Chapter 7: Dissonance
A net of tension crackled overhead like storm clouds, hovering ominously over the lounge room and its inhabitants. There was an underlying sense of dread, and every wolf was on edge after the attack in the woods.
For the last hour, John observed Sherlock ignoring everyone else, in lieu of lying supine on the couch with his eyes closed. His breaths were deep and even, but that was the only indication that he wasn't just an unoccupied vessel. John wondered where the leader's mind was, or if he was thinking of their impromptu tryst in the woods, that morning. John was incapable of conjuring up any other image, than a blood-soaked, feral man rutting against him. It was driving him to madness.
The wolves were high-strung, and ready to fight again, but first, they needed to discuss the elephant in the room.
The ambush.
Sherlock was loathe to admit that it had been a rather perilous oversight on his part, and the pack had been equally perplexed that their alpha hadn't smelled the trap from afar.
Now that they saw it for what it was, John was aware that there was more at play than what was immediately obvious.
Victor spoke in hushed tones with Lestrade, no doubt about the day's events, his mouth pressed into a firm line as he listened to a retelling, rife with omissions.
John shared a fleeting look with Sally, who regarded him with moderately less contempt than before the fight, though she still kept herself surrounded by an air of distrust and reservation.
Abruptly, Sherlock stood, moving to pace in the middle of the room with his hands clasped before his lips. The others quieted to watch him, waiting for their alpha's reassurance of their safety. John didn't envy Sherlock his responsibility. There was no possible way that he could assure them that they were safe. If Sherlock was stupid enough to think it was smart to stay, the pack would be dead within days. The hunters were close, very close, and there at the cabin, they were just sitting ducks.
Finally, Sherlock pivoted to face the room, startlingly alert for a man who spent the afternoon stretched out on the couch like a corpse on a cold slab.
"As you all know by now, during our inspection of the southern border line, we were ambushed by a group of hunters." Sherlock paused momentarily, allowing the statement to settle in with his captive audience. Although everyone was aware of what happened, hearing him recount it aloud was oppressive, and the silence that followed, sinister.
Sherlock's eyes landed on him with an intense scrutiny, and John knew that whatever the alpha was about to say, he wouldn't like it at all. "I've reason to believe, John, that you may have been intentionally left alive and herded here."
John stopped breathing, along with the others in the room, until all of Sherlock's words became a jumble of slurred syllables he could no longer comprehend. The only thing he could get his eyes to focus on, was the bobbing of Sherlock's Adam's apple as he continued to speak.
"Werewolves are specifically attuned to others of their kind, whether nearby, or otherwise. As many of us are aware, we are of a pack mentality. John, obviously in distress, instinctively sought the presence of other werewolves nearby, and the hunters were counting on his inherent ability to track the nearest pack."
John swallowed twice, before he could bring himself to speak, blinking rapidly. He hadn't even been aware that he'd been attuned to Sherlock's pack. John could only remember his scattered thoughts at the time, the need to get to a safe place. The hunters stayed on his tail the entire time, never too far off, but he'd thought they were trying to kill him, when in reality, John only succeeded in doing their dirty work for them. "Meaning, I- meaning I lead them here."
Sherlock's face was grim, and his pale eyes, a twin pair of hard, cold pearls. "Unintentionally, yes. However, they do not know of our specific location, yet, and we won't be staying long enough for them to find out."
Anderson piped up in bitter inquiry, asking the question that was surely plaguing everyone's thoughts. "And just where are we to go, now?"
Sherlock glared heavenward, and a long-suffering sigh escaped his throat in prickly resignation. "I've called in a favor from Mycroft."
At this, a collective groan travelled throughout the pack, excluding a bemused John and a greatly vexed Sherlock. Whoever this Mycroft fellow was, the news of his help was not received with any great deal of pleasure.
John exhaled tremulously, the old, childish urge to wring his hand in his lap, unbearably irresistible. He could almost feel their thoughts, all of them blaming John for bringing this sordid mess down upon their backs. It was a heavy burden to bear, but John was determined not to let them see how much the pack's judgment affected him.
