Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
John took seven days too long to heal from Mary's savagery…which meant that it took seven days. After any other stabbing, his body would have knitted back as soon as the offending object was removed, and in two minutes at most he'd be ready to go on any sort of adventure. But with the fucking knife being silver, without Mycroft's help, he would still be laying on Moran's floor.
The government official could be a right asshole when he wanted to, but you could count on him for knowledge. Not only had he a crew on standby that didn't bat an eyelid at finding a shifted, wounded werewolf in a room, his men knew how to treat him, and – as their doctor ( or should he consider the man a vet?) assured him (and he didn't smell of lies) – quicken his recuperation from that damnable metal.
The man was ex-military too, and John had some interesting conversations with him. He should look for a refresher course, really. It was horribly remiss of him to ignore his own biology after the change, except for the leaflet the army issued to him. He'd been too arrogant – assuming he was all but unbreakable now. That had been a necessary, if stern, wake-up call. He needed to be able to take care of himself...but that was a project for later. Now, he needed to find Sherlock.
That took three additional days, because of course the man…vampire…whatever hadn't done him the courtesy of leaving clear tracks behind him. They had voices, whispers…and John had never loathed more the undead's immunity to lenses. Otherwise, he was sure that one of Mycroft's facial recognition programs would have worked wonders. The man had done so much already. He wouldn't mind lending government property for a few hours, if it meant that the consulting detective would be back and available to help with any natural or supernatural issue that might arise.
Bless the fact that both Sherlock and Moriarty were such drama queens. If the two of them truly knew what it meant 'to go to ground', John might have been too late to save him. (And he was rather sure he wouldn't be able to live with himself afterward). But they'd made an impression everywhere they went. (And what a meandering path that had been). So, Mycroft – and the news his office had painstakingly recovered – could point him more or less in the general direction.
And then…well, it was old good nose work. He had no idea if he even remembered correctly the vampire's smell by now, but as soon as it hit his nostrils, he had no doubt. It was obviously an old scent – very old, barely more than a trace clinging to the cushions of an old, rickety train. But it was Sherlock.
From there, nothing could stop him. It didn't matter that he needed to be extra careful, or slow, checking every station and inch of the road for the old trail, and trying to figure out which smells were actually associated, not just superimposed, with his packmate's, so that when he lost the vampire's olfactory markings, he could follow his…Companions? Captors?
He wouldn't be able to know until he met them, unfortunately. He suspected the worst, though. If Sherlock was free, John would have expected him to come back home as soon as the game with Moriarty was forcibly finished, if only to berate him for butting into his personal duel with the consulting criminal.
He texted the contact Mycroft had given him, ensuring people would be on standby, ready to deliver fresh blood in abundance and, if necessary, backup…but John was very stern in ordering that they should stay back unless he asked for it. Given that the government official had suggested them, he was pretty sure these men knew what they were in for, but still, better not have strangers too close when his nerves were singing with adrenaline already.
.
His worst fears were confirmed when he finally found Sherlock's smell again. It was piercing, acrid with sweat, fear and blood. The vampire's scent always had a bloody tinge, but this was obviously blood from outside one's body, and not from a messy meal – which was exactly what should never happen to his species.
Afterwards, the werewolf honestly wouldn't have been able to say what had happened for the next hour or so. He'd always thought that the whole 'wolf daze' was a myth. Since his first moon, he might not have known all that was happening to him, but he'd never entirely blacked out – which was why he'd immediately suspected foul play in Henry's case.
But now, he literally came to only when he was in his packmate's presence. He had shifted, and from the smells and blood drenching his fur, as well as the vaguest of recollections, like a nightmare which vanished at dawn, he knew they were the only two living beings in the building. Anyone else was not just dead…they were undoubtedly littering the floor, torn into, ripped apart, one limb here and another in the next room, dragged like a trophy by a furious wolf.
But Sherlock – chained, weakened, long streaks of his own blood caked on his starved body after the beatings – snapped him not only to reason, but to human form. Even instinctively, he knew that opposable thumbs would be much more useful than claws and fangs.
"This is new," the vampire croaked, voice long unused. "You are usually much more comforting in my dreams." At the same time, his eyes went red and his nostrils flared – blood, fresh blood – and a warm, steady heart pumping it just past the man's skin. Canines lengthened without conscious input, biting into his own lips.
Knowing that he'd been the object of the sleuth's dreams – as a source of comfort, to boot – made John unreasonably, unmeasurably proud. He yanked the chains out of the wall and cradled the vampire against his body. In a minute he'd bring him out (luckily it was night), get him in the provided car and accompany him to a safe house where he could take proper care of him. But for the moment, Sherlock needed a drink to tide him over. He looked likely to keel over before they even reached the door, John was not waiting until his backup navigated here to bring refreshments.
