John stood over the stream, a homely spear in his hand. He watched as fish darted towards him and then moved away. He stabbed at the water each time the fish got close enough, but he never got a fish. It always ended with a cry of irritation. "I can't do it!" he yelled and stabbed his spear into the soil. It sank easily.
"Don't say that, Johnny boy," his father said, walking over to the young boy and ruffling the blond locks. He crouched to become eye level with his son. "Look over there, at your sister. Do what she's doing." John turned his head and narrowed his eyes at Harry, who seemed to catch fish as if it was as simple as breathing.
He angrily turned back to his father. "I can't do that! She's cheating."
"How do you know that?"
"I just know. She's doing magic or something." John let go of his spear and crossed his arms over his chest. The weapon leaned against John's arm. "She needs to do it properly."
James laughed and plucked the spear from the ground. He stuck the tip into the water and washed the mud off. "She is doing it properly, Johnny. She's getting fish. That's all that matters." John huffed, which made his father laugh even more. He stood up straight and held out the spear towards John. "Try it again, and don't just stab at the water. Stab at the fish."
"I am stabbing at the fish," he muttered, not looking at James as he took the weapon back from him. He kept his eyes on the talisman around his neck, the small piece of Stalhrim hanging there on a string. John looked back into the water, glaring at the fish that began to approach him again. Stab at the fish, not at the water. He tightened his grip on the spear and glanced over at Harry. He mimicked her stance and bent his knees. The fish, not the water. John stuck his tongue in between his lips and held his breath. He felt as still as stone, until… Splash. John lashed out his spear and brought it back up. The point had pierced a fish, which was now struggling to save itself.
John felt like jumping up and cheering. His father did for him. "There you go!" he said and reached over, plucking the fish from the spear. He tossed it in the basket behind him. "Along with Harry's catch, your mother will have plenty to deal with this evening." James ruffled John's hair again. "Go get your sister and go on home. I'll catch up."
Instead, John dropped his spear and cupped his hands over his mouth. "Harry, we're going home!" he called, and he picked up his spear. John smiled up at his father and stayed by his side, until he returned home, too.
Before they went home, though, John followed his father to a deeper section of the woods. He had never been here before, not even when Harry and he felt adventurous. Their mother always warned them to stay away from the dark part of the woods, but his father had no qualms with letting John follow him today.
James Watson said nothing as he stopped in the middle of a clearing, set the basket of fish down, and dropped to his knees. He tipped his head back to the sky and shut his eyes. John stood some feet away, gripping his spear for dear life. He wasn't scared, no, he was almost a man grown…
His father lowered his gaze, then, and drew out a dagger. John barely had any time to react before his father pricked his palm and let his blood drizzle onto the grass.
"Dad, no!" He started forward, hand outstretched, but he knew it would do little good.
James looked over at John and only gave him a smile. "Don't worry, John. It's an offering." He stood up, lips pressed against the spot on his hand. "You'll understand one day," he said kindly and picked up the basket. He walked past John, who reluctantly followed the rest of the way home.
That evening they ate fried fish. John didn't tell Harry or his mother what he saw.
Bodies can rise from the dead when an experienced mage put their skills into necromancy, or when a curse fell upon a crypt or cave and Draugrs made themselves known, but John didn't have any knowledge beyond that. Could this be happening? Could his father actually be alive, after months of silence? Why did he show up at the shop, and why did he need Harry? Would he have taken John, too, if he had arrived home only minutes earlier?
Would John even recognize him?
Harry seemed to be in the right state of mind as they walked through the woods. He didn't know how far they needed to go, but he kept quiet and followed. Sherlock made no attempt to speak either. John wondered how he felt. Did he feel left out from this family affair? Did he want to leave? Or was this something he was interested in—a puzzle for him to solve? John didn't blame him. If the man he was traveling with had told him his father who was dead wasn't actually dead, he'd want answers, too. It felt like Sherlock had been with him since the very beginning.
They made it to their destination: a small cabin in the woods. John stopped in his tracks and looked at the building. He pressed his lips together and tried to will his stomach to stop churning. John tightened his fingers into a fist. Sherlock paused beside him and lightly stroked his hand with the backs of his fingers. It felt like lightning had passed between their fingertips, so John lifted his head, ready to chastise, but he found he couldn't. He stared at Sherlock, who stared at him, giving him a look he couldn't quite read, but John knew this: Sherlock hadn't cast a spell on him.
