[Title: Save Me From Myself
[Pairing: JohnLock
[Other notes: AU
[Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or Sherlock Holmes in any way possible.
Chapter One: A Study In Vampires
One hundred and nineteen years relentlessly passed since that day… and every year that conceded vampires became closer and closer to extinction. Hunter clans were raised from different parts of the world—with one goal: annihilate all Vampires. War after war ensued amid the two races; blood was spilled every year, human and vampire alike mercilessly killed by each other… Battles were won, but the war was not.
It was an inescapable fate between the two; they only had a choice of kill or be killed.
Only one side to fight for and only one side to die for.
Their race was their law.
Their kin was their system.
Freedom was spoken through weapons and armor.
No peace, no treaty.
The sentiment to win ruled their hearts...to the point of insanity.
It was 1982 when vampires were then announced extinct to the world as humans won the final War. Sending out human suicide missions on planting Vampire Annihilating Poison Ammunition within the VAMP Project… It was indeed successful, and what's left of the vampires became nothing more than servants and exiles to the human race.
Year 2010.
He leaned back against the leather car seat, mutely counting the moments as the façade of St. Bartholomew's Hospitalcame into sight. Listlessly anticipating it to be the same apart from a few renovations here and there, but it seems he was completely mistaken, nothing has changed. And it was surely frustrating since everything changed as it is and he doesn't and couldn't do anything especially with his inane brother's constant surveillance and overprotection.
Twenty-eight years has certainly got the best of him.
A sharp intake of unneeded breath entered his pale lips right after a lump emerged in his throat … He, to be honest, was cynical of what he was to do. For the prior years, he did almost everything he could just to leave England and overwrite the memories in relation to it—for him, well, it was simply transport. He suffers not from emotions nor feelings but rather his own mind, the past that he sought to forget. The past that was perfectly veiled under his faultless mask, buried someplace no one can ever find… and sometimes, he wished, also he couldn't find. But no matter what he did, they were there. Every single detail etched imperfectly within his mind akin to vivid scars that did beyond than just defile…
Shutting his eyes, he breathed heavily… It was somehow distressing, to simply be called back for a cold case—it was interesting, yes, but his senses were screaming all day, it was against his very being to turn back and leave this for tomorrow. His being shouting: 'Not today!' He couldn't perceive any logical rationale about the coiling numbness within him. It was like a hundred year old instinct coming back up at him, making him want to throw up.
He rolled his eyes at his own idiocy, though it never really reached his face. His appearance said nothing about his inner turmoil…
Light still shone from the tinted windows of the taxi, he clenched his fists out of instinct as the vehicle came to a full stop. He opens the door, and pays the cabbie without much as a thank you. He walked off, in his usual stand. His hands deep within his pocket as his coat billows around him, his scarf tucked warmly around his neck and his suit perfectly fitting for his physique.
He pushed open the doors of the hospital and walked towards the elevator, it was a quick ride up. No one was really rushing to go up to the morgue at anytime of the day. As he got up, he walked through the doors without anyone caring—they were used to him barging in and out of this place.
With a weighty sigh, he opened the door and was greeted politely by…an acquaintance, Molly Hooper. He replied with a mere grunt and immediately headed for the bag and unzipped it revealing the corpse in relation to the current case.
"How fresh?" The words rolled off his mouth as he started deducing the male.
"Just in, sixty-seven, natural causes…" she noted thoughtfully as she walked around the male, "He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice."
The male fought the urge to groan at her superfluous self-opinions, he zipped the back and threw her a false smile, "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."
She stared at him blankly and the next thing she knew, she was outside of the morgue watching the eccentric detective do his thing. Seriously, why did she ever fall for the man? She returned trying to start small talk only to get caught embarrassingly about her lipstick, which she feebly managed to deflect—and note to self, offering him coffee isn't really a good idea.
"Black, two sugars, please. I'll be upstairs." He muttered walking out uncaringly.
Immediately after, he walked towards the elevator. Everything around him was so boring and unbelievably slow—it was tedious in some cases. Like today, a case… yet he knew he was going to finish it today, and after, nothing. Back to boredom, again.
Walking into the chemical research lab, he found himself alone. He was pleased with this, not distractions what-so-ever. A pang of relief settled in his veins yet his instincts were still running wild, he shook his head and began working on his own experiment. Loosing track of time was impossible for him, but he knew how to use his time well enough. He removed his coat and scarf, placing it on a vacant seat and continues a left out experiment.
