Author's Note/Apology: Wow, I haven't thought about this one in a while. I'm very sorry to all of you who follow this story. It should be on a more regular schedule now. Though if there are elongated breaks, it's most likely because I'm also working on another project as well as this. Anyways, enjoy!
Chapter 3: Proposition
"Must've mistaken you for someone else." He had been wrong. So very, awfully wrong. Why he had thought for one millisecond that he had meant anything to this man was beyond his comprehension. He was like all the others, just a delusional servant who was as disposable as the dirt on the human's shoe. He'd have to crawl back to Harry, bunker down there for a few day and hope to God he could find a way back out of the city, or at least get a job at a hospital, but the soldier ticket only reached so far, and there little guarantee he could get anywhere-
"Rien or the Isles?" The words pulled him out of his momentary panic and he looked up, confused, the question catching him off guard. Those were the names of the current territories the army had deployed its soldiers for the land war, and he hadn't quite expected to be drilled on them. Sherlock was staring at him, expectantly as if they had been in the middle of conversation and John was taking far too long to answer.
"Rien, sorry. How did you-" He tried, thrown off kilter. Sherlock stepped closer, suddenly quite interested.
"Interesting. Discharged less than a week ago, most likely for the injury to your shoulder. You should be miles away by now, out of this country, but here you are, looking for someone, possibly your family, more likely an old master. Can't imagine why." There was a scent, one that wasn't familiar to John that came upon him as Sherlock continued to analyze him. His pupils were blown wide and a frantic vibrancy was in his demeanor that John couldn't quite place with the suddenness of it all.
"Wait, what are you-" Sherlock straightened without warning, cutting John off and staring at the capitol building with disdain.
"Sorry, got to run. Keep safe. Drevin are disappearing off the streets." And with that, he off, out into the crowd as quickly as he'd come. John was left trying to catch up. What had just happened?
He stood, watching the familiar figure retreating away, disappearing into the streets amongst the constant wave of people. It was strange, after the confusion faded, how hollow and alone he found himself in that moment. How he very nearly called back out to Sherlock with his hand already raised to try and catch him once more. That couldn't have been it, could it? All that time trying to get back only to find he was no longer even a part of the man's life...
He should've planned for this better, John berated himself, nodding tersely and turning the other direction with his fingers curled into fists. Of all the things to avoid thinking of, of even given the slightest iota of possibility. He would go back to Harry's, find a cheap room, and hopefully find some sort of income. The drevin hospitals were always needing help, and he was more than qualified. It didn't guarantee anything, but it was a start, or as close to one as he could get dodging the rest of the world on paved sidewalks he didn't belong on.
He didn't make it quite far, didn't have enough time to mull over his current situation to properly bury it before two large men had him in their grasp, steering him toward the side of the road. No onlookers even paid them any mind, and John was shoved rather bodily into a sleek black car without so much of a protest on his part.
He hadn't been in a nice car like this since, well, ever. Even the one that had picked him up from the slave merchant had been ratty and old, yet this one was posh and new, smelling fresh off the lot. There was a certain mix of treated, over-scented chemicals in the air that stung his nose, masking any smells beyond the leather seats, the driver, and the car itself. Whoever wanted him was careful to cover their scent.
Next to him was a woman, pretty and young, ignoring him for the most part. When asked who he was to meet, she gave him a vague bubbly answer that neither answered his question nor eased his mind. Giving her up for a lost cause, he sat back, waiting and wondering as they swiftly approached their destination. Outside was a blur and he was too unfamiliar with the city now to even try and guess the streets and turns.
Who could even need him, a drevin? He would say another slaver, but they rarely had this kind of money, and daytime kidnapping wasn't exactly wise. Beside, John was a little old and worn for re-sale. He was literally nothing to everyone else, just another nameless face in the crowd. Had he broken some law that he hadn't know had been enacted? No standing around outside the capital building or some shit like that? It was beyond him, either way. All he could do was wonder.
They eventually pulled into a warehouse, empty as John was ushered inside, save for one person waiting patiently.
"Mycroft." John breathed, disbelief in every fiber of his being as he recognized the lean figure standing before him, a welcome smile upon his face as he leaned upon his umbrella.
"Hello, John." Mycroft greeted, watching him with interest. The last time John had seen him, the elder Holmes had been in a dark car, arguing with the camp guards while John stood and stared behind a twenty foot tall fence topped with barbed wire. Mycroft had been shooed off, and their eyes had met briefly as he drove away, Mycroft dry and warm in a car while John was muddy and soaked to the bone from the drizzling weather. Not the best of circumstances. "It's been a while. You're alive."