"Are you alright?" he asked, voice soft.
John nodded and attempted to swallow. His throat was dry. "Yes," he said, because that was all he felt he could say.
Harry was the one who roused him from the moment. She looked at him with an odd expression on her face, though she said nothing. John didn't say anything either. Sherlock was behind him now, figuratively and literally, and he stood next to Harry as she opened the front door.
The cabin was one large room and smelled old, like no fresh air had been allowed to pass through it for some time. It seemed dusty from where he was standing, but it wasn't cold. There was a fire welcoming them in the fireplace, a pot hanging over the open flame. John didn't know what was cooking in the pot, but the way it bubbled reminded him of Harry's vegetable soup. A double bed was pushed off to the corner of the room, and its blankets and mattress looked worse for wear, as if a dog had stood on top of the bed and bit and tore at the covers.
There was also a bookshelf shoved off to the other side, filled to the brim with books. Some looked new, and others looked so old that John would be afraid to touch them. In front of the fireplace was a table, able to seat three. Papers scattering along the surface, and John began to grow uneasy as he set his eyes on the man sitting at the head of the table. John knew it was his father by the familiar look in his eye. His blond hair had gotten dirtier and longer since last he saw him, and he now had a bundle of the locks pulled back with a ribbon. His face was gaunt and unshaven, lips cracked and smile wild.
"Johnny," James Watson said, and he stood from the table. He walked around the table, arms outstretched. He was shaking. "Oh, look at you… You've changed so much." John had to fight not to recoil as his father stopped in front of him, still smiling that manic grin. He let out a small laugh and pressed his calloused palm to John's cheek. "Did Harry tell you we were about to come find you? You weren't home when I visited."
John felt Sherlock shift behind him. He only shook his head. "No, she didn't specifically say that. Just that you were about to send me something." He glanced over at Harry, who walked silently past her father and brother and over to the pot of food. She got out a wooden spoon and poked at the contents. John looked back at his father. "I can only assume it was a, a bird, or…" he trailed off.
"A courier," Sherlock finished.
He nodded, then, and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "Yeah, that."
James slowly narrowed his eyes and lowered his hand from John's face. "Who's this?" he asked, voice suddenly sounding a lot deeper and rougher. He took a step forward and was in Sherlock's face. Sherlock stretched out his spine, appearing to make himself look taller, though it was no use. James had a few good inches over him. The older man leaned forward and sniffed Sherlock, long and noisily. He pulled back with a grimace. "He has bad blood," he said softly. "Though… I do detect a sweet scent. Something that is in all of us…" James' eyes widened, and he cocked his head. "Boy," he started, smiling and exposing yellow, cracked teeth. "You have no idea what you've done to yourself."
Sherlock didn't let his eyes waver from James' face, didn't show any weakness, any emotion whatsoever. "Oh, I think I knew exactly what I was doing," he replied.
John glanced between the both of them and then looked over at Harry. Harry was giving him the same blank look and shrugged. "What happened?" he asked, moving closer to the pair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Harry and I were told you went missing, and I discovered quite a few things trying to look for her."
His father turned his head away from Sherlock, who still kept his eyes on him. James looked at John, studying him for a moment. "I did go missing," he answered after a second, walking back to the table. He sat down and pressed his palms to the tabletop, over the papers in front of him. "But I had to come back, to finish this." James lifted his gaze and stared at John, giving him the same penetrating stare. "Harriet was frightened the first time she saw me. Nearly blew my head off, didn't you, dear?"
"Well, you shouldn't break into someone's house," she spit out, keeping her eyes on the pot. "Especially when Solitude is already a frightful place."
"Just like her mother."
John didn't want to hear any of this. He didn't want to hear any playful banter or how glad their father was to see them. He wanted answers, simple as that. John walked over and stood on the other side of the table, narrowing his eyes. "No. Tell me what happened." Sherlock moved behind him, and John could feel the Breton standing close to him.
His father raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat. He crossed his own arms over his chest. "Tell me what you know."
John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't looking at him, though. He was still concentrating on James, and there was a look in his eye that John couldn't quite read. John looked at Harry, then, gripping the spoon like she had the dagger outside only minutes ago. She must know, he thought. Father must have told her everything when he got her.
"Your regiment had just captured an Imperial camp," John started. "Later that night, something happened, and you. You… turned into a wolf." James' face showed no sign of change, so John continued. "You turned into a wolf and practically slaughtered everyone in the camp, and then took off running. The Stormcloaks and the Empire covered it up, but they didn't bother to investigate any further."
