I wanted was input and so I read:
“He wasn't born a criminal. He was made one through years of systematic abuse. He hates his own identity, you see..”
No, he wasn't. He couldn't be.
"What is the first and principal thing he does? What needs does he serve by killing?"
"Anger, um, social acceptance, and, huh, sexual frustrations, sir... "
"No! He covets. That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer now."
"No. We just..."
"No. We begin by coveting what we see every day."
My traitorous mind took it a step further. We not only covet that which we see everyday as that particular literary character would have put it, but we begin by hating that which we are. The book fell from my hands, and I watched it turn over and over in an endless fall even as my mind jumped leaps ahead of anything else. I was standing naked in the middle of our flat in the chill with a few scales of John's semen drying on my thighs, but none of that was felt. If anything, I was too hot. The book fell open and even with John's hand on my shoulder and his buzzing words in my ear, I focused on the printed words there.
“What became of your lamb, Clarice?”
“They killed him.”