Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN. All rights go to BBC and Moffat.
A/N: Sorry if there are any grammatical errors. I hate re-reading things I write. Feedback would be lovely, and highly appreciated.
It was a small mass of clustered houses, all wooden and clay, which were tucked soundlessly away into the tumbling arms of green grass hills and tall willowy trees. The mountains carried towers for late nights when there was a war, and the wind that churned the valley was cool while the air was warm. The people that lived there were lively and strung out to the brim with hidden greed. They argued and gambled on dusty summer nights, and when the trees threw away their attires of green and changed into orange they would sit out and caramelize the fallen red apples and roast the seeds of the indigenous vegetation. It was known throughout the village (and many others surrounding) that every twenty years on the day April 6th a man was to be gathered and sent out over the wide expansion of hills and plains in search of a creature for its blood. The crimson liquid that flowed through the beings veins would add fifty years unto its capturer's life. Every village fought for it, and only some received it.
The date was April 4 when John Watson was informed that he would be the one from their village to hunt the required creature. His sister, Harriet, who had the letter of deed appear on her doorstep by mistake, had told the news to him. It always confused John on why his village didn't assemble a group of men instead of choosing just one, but it had become clear to him the instant he had seen the town's people's faces. They would kill each other for the first drink of blood, and a whole group would return with just one. In truth, John didn't wish to leave. He and his wife, Sarah were finally getting along again, and he hated the thought of leaving her when things had finally started going well for them. But when he told her about his upcoming absence her eyes had shone bright and her cheeks had flushed and she had gripped him harshly by the arm in her overwhelmed excitement.
"Oh, John!" She had cooed, lips parting in a wide adherent smile, "That's fantastic news! Oh! Just imagine! We could live long enough to start a new life! To build a house and homeā¦" Her words had flowed together then, and John had lost his train of thought at the mention of staying here. He hated these hills, and he hated the greedy, self-centered people that occupied them. No one cared for each other, not really, and it was this time of year that truly brought people's real sides out.
"When do you think you'll be back?" Mary called from the parlor, and John gazed in her direction before turning back to his notepad. The pages remained as blank as they had been an hour ago. He really had no idea what to write about.
"Still thinking?" Mary bristled, appearing in the doorway with her hands on her hips and her hair falling in brown ringlets over her shoulders. John nodded. He twirled his pencil between his fingers, memorizing the rough particles of wood scraping against his skin.
"You've been sitting here all day." Mary stated, her voice more tense than before. "Shouldn't you be packing up? You're leaving tomorrow." And then as a last thought she added: "Go on a little adventure. Write about it. But get packed up and bring us back some more years to live!" It was only when John was certain she was gone that he let himself whisper:
"Nothing happens to me. Capturing someone against both our wills isn't going to change that." And as though on impulse he wrote that down, a perfect title for a perfectly boring story about a perfectly boring life. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering down to his satchel that was propped against the far wall of his room. He stood with a grunt and flung his notepad in there, his pencil, a small dagger, some water, and yet another blade. The war had taught him to never be too careful. After a moment he threw in some matches. Fire was always good. Harriet came to visit him later on that day. She was smiling and bent down to kiss his cheek. Before she left she threw him a hopeful glance and said jokingly: "You'll share some blood with me won't ya? Family first after all." It was meant as a lighthearted comedic measure but she may as well have held a dagger to his throat. There was nothing joking about it. A lot of townsfolk visited him that day, actually. Each bringing over food, and knives, and lanterns for his trip. Wished him the best of luck.
"Bring some life back to us!" They called. As if this things blood would really let these people live. It was a waste. There was no point in this. But John knew as well as everyone that this wasn't optional. You can't break a hundred year old tradition. That night lanterns were hung. They glowed red in their paper coverings and dangled gloriously off the slanted roofs of the village. Fresh grilled smells filled the air and music drifted soft out and over the hills. Other fires and parties could be seen as faint small dots on the horizon. Everyone was preparing. There was always a farewell party. Always. At twelve John made his way to the large gate to their town, his neighbors and sister and wife watching him apprehensively from the road back.
