Chapter two! Yay! Not really. LOL I hope it makes some kind of sense somehow. :P
As always, please R&R, and I don't own anything. Enjoy!
Two hours and three stops at closed pharmacies just to 'double check that they're closed' later, they arrived at the Summer's residence. Dawn leapt from the car before it was even parked, and rushed to open the front door, then stood waiting for their guests to join her with their belongings in tow. As she ushered them into the living room, they were greeted by the others, and a new face as well. Willow stood up and gave friendly hugs to John and Sherlock, who accepted politely.
"This is Tara. Tara, these are John and Sherlock." Willow sat back down as Tara shook the men's hands and greeted them both.
Giles entered the room, cleaning his glasses and nearly walking into Sherlock. "Oh, pardon me, Sherlock. Here, let's get you two up to the guest room. Willow tidied up this afternoon, so its all ready for you." As they reached the top of the stairs, John broke the air of discomfort between him and Sherlock.
"Guest room?" He asked, emphasizing the 'room' part.
"Yes. I do apologize, John, but its all we've got. Hotels around here are booked solid for the next week, with Christmas being in three days." Giles opened the door on the right, and led them into a room with a tall wardrobe, and a king sized bed. In the corner was a desk with photos and teddy bears strewn across it. "This was Dawn's room, until Buffy.. She hasn't quite finished moving out. I'll let you to your unpacking." Giles left the room, closing the door behind him softly.
"I see.." John said, unamused at the concept of sharing a bed with the restless sociopath.
"Just stay on your side. I won't bite. Promise." Sherlock joked.
"I might." A new voice filled the room. It was masculine, and the accent screamed Cockney, but something was off about it. All of this only piqued Sherlock's curiosity, causing him to whip around where he found himself suddenly face to face with a pale, blonde haired man who's shocked and curious expression matched that of Sherlock. "What 'ave we here? Heard the nibblet on about some blokes from England. Must be you two.. good god, man. Definitely you!" Spike laughed, pointing at the grey and red pinstriped jumper John was wearing.
"Me? Yes.. Wait, what's wrong with the jumper?" John tugged at the fabric over his chest.
"Stick out like a sore thumb, you do. And you.. Pretty boy, aren't you?" Spike poked at Sherlock's curls, and they both leaned back examining each other thoroughly.
"And you look like a corpse. It's California. Where's your tan?"
"Like you're one to talk! Ooh.. I like you already. This is better than the paper hat in a cracker. Giles!" Spike exclaimed, dashing into the hall to go thank him for the new 'toys', as he would call them.
"Like looking in a fun house mirror?" John joked.
"Exactly.. except the hair. What's wrong with my hair, John?"
"Breakfast!" Willow screeched from the kitchen, just as Tara and Dawn galloped down the stairs. Sherlock had been up all morning, contemplating the odd man they'd met earlier. He was about the same height as him, and now he realized, nearly as pale. The long leather duster seemed to mock his own long wool overcoat, and his eerie personality was terrifying yet delightful at the same time. As he tossed the covers off himself and John -who against all protests, still managed to cross the centre line Sherlock had made with a body pillow- then left the room in search of the toilet. After putting more urgent matters to rest, and causing Xander to squeal like a little girl when he unexpectedly startled him at the top of the stairs, Sherlock went down to the dining room, where Willow was setting a platter of eggs out beside the sausages and bacon. "Full English. Well, sort of. I think. Giles was kind of busy so I googled." She strutted back into the kitchen as Sherlock took a seat, and returned moments later with a teapot and cream. "There ya go. Is John up yet?"
"Doubtful." He replied, pouring a cup of tea and scooping what he hoped was the eggs onto his plate. Dawn and Tara soon began the barrage of questions about him, John and their life in London.
"What do you guys have to do for fun?" Dawn said, still swallowing a massive bite of bacon.
"The morgue."
"The what?" Dawn said her eyes widening comically.
"The morgue. Where the dead people go. Rather interesting place." He said casually. As he reached for a slice of toast, John appeared and sat in the empty chair to his left. "John. Lovely. Please explain to the child how I have fun back home."
"Umm... right. Well, there's the cinema, and a few really great pubs-"
"Not you. Me."
"Oh. The morgue. And.. that's about it. Unless you count setting fire to every appliance in the flat and nearly getting himself killed just to see if he's smarter than a murderer. Nothing you'd care for. Pass the eggs, please."
"... If you can call them that." Sherlock watched Dawn and Tara's expressions fade from confusion and near fright to something more like amusement. Xander quietly took his seat at the head of the table, followed by Willow to his left.
"So. Consulting detective and army doctor... you live together? How's that going?"
"He's so.. bland." said Sherlock.
"He's totally off his rocker." John quipped back.