He found himself standing in the far end of the lab, hunched over a petri dish with a pipette in hand as two males entered, and almost immediately, his eyes glanced over them… Mike Stamford and a blond—in a flash, his head burned with affliction and yet he kept his façade up. He looked down again a second later already knowing everything, ignoring the painful throbbing of unwanted instinct, he continued his experiment half-listening to the conversation.
He was a male in his early fourty's, sent from someplace… Tan… Afghanistan. Or pension… Ah, so no permanent home place. Thus, flatmates. Me. Either way. Worked as under military service—sent back home: .Psychosomatic limp. Still… he's human. No… he's not. Wait… Ah, he's a hunter—from a line of hunters. An … Interesting. Why is he here? He doesn't know much. Never fought or even met a vampire before.
"Well, a bit different from my day." The blond stated in a-matter-of-factly.
Mike chuckled as he took his usual seat, "You have no idea."
"Mike, can I borrow you phone." The male suddenly said after checking his phone, "There's no signal on mine."
Mike looked at him, "And what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text." Was his only reply.
The latter spoke, "Sorry, it's in my coat."
Out of politeness or modesty, the blond spoke up, "Er…here…" he said reaching for his back pocket, "Use mine."
The brunette looked briefly at Mike, "Oh," then at the blond calculatingly, "Thank you." He then walks up to the blond and only then Mike introduces him.
"It's an old friend of mine," Mike says, "John Watson."
Ah… the Watson Clan. Interesting.
The male takes the phone, his mind immediately tucking the information of the human's name. He flips open the Nokia N97 and starts typing, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he questions nonchalantly.
John frowns disbelievingly as Mike puts on a knowing look, "Sorry?" the blond asked.
"Which is it—Afghanistan or Iraq?" He raises an eyebrow and returns the cell phone; John hesitantly takes it back and momentary looks at Mike skeptically. A smug smile was his only reply.
"Afghanistan." John clarifies after a while, "Sorry, how did you know?"
The doors opened yet again revealing Molly carrying a cup of coffee, "Ah, Molly, coffee." The male muses, "Thank you." He takes the coffee and stares at her less than a second before he questions, "What happened to the lipstick?"
"It wasn't working for me." The female replied with a tinge of annoyance in her voice despite the forced smile.
Turning, the male continued, "Really? I thought it was a big improvement." He sips the coffee grimacing at its taste, and places it down, "You're mouth's too small now."
"…Okay." She uttered and heads out the lab.
Silence ensued once again, "So, how do you feel about the violin?" the male muttered that seems as if he was talking to himself.
John looks at Molly then back to Mike, "I'm sorry, what?"
Fighting another urge to comment on the human's slowness he continued bending down as he types on the laptop, "I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end," only then did he look at John, "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He spoke in one breath with a hideously faked smile.
John retained his blank expression and turns to Mike, "Oh… you…You told him about me?"
"Not a word." Mike replied innocently.
The blond looked at the other with a stoic expression, "Then who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did," the former replied without skipping a beat as he wore his coat, "told Mike this morning that I would be a difficult man to find a flatmate for," I inwardly scoffed at the inside joke, "Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan...Wasn't that difficult a leap."
John looks crossed, "How did you know about Afghanistan?"
The male disregarded the question as he puts on his scarf and checks his phone, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walks towards John, "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock." Another false smile, "Sorry—gotta dash. I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He pockets his phone and passes John.
"Is that it?" The human blond questions.
The male turns back, "Is that what?"
"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" He said as if every single word of it is the epitome of wrong.
"Problem?" The male retorts.
John looks incredulously at Mike, and turns back to the younger man seeing that Mike doesn't have any plans on helping, "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."
The younger male stared at John for a moment, he then open his mouth and all the words flew right out, "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic—quite correctly, I'm afraid."
The older male looks down on his leg, and back at the other.
"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He questioned with a smug smile, he turns and walks to the door and leans back into the door, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," a haughty click-wink in John's way and turns to Mike, "Afternoon."
And he's gone.
Mike speaks up as John cast's him a look, "Yeah, he's always like that."