"Yeah, I'm a little surprised myself." John snipped, eying Mycroft's slimmer figure and the now thinning hair. If his mark craved a familial bond at the sight and smell of Mycroft, he chose to ignore it. "I'm assuming there's a reason I'm here other than to swap stories of the past decade."
"If that is what you wish, I'd be more than happy to oblige." He hadn't changed a one damn bit.
"I'm not actually that keen on hearing the tragedies of a posh political life." John spat, shaking his head.
"I assumed so. I brought you here to talk about Sherlock, if you hadn't guessed."
"Right. He doesn't seem to remember me, by the way. In case you hadn't noticed."
"Now John, that doesn't mean-"
"The hell it doesn't mean anything!" John shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "He deleted me, Mycroft! The same way he deleted the solar system, or anything else he didn't find interesting. I fought to get back to him for seventeen years and he doesn't even fucking remember me!" The sound of his last words reverberated throughout the warehouse and John was panting, hands balled into fists. Mycroft watched him sympathetically, and John had to fight not to punch him as he rubbed a hand over his face, angered further to find tears in his eyes. "What the hell happened?"
"It's my fault." Mycroft admitted after a moment's silence as John calmed down, anger morphing smoothly into an icy cold numbness and grief.
"What?"
"I was the one who told him that you were drafted, that you would most likely never return. I assumed that he would mourn, and move on. I was wrong. I should have known he couldn't handle such an event." John had walked away during his words, pacing agitatedly. He didn't even know what do, what he could do.
"Why did you bring me here, then? Why tell me this?"
"Because he still needs you, John. You're still in there, somewhere. He's waiting for you to come back, even if he doesn't know it. He may have deleted your face but some part of him still remembers waiting by the gates every day he was home, watching the road for hours until I had to force him to come inside." John stopped at this, eyes gone wide and a little ball of desperate glee rising from his stomach.
"He did that?"
"Yes. He'd read out there, experiment. There's even a patch of dead grass from where his chair would sit that still hasn't grown back. Drove the gardener up a wall, I assure you." Mycroft let that sink in, though it didn't ease any of John's sadness. He could see the younger Sherlock sitting there stubbornly despite his family's best efforts. If anything, the vision made him feel much worse. "I know you still care. You're hardly trusting but loyal till the end. I want to help." There was something else, that Mycroft wasn't voicing, that was nagging the politician, but John would never coax it from him.
"How exactly would you do that?"
"I want to give you two choices, John. One is where we part here, and never speak again, if you wish. Your pension can't be enough to cover everything, and I'd be more than willing to pay for new lodgings and send in a good word for a new career, possibly outside the city."
"I don't need your pity, Mycroft."
"If it were pity, I wouldn't bother." Mycroft sniffed, frowning before his face morphed into something more genuine. "I knew what you went through, what you sacrificed to find yourself here today. Call it a governmental debt, and leave it at that." There was something else, John could see that, in his pleasant smile and dismissive tone. He was walking on eggshells, as Mycroft always had an ulterior motive.
"The other option?" It was a cautious question, but he couldn't help but want to know the answer.
"You move in with me." John was clearly stunned by this, taken aback by the oddity of the option.
"And why would I do that?" Mycroft sighed at John's stubborness in an overindulgent manner, examining the tip of his umbrella.
"Even if he does often scorn the idea of me being any help or continuing our relationship, Sherlock finds himself in my residence more often than not. It is in my best interest to give him what would benefit him the most, and that seems to be you, John." He peered at John over the tip, a smirk there and gone in the usual Holmesian manner. "Plus, the sooner we get the both of you together, whether in old memories or in a new companionship, the better for all of us." John opened his mouth to disagree, to argue against his generosity, but Mycroft was quick to interrupt. "Do not worry. I'm more than capable of keeping a drevin in my home. Most would think you some sort of servant, given my position. It wouldn't be a bother for either of us."
"Sherlock would wonder."
"Let him." John huffed in laughter, reminiscing about the times back in the manor when Mycroft would carefully tell him how to deal with an arrogant Sherlock, if only for a moment. It tugged at him in a pleasant manner to think on it, and he took a minute to enjoy the fleeting sense of long-gone contentment.
"You'll give me time to think, yeah?" John finally asked, back in the present.
"Of course. I will give you three days." Mycroft pulled an envelope out of his jacket, holding it out to John. "This contains my contact information and more than enough cover any expenses between now and then."
"Mycroft-"
"Just, take it, John. It's the least I can do." He did as told, feeling the sizable amount from within. He wasn't to take handouts, or anything he couldn't pay back. He wasn't a beggar, but Mycroft's insistence was best quelled early before it became forceful. Plus, he was nearing the end of his patience, and his own money was wonderfully tight.