"And what about him," Anderson asked, jerking his head in John's direction with a surly fold of his arms.
The question conjured up a few narrow-eyed, furtive glances his way, and across the room, he could see Lestrade's back straighten in anticipation of Sherlock's decision.
Did he really want to stay with this pack, and be a source of contention between them? What benefit could his presence possibly afford them? John found himself constantly on guard, and his little episode with Victor had convinced him that this was not his place. Though Sherlock may be fascinated with John, as well as the same could be said in his regard of the alpha, any sort of dalliance with the man would be risqué, at best.
Sherlock's didn't deliberate for long, though his eyes, when they met John's, were bottomless. Under that gaze, his insides lit up like smouldering coals, reminding John of the unresolved tension between them. He didn't know if Sherlock would verbally acknowledge what happened in the woods, but those eyes surely didn't shy away from the truth.
"John will be coming along. He has proven himself to be a valuable asset to us."
Anderson squawked indignantly, but the harsh glare dealt by Sherlock was enough to silence him immediately.
"I wouldn't protest too soon, if I were you, Anderson, except, I would never lower myself to such brainless idiocy. Whilst you were here, cowering on Mrs. Hudson's tit -
"Sherlock," Lestrade exclaimed in admonishment, appearing more than embarrassed for Anderson, though beside him, Molly was suppressing her laughter.
"- John effectively intercepted an ambush, quite expediently, I might add. Had it not been for his observations, I assure you, you'd be rodent fare."
Victor, who'd kept silent up until that point, scoffed with a baleful grimace, though he looked at no one in particular. John's skin prickled with the surge of animosity coming from the man. "It's 'John', now, is it?" Victor stood, coming toe-to-toe with Sherlock, and not at all threatened by the terrifying glower the alpha was regarding him with. "How do we know he didn't set the whole ruddy thing up?"
Behind him, Sally growled impatiently, her large, brown eyes dark and stormy as she spoke, glaring at Victor until he was forced to stand down. "That's rubbish, and you know it, Victor. The man couldn't wank without one of us being there to see it."
"We'd rather not, thank you," Anderson intoned, sulking like a child who'd just had his lolly taken away.
Lestrade sighed loudly from where he stood, flanking Sherlock like an SIS agent, on the verge of baring his teeth. "That's enough out of the lot of you. Sherlock says John stays, and that's what's going to happen, understood?
The dissonance between the pack was nearly tangible, like currents of electricity floating throughout the room. A tendril of shame was slowly making itself at home in John's conscience. This disruption within the house was of his doing; John was singlehandedly destroying Sherlock's pack.
Clearing his throat, John stood, clasping sweaty hands behind his back, until they were out of view. "I can't go with you."
The silence, following his statement, was filled with dread and anticipation. All eyes were volleying between John and Sherlock, unsure what to make of his refusal to their alpha. John, for his part, held steady, involuntarily allowing his body to fall into parade rest, a natural and comforting stance for him in potentially hostile situations.
"Now would be a good time to shut up, John," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth. Long, slender hands were lifted to his temples, rubbing slow, soothing circles into the skin, but the deep creases on his forehead and the quiet fury in Sherlock's voice betrayed his thoughts on the matter. "You and I know well enough you wouldn't survive the night."
The accuracy of Sherlock's statement was a blow to his gut. There was no way he could possibly survive an attack without a pack to fight beside him. Had John been in the woods alone, he'd be some hunter's trophy kill. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and it went down just as sourly as he expected.
"My pack mates," he started, swallowing with difficulty; it felt like grinding rocks together, "I need to bury them. I-," John's eyes were prickling with unshed tears, but he refused to mourn before these people, wasn't going to let them see his weakness.
All of his efforts to repress his emotion proved fruitless, however, because Sherlock was watching him with that acute awareness that left him feeling excoriated. John dropped his eyes, pursing his lips to steel himself, and began again. "I need to give them a proper send off. I never did get the chance."
There was not even a whisper of movement, but their introspections were just as loud as spoken words. John was a weak link in the chain, he'd get them all killed; let him go, Sherlock, he's not worth the risk. John was a liability.
