Chapter 2. The rating of T for this story really comes into play in later chapters, so keep that in mind if you're going to keep reading...
Reviews are appreciated!
John wanders around for the better part of four hours. Ducking in and out of alleys, trying not to pick up the obvious signs of vampires. He's becoming more like Sherlock with every moment. He knows he should investigate a particular alley in which a vampire has obviously been living, but he ignores the overwhelming stench that meets his nostrils. He just wants to have some time to himself, to clear his mind and get some alone time. He makes it back to the flat around seven in the morning.
John storms into 221B, scaring Mrs. Hudson as he does so.
"Oh good Lord! You startled me, dear," Mrs. Hudson says, putting a hand to her heart. She looks past John into the street, "Where's Sherlock?"
"He's out," John says, a hint of anger in his voice, "And I don't think he'll be back for a while. I'll be upstairs." He stomps up the stairs and into the flat, slamming the door.
He leans against the back of the door, closing his eyes and breathing. Why didn't he just leave when Sherlock told him what he did? Why didn't he just walk out the door instead of letting the consulting vampire killer show him the tools of his gothic trade? He could have had a normal life, but now he was stuck with Sherlock Holmes, the man who killed for a living, who had somehow pulled John into the nightmare that was his life. But the strangest thing was that John didn't know if he wanted to leave this nightmare or not.
He can't sort out his feelings toward his mysterious flatmate and vampire hunting partner. Everyone assumes that they're in a relationship, and for all he knows that could be Sherlock's view of their friendship. The consulting killer certainly isn't one for relationships, but he seems particularly keen on making John feel special, most of the time anyway. Always introducing him as his partner, making sure that he's safe, caring for him when he got a hell of a cold last year. But that doesn't mean that they're in a sexual relationship. They're just friends, he hopes.
John runs a hand through his hair and pulls his coat off. He lets it fall, hearing the clunk of his pistol as it hits the floor. He considers pulling a Sherlock and taking out his emotions on the smiley face on the wall. But he settles for a cup of tea and his chair.
He drains the cup and closes his eyes. Perhaps some sleep would do him good. His eyelids begin to close and he can feel himself drifting off. He's almost asleep when the door is pushed open and a very gaunt, very disheveled, very angry Sherlock bursts into the room.
"They're all so stupid!" He yells, throwing the harpoon gun down on the table and sitting with a thud in his chair.
"Who is?" John asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Everyone! How can they not see them! They're all around, down every alley, every street, on the buses in the shops, and no one notices!"
"They can conceal themselves. And not everyone's looking for vampires, Sherlock," John says setting his empty cup down on the table beside him.
Sherlock throws his hands in the air. "But how can they be so blind! You don't have to look hard to see them. A tilt of the head, a lingering look, the pale skin, the hypnotic eyes, the odd smiles." He puts his head in his hands. "There are so many signs, John. But no one notices. No one but me."
"And me," John says, "You got me into this crazy business of yours. I notice their trails too."
Sherlock sighs. "But you don't really observe. There's so much more than meets the eye and you're only seeing the surface."
"Yeah, thanks." John grabs his cup and takes it to the kitchen. Sherlock emits a loud sigh from the sitting room and John comes back to find him sprawled out on the sofa, legs dangling over an arm, his coat thrown carelessly on the floor next to John's.
John picks up the coats and hangs them on the hooks behind the door, then he sits down at the desk and opens his laptop. He pulls up his blog and stares at the screen. The latest entry entitled "Tea, Toast, and TNT," in which John had described Sherlock's habit of continually blowing things up in the flat, was posted almost three months ago. God is he behind. Not that he could write about anything he actually does with Sherlock. In Sherlock's words, "The world's not ready to know there are monsters out there. Let them have their fake sense of security, because it won't last long."
"Staring at your blog again, John?" Sherlock asks from the sofa, "You know people don't actually read it. Who wants to read about your favorite jams?"
"Well, apparently someone's reading it," John says, shooting Sherlock a look.
"I only read it to pass the time. But really John, jams?"
"I happen to like jam. And god knows I can't post anything we actually do."
Sherlock snorts and closes his eyes. He folds his hands over his stomach and sighs heavily. John goes back to his blog. He starts a new entry.
"Everything I Wish I Could Write On Here But Can't: So here's the truth. There are creatures among you. Vampires. Yes, they're real and they're not anything like we imagined them to be. They don't sparkle and fall in love with humans. They don't turn into bats. They are the spawn of the devil. They kill for pleasure. And I, yes me, Dr. John Watson, that funny bloke with the jumpers, I kill them along with my flatmate. God help me."
He sits back and stares at the writing. God knows how many times he's typed up a paragraph like this. He'll never post it though. He can't. But sometimes it helps to imagine that he could. That he could warn the people about the unseen killers living among them.
He deletes the words and shuts his laptop. Getting up, he stretches his sore limbs and yawns. The sunlight flitting in through the half closed curtains reminds him how tired he is.
"I'm gonna go upstairs," he says. Sherlock nods. John watches him for a bit. Sprawled out on the sofa, his messy hair falling in front of his eyes, long fingers folded over his stomach. He's so peaceful. How? How can Sherlock be so unaffected by the things that keep John awake at night? Perhaps it's just because he's lived in the nightmare for so long, or perhaps he really doesn't care, doesn't care that every day he lives up to his title of killer.
