Title: The Scent of Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Contains: fantasy/supernatural au, blood, biting
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I just like to play with them.
Summary: In which John is part pooka and Sherlock is… well let's not spoil that.
Notes: All mistakes are mine. Feel free to let me know if you see any. As always feedback is appreciated.
Sherlock was as fascinating as he was frustrating, John learned during their first meeting. That observation hadn't changed in the months since they had lived together.
"Ask," Sherlock said not looking up for his latest experiment (John didn't want to know what the goop was. Something things were safer not knowing.)
"Ask what?" John asked trying to pretend innocence despite being so lost in thought that he'd been caught staring.
"Whatever has had your brain buzzing for months now. You're not nearly as covert in your observation as you think. It's annoying. Now ask." Sherlock turned and locked John with a challenging look.
Well damn. John hadn't thought he'd been that bad, but he shook his head in denial. "It's not proper."
Sherlock laughed at that. "If you cared about being proper, you would have told me to 'piss off' when you met me."
John drew in a deep breath, taking in the scent of Sherlock that permeated the apartment. He'd been fascinated by Sherlock's scent before he'd ever seen the man, having made a part of him of him stand up and beg, his metaphorical tail wagging in excitement. If he'd had the ability to shift, he would have done so right there in the hall outside of the lab that day. As it was, he'd had to force the shadows away from him as he'd instinctively pulled them to him. He knew the scent of all manner of fae and magical creatures, and could identify most originating from Europe, Northern Africa, and Western Asia.
However, in Sherlock John had found a puzzle, a mystery that he needed to unravel, that drew him in and called to him. If someone heritage wasn't obvious, it was considered very rude to ask. And Sherelock was anything but obvious.
There was a hint of fae, similar to his brother Mycroft, but there was something else which made no sense as they were clearly brothers from the same parents. While it wasn't unheard of for traits to unexpected appear generations later, there was always a hint of them in other blood relatives. Whatever Sherlock was, Mycroft did not share in the slightest.
The only thing that was even remotely similar were the bloody peris that had plagued everyone in Afghanistan. They were indiscriminant killers drawn to warzones. However, given that Sherlock's actions, while often cruel, were not driven by malice and he showed neither a lack of self-esteem nor affinity for fire or air, John didn't even consider the possibility for more than a moment.
But here was Sherlock, giving him permission to ask.
"What are you?" John finally blurted.
"Oh, of all the things to get under your skin, it's that? How trite." Suddenly clapping his hands in mock glee, Sherlock stood and began pacing the length of the sitting room. "You first."
John's brow raised at that. Sherlock never had a problem breaking down everyone's lineage in a very public way, but surprisingly, he'd never brought the subject up of John's own heritage.
" Your affinity for cleanliness and organization is more than your training as an Army doctor. You have hob tendencies, likely brownie blood in your ancestry. But there is something else there. Something that revels in the thrill of the chase, something wild, but not wicked. I have been unable to decide what that is though." Sherlock paused, clearly waiting for John to share.
Of course Sherlock would know him so well. "My maternal mother was a brownie, and my paternal great-great grandfather was a pooka."
"Ah, naturally. Such free spirits they are, reveling in the freedom of the run, calling to the shadows? Can you shift? Can I see?" Sherlock asked, suddenly very much like a child with a new toy.
John shook his head. "No, I'm not so lucky. Harry can, but it frightens her so she tries to deny the ability. Doesn't work out so well, thus the drinking. My aptitude lies with the shadows, though I can summon some pretty wicked fangs. Scared myself shitless the first time it happened."
"Let me see," Sherlock ordered, stopping his movement in front of John.
Rolling his eyes, John rose and complied. He grinned, smile full of fangs.
Sherlock moved forward and crouched down before him. "Open."
John shot Sherlock the 'seriously?' look, but Sherlock was fully engrossed with his mouth and didn't seem to notice, so John obeyed with an exasperated sigh.
Sherlock's hand moved forward, and John's mouth snapped shut so fast that Sherlock was lucky he didn't lose a finger. Leaning back and tight lipped, John shook his head and said, "You're fingers aren't coming near my mouth until you've sanitized them."