He couldn't think about it; the body of his kin as victims of the wild, their bodies being picked apart by scavengers. People he once loved, now just rotting cadavers; comrades he'd fought and laughed with, once flush with life.
John could feel his hand trembling under his duress. How did they see him, now? A shaking, mess of a creature; destroyed and mentally fragile, a burden.
A small, dainty hand came to surround his own, squeezing, until the trembling abated. It was Molly, with her large, doe eyes, a glimpse of a haunted past reflecting back at him. "It's okay, John," she whispered softly, though he was sure the rest were listening. "It's okay to be sad."
Once again, Molly had shown him a kindness John hadn't known he'd been starved for. For a moment, John could forget that he was in a room of angry wolves, all fighting over his place in their world; he was struggling to figure out where he fit anymore.
"You do realize there is a high probability the hunters are expecting you to return," Sherlock spoke suddenly, though, his voice was pensive, and lacked its usual caustic edge. "They're intelligent enough to understand that there's a chance your presence here wouldn't be accepted."
John nodded, unable to do much more than silently agree. It was a risk he was willing to take. He would never forgive himself if he didn't go back, even if there was nothing to bury, but bones.
Sherlock nodded once, and then pivoted to stand before the fireplace, giving the room and its inhabitants his back. "Good, now that I've properly forewarned you, and you still endeavour to continue your foolhardy mission, I might as well accompany you."
Around the room, a mix of protests sprouted up in loud exclamations.
"Sherlock, you can't-"
"-absolutely psycho!"
"Sherlock..."
"Not alone, you're not."
"-gonna get yourselves killed!"
John stood and made his way to Sherlock, cautiously, until he was looking up into verdigris irises, watching Sherlock watch him. "You don't have to do this, Sherlock. Your pack needs you; they need their leader."
The emotions behind those eyes were constantly shifting, despite Sherlock's automaton appearance. John didn't squirm beneath that scrutinizing gaze, merely stared back, beseeching with his eyes, for Sherlock to change his mind. John didn't want to be responsible for this death. He already had too much blood on his hands; he was drowning in it.
"Lestrade," Sherlock snapped brusquely, keeping his gaze trained on John as he snapped out his orders. "You will get the pack safely to Mycroft's estate in Sussex. John and I will meet you there within the next week." Sherlock broke the stare, turning to his second-in-command. "If we fail to arrive by Thursday next, notify Mycroft. He will know what to do."
Why was Sherlock helping him; the man who had shown the most aggression towards his presence? What was Sherlock expecting to get out of accompanying John on a potentially suicidal mission? In the short time John had known Sherlock, he didn't take him to be a particularly altruistic man.
Victor must have been thinking along the same lines, because he stepped forward, his unlined features pulled taught with tension. "Sherlock, I- we need you here. If something were to happen to you, what do you suppose we're to do?"
This was Victor pleading to his lover, and for a moment, John could see Sherlock's eyes soften, before the cold wash of steel shuttered them once again. "Then I trust you are all intelligent enough to elect a capable leader, should I meet my demise."
It was a cold statement, one that even John felt the sting of, and Victor stepped away, as if scalded. What could accurately describe the pain of watching a loved one leave, with no knowledge as to whether you will ever see them again? It was the slowest of tortures; always dwelling on your last minutes with that person, and whether you said everything you needed to say before they were gone.
Victor may have been idiotic and proprietary, but John wouldn't wish that pain on anyone.
Although the other wolves had gathered to speak amongst themselves, Victor and Sherlock held a silent conversation in the the center of the room. It was intimate, and John looked away.
Guilt, his old, familiar friend, was cresting inside his chest until it threatened to suffocate him.
The night air was sticky against his skin, warm and humid after an evening shower. The only source of light in the countryside originated from the moon, and the vast spread of stars illuminating the sky, like fairy lights.