"Are you two.. you know.. an item?" Willow asked, grinning and reaching over to hold Tara's hand.
"Lord no!" John exclaimed swatting away Sherlock's hand. "Not an item. Not even close, thank you. Sherlock.. stop it." Sherlock let go of John's hand, and gave him the look. The look that said, 'please mum, can I play with that grizzly bear? I wonder what he'll do if it poke him!' The look that clearly meant he was about to become the constant subject of Sherlock's infuriating fake advances, just to see how much his dear friend can take. Thankfully, Spike appeared beside Xander just in time to take Sherlock's attention off John.
"Hello again, Sherlock. John.. Mornin' Nibblet. Breakfast?" Spike said cheerily, as Dawn motioned towards the kitchen.
"Fridge door." John and Sherlock glanced at the pale man, then at the teenager, then at each other in wonder.
"Instant shakes, is it? He looks like losing weight might kill him."
"One can only dream." Xander replied, as Willow kicked his shin under the table.
"What else, Xander? Why'd she kick you for that?" Sherlock could see that there was more to tell, and had to probe for answers. Spike reappeared in the archway from the kitchen, and fabricated a story, getting Xander off the hook.
"Protein shake. Adds muscle." Spike swigged his blood from the mug, making sure not to let any linger on his lips and be seen as he held up his free arm and flexed. "How bout this, Shirley. After breakfast. Basement. Have us a sparring match. Unless you're scared..." He mocked. Sherlock could feel his temper flare, and he stood from the table suddenly.
"How about now?" He said with a deep, intimidating tone. "John, get ready. This bloke hasn't the slightest what he's asking." Sherlock patted John's shoulder before following Spike to the basement. Willow chased after them, pleading that they stop being so macho.
"Like two tomcats fighting for territory, and you guys have only been in town, what? Six hours? This should be great." Dawn shook her head, as John shrugged and excused himself from the table to go monitor the fight brewing in the basement.
The two men stood in the middle of the dank, cement room and circled each other slowly. Sherlock took the first swing, which Spike deflected as he swung a leg out to throw Sherlock to the floor. The detective leapt over it, and smirked.
"Game is on now, blondie." He grumbled. The two went all out, kicking, punching, flipping each other to the ground over and over again. After almost an hour, they were both bruised, bleeding and gasping for breath on the floor.
"Damn good for a pretty boy."
"I'm not the one bleaching my hair, am I?"
"Nice comeback."
"Thanks." Sherlock stood, and reached out a hand to help Spike to his feet. John stepped over to the pair, holding a first aid kit and shaking his head in disbelief. As he started work on Sherlock's cuts and scrapes, he couldn't help but notice that the gash on Spike's arm had almost healed already.
"Thats.. umm.. some good protein in those shakes, huh?" He said, nodding to Spike's arm. There was but a scratch anymore, surrounded by drying blood- evidence that the wound had been much worse than it currently appeared. Sherlock looked over and noticed the same mark, and squinted slightly. His eyes lit up and he looked at Spike.
"Anywhere round here we can go for a drink?" he asked the blonde.
"Oh, yeah. Nice place a few blocks down.. Doesn't open till eight, though."
"Splendid. We'll go. Tonight. John, stay here and.. I don't know.. catch up with your friend or let the girls give you a makeover.. Whatever you feel inclined to do. I think this one and I should have a chat." Sherlock walked upstairs and out of the basement. It was nearly noon, so he had eight hours to wait, and was dying for a smoke. The blonde one smokes. Could smell it on him.. He turned around, and rushed back to the basement where he found Spike sitting on a cot, holding his head in his palms. "Have a smoke?" Spike looked up, and reached for his duster. Sherlock sat on the other end of the cot as Spike handed him a cigarette and his Zippo. "I had one like this.. Bloody airport security took it. Bastards."
"Yeah." Spike nodded, still holding his head.
Sherlock stared over at him, wondering what the problem was. Then he decided to sat the three words that hardly crossed his lips. "Sorry bout that."
"Oh. My head? No. Not you. Just a headache.. from the protein. Drank that damn shake too fast." Spike lit a cigarette for himself, then leaned against the wall behind them. Sherlock could feel the rush of nicotine making him dizzy already. It had been months since he'd started the patches, and the taste and feel of a good cigarette made his head spin. Spike stood and started walking about, then stopped suddenly.
"So are you one of those bloody watcher boys? Sent 'ere to keep an eye on ol' Spike now that the Slayer's gone?"
"No. What are you on about?"
"Nothing.. nothing then. Right." Spike realized that the detective had no knowledge of the watcher's council or the slayer, and quickly changed the subject. "How's the queen?"
"Fine, I suppose."
"Good.. good... Never liked her much.. So stuffy, she is."
"I wouldn't know. Nor do I care. That's not my area. And I would think you couldn't give a damn less about the Queen."