Sarah had stumbled forward and kissed his cheek, gripped his hand and hissed: "Make me proud. Make me young again." And John had hidden his disappointment, choked down the sinking feeling in his heart and turned walking through the gate, the bundle of leather on his back containing the necessities that he would need. It wouldn't be a long journey, not at all, the creature's habitat very close to their village. No, he could find the thing in two days. But it was a race, to get there first, and that's what had John keeping his hand clasped around the blunt wooden handle of his blade.
There were no rules.
Nothing was considered "cheating".
Everything went, and nothing was banned.
The weight of his weapon remained a constant reminder.
He remembered the steel ripping through the skin of his shoulder.
Remembered the feelings of utter shock and abandon as a wave of pain washed over him.
His vision was bombarded with black dots.
He knew that wasn't good.
He never remembered hitting the ground.
He never remembered anyone carrying him to safety.
But he did remember the eyes, the bluest of blues dancing with an earnest silver touch.
And he remembered the voice, a deep baritone of unspoken promises and whispers.
The eyes and voice and pain all seemed connected in his mind.
They made up the memories of his injury during the war two years back.
John didn't miss the fighting.
But often he found himself missing those eyes, and that deep rich voice.
His shoulder gave a dulling ache and he blinked, looking about himself before stumbling upright. He placed his hand on the bark of the tree behind him, steadying himself before pulling on his pack and waltzing down the hills once more. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, especially not under an obvious tree right off the footpath. He really needed to be more careful. He was just lucky that someone from a surrounding village hadn't meandered past and decided to knock out one of their competitors. The hills glowed a dark green, the shadows of the night turning everything around him black. But the stars shone through the murky despair of the valley, and John turned up his gaze to study their white blooming forms. He did hate it here, but he loved the stars, and from these hills they looked spectacular. No one in his village saw the point of gazing at the night sky. Not even Sarah, although she would sit by him on warm, clear nights just to keep him company. It didn't stop her from complaining though.
'I just don't understand it, John. They're lights. We see them everyday. Now come on inside, lets eat dinner.'
The dirt of the road shuffled beneath his boots and he watched as a faint veil of dust alighted on the top of his laces. The water in his pack sloshed around at every jostling step, and John eventually grew weary of carrying a dagger. Soundlessly he slipped it into his belt. Now his hands grasped the straps of his satchel and he desperately tried to blink the tired from his eyes as he walked on. It was around 1:34 he supposed, when John had spotted another man on the footpath ahead. Without any hesitation he had flung himself behind a tree and settled himself into the recesses of the bushes neighboring. He heard a man's voice, rough but accented across the wind and he strained to hear what he was saying. With an aggravated sigh John creeped across the line of dark vegetation, coming into the range of hearing and settling down again to listen.
"It's from the village in the East. They're sending a message, apparently, by the looks of how torn up this thing is. Ah, and look! Letters, carved into the poor things fur. Honestly, how morbid can you get?" A woman's voice seemed to join in with the man's in disgusted agreement, but she sounded closer to John's position then the man did.
"Lestrade, they're freaks! They're deranged, they shouldn't even be allowed to participate in this after what they did last time!" John heard the man sigh in agreement and the two had fallen silent, until at last, with a ruffled 'come one, then' from the man they had turned and begun to hike up the hill opposite to John's right. He felt the impulsive need to tell them they were going the wrong way, south actually, when they needed to be going west. But he held his tongue and waited soundlessly until their voices had died and their footsteps had no longer carried. John made his way from his position, squinting slightly in the dark until he spotted what they were talking about. There was an animal, small and young, that lay in tattered bloodied remains on the edge of the dusted road. It's fur had been torn away on one side, and carved rich and deep into the animal's pink skin were the letters: 'I. O. U'.
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