"They let you go free," Sherlock added. "Either they didn't want to bother tracking you down, or they really did believe you were dead. Most don't know much about werewolves. The only foundation that's readily available is folklore and scary stories you tell your children at bedtime." He smiled. "Not very good knowledge."
James' nostrils flared, and he scooted to the edge of his seat, a hand gripping the side of the table. "You would know a lot about knowledge, wouldn't you, boy? I'm surprised my children can't smell that shit dripping off of you."
Before Sherlock could respond, Harry pulled the pot off the fire and dropped it on the table with a loud thud. She put her hands on her hips and looked at each of them. The disappointment was evident on her face, but when she looked at Sherlock, she didn't seem to see anything distasteful about him. Harry looked back at her father. "Can we stop the bickering, and just get on with it? Dad, tell John what you told me. Stop dancing around it." She dropped into a chair and crossed her legs.
"You're right, pumpkin. I lost my temper." He shot one last look at Sherlock before he sank into his chair. James propped his head up with a hand and turned his attention to John. He grew that smile again. "I'm here to take you home, Johnny boy."
Home? Where was that? He didn't know anymore. John shook his head. "Dragon Bridge isn't the place for me—"
"—no, no. Not Dragon Bridge, son. Home. My home. I'm here to take my children to Solstheim. That's where you belong."
"What makes you think we want to go anywhere with you?" John said, narrowing his eyes. "You can't expect us to just leave everything we made for ourselves here, can you? Harry pack up shop, desert the province, and hop on a boat, just because you said so?" He shook his head. "Dad, I don't know if you know this or not, but I'm having a bit of a crisis at the moment. I found out that my own father is a bloody werewolf. How am I supposed to handle that? My whole life I grew up thinking you were the best thing in the world. I forgave your bad tempers and your shit attempts at spending time together, and I even kept your woods thing a secret. But this? How could you ask us this?" John felt like a broken pipe. Once he started, he couldn't stop. Thankfully, Sherlock reached behind him and set a hand on his shoulder. It was gone after a second.
Harry kept her head down, her eyes fixed on a spot on her dress. Had she had this same conversation with him already, or was she finally getting answers, too? James didn't look bothered about John's outburst. In fact, he looked like he was expecting it.
"I'm asking you this because I'm your father. I raised you and took care of you, especially after your mother died. The least you could do is hear me out—"
"—fine! I'll hear you out. Go." John marched over to the remaining chair. He sat down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the surface. "Tell me what happened. Everything. I don't want a watered down version either. You owe both me and Harry that before we even agree to run off with you."
Silence followed this. James looked like he was readying himself, gathering the words he would have to say. John expected he didn't have to tell this story that often, living in the woods for a good few months. Sherlock walked across the cabin and stopped by the bookshelf, seeming to preoccupy himself with the books, but John knew he would be listening.
Finally, his father spoke. "I grew up in Skaal Village, in Solstheim. We don't believe in the Nine Divines the Nords here do. It's the All-Maker. He is one and everything. While living there, I mostly kept to myself, but I did have a couple close friends, Trissen and Ygfel. We did everything together, and as I'm sure you and Harry know, as kids we got into a bit of trouble. None that our parents found out about, thank the Gods, but it was trouble all the same.
"One day, the three of us went out into the woods and found this old shack. It was falling apart, smelled of death, but we were curious. Ygfel was the best hunter, so she went into the house first, just to scope it out. When she found nobody, she popped her head out of the window and called Trissen and I into the house. Inside, we found books that contained spells and curses of all kinds, shelves full of ingredients that would make your skin crawl, and next to the fire, a cauldron filled with this dark red liquid. You can probably imagine what we thought.
"Trissen was the first who saw her coming. We all ran into different parts of the shack, but, frankly, that was an awful thing to do. The damn place was already so small. Ygfel stayed put, though. She was always brave, never backed down from a challenge. She had her dagger in hand, ready to strike the hag who returned home.
"The door opened, and in came the woman. She was haggard and looked ancient, with her long, matted silver hair. She didn't look like a friendly grandmother, though. She had these… yellow eyes. The ones that could have belonged to a painting that followed you around. Trissen was hidden underneath the bed, and I was, somehow, squashed in her wardrobe. That place didn't smell much better.