The atmosphere in the house had dropped to sub-zero after Sherlock's final announcement. No one wanted to believe Sherlock may never make it to the estate in Sussex. Lestrade, who'd been appointed leader in Sherlock's stead, hadn't been happy with the news, and only after a lengthy, private discussion in the hall, did the older man reluctantly accept his temporary responsibility.
Standing further out in the open field, John could see two silhouettes, accompanied by the tangerine glow of burning cigarettes.
It was Sherlock and Lestrade.
The latter waved him over readily enough, while Sherlock's eyes scoured the tree line, vigilantly. He doesn't spare John a glance when he comes to stand beside Lestrade, though John can feel Sherlock's attention just as acutely as he would if the man were pinning him with his penetrative stare.
"John," Lestrade nods, balancing the white stick precariously between his middle and forefinger. Between the encounter with the hunters and Sherlock's spontaneous declaration, Lestrade appears to have aged a decade. His voice is rough and quiet, belying his dark reflections, and John could see the crow's feet pulling at the edges of Lestrade's eyes as he squints out into the darkness. "All right?"
John nods, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, looking anywhere but at Sherlock, who is, doubtless, waiting for his response. "I'm fine. Bit knackered, but nothing a quick kip won't clear out."
As soon as Lestrade inhaled to respond, Sherlock spun in his halo of smoke, and cut in with a sharp, "Lestrade, I'd like a moment alone with John."
The words sunk like lead in John's stomach, not sure if he was ready to confront Sherlock, just yet, on his decision.
Lestrade acquiesced without argument, and retired back to the cabin, putting out his cigarette as he went. John watched his retreating back, until the he'd heard the front door open and shut quietly. When he turned, Sherlock was staring back with narrowed eyes.
John narrowed his own right back, wondering what the hell the bastard was thinking. It was dark, but Sherlock stood out like a spectre in the night, all pale skin and incandescent eyes.
Sherlock was the first to break the silence, his deep, melodious voice seeming too loud in the quietude of the countryside. "Your pleas will be wasted on me. I'm not changing my mind."
John tore his eyes away, unable to hold Sherlock's stare for long. It was like looking into a well; no matter how hard you would squint, you could never quite see to the bottom. Those eyes were deep and depthless, and the potential to fall in was ridiculously imaginable.
"And what do you get from all this, if you come with me? What's your end game?" John could hear his own displeasure, weaving bitterly through his words, and leaving his lips with a harsh edge he hadn't intended. "Don't tell me you're suicidal."
Sherlock chuckled, though it had a hollow quality, and there wasn't a trace of humour in the man's eyes. "If I'd wanted to die, it wouldn't take the work of a clever mind to do so. A venture into the woods would do."
John could see that Sherlock was avoiding the question, but this was one time John needed answers. He simply waited, watching as Sherlock took a deep drag on the last of his cigarette, before crushing it underfoot.
A tumble of lazy, grey clouds emerged from Sherlock's lips in a scintillating display. Between the tendrils of smoke, his opalescent gaze never wavered from John's, brazenly revealing his desire. "And if I told you to leave it?"
"Well," John returned, proceeding with caution, "I'd say you'll be sorely disappointed."
Sherlock smiled and stepped closer, a few paces away, now, but near enough for John to reach out and touch. He didn't.
"Of course," he murmured, a small, secretive smile playing across Sherlock's lips, "what else could I expect from you, John? You, who surprises me at every turn."
John swallowed, choosing not to acknowledge Sherlock's statement. For all John knew, the man was being glib. "You're digressing."
"I assure you, it has everything to do with you, John," Sherlock whispered, catching his eyes like a Venus flytrap, and refusing to release John now that he'd been caught. "Oh, don't get me wrong. There are, of course, other reasons I wish to accompany you. The hunters, while skilled trackers, can also be foolish and clumsy in their pursuit of our kind. The amount of information I can gain from the scene would be beneficial to my ongoing research of their hierarchy."
"If we can succeed in cutting the head off the snake, we could dismantle this branch." Sherlock's speech had grown more emphatic as he nattered on excitedly. John decidedly did not miss the plurality of his words, the emphasis on the we.