Sherlock dived nose-first, inhaling his scent, lapping at the skin, washing away the mix of sweat and his victims' blood. Why wasn't he biting, though? Honestly, what did John need to do to entice him? "Come on. Have a sip," the werewolf cooed gently.
"Not you. Won't stop… if I start I won't, can't…this is not a dream, is it?" the vampire rambled, sounding quite lost.
"Nope, not a dream. Definitely not a dream. You're safe," John reassured, one arm holding him and another petting his mangled back, feather-soft.
"Then get me somebody to drain!" Sherlock suddenly growled, glaring at him. The fact that he still hadn't bitten was a testament to how masochistically stubborn he could be.
"Afraid I murdered everyone in here for daring to touch you, and I don't regret it. I'm not having you lick the floors clean when I'm right here. I have blood bags, too, outside – but I have strangers out there, too, and I'd rather not have you facing them when you can barely stand. Have a fucking drink and then we can go out, fill you up and get home! It's starting to become insulting, you know?" the former Army Captain retorted, seriously considering forcing him like one would do to stubborn pups that can't entirely figure out how to use a food bowl.
"I'll suck you dry, you suicidal canine!" the sleuth retorted, terrified of himself. He could. And then he would have to kill himself. And it would be worse than anything Moriarty subjected him to.
"No you won't. I trust you," John said, simply.
Finally, the vampire gave in with a deep groan. Sharp fangs pierced the werewolf's neck and he started noisily slurping.
John wouldn't be able to describe the sensation…there were simply no words in any language he knew (which, to be fair, was one and a third, at most) that could properly depict it. Heady was close. Unearthly, unsurprisingly, could almost fit too. But it was all so much more than such simple words could mean.
The doctor thought that he could endure whatever his packmate needed. After all, what good were his regenerative powers if he couldn't even offer a decent meal? When he found himself swaying, though, he found that he didn't even have the voice to protest. To say, "Too quick, slow down, please." Not that giving his life for Sherlock would be something he was against, by and large, but the undead hadn't wanted to do that. So John cradled the – blessedly whole, from the feel of it – nape of his partner and tapped twice, oh so softly. Almost imperceptibly, truly.
That was enough for the sleuth's eyes to go back to their human nuance – and for him to pull himself forcefully away from his friend, with a last, wide lick to further boost the wolf's natural healing powers.
And then…then his lips went back up his blogger's neck to plunder his mouth with a drawn-out, passionate kiss, a faint trace of copper in his mouth mingling with the taste of wild and jam. Had John brought his own jam supply along? The detective would swear he tasted like home, but his senses were on overdrive, nerves afire.
Now it was John's turn to sway slightly, and moan loudly. Sherlock, too, wasn't perfectly steady – after the mistreatment he endured, he'd need a few extra blood bags – but he didn't look as if he was about to fold on himself any second. He seemed alive. More alive he'd possibly ever been in his whole undead existence. "Come along, love," the blogger urged, not even noticing the epithet he used. "I promise we'll get back to this, but after we're somewhere that isn't a crime scene." He offered his arm, so that they could support each other.
"Maybe I like the idea of you turning this hell into a crime scene… for me," the vampire purred, rubbing against him instead, but his sultriness was tainted by a hint of astonishment. As if he didn't expect John to come to his rescue.
"With our track record, I have no doubt we'll have other such occasions. But now I really want to get some more blood in you and bring you somewhere where I can treat you without you getting an infection…if that is even possible for vampires, you know I'm terribly ignorant about things…And then, we can go right back to this, if you're still in the mood," John replied, grinning at him.
Sherlock downright pouted, groaning, "But Jaaawn…", but at a stern look from his beloved, he gave in, took his arm and – somehow – managed to contort himself so that his head lay on John's shoulder… and somehow not get himself dislodged while they walked outside.
Twins glares made sure that John's backup squad did not dare to so much as blink or breathe about the scene. "To the safe house," the doctor ordered, helping the detective inside the jeep, sitting plastered at his side and immediately getting a blood bag out of refrigeration for him to drink.
The consulting detective made a face, not wanting to wash away the heavenly taste of his love. But when John mentioned casually, "You'll need your strength, after all," he started guzzling it down avidly.
By the time they reached the refuge Mycroft procured for them, half of the night was gone. But as spartan as the place looked, it was actually equipped with everything one could need for a first aid/temporary abode situation. They even had a whole storey to themselves – not the basement, smartly. As convenient as it would be from a practical point of view, Sherlock had quite enough of cellars, and John's only wish was to look out for him. Instead, the vampire claimed the central room as his own. There were no windows that could accidentally harm him, and everything – his doctor included – was no more than few feet away.
At John's suggestion, he let himself sink into the tub. His meals had done a lot to restore his health, but he'd still need a good patching up, and washing away the mix of dirt, old, caked blood of his own, and sweat, was a necessary first step.