"Ah, Mr. Holmes." John greets with a placid smile reaching out a hand to the familiar male that walked out the cab. He absolutely has no idea why he actually came here, all the more the fact that he actually stalked the internet of information of the man he's going to leave it—he's absolutely got nothing.
"Sherlock, please" He passes as he shakes the other's hand.
John looks around, "Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."
"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." Sherlock states as he waits before the door.
"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" the blond questioned truly intrigued by the matter.
Sherlock smirked, "Oh no." He replies, "I ensured it."
And after, the door opened revealing a modest looking old lady. A smile plastered on her face, "Sherlock, hello." She greets as she hugs him briefly.
As Sherlock was released, he immediately introduced the two stepping back as to present her the new flatmate, "Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson."
"Hello." She greets lovingly.
John already liked the landlady, "How do?"
Mrs. Hudson gestures John inside, "Come in."
The two entered the room first, boxes clattered around, equipment unkept and other instruments scattered about. It was a mess—an absolute downright mess. But John seemed to like it, and Sherlock even more. Considering, these are all his things after all.
"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed." John said,
Sherlock nods, "Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."
Sherlock continued, "So I went straight ahead and moved in." as John also spoke, "Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out…"
They stare at each other, "…Oh…" John muttered, "So this is all…"
The younger male fiddled around, "Well, obviously I can, um…" he looks around making half-attempts on fixing his stuffs, "straighten things up a bit." He said as he stabs the unopened envelopes with a utility knife.
John stares at the mantelpiece for a while, "That's a skull…" he stated pointing it with his crutch.
Sherlock almost smiled, "Friend of mine…" he replied, John eyed him carefully, "When I say friend—"
Mrs. Hudson entered with a smile, "What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" She said gaining both their attentions, "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." She smiled with the silent implication.
Mrs. Hudson. Predictable. My first flatmate—male. Me. Asexual. Not really a pair. Sigh. Whatever. It's so boring—I wonder what shall I do to pass the boredom. Humans get worked up at the most mundane of things.
"Of course we'll be needing two." John immediately replied with narrowed eyes.
Mrs. Hudson's eyes still held that glint, "Oh don't worry, there're all sorts around here." She pointed behind her, "Mrs. Turner's next door got married ones."
John gave up and looked at the oblivious Sherlock Holmes, still the latter makes no comment.
"Sherlock… the mess you've made." Mrs. Hudson sighed as she passed into the kitchen.
Sherlock made little attempts at cleaning; John sat down heavily on the chair. And stared at the eccentric git, "I looked you up on the internet last night."
The younger's ears perked up and turned, "Anything interesting?"
"Found your website, The Science of Deduction." John replied eyes hardening, "and a bit more on myths."
Sherlock ignored the last sentence and smiled, "So what did you think?"
John gives him a sarcastic look in which Sherlock feigns hurt, "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."
"Yes," He confirmed without anything else, "and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."
"How?" John uttered then immediately moved on, "And those myths—"
The younger grins wickedly and looks away as Mrs. Hudson returned holding the newpaper, "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." She paused, "Three exactly the same."
Sherlock strolls off against the window, "Four…" he eyes the police car below, "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."
Mrs. Hudson questions the younger and he merely looks at the door as someone enters into the flat, "Where?"
The stranger looks a bit breathless, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."
"What's new about this one?" Sherlock passes, "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."
"You know how they never leave notes?" He questioned and the two other's merely stared at their conversation thrown on both sides.
"Yeah,"
"Well, this one did." He finished, "Will you come?"
A pause, "Who's on forensics?"
"It's Anderson."
The younger grimaced, "Anderson won't work with me."
That worthless human. So conventional and boring even more than the rest. Ugh. Not happening.
"Well, he won't be your assistant."
Sherlock groaned, "I need an assistant." And a blood donor, in that matter. He mentally added.
The other surrendered, "Will you come?"
"Not in a police car…" He said obstinately, "I'll be right behind."
The latter looked around noticing the others, he nodded, "Thank you." And he hurries back down, and Sherlock did the thing that made John knit his brows.
Sherlock jumped clasping his hands exultantly twirling around the room, "Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note!" He looks at John, "Oh, its Christmas!" and he picks up his scarf and coat yet again, "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."
She smiles, "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."
"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock continued, excited to leave the flat as soon as he's done fixing himself up.