"Well, Ygfel stood there, dagger at her side, and she asked the woman why she was there. The woman gave her a proper look and lifted her hand, pointing at Ygfel with a crooked finger and said, 'I should be asking you why you're here, but it doesn't matter. I can see in your eyes what you want, and I'm prepared to give it to you. Only if your two other friends come out.'
"Ygfel just shook her head and tried to convince her that she had come to the shack by herself. The old woman didn't believe her and said that she could smell Trissen and I. 'They won't get a reward if they don't come out,' she croaked, and Trissen and I busted out of our hiding places. I thought we would at least be able to make it out alive if we obeyed her.
"She made us sit around her table, and she started to tell us about herself. Her name was Sirihe the Whitemane, and that name alone told us what we were in for. We heard the name many times, but never been told of the face that coupled with it. On Solstheim, many worship the Daedric Prince Hircine. The Huntsman of the Princes. The Father of Manbeasts. However you'd like to refer to him. He grants his followers great power, and when their time has come to die, promises to take them to the great Hunting Grounds, where they can spend the rest of their afterlife capturing prey in peace.
"At our age, we could certainly see the appeal for taking part of worshipping this Prince. At face value, he wasn't a particularly evil Prince, when compared to his Daedric brethren. Not needlessly destructive, but not exactly benevolent. It didn't matter to us. Many of our tribe consisted of hunters, and, of course, we wanted to be the best. We were naïve and foolish, but… we agreed. We told Sirihe that we would join her in her evening worship, and she promised by the night's end, we would be proper followers of Hircine. 'He will thank you greatly,' she said.
"We didn't know what taking part in this worship entailed. We had heard rumors, but they were only rumors. Soon, though, when night began to fall, Sirihe retrieved a bowl from a cabinet and set it in the middle of the table. Then, as she tossed back her head, she howled, and before our eyes, she turned into this great beast. Coal black fur, menacing eyes, and snarling as she looked down at us. You couldn't tell that this was just an old woman seconds ago. There was so much power underneath her skin. She could snap you in two if she grabbed at your arm and yanked you the right way.
"Trissen and Ygfel were frightened, and so was I, but each of us saw an opportunity, and we took it. If this was the cost for great power, surely it must be worth it. Sirihe clambered over to the table and bit her wrist. She hung her arm over the bowl, and we watched as her blood dripped out, filling the bowl little by little.
"We each drank from the bowl, and the next thing we knew, we were waking up somewhere in the woods with nothing but our smallclothes on. We hurried back to the village and told our parents nothing of what happened. Every fortnight, Trissen and I would meet up with Ygfel in the woods, and there we would turn into these great wolves. We had so much power and strength, that it was hard to resist running into the village and showing everyone what we had been awarded. We wondered how many more of the Skaal possessed this ability but said nothing. It was selfish to keep this gift to ourselves, but we had been told tales of werewolves, and they were creatures not to be messed with. We saw little reason to tell the other children at home this, so we reluctantly kept it hidden. We were good at it, too. None of our parents found out.
"Years passed, and Trissen and I, along with a couple other Skaal, decided to leave Solstheim and go to Skyrim. Change of scenery, better business, what have you. Ygfel refused to come, though we tried to persuade her to change her mind, but that lass was always stubborn. We made our voyage to the province, and we weren't even a week in Skyrim when Trissen fell ill and died. Got Rockjoint from a bloody wolf. I sent a letter to Ygfel, and she urged me to come home, but I didn't. She'd have to come fetch me. She never did.
"Then, I met your mother. She was the first Nord that never annoyed me. We got to know each other, and—well, I'm sure the both of you have heard the story a thousand times over. Your mother told me everything about her, and, in turn, I told her everything about me. Starting with my name and what my favorite color was, and right down to how I was afflicted with lycanthropy. She was scared, as you can imagine, but she… warmed up to the idea.
"So, about three months into our relationship, I proposed to her. Later that night, I turned her into a werewolf.
"You guys came, and both of you were the best things that happened to your mother and me. We were so happy. We wanted the absolute best for you, like any other parents. When the both of you turned three, we wanted to give you the best present ever. We lead you into the woods—"
"—stop!" Harry lurched forward, hands covering her face. She shook her head again and again. "That isn't true! That isn't true!"
James reached over and touched Harry's arm. She drew back from his touch. "It is true, darling. We wanted the best for you two, and what better way to give you the best, then giving you our gift, too?"
