8

It was dark, cold and bloody raining.

Why was it always raining?

Why did bad things happen in the dark?

Ford pulled Sherlock closer as he slipped in the mud and they whimpered as they felt the claws of fear ripping at their gut.

Mycroft was up ahead, the silhouette loomed as he peered out of the vegetation, stark in the lightning strike nearby and Ford hissed a warning, almost too late.

They huddled, wet and cold in the dark as their pursuers walked around, blindly seeking their prey.

Mycroft looked at Ford, showing the whites as his eyes as he tried to remain calm and Ford visibly took a deep breath in, knowing the other two would copy automatically.

He motioned for Mycroft to take Sherlock and change places which he eagerly did, cuddling in the small nest Ford had made of leaves and branches that now protected them from the danger not ten feet away.

Sure they could smell them, Ford had made sure they were well coated in the mire, stinking of the swamp.

There were three of them and Ford was not sure if he could do it.

Two sure but three?

He looked back at his brothers and knew they saw it too, these fuckers were so big and he was just a teenager.

He hesitated, then leaned in to kiss his baby brother's cheek in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

Then he was gone and Mycroft grabbed at air as he tried to stop him.

Ford exploded from the hidey hole and attacked the first one, the snap of the broken neck loud in the silent drizzle and the other two turned.

Their elongated faces were lit by another lightning strike and the teeth were so long … so sharp.

.

.

.

He woke with a scream strangling him and he rolled to the edge of the bed.

He looked at the nightstand and saw the time was 12:20.

His brother used to call it the witching hour.

He bolted from the bed, heading for the bathroom and he barely made it before emptying his gut.

He slid to the floor and found himself shaking as the long ago memory of that night from hell tortured him.

The first time he had felt fear.

Real fear.

Not for himself, but for another.

He thought of his brother and the noise he had made as one of those things had slashed at his arm with their claws.

Sherlock retched again, sobbing as memories of Ford assaulted him in a way no weevil ever could.

His big brother.

How could Mycroft do that to him.

With Da already slaughtered, Ford was Alpha and Mycroft had sold him out, sacrificed him to protect them.

The way Ford had slumped when he realized what Mycroft was doing, the way he had just accepted it.

That was what burned.