And now for something a little different... Here are the events leading from the death of the woman in the warehouse, up until last chapters events of Watson packing, all from Benjamin Caswell's point of view (the one who bit Holmes). Let us see what he has to say!
Uncanny-dreamer: Ah I struggle writing Watson because I'm more of a Holmes person myself. Its nice to know I'm managing to keep in character with the Doctor, he really is difficult to write at times .
Sno-Oki: Oh yes, I love metaphorical!Holmes XD And yes... Poor Holmes T_T I have a cunning plan!
Nans: Here is the next chapter, I'm really glad you're enjoying this story, I'm not very confident with my writing ya see so your feedback is really appreciated =]
sodapop0006: If you love the darker side of fanfiction, you will love the upcoming chapters. Sometimes I feel a little sadistic for writing this stuff, then I think... ''Nah'' XD
Vidar: Ah... I have much more planned for Holmes, so I don't think Watson will be finding him too soon : ]
Objects in the Rear View Mirror Are Far More Dangerous Than They First Appear
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Benjamin Caswell's Point of View
Jack was pleased with my delivering of the detective; had I known the man I had bitten was none other than Sherlock Holmes, I would have brought him home much, much, much sooner. It was a beautiful night that night, as only that particular night could be. My first post-transformation meal took place that night, oh the chosen night.
I ran free. With the moon glowing against a truly sanguine sunset, I ran free, free for the first time since forever, truly, honestly, undeniably free. I positively revelled in the blood-lust it brought, the never ending urge to force the blood tides to rise, fill the the rivers to bursting with the life essence of the human race, spill red across the cobblestones of London!
It was beautiful. It would be beautiful. She was beautiful, My fiancé. My angel. Only she wasn't an angel, angels never die. She died, She screamed, she cheated. I laughed and ran free once more, the cry of the night calling me louder than any horn or whistle. Ran free, unrestrained. Until I noticed another ran with me; a human ran with me. I was intrigued, how could I not be intrigued?
The man that followed me, followed me as a wolf would track his daily meal. I could smell the thrill of the hunt on him, even after he had undoubtedly seen what I did to my precious bitch-angel. I could smell her too. Even the scent of her life-blood disgusted me, repulsed me, yet the smell of his blood... I needed his, fresh, warm and unusually clean. As he followed, I felt the itch of hunger, the unshakable thirst gnaw at both mind and body, the irresistible pounding of his pulse; I cornered myself and waited for his arrival, leaving a trail of mist behind me.
I watched him turn the corner, a look of utter confusion upon his face. I struck without warning, yet the creature, the thing who was human yet acted wolf still managed to dislodge one of my teeth with a well aimed hit. I remember cursing; our teeth are the hardest to regenerate. Jack would not be pleased.
Even as I bit him he struggled relentlessly; I knew Jack would find him interesting, as I had thought him interesting. We shared the same face, were born from the same womb and now we shared the same lust for blood and hunt. We were closer than any pair of brothers, for even in un-death we acted as one in the interests of the other, for the safety of the other. He was me; I was him. We could communicate telepathically; an unheard of skill even amongst our kind. Our kind did not get along well, not like Jack and myself. We are a revolution, an unliving, unbreathing, uncaring tornado of power, for we shared all our talents with the other, making us both at least twice as powerful as any freshly-turned creature of the night. I basked in the glory of such knowledge as I drained the wolf-human in my grasp. It was Jack who turned me.
I tasted blood, blood far superior than any of the finest wines man had ever cared to create, and a thousand times more intoxicating, a thousand times more addictive, a thousand times more irresistible. Mortals consider our greed a weakness, yet I cannot describe the sensation of liquid-red upon the tongue; I drank deep, feeling somewhat refreshed, the moonlight reflecting against stray drops of coloured-crimson.
The man ceased to struggle, yet with a single tooth I could not drink much, for I heard the voices of man, more than one, less than ten, yet it was the sound of whistles that finally forced me to break away from my hunter-turned-pray. Ten men I could kill, devour, utterly crush; yet their profession stopped me from doing so. Jack told me to lay low, so lay low I would. And I did. We could not be revealed until the opportune moment, that single chosen second, picked by Jack and myself. It would be magnificent, utterly awe inspiring. Even as I fled with these thoughts in mind, I felt the thrill of the hunt bellow once more. I killed three more that night.
I hunted until on that same night I was told to watch, watch, watch through the window of my victim, and it was then I realised that my victim was the famous detective known as Sherlock Holmes. I alerted Jack, he responded positively; my heart would have swelled with pride if it were beating. He told me to keep watching, waiting, to feed at night so that I might watch during the day, and for almost four months I repeated this routine. Drink, watch through the window, drink, watch, drink, watch.