"You're sick," John spit out. He had sat silently, listening to his father's story and watching as Harry's face turned into a grotesque portrait. He was sure his face looked similar. This was his father, the man who was supposed to protect and guard them with his life, but he was simply just a man who sought power and more power. He wouldn't have been satisfied with him being the only one cursed. "You convinced mother to become like you, and then you twisted her mind even more when you threw us into the picture? You weren't giving the best to us. You were cursing us!"
"It's not a curse!" his father shot back. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. Tendrils of dirty hair fell into his face. "It is a blessing from Hircine. Your mother said the same thing, but she came around, and you both will, too." James looked over at Harry and tried to touch her arm again. "Little Harriet, we were afraid you weren't going to make it through the night, but you did. You woke up that morning as strong as ever." Harry stared down at the table, her nose wrinkled and eyes shining. James turned towards John and held out his hand, palm up. "You, Johnny, you took up the role so well. You were meant to follow Hircine. And He knew it, too. He will pay you graciously when you return to his Hunting Grounds."
John scooted back further in his chair. He rested his hands on his thighs, fingers curled into fists. "I don't want to go to his bloody Hunting Ground!" he yelled. "I am a Nord. I am going to Sovngarde when I die." He lifted a hand and scratched angrily at the back of his head. "I can't believe you would do this to your own children!"
"What happened to Mother?" Harry asked. "I found that recipe for poison in one of her books." Her eyes were still shining, but her voice remained strong. "She killed herself because of you, didn't she? Didn't she?!"
James lowered his gaze to the floor. "Time didn't take too kindly to her. As each day passed, she became increasingly worried about you and John's wellbeing. You both showed no signs of lycanthropy, never even took the other skin, and when you both turned twelve… she feared the worst. She was guilty. I tried to tell her that she had no reason to feel this way. She had helped give you a precious gift, but she didn't see it that way anymore. So, yes," he said, "she killed herself because of me, if you want to be so simplistic."
"I'm not being simplistic. That's what happened!" Harry slammed her palms on the table. "When you broke into our house you just said you wanted to take us to Solstheim. You never even mentioned any of this to me! I had to sit in this damn cabin for days, waiting and waiting and waiting. Do you even know what was going through my mind? How I worried about John?"
"The plan was to get the both of you. I had to improvise."
John pounded a fist on the table. "Why Solstheim? Why do we need to go back there? Why would we even want to go there? That place ruined our lives!"
"It did not and will not," James said, trying to keep his voice level and calm. "John, Harry, Hircine is calling for us. He needs us back on Solstheim. The Bloodmoon Prophecy is fast approaching. Hircine's Hounds have already returned to the island. They are making themselves known. The Fire from the Eye of Glass has appeared on Lake Fjalding. Don't you see? His Great Hunt is coming this era, and we must join him. We have his blood in our veins, and we have to join him. It is only right."
John lifted his hand and pointed a finger at his father. "This is… a load of bullshit." He glanced at Harry and then over at Sherlock. He was still standing by the bookshelf, but his eyes were on the Watson family. His lips were pressed together, eyes narrowed. A million questions must be going through his head right now, but he didn't voice any of them. This wasn't his affair. "We are not werewolves. Do you hear me?" John continued.
"You are, son! You've just never tried to reach that part of yourself. If only you knew earlier. If only I had told you when your mother died, but she wanted to protect you two. Only tell you when the proper time had come, and this is the proper time now. Hircine is beckoning us to return home. Your tempers are rising. Give in."
"The only time I'm going to turn into a damned wolf is when I'm going to rip your throat out," John hissed.
"John!" Harry cried, looking at him with wide eyes.
"No, Harry." He looked at her, eyes wide, too. "He was planning to kidnap us and take us to Solstheim just because of this ridiculous prophecy! Do you honestly want anything to do with this?" She stared at him, pressing her fingers to her lips. "Harry," he muttered. "This isn't our father. He's twisted, corrupted. He killed our mother." Harry shut her eyes.
"That's enough!" James yelled. "I am your father! I have not changed at all. I have been this way since the day you two were born."
John leaned forward and glared. "We must have seriously misjudged you, then. Harry, me, and Mom."
"Now, John, you're being absolutely—" James stood, raising a hand.
"Sit back down." John and Harry turned their heads to see Sherlock, now at the end of the table. His own hand was raised, a fireball in the middle of his palm.