"Are we done?" John asked, unexpectedly exhausted.
"I believe so. I'll be hearing from you very soon." John nodded, made to leave, but had to stop, a sense of politeness too inbred to ignore rearing it's head.
"Um, thanks, by the way. For, you know..." He waved a hand vaguely, but Mycroft understood.
"No need to thank me." He assured, beginning to walk off in the other direction, umbrella swinging from his hand. "If all goes well, I'll be thanking you by the end!"
Half a day later, he found himself in the Divide, the grey area between the Underground and the rest of the city where the slums of the human neighborhoods stood. No one with money would buy anything so close to the drevin, even those without it tended to go out of their way to avoid it. Here, nothing was safe. The few ferals who used the city as their hunting ground lurked the streets while the humans who were either naïve or stubborn enough to not believe that did the same, albeit with a less violent purpose.
John could see one from where he stood, a harpin sizing him up from across the street. He turned his head to show the feral his breed, and the feathers upon the stranger's head relaxed, his claws sheathing themselves back into his fingers. They gave each other a nod, and the harpin disappeared in the blink of an eye, off the find something else to satisfy his hunger. It was survival, and John had no intention of turning the man in. If the police found him on their own time, that was their business and if John heard the short-lived scream just down the street, well, he would just pretend he didn't.
John leaned himself against the wall of a tall nameless building, pulling the envelope out of his pocket for the umpteenth time, the paper already damped and crinkled from the constant touch of his skin. Mycroft said he had three days to decide. John didn't know if that was enough time.
He was hurt, in all honestly. Hurt and angry and scared. There was a howling in his chest that had nothing to do with his breed, and he could only hope that he would wake and this would all be just some terrible nightmare. Expect it wasn't. It was real, no matter how he swung it. John did have a still healing scar on his shoulder, was still a discharged soldier with no job or home, and the one person he'd hoped to see after returning didn't even know who he was anymore. Absolutely brilliant.
Why would he want to see Sherlock after this, after all of this? John didn't matter to him anymore, and probably never would. He was just what he'd always been; a wolf in sheep's clothing, yet at least the animal in the books kept his teeth and claws and dignity. Reality gave the sheep the guns and the chains, the power and the armies. What was a predator to do living in under his prey's thumb?
It was strange and disconcerting how even in his bleak outlook on life, he still wished to turn to the person who'd caused his grief for comfort. John knew, deep down, he couldn't hate Sherlock for what he did. He would always want to seek him out, no matter how he ignored it. It was a sad, lonely truth that cut deeper than any other wound.
Somewhere in the distance, John's could hear a fight, the low thrums of a pub, and the distant wailing of a siren. The sky was dark, and starless with the lights of the city, though the street lamps provided nothing natural or as comforting as the sight of the galaxies overhead. He would give anything in that moment to be back in Holmes Manor, when things still made sense.
John could hear the stumbling gait and smell the pungent odor of sweat and alcohol from blocks away, yet somehow the drunk stranger still managed to surprise him.
"What've we got 'ere?" John was immediately on high alert, the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raising as the man came much to close for either of them. The man's rather enormous girth and leering gaze were neither intimidating or as outstanding as the man was presenting himself to be. John knew, even without teeth and claw, he could take the man down without much of a fight, though he'd rather avoid it. Police wouldn't look favorably on his side. "What'cha doin' out all alone, mutt?"
"Back off." John demanded, the words coming out in more of a growl than he wanted as his mark burned a bright red. He was frustrated and angry and sad and this man did not want to fuel any of that. They were in the waning cycle of the month, and John's beast was snarling at the gall of the stranger, to think that prey could try and dominate him.
"Come on. Just want to talk." A hand found itself on John's bad shoulder, which he attempted to shrug off, but found meaty fingers clamping into his still painful scar. Without a thought, he swatted at the man's face with a hand, relishing when the stranger pulled back with a screech, grubby fingers gingerly touching his now twice split open cheek. John hadn't realized his claws had come forth until he felt the warm blood dripping down then.
"You littl' shit!" He found himself slammed against the nearby wall, the brick scraping his back through the course material of his shirt, the man breathing nastily in his face with wild eyes. John growled back, hackles raised as he fought himself not to tear into the man. "I'll show you to 'it me!" His fist was raised just as John was about to lunged forward, to rip and shred and pour out all of his wrath on this measly insignificant-
"Everything alright here?" They both stopped, turning to look over the man's shoulder to reveal, of all people, Sherlock, standing out of place on the dirty street.
"Ain't nothin' to you." The drunk man growled, though he did back off of John just a tad.