His blogger had even suggested that he would take care of everything, but the sleuth had assured him there was no need to. Respecting the wishes of the former captive, at the moment, was more important than scrubbing him properly – he could always act later – so, with a last reminder he'd be in the next room and to call if he needed anything, the werewolf left his companion to it.
The doctor had suspected that he might be called in soon. He very much didn't expect an obviously panicked, naked and wet – still no more than half washed – Sherlock to leave the bathroom and run to him, yelling accusatorily, "You're here!"
"Ermm…yes? I mean, I know I'm late, sorry. I wanted to find you before, but,,," John stammered, unwillingly blushing.
"You ruined everything, then!" the detective reprimanded, pointing a finger at him.
At this, the werewolf retorted hotly, "Look, mister, I'm not going to apologise just because I butted in your little private game with Moriarty and killed him! Have you even seen the situation you got yourself into?" He was human, at the moment. But if he'd been a wolf, it was obvious all his fur would be bristling.
"You…killed…Moriarty? Not just whoever he was possessing? The actual ghost?" Sherlock queried, his jaw dropping and a startled look dawning in his eyes.
"Well, I had some help from Mycroft, actually, for the whole intelligence part of the operation, but yep, I did. He has nothing more to anchor him to this world, so by all rules he should be burning in hell with as many of his associates I managed to send after him. Cooperation usually leads to success, even if I know you're not much of a team player," John pointed out, trying and failing miserably not to stare.
The vampire lunged, and their second kiss was all eager, unbridled passion. The blogger was caught by surprise, but he could get used to this – very fast. When they were forced to separate (strictly speaking, the sleuth might not have such an issue anymore , but the werewolf still needed oxygen), the detective murmured, in awe, "You've saved us all."
"All?" the doctor echoed, frowning. He might have technically have saved his love not long ago, but the sentence still made little sense.
"I had to leave, or Moriarty would have had you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade killed. If I contacted you, they'd be dead all the same. I admit I spent a lot of time lately with you in my mind palace, and when you swept in I wasn't entirely sure how much of that was true, what was not…I wasn't in the best frame of mind, and working more or less on autopilot. Which is why I so unforgivably forgot the rules until I was well fed, three quarters through washing and realising that no, I had not fallen asleep, but possibly just accidentally murdered the three people I held dear by letting myself be saved," the vampire explained, his voice breaking slightly at the end.
John gasped. "You did it…for us? Not because, you know…"
"Because what?" Sherlock asked, hating how the sentence trailed into nothing. Despite his considerable talents, not even after becoming a supernatural creature had he acquired the power to read minds.
"Because you got bored of us," the doctor admitted, his voice almost inaudible.
"Oh yes. Because this is so my idea of entertainment, you know. The place you found me in," the vampire scoffed. Everyone was an idiot, that was a given. But shouldn't there be limits to that?
John chuckled out of embarrassment. "I admit that put like that, it sounds beyond ridiculous. Anyway, I'd really hope that your idea of a good time would be more along the lines of what seems to keep happening since I found you, but that's my personal opinion, you know. To each their own."
"Now you're just being cheeky," the sleuth retorted, with a lopsided, predatory smile.
"I am…and you're still here," his blogger pointed out, with a grin of his own, wondering vaguely if this was what being high felt like.
The vampire shivered at that, and the doctor's caring side came to the forefront again. "I'm kinda hoping this happened because you like the idea of more, but patience is a good quality too. So let's go back to the bath, we'll finish getting you cleaned and patched up a bit. And then, if you're still in the mood…we can celebrate."
Sherlock's pout wasn't unexpected, but it made John's heart melt all the same. "Haven't we waited long enough?" the detective asked, his voice thundering into his companion's very marrow – or at least it felt like that.
"A few extra minutes won't kill you," the werewolf promised.
"But are you sure of that?" the sleuth quipped.
"Well, I offered to come along and help. I could supervise your health, too. But if you don't want…" John replied, shrugging.
At that, the consulting detective looked down to himself, and seemed finally to realise his state. He barked a laugh. "I…well, I didn't want you to see the state I was in, not in a place with actual decent lightning...not before our combined healing factors had a chance to make me less of a wreck to look at, and that might take hours. But you've already seen everything there is because of my idiocy, haven't you? And somehow, you haven't been nauseated… Why haven't you?"
"Not easy to nauseate, in case the body parts in the fridge didn't tell you that," the doctor remarked, grinning, "and you never, ever could, no matter what state you're in."
"Well then..if you wouldn't mind, I'd appreciate a bit of help. With my hair at least. I suspect it'll be a nightmare," Sherlock admitted.
"It'll be my pleasure," John assured, following him back to the bathroom, breathing forcibly regulated by reminding himself that he'd murdered the people who had done this to him, already. And resurrecting them to kill them again…and again…and again…would be a waste of time he could spend making it better instead.