James slowly narrowed his eyes. He dropped his hand and held his fist at his side. "You! You have no right to threaten me! Your blood is bad. How dare you give your life into that darkness! Hircine is different! He is honorable and proud! Nothing like you and your rancid—"
"—Harry, now!" John pushed back from his chair, letting it fall to the floor. While James turned his head to look at his son, Harry reached into her apron and pulled out her dagger. She pulled her arm back and whipped it around, stabbing the steel weapon into her father's leg. The dagger stuck in his leg for a few seconds, and while James let out a cry of pain, Harry twisted and ripped it out. James staggered and leaned over the table, breathing heavily.
Harry stood up and pointed the dagger at him. "You are not our father," she said, voice stern.
It all happened at once. James let out another cry and arched his back, tossing his head to the side. He growled and snarled, and soon dark hair sprouted on his face. His hands grew long talons, and he shot up several inches. James shook his head, spit slinging out of his mouth. He looked back at Harry with venomous yellow eyes and snapped his teeth.
"Oh, no, you don't." John launched himself across the table, wrapping his arms around James' neck and taking him down to the floor. The pot of food on the table toppled, landing with a thud and spilling the contents all over the floor. Harry leapt back, dropping her dagger and letting blood splatter across the wood, mixing with the vegetable stew. "You won't harm us anymore," John growled, punching the side of his father's head again and again, but it was no use. The wolf didn't seem to feel the strikes. He turned his attention to John, nostrils flaring. John's eyes widened, and he lowered his hands, fumbling for his sword. He withdrew it as soon as he was thrown off James.
John landed on his back, face to face with the beast, who snapped and growled right in his face. He grunted and put all of his strength behind his sword, stabbing it somewhere in James' stomach. The wolf whined and seemed to shrink back, but he stayed overtop John. He only seemed to get angrier.
A bolt of lightning lashed out and struck James' shoulder. He fell off of John, then, allowing him to yank out his sword. Blood showered down. John rolled away and got on his hands and knees. He looked up to see Sherlock with his hand outstretched, his fingertips still sparkling. In his other hand, the fireball still stayed, poised and ready. Harry ran over to John and helped him up. "Come on. Get up, you big loon," she muttered. John grabbed his sword with clumsy fingers.
"No, no, Harry, stop." John pushed Harry away from him and turned around, just in time to duck from a swing by James. He pulled on Harry's dress, hoping to make her fall down before she was struck. Too late.
Harry flew back and hit the table, dropping off the other side and crashing into John's fallen chair. She sprawled on her back, eyes screwed shut. Blood began to gather on the side of her mouth. Harry sat up and wiped her face. When she looked at her hand, she gave her father a dark look. "You son of a bitch," she murmured, dropping her hand and digging her nails in the floorboard. John scrambled to his feet and went towards her, but she had already changed. Harry fell on the floor as a Nord, but rose as a wolf, eyes ravenous and ears pulled back. John stared at her with wide eyes, and Sherlock had to yank at his arm to move before Harry leaped across the room at James.
The two wolves bit and tore at each other, blood and fur coating the floor. John watched in disbelief, and he dropped his sword. He turned his head and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock stared at him for a split second and nodded.
"Go."
John couldn't explain it. His skin boiled, prickled, and all of his hair rose. He threw his head back and cried out in pain. People didn't howl in anticipation, in excitement, when they changed into a wolf. They were in pain. All of his bones were being relocated, his skin was stretching, his muscles grew. It hurt, it hurt, oh, it hurt. John's mind was on one track: protect Harry. He turned his head around, his skull feeling heavy and his legs like a newborn deer. Sherlock and he met eyes, and Sherlock gave him a look he had never seen on the Breton's face before. He said nothing, and John ran off, meeting his father and sister in the fray. It was easy to fight when your body was crafted for it. His claws knew exactly where to slice, his teeth knew where to dig in, and his legs knew where to kick. Somehow during the fight, Harry had been pushed off to the side, next to Sherlock. She struggled to catch her breath as she watched John and James tear at each other.
Finally, John pinned James to the ground and growled in his face. John ripped out his father's throat.
It took a few minutes before John and Harry managed to shift back into their skin. He barely noticed the pain this time. He was still running off the adrenaline. Harry helped him stand. He couldn't take his eyes off his father. He was still a wolf, sprawled on his back. His throat was torn open, the dark liquid pooling underneath him. John grimaced and turned his head, looking over at Harry. He laughed. "You look like hell."
