Only You
A/N: I finally got this typed out! First story with a Johnlock AU! I must be going mad. Chapter 1 should be up within the next few days or so. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcomed greatly. I do hope you will enjoy :)
Prologue: Darker side of the Moon
It was the only way they could ever survive those dark times. The world's economy was left in shambles after the Great War, leaving many of them exposed and hunted down. They were simply persecuted because they were different, an abnormality that remained as the society's outcast. As a result, they were subjected to the whims of those who discover of their identity. Many became slaves, laborers and even prostitutes; as a last resort to save their own hide from the majority that openly discriminated them. 'Beasts, Freaks,' were the milder terms that frequented the once proud race. Half human, half beast; the Asrian were accepted by neither of their ancestry due to their impure blood.
Asrians came to be thought as one 'borne of hatred and lust', a punishment for the defeated Belsi demons that donned the appearance of animals on earth. It was a battle that the humans had to emerge victorious lest being reduced to the same treatment that their distant cousins were suffering. After nearly a century of bloodshed and casualties, the humans eventually managed to banish the demons back to their domain with the aid of the half-bloods. The Belsi still plagued Earth, leaving disappearing children if one was not careful. Yet, it was the Asrians that received the bitter end; having to have outlived their usefulness after the Great War. Humans were fearful; their population reduced to about one-third before the conflict occurred. With no other means to vent their rage upon, they turned upon the Asrians for sharing blood with their nemesis.
Sherlock Holmes was one of the lucky ones, escaping the harsh, inhumane treatment that many of his kind were forced into. Whilst many of the Asrian were starved and denied even the most basic rights, he had sufficient of Belsi blood in him to remain in control. Sherlock took up simple manual jobs that allowed him to escape when necessary, while balancing the essential release of his animalistic half every time the moon disappeared into the dark skies. He was always careful, coupled with knowledge of a genius; Sherlock had managed to survive along with his other sibling Mycroft Holmes while their parents perished in the biased world. His instincts had served him well for the past twenty-five cycles of the four seasons. It had enabled him to escape the Association, a filled stomach at every meal and remained hidden from the public eye.
It was fine; until he was stabbed in the back by an overly-curious employer. Mr. Brooks was a nice man, all amicable and helpful until he accidentally stumbled over the sight of the Mark on Sherlock's back while he was changing into the working attire. It seemed more like a tattoo to untrained eye, yet the silhouette of the host's animals would appear to be moving on close inspection. The Asrian were frequently identified in the same fashion, thus sending Mr. Brooks on a beeline for the nearest Hunter he could find. The shop owner would have claimed to be bewitched by the man's Belsi blood later on, but everyone in the village remained skeptical at the old man's words.
Mr. Brooks' action, however, did force the Asrian to take off once more. The human's call it the 'mad chase', while the Asrian believed it to be the 'last run'. The Hunters are Elite at their occupation. Many did not see the next sunrise; and Sherlock barely managed by with a couple of deep wounds. It had drained the Asrian to be on the run while nursing his bleeding flank, a darken patch on the jet black fur. He was man by day, then animal by night for the stealth that his animal-half provides.
On the brink of new moon, three hard days since the discovery of his identity, Sherlock was at his wit's end. It was rare admission for the Asrian; surprising that of himself. The raven-haired man rarely found himself drove to the corner; Sherlock prided himself with observation skills. It was his ability to deduce danger from the most subtle signs within his environment that kept him alive so far.
'It was a mistake. I merely miscalculated the timing which he returned; a folly I could have avoided if I had the variables,' Sherlock convinced himself despite the apparent shudder that seemed to dominate his body permanently then. The Asrian was exhausted beyond his limits, dehydrated from the constant race with the Hunters; apparent now from the dragging paws prints to an experienced eye. Sherlock was guided purely by his instincts then, up the boulder then down the small, steep cliffs. The man-beast looked up, ears drawn to the peculiar sound that drew clearer as Sherlock approached.
There was a curious mixture of cymbals, trumpets and various drums, along with abrupt crescendos and decrescendos. It draws the Asrian close like a moth to a fire, curious yet wary. Bright colors donned the wide, tent-like structure. It was unlike anything Sherlock had ever encountered, the whiskers twitching in quiet excitement to the new puzzle. A quick sniff in the air brought more questioning smells to the crouched feline, the danger previously all forgotten as Sherlock wondered further into the compound.
A dart shot past, narrowly missing the startled beast as rapid rustling soon followed. "Where is that bloody freak? Three days! It has been three bloody days!" Sherlock hurried out from the clearing, making a mad dash for the strange rectangular structure, butting open the door with his head. He had failed to see in that rushed moment that the structure was a caravan, painted with bold letters 'Greatest Game'; a neat plate of gold with the name 'John Hamish Watson' engraved on it. More so, the Asrian missed the fact that the door was, infact, slightly ajar upon his entrance. Most importantly, he has completely dismissed the possibility that the occupant might actually be present.
Sherlock Holmes has never been more wrong in his life.