John stares at Sherlock and his eyes narrows to the fact that Sherlock's eyes actually lighten—as in, literally lighten. They glow crimson over the edges lightly and return back into their original irises… John may not be an expert at myths but there are indeed some things. He glares at Sherlock as he returns…
"Hm… what?" Sherlock asks with a smirk as he puts on his scarf.
"Ever wondered about vampires?" John questioned.
The latter's face was indifferent, "They're merely creatures of the past, John," he replied and looked back down, "You're a doctor… in fact, you're an army doctor."
"Yes." John replies as he stands up.
"Any good?"
"Very good."
Sherlock paused, leaning against the door frame, "Seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."
"…Yes."
A smile wandered across Sherlock's mouth, "Bit of trouble too, I bet."
"Of course, yes." John replies and clears his throat quietly, "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."
And finally, that smile echoed through Sherlock's eyes, "Want to see some more?"
"Oh, God, yes." John replies and hurries after Sherlock.
Mrs. Hudson faces them as they reached the door, "Both of you?"
"Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock replies enthusiastically as he kisses her by the cheek.
"Look at you, all happy." She frowned teasingly, "It's not decent."
Sherlock smiled, "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!"
"Okay, you've got questions." Sherlock muttered as soon as they got in the cab.
"Lots," John muttered, he cleared his throat, "Yeah, where are we going?"
"Crime scene. Next?"
"Who are you?" John says, "I mean… What do you do?"
Sherlock eyes John for a moment, realizing that this man was already having guesses. Well, it isn't unexpected, he is after all a Hunter by blood, "What do you think?" He plays along.
John stays silent for a moment opens his mouth and shuts it, he starts to speak, "I'd say private detective…" he says but with evident hesitance.
"But?"
"…but the police don't go to private detectives." He finished, his face determined on actually trying to understand the ambiguous flatmate of his.
"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." Sherlock replied, "Been one for a long time, I might add."
"What does that mean?" John questions, on both of Sherlock's statements. But sadly, Sherlock answers but one.
"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."
"Police don't consult amateurs."
Sherlock looks at him, "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised."
"Yes, how did you know?" John questioned appled by the sudden realization again.
Sherlock smiles, "I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..." he gestures at John, "…said trained at Bart's, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan—Afghanistan or Iraq."
John glowered at him, "You said I had a therapist."
"You've got a psychosomatic limp—of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother." Sherlock muttered apathetically, "Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."
"The engraving." John noted.
Harry Watson
From Clara
xxx
"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara." He smiled deceivingly, "Who's Clara? Three kisses say it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her." He emphasized the 'left' strongly, "He gave the phone to you: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."
John smiled and shook his head, "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"
Returning the smile, he continued, "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone; never see a drunk's without them." With that, Sherlock spoke in a more normal matter, "There you go, you see – you were right."
"I was right?" he repeats mockingly, "Right about what?"
"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock said having the last word, yet again.
Silence wept through the cab, it was that peaceful and yet determinedly tense aura. Sherlock found it unnervingly soothing to simply stay here—John on the other hand was trying to take this all in.
"That…" John began, "was amazing."
The younger stared at him, shock not-so-written over his face, "Do you think so?"
"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." John nodded as if he was talking to himself than Sherlock.
Interesting… Sherlock smirked and scoffed, "That's not what people normally say." His voice was laced with a small hint of accusation and deride.
"What do people normally say?" John asks, a bit sad on Sherlock's part.
"'Piss Off'" He replied with a smile, looking John straight at the face.
They laughed for a moment and John's thoughts kicked in, "Oh, yeah. One more question." He said through the fit of silent laughter.
"Hm?" Sherlock questioned with a stifled laugh.
"Do you know Elhsom?" John questioned.
Sherlock stiffened visibly for a second but continued giggling, "Why?"
"Well… no reason. It just came out." The other quipped quietly.
"Oh, then yes. I know that their family lead the Vampire Kin." He stated normally, "They were all annihilated by the VAPA Project."
John nodded, "But… not everyone."
Sherlock looked at John, "What do you mean?"
"There were two recorded vampires got out alive." John whispered confidentially, "My father told me that it was a vampire that actually lead the VAPA Project and the other was his lover. There were no names given—all files were destroyed immediately after the implementation of the project."
"This is all confidential, is it not?" Sherlock spoke after a while.
John smiled, "Well, potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
ABloodStainedLetter,
over & out