"No, but I'm certain the officials would be more than interested in your habit of heroin." Sherlock countered coolly. The stranger went stiff, bowing his head and backing away.
"Don't want no trouble, sir." He muttered before scampering away in a staggered manner, John watching him go while the beast in him quelled at the sight. He had almost done it. Barely two days into civilization, and he'd nearly torn a man to pieces. Nothing about that boded well for his future. He wasn't even that close to the new moon.
Instead of dwelling on it, he turned to Sherlock who was gazing at him some curiosity. John returned this easily; it was the second time they'd met in less than twenty-four hours and John was still reeling from their first encounter. He barely knew how to act around Sherlock now, being completely unknown to the man...
Right. Sherlock didn't know him, and John shouldn't either. Might as well play the part. How hard could it be to fake being a stranger?
"You're that man from earlier." John stated, cringing at the awkwardness of the words.
"Surprised you noticed. Shouldn't we all look the same to you?" Sherlock asked, watching him more intently than was strictly necessary. He was calmer than earlier, the jittery and frantic manor now replaced by a smooth impersonal posture. Both were foreign to John, as time had done something his boy that he been unable to see or prevent. John had to hold back to need to grab the man and shake him, beg him to dig down and find where John was in that massive head of his. God, what had happened?
"Yeah, I could say the same." He was granted a smile, one of interest and intrigue, and John was still glad he could coax such a thing from the other man. He held out his hand for Sherlock. "John Watson, by the way." It was a bold move, doing anything without a human's consent, even just offering a simple handshake. They weren't equals, no matter how you sliced it, but John had to keep Sherlock's interest. Couldn't be boring, couldn't be average. He knew this game well enough.
"Sherlock Holmes." And John let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, heart sinking as their hands shook. He couldn't say why he let his hopes go so high by their exchange of names. Sherlock had never known his, and he hadn't a clue as to how saying it now would spark any form of memory. Still, Sherlock's hand was cold, in comparison to John, and his own ingrained instincts to take care of Sherlock were still there as he held on just a tad too long to the other hand. He let go suddenly, leaving Sherlock gazing at him queerly.
"Sorry." John licked his lips, and shuffled a bit. "What's someone like you doing in this part of the capitol?" Changing the subject. Not suspicious at all. It was a valid question though. Sherlock's family had enough money to keep him out of the slums and he wasn't stupid enough to be blundering around the Divide on his own.
"Had to meet someone. Not very important." He lowered his voice, leaning in. "Though it seems I might be being followed." He made the tiniest gesture to behind him with his hand, and John could see the hungry stare of someone in the shadows not a few blocks down. He could feel the beast in him rising again, growling quietly as he picked up on the scent of another velfitz, feral and ravenous.
"Would you like some company?" John asked. The other drevin wouldn't move in if John was near, which was Sherlock's plan all along. John was soon tugged down the street, moving quiet and fast, passing the would-be assailant. He and the drevin caught each others' eyes for a moment, the feral shrinking back when John bared his teeth. Velfitz were somewhat like their more furry cousins. They had a pecking order of sorts, though no one fully acknowledged it out loud or gave it any real consideration. John was considered high enough, and when he staked his claim, very few others would come to challenge that.
By the time John deemed the area safe enough for the both of them, they were well out of the Divide, bordering into the middle class residential section of the city. He relaxed at the sight of well kept apartment buildings, and lonely trees planted for atmosphere. Without the impending threat of a feral and the sweet scent of a bakery somewhere nearby, he began to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, a ridiculousness Sherlock didn't grasp.
"What?" Sherlock asked amidst his laughing fit.
"Oh, just a bit weird, isn't it? I met you this morning, and now I'm saving your ass." Not much had quite changed there, John added mentally as a more sobering after thought. Sherlock smiled though, a quick quirk of the lips that was gone in a flash.
"Yes, I suppose I owe you my thanks." Sherlock said.
"No, not really. Not that much trouble." He didn't add on the 'I missed getting you out of trouble'. It may have sounded a bit not good. "Just a walk."
"Either way, thank you." If he felt a little giddy at the words, John didn't let it show.
"I think this is where I should head back. Don't want anyone calling the police for a loitering drevin." Sherlock nodded in agreement. "It was nice meeting you, Sherlock."
"Likewise." Was there a truth behind those words, or was Sherlock lying as well as he used to? John intended to find out as he awkwardly waved goodbye.
It was the second time in one day that John watched Sherlock's back retreating down the street, though this time he was a bit happier to see it. He found himself starving, and he had a phone call to make, after all.
AN: Will I ever write a fic that isn't an AU? The answer, you will find, is a no. I CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO. Next chapter will actually have/explain drevin's a bit more and should be up in a week or two.
Let me know what you think~