Her hair was half down and tangled. One of her cheeks was bruised, and she had several cuts across her arms and neck. Harry smiled and squeezed his shoulder. "You don't look much better, John." She raised her eyebrows and glanced down. John looked down, too, and noticed they were both in their smallclothes. Great. Sherlock walked up to the both of them, standing next to John. He cocked his head and reached out a hand, brushing his fingers along John's lips. He showed John his hand—coated with blood. John roughly swallowed and grimaced at the rusty taste.
"I didn't—"
"—I know," Sherlock said softly. He lowered his hand and looked down at James, a crinkle appearing on the bridge of his nose. "We need to go."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. She let go of John's arm and went around the cabin, grabbing her things and pulling on a dress she seemed to have conjured out of thin air. She didn't even give her father a second look as she left the house.
John, however, crouched next to the dead wolf. He stared at the thing, pursing his lips and feeling the dried blood crack. He absently wiped at his mouth and reached down, grabbing the talisman around his neck. John yanked, and the strap broke. "He still had this," he muttered. John ran his thumb along the hunk of Stalhrim, shaking his head. He stood up and shook his head. John looked around the cabin. He walked past Sherlock, whose eyes, John could feel, were glued to his back. He opened one of the dressers and pulled out one of the nicer tunics and trousers. He even found a pair of shoes next to the bed. So much for the steel armor. John stuck the Stalhrim into his pocket and went over to his sword. He picked it up and tried to shake the blood off.
Sherlock took a step towards him. "John," he started, but John turned back around, looking up at him.
He gave Sherlock a quick smile. "We should go," John said, and then he was out of the house.
Harry was outside, waiting for them to emerge. She stood a little straighter once John stopped in front of her. Offering a smile, she let out a small sigh. "Well, I feel like I can sleep for a hundred years." John leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. Harry shut her eyes and shook her head. "I'll stop the meetings," she said. "I've had enough surprise and heartbreak for a lifetime. I don't want to cause you to keel over any time soon." She laughed and pulled back, rubbing her face with the sleeve of her coat. "Get yourself cleaned up. Come home."
He wanted to come home. He wanted nothing more than to sit in front of the fire, curl up in his warm bed and sleep these past few days off. But he couldn't. John started to shake his head. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. Sherlock was a few feet away, intently staring at the siblings. John looked back at Harry. "I have some things to do first," he said gently. "This isn't finished, I think. I still… feel bad." He frowned. "Do you know what I mean? Dirty, cursed. This isn't a blessing. I want to be cured."
"John, there probably isn't a cure."
"There has to be something. Just something to help suppress this."
"We've been good this far," Harry said, opening her arms a bit. "What makes you think that we'll start turning into wolves all willy-nilly?"
"I don't… I don't know, Harry. What Father said bothered me, though. I want to rid myself of this. I don't want to be anything like him." Harry looked at him for a long time before she lowered her head. She kicked at some snow. "Harry, we don't have to part ways here. Help me. We can get rid of this thing together."
Harry lifted her head and smiled. She shook her head, pressing her palm to John's cheek and scratching some of the blood off with her thumbnail. "I don't think I can make that trip with you, John. There isn't anything we can do. We're stuck like this." She dropped her hand. "The sooner you realize that, the better."
John shook her head. "We're not stuck. I'm not going to those damned Hunting Grounds when I die."
"We can get a choice," she added softly. "At least I think so." Harry crossed her arms over her chest and sniffed. She turned her head away and looked ahead. "I better get going, if I want to make it home before dark." She laughed.
"Stay safe," he said, frowning. John pulled her into a hug and pressed his lips to her hair. "No more meetings. I'll be home before you know it."
She stepped back, smiling again and nodding. "Okay."
"Harry." John and Harry turned their heads, watching as Sherlock walked towards them, stepping carefully through the snow. "You shouldn't be alone." He flicked out his hand at the empty air next to Harry, and, soon, purple mist began to gather. The mist took shape, and Redbeard bounded out of the cloud, tongue out and tail wagging. Sherlock crouched in front of the familiar and gave Redbeard a stern look. "You're to go with this woman and accompany her until she returns home, do you understand?" Redbeard cocked his head. "Do not come back to me for any reason, okay?" Redbeard barked and wagged his tail again. Sherlock looked up at Harry. "He understands."
She looked down at Redbeard and put her hands on her hips. "I'm not 'this woman', you got it? My name's Harry, alright? What's yours?"
Redbeard barked.