My attentions were drawn to the man I knew to be Doctor John Watson. I immediately disliked him; him fluttering about my pray, jacks pray as though Holmes was his! I knew this to be a foolish though, very very foolish, for I had turned Holmes myself! Perhaps I would turn Watson too. Perhaps Jack would have no need for the Doctor, perhaps I could bottle his blood and offer it to Holmes? He would be a powerful ally; Jack knew so, Jack told me, so it must be true. At this stage in the plan, allies would be most useful, yet they must be hand picked. Jack approved of my 'picking'.
I feasted upon the red of London, growing stronger, stronger, Jack growing stronger, stronger. Finally, Holmes woke up. I hated the glare of the sun against my very being late that afternoon, yet I knew in the end, for this, it would all be worth it. I could smell the vampire in him, even as he sat in bed unaware of his condition.
I watched for hours more, until Holmes realised what he was and I felt my still-heart fill with devilish glee. He rose, I could feel the change upon him, yet I knew that until he had taken the blood of the living he would remain as he was; poor, poor tormented soul. I almost clapped as I watched him approach the Doctor, bit my lip so hard my own blood dripped down my chin in a steady stream as the Doctor felt fear, fear towards the man he had guarded for weeks on end! I adored the irony behind it all! The Doctor ran, ran with fear, not with pleasure as we did in the light of the moon! My orders from Jack were clear; Holmes was my target, even if I did very so much want to chase Watson away until his heart exploded within his chest!
The illusion I created was one of my greatest works; humans are harder to manipulate than objects. As the Doctor ran for help, I, freshly fed and strong from the great hunt that was the city of London, used up most of my energy creating a shadow of a memory for the Doctor and planting it carefully in his head so that he might chase down the help of a specific 'person'. That was where brother Jack stepped in. Being much more adept at manipulating the cattle of the world, Jack created an entire human illusion to distract the Doctor! Jack's powers are truly awe inspiring, for he did all this from miles and miles away! It was a success, as I knew it only could be with Jack's help.
I observed Holmes pace, up, down, up, down, until he picked up... a violin? Jack would love to hear him play, yet I knew Holmes would not bend to Jacks will as jack would want him to. Not yet. Perhaps even not ever. That would be a bad scenario, for Jack wanted Holmes' cooperation very much. I grinned in anticipation; I loved to watch Jack 'persuade' people, he was perfect, never a wasted movement. A knife-wielding artist; a sculptor with the thirst, the thirst.
I yanked Holmes from his room neck first despite my exhaustion and exchanged biting words with the Doctor; could feel my smile transform into a demons-grin as I sliced Holmes' flesh with my fingertips. Jack said I could. I did. Watson shot me, that's why. His human-made, human-forged bullets stung wonderfully. I ran under the watch of the moon with Holmes over my shoulder, laughing to myself breathlessly all the way home, the sight of my own blood driving me mad with that need again. I had stolen Holmes away from Watson; taken him away whilst the Doctor looked on in horror. What helpless creatures humans are! Finders keepers, that it how it is now, how it will be in the future.
Hours and hours later, brother Jack sent me on an crucial errand, and important job for me and me alone. A letter, a letter for the Doctor! Jack told me what was inside and we both shared a chuckle. I hoped the Doctor would find it just as amusing, yet somehow I didn't expect him to. Mortals never really shared our sense of humour.
I did not even bother to disguise myself; I simply knocked upon Watson's door and handed the letter over to the old woman. The sunlight made me feel too hot, too cold, itchy, itchy, itchy! I watched the building once again; Jack told me to kill Watson if he attempted to get help. I watched a man come and go; he stank of Scotland yard and humanness. People like that man would make weak allies. Not even his blood interested me much.
The man left, far too quickly for Watson to ask him for help. Besides, as the man came out, he looked too cheery. Bloodshed and gore-lust do NOT make humans cheery. They cry, get angry, kill people for revenge yet don't drink the blood of their kill! It disgusts me. Watson could not have asked this disgusting man for help, so for now, Watson would live. Jacks orders. Maybe he did need the Doctor after all.
I watched until nightfall, and that is when I saw it. A disgusting, horrific creation of man; the Doctor held a crossbow, a killer of our kind! I could not suppress a hiss of anger! How dare he take up arms against us! How dare he! Maybe he was just out to protect himself from the big, bad, bad, bad monsters of the night? He had not attempted to call for assistance regarding Holmes capture, yet that creation of humanity... Maybe I should play with the Doctor a little more...
The night is young, dark, seductive and beautiful, and as I watched through Watson's window, I bared my fangs in delight as I witnessed him pack. The hunt was on. The never ending hunt. He would run, I would chase. The demon within me cackled; I decided. The Doctor would die, be it tonight or a year from now, and I would carve his flesh until his body was unrecognisable and his life-blood dripped deliciously from my hands. Drip, Doctor Watson. Drip, drip, drip.
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Authors Notes: I actually completed this on the 27th of June, but since I had already updated that day, I chose to wait until today to submit this new chapter. Reviews are always welcome, please drop me a message ^_^