Sherlock looked forlorn and ready to protest but John was resolute and glared at Sherlock until he turned and went to the kitchen sink to clean up.
Grabbing a dish towel to dry his hands, Sherlock returned to John's side and took a seat on the couch, looking up at him expectantly.
Again rolling his eyes, John sat down next to him and opened his mouth.
Sherlock's fingers were suddenly there poking at his teeth. He began a running commentary of his finds, but John was only able to pick up bits and pieces: "twenty… top… no incisors… grinding…"
Sherlock suddenly hit something sensitive, and John couldn't help the instinctive need to bite down. His teeth sank into Sherlock's flesh with sickening ease and the taste of blood hit his taste buds. John moved without conscious thought, opening his mouth and wrapping his hand tightly around Sherlock's wrist, dragging him to the sink to rinse off the blood and see how bad the damage was. John swore at himself for being so dumb. He knew how sharp his teeth were, he just hadn't realized they were so sensitive.
After several moments under the water, John turned it off and examined the damage. He blinked in confusion and probed the flesh watching the slow trickle of blood. Given the size and depth of the wounds, there should have been much more blood. Glancing up at Sherlock, John noted that he was looking anywhere but at John. Returning his attention to the wound, he decided that no stitches were needed and grabbed the first aid kit from beneath the sink.
Covering the wound with salve, John carefully wrapped Sherlock's fingers with bandages.
Sherlock was oddly silent until John finished, and spoke suddenly. "I'm a leanbh de an Seilg." Sherlock said it with no inflection as though it didn't mean a thing, but his eyes were locked on John and missed nothing.
John knew he must have paled, but the world had just fallen out beneath him. Sherlock was a child of the Hunt. A Hunt child. John had heard stories, nightmarish tales of children that survived their encounter with the Wild Hunt, but they were changed, missing something. They supposedly lived on the threshold with a foot on each side, neither living nor dead. But Sherlock wasn't like that. He was very much alive. John had just seen him bleed.
"Mummy was caught by the Wild Hunt when she was pregnant with me. While they can easily take the souls of those with mostly mortal blood, they must fight for those with magic in their blood. My mother's family comes from a family that's interbred with many fae over the generations, and received extensive training, so she was able to protect herself. However, I was but a babe in her womb with no protection of my own. By the time she realized that the slaugh had turned their attention to me it was too late. She fought and saved me, but…" Sherlock trailed off, and John had never seen him look so scared, unsure, as though the fate of the world depends on what John said next.
"They marked you, left a piece of themselves behind. That's why you rarely sleep or eat." John closed the space between them, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's stiff frame. "It's why you can't empathize, why you have difficulties with feelings." Under John's hands, Sherlock tensed further.
"I feel!" Sherlock protested loudly.
"I said you have difficulties, not that you didn't. It's all or nothing for you, isn't it?" John asked rubbing soothing hands up and down Sherlock's back, relieved when the muscles slowly started to relax beneath his ministrations.
"Yes," Sherlock all but breathed.
"Family secret? You're never told anyone, have you?"
"Never. Mummy will be cross, and Mycroft will threaten you again. Not that it will do any good, of course. How did you know that I was… different? What gave it away? Most people assume I have a mimic in my lineage," Sherlock asked, clearly needing to understand.
"You smell," John said, drawing in a deep breath, flooding his senses.
"And you did not tell me that you had enhanced senses. You're obviously not the first person that's smelt me. There has to be more to it."
"You smell good," John said trying to explain, dropping his nose to nuzzle at Sherlock's neck.
"Oh," Sherlock said softly. "Oh," he said again, understanding dawning in his eyes as he looked down at the top of John's head.
Raising his head to meet, Sherlock's eyes, John smiled. "Yes, oh."
Secure with the knowledge of Sherlock's feelings, John raised one hand to cup the back of Sherlock's head, and not fully pleased at the novelty of being shorter than his partner, brushed his lips across Sherlock's.
Slowly pulling back, John was pleased to note the truly happy grin on Sherlock's face and the dancing emotions in his eyes.
Notes: I manipulated some of the creatures/folklore to fit how I wanted. I created the 'leanbh de an Seilg,' which is Gaelic for 'child of the Hunt.'