"Really? I heard about this. You take one look at someone and can tell their life story. Go on. What's mine?" Spike crushed out his cigarette, then leaned against the stairwell opposite the cot.
"Your accent is quite East End, but has a touch of something else. Something more refined underneath. Thus you weren't raised in the East End but rather moved there later in life. Your boots and duster are well worn, and considering the amount of black on you, I would think it safe to bet you're one of those rebel types. You smoke, but the way you can keep up in a fight would make one think otherwise. You're an only child, and both parents are either dead or don't care to speak to you anymore because of your aversion to normal society. Which of course is obvious from your nail polish and lack of sun. When you speak to the girl.. Dawn.. You speak to her as though she means something to you, yet you speak to others like they're a mere nuisance. She's far younger than you, and doesn't have that look to her eyes, so I know there's nothing sexual about it. Its almost a father-daughter relationship, you look after her out of love. But she's not your daughter, since she calls you by name. You have a fear of rejection that has deep roots in your past, and the attention Dawn gives you eases is. Was the rejection parental or romantic? Well, you're giving that away right now with your defensive posture and hurt yet shameful look. It tells me both are true in ways. Someone you cared for dearly and wished to marry turned you away, that's the hurt. The shame, well that with the defensive posture means mother. You'd defend her with your life, yet you weren't the man she'd hoped you'd become and thus, she rejected you, telling you off for not making her proud. But you still love her, despite that, and still feel you let her down every time you take a breath. Which.. you're not doing. Don't hold your breath, you twit. Spike?" Sherlock cocked his head sideways as he watched Spike start pacing again, paying close attention to his chest and the sounds in the room. The only sounds were his own breathing and heartbeat, and Spike's boots scuffing and clapping against the floor as he walked. Sherlock held back the urge to mention it further, still trying to figure it out on his own.
"Very good, Sherlock.. Very good. You've got me. I'm just a psychopathic ol' mummy's boy that can't get a girl. You missed the best part, though." Before Sherlock could respond, Spike was in his face, his eyes glowing yellow and a giant fangy grin crossing his face. "I don't have a life to defend Dawn with." He snarled softly, and waited for Sherlock's reaction. When his snarls didn't illicit a scream or at the least a gasp from him, Spike leaned in as though to bite Sherlock. This also yielded no response. "Bloody hell, man. Nothing? Not even a 'please, no'?" Spike stepped back, and his face contorted back to normal as Sherlock watched in a daze of excitement.
John and Tara were sitting on the couch talking about London and places he should see while in California when the front door opened and Giles walked into the room.
"Rupert. Alright?"
"Yes, thanks. Would you like to go for dinner with me John? Catch up a bit?"
"Sounds great. Let me just get my jacket and let Sherlock know."
"Oh, you go ahead. I'll let him know. Where is he anyways?" Tara asked shyly.
"Oh. Thanks. He's in the basement with Spike.. What's with the name, anyway?" John replied.
"I'll explain over dinner, and you'll hardly need your jacket. The jumper is quite enough."
"Right. Lets go then." John waved goodbye to Tara and followed Giles outside. "Why do they all call you by Giles? Don't they use your first name?"
"Oh, no. I was the high school librarian when I met them, so they called me Mister Giles then. They've outgrown the Mister part. Sometimes I wonder how they outgrew anything, honestly." Giles sank in behind the steering wheel and started the car. As they left the drive way, Giles glanced over at John with a serious expression. "The council needs you back. We have trouble..."
* Back in the basement *
"Hardly. How'd you do that?" Sherlock stood and stepped up to Spike, reaching out to touch his face, hoping to learn how he could cause the bone in his forehead to shift in such a way. Before his fingers could make contact, Spike had a hold on his wrist and was nearly nose to nose with him. Spike's eyes narrowed, and he slowly let his demon emerge, his face shifting and moulding slowly. Sherlock took in every detail of the transformation, every slight bump and groove to his brow, his eyes slipping from their natural soft blue to the cat-like yellow. Spike took Sherlock's hand and held it up, releasing it to allow him to feel his brow and fangs. Sherlock explored the vampire's face, trying to understand this unique ability, but falling short of grasping an explanation of all fact involved. His mind raced, a million questions beginning to cloud his thinking. "How do you do that? Amazing.. Does it hurt? No..no.. stupid question. Have you always been able to do that? What makes the change occur?" Sherlock continued asking questions, while Spike sat back on the cot and laughed.
"I'll explain it all over drinks. Bar opens in about an hour. An' why aren't you scared? Aren't I scary?"
"I don't get scared. It's not you, really. It's me." Sherlock patted the vampire's shoulder and reached for the pack of cigarettes between them on the cot.
So, what did you think? Let me know if I should continue or not.