"Sherlock, we don't know how many hunter are in this branch, or if there's just the one that's tracking us," John rationalized, trying to talk some sense into the foolish man, but Sherlock's eyes gleamed darkly under the moonlight. He was far past convincing otherwise.
Sherlock closed the distance between them, placing one long-fingered hand on John's hipbone, a light touch that was worth a thousand words. He reeked of tobacco, but underneath it, Sherlock's scent was heady and arousing. "You don't know much about me, so I'll forgive your ignorance on this matter, but I want to make certain that you understand, John."
Sherlock paused, raising his other hand to splay on the small of John's back proprietarily. His voice betrayed his actions, cold and hard like marble, and sharper than any two-edged sword. "The safety of my pack is all that matters, everything, everyone else is irrelevant; disposable. I don't intend to simply trace these hunters. I intend to wipe them out of existence. I want you there with me when it happens."
"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're on about, Sherlock. Believe me, nothing would make me happier than bringing them down, but what difference would my being there make?"
"Because you're the piece this puzzle has been missing, John. You're everything this war needs! A soldier; loyal, steadfast, a fighter, and they lead you right to us... to me. This morning, you had every opportunity to flee, yet you put yourself in harm's way to warn us."
The weight of Sherlock's words were heavy on John's shoulders, and the man was so close, such a large presence full of rage, anger, and Sherlock's hands on his body was overwhelming. What was he trying to tell John? Yes, it was true, the thought of running hadn't even crossed his mind. It had been an instinctive reaction to stay and fight alongside the other wolves, even though he hadn't earned their trust, and nor they, John's. What did that say about him? The action seemed to have spoken volumes to Sherlock.
Sherlock was watching him struggle to take it all in, pleading with him to understand, but there was so much John knew he wasn't saying. "You still don't understand," Sherlock stated, with a tinge of frustration. "No matter, you will soon enough."
John was confused, and dazed by Sherlock's proximity and passionate ranting. What was he to say to it all?
Sherlock didn't give him much chance to decipher his cryptic revelations, before he leaned in, catching John's lips in a soft caress. Sherlock's hands teased the skin just beneath his shirt, skirting the edge of John's trousers with the tips of his slender fingers.
For lack of any place else to rest his hands, John brought them up to weave into the soft crown of curls, pulling Sherlock down, closer to him.
The point of Sherlock's tongue traced the line of John's lips, asking for entrance, sliding in to move against John's own. It was galvanizing and electrifying, having such a powerful creature in his grasp, allowing himself to be taken apart so thoroughly.
Sherlock's hands were moving up his stomach now, mapping the skin, filing away bits and pieces of John. It was a testament of his will that his knees didn't give out under that sure touch. Sherlock's body was stuck to him like glue, and John could feel a hardness pressing back against his belly.
The kiss was growing frantic, and John realized his hands were gripping Sherlock's hair in a tight fist, though the alpha didn't seem put off by it. His tongue fought valiantly with John's in a battle of wills, dominating with contemptuous ease as Sherlock's devious hands travelled down to grasp his arse in a strong grip. The hard line of Sherlock's body was a siren call; the urge to touch and take was nigh impossible.
John broke the kiss at the bold touch, breathing heavily into Sherlock's mouth, who was gazing into his eyes with avid longing. It was enticing, and John found himself under Sherlock's spell, as he had been in the woods that morning.
Everything inside him quivered under the strength of Sherlock's look, burrowing into John's body like a parasite. It was startling and exciting, all the same.
"You have no idea what power you possess, John Watson," Sherlock panted against his cheek, just as breathless, if not more so. "People look at you, and mistake you for ordinary, but they don't truly see."
'No,' John mused, 'no, they don't. Then again, neither do I.'
Before John could put words to his thoughts, Sherlock abruptly released him, his face withdrawn and pale as he turned away without so much as a parting glance, perhaps, fearing that he might have said too much.
Abandoned without explanation, John watched his hasty retreat with somber eyes. In the low light of the moon, John realized it might be his last night of peace. He stayed outside until the shadows grew long, before the call of sleep pulled him away.