John smiled. "It's Redbeard."
Sherlock stood up and put his hands behind his back. "You be a good boy, Redbeard."
Harry and Redbeard made their way through the forest, seeming to have an in depth conversation as they walked. John watched, a small smile on his face. Sherlock stood next to him, still as a statue. Once they were gone, John let out a breath and raised a hand to cover his face. Sherlock rested a hand on his arm.
"You need to get cleaned up. I'll find someplace we can spend the night."
"Wait," John said, reaching up and gripping onto Sherlock's hand. He looked back at the house and grimaced. "We need to get rid of it."
Sherlock didn't hesitate setting the cabin on fire.
They found a small group of bandits holding up in another cabin not far from where they were. Sherlock peeked through the window and saw the three of them gathered around the table, playing cards. He looked over at John and nodded. John kicked open the door and marched in, waving his sword around and laughing loudly. "Feed! Feed! I need to feed again!"
The bandits shot up and ran as fast as they could out the door. John stayed inside, still laughing. He heard each bandit fall in the snow. John went to the doorway and poked his head out. Each bandit had an arrow through their head. Sherlock set his bow back in its place and walked through the door. He sniffed when he entered the cabin, stopping in the middle of the room. "At least they lit a fire." Sherlock dropped his bow and quiver on the table, along with his pack. He picked up a few cards, flipping through them. He glanced at John. "You really do look like a vampire. There's a stream nearby. Go wash up." Sherlock dropped the cards and turned towards the fire.
John stood there for a while, watching Sherlock as he surveyed the fire. He turned away and slipped out of the cabin. He kept his sword close, not knowing what he would encounter out in the woods. Besides, the damn thing needed to be cleaned anyway.
He found the stream, no problem, and John promptly shoved his head into the freezing water. He whipped his head out and cursed loudly. John lifted his arm and scrubbed at his face with his sleeve. "Gods Almighty," he breathed out. He was clean, though. That was all that mattered. John dunked his sword in the water, swished it around, and pulled it out. He ran his sleeve along the blade, then, washing the blood off of it, too. His father's blood. John had never killed a person, but in the span of four days, he had killed a Thalmor guard and his father. He didn't know what that meant for him. He tried not to think about it.
What he did think about was what his father said. None of it made sense. He couldn't be a werewolf. He wasn't like James Watson. He would never be like James Watson. At one point, like any young boy, he idolized his father, but not anymore. John was sick. He was sick. He wanted to be cured. Sherlock was going to help him. That's why he was still here. Any sane person would have already left.
Sherlock. What did he think about this whole mess? Did he know anything else about Hircine or Daedric Princes in general? His father had spoken with such disgust to Sherlock, said he had bad blood, but John didn't see anything wrong with him; he couldn't even smell anything off about him.
John didn't feel like talking.
He stood up and walked back to the cabin, sword at his side. Pushing the door open with a shoulder, John set his sword on the table, next to Sherlock's things. He turned his head, examining the cabin and everything it held. His eyes landed on Sherlock, who was currently lying in the middle of the bed. John studied him and pressed his lips together.
Sherlock lifted his head and squinted at John. "I can scoot over," he said, voice low. He glanced around and started to move to one side of the bed.
John walked towards the bed and crawled underneath the blankets. They were of good quality. He shuddered to think what happened to the people who lived here. John pressed in between Sherlock's legs and dipped his head down, kissing him. He stayed there for a couple seconds, taking in everything that was Sherlock. Sherlock lifted up an arm and wrapped it around John's neck, pulling him closer. One of his legs hooked around John's hip, helping him lower in the space he created.
They slowly turned, and John ran his hands down Sherlock's sides, fingers curling against the fur. He pulled back and buried his face in Sherlock's neck, biting at the skin. "Take that damned fur off."
"Yes," Sherlock breathed out. He pushed John away far enough in order to slip off his armor. He tossed it to the floor and returned his hands to John's chest.
"I'm tired of fur," John muttered, kissing Sherlock again.
"Yes," Sherlock breathed out. He lifted a hand and threaded his fingers through John's hair. The blond hair was still wet, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. John lowered his hands and began to work off his own clothes. Sherlock kissed at his collarbone.
John shut his eyes and breathed in. He moved, arching his back, pressing his hips against Sherlock's backside. Sherlock arched along with him, letting out a small gasp. His fingers left John's hair and traveled down his sides.
"I want to fuck you. Is that okay?"
"Yes."