Fic: Homo homini lupus (part 1)
Oct. 31st, 2010 09:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mesmirandaThere will be a non-fannish post after this, really. I don't witter on about Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman that much. Do I?
Anyhoo. This one got really, really long, and I feel like I could make a universe out of it with Mummy's badass werewolf backstory and the Baker Street strays and Irene Adler the siren, and I don't even know, I'm just going to leave this here.
Homo homini lupus
Sherlock/John, 6765 words (whaaaaat), R for some imagery.
Sebastian gets the bathroom door locked behind himself and leans against the sink, getting his breath back. Any moment now Jim will be back, Jim will walk in and see what happened--
He straightens up. He's still in his suit, he's still holding the gun in one hand. He'd shot the wolf in the front paw with complete and unerring precision, one silver bullet, splitting the skin and sending blood spraying everywhere--
The wolf had yelped with pain, cringing back and shuddering, and that had been beautiful. "He shouldn't have let you off your leash, bitch," he'd chuckled--
And the werewolf had snarled, and that torn bloodied paw had whipped forward, and that can't happen, it never happens, vampires are the fast ones--they blur out of sight, they run and fly with blinding speed--werewolves are slow and stupid and weak--
Sebastian raises a hand to his cheek, where there's a smudge of dried brown-red blood that's not his own and three long jagged gashes. He realizes after a moment his fangs are still bared, retracts them as he swallows audibly.
He can't let Jim see this. This can't be happening.
--
The wolf drags himself up through the open window, falling gracelessly to the ground with a thump and slowly pulling himself to his feet. He limps upstairs, halting and trying hard not to whimper, and scratches at the door.
"It's open," comes the answer from inside.
He nudges the door wide and heads in. Sherlock is tuning up his violin, listening intently for the right pitch as he plays one note, two, and doesn't turn his head. John lies down on top of his feet and gives a low whine.
"Good hunting, then," says Sherlock absently, twisting a peg, and then-- "What's happened to you?"
John makes a whuffing noise, that small resigned sigh he lets out as a human, the rueful expression perfectly identical as a wolf.
"Get off--" Sherlock is a flurry of movement, charging across the flat to grab tweezers and soaking cloths and antiseptic. John waits patiently, lying with his head between his paws and his tail thumping gently against the floor; the whites of his eyes are visible as the bullet comes out, his ears flattened back against his head, but he whisks his tail gallantly when Sherlock looks at him and barely makes a sound.
Sherlock's hands are completely steady and his face is the colour of a corpse. "Who did this to you? Moran?"
John huffs agreement and nuzzles at Sherlock's hand, baring his throat, eyes shut. Now that the bullet's out it's better--still hurts worse than hell, but he can't feel the silver trickling like hot ice through his veins.
"I'm going to break every bone in his body," continues Sherlock, in the same flat detached tone.
Bit not good. John wants to touch Sherlock, with fingers and palm, but even thinking about shifting back sends a fresh wave of pain and nausea through him. He settles for leaning against Sherlock's knee as Sherlock bandages the wound in gauze, focusing on breathing steadily.
When Sherlock is done he hooks two hands underneath John's belly, lifting him up, but John barks--not unkindly--and slips out of his grasp to hobble over to the stairs. "You're the doctor, why are you walking on a broken paw?" Sherlock snaps, probably more roughly than he means to. Or maybe not. John wags his tail in reply--if he could just smile or something--and hops up the stairs as carefully as possible.
He curls up on Sherlock's bed, his mate's scent all around him, and breathes in gratefully. It's soppy but he's just had a silver bullet pulled out of his paw so everyone can just bugger off, and he falls asleep in the middle of his thought.
--
"Mycroft?"
A long pause on the other end. "He's out, Sherlock," says Lestrade's voice finally. "And so should you be."
"Yes, I imagine he's still feeding at three in the morning." Sherlock doesn't bother saying it under his breath. The cabbie shoots a puzzled look over his shoulder but keeps quiet.
"When was the last time you shifted, eh?" Lestrade's voice isn't foggy with sleep; he's probably waiting up for Mycroft to come home. Sherlock can picture him pouring a mug and sitting hunched over on the sofa, maybe flipping through the channels on TV. "Be honest."
"I don't need to--"
"Yes, you do," Lestrade cuts in sharply. "You're getting everyone worried about you, Sherlock, you know what happens if you stay out of were form too long--"
"Stop nagging," Sherlock says shortly. "And tell my brother to call me when he gets back."
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to talk to him."
"Since when?"
"Just tell him to call me," the detective snaps, and turns off his mobile on Lestrade's "What are you do--". "Pull over here," he tells the cabbie.
"Into the alleyway?" The cabbie looks bewildered.
"Right now, please." They come to a stop, the brakes squeaking, and Sherlock tosses a bill at the cabbie--"The change is yours"--before climbing out.
He walks down the alleyway--darkened, deserted, overgrown with trees and littered with broken beer-bottle glass--and waits until the driver's disappeared before taking off his coat.
--
Sebastian lifts his head from the pillow to glance at the clock; he's got about an hour and half. His thighs and back are still sore from riding Jim and he's pretty sure he needs a shower, but there's time for that later. If he's going to get a run in tonight it has to be now, before the sun comes up. He unwraps Jim's arm from around his waist and crawls out of bed.
A few minutes of fumbled clothing and rummaging through the darkness for keys and shoes, and he's out jogging on the street. He taped a bandage on over his cheek--the cuts wouldn't heal, no matter what he did--and when Jim raised his eyebrows he said shortly that he'd aim for the head next time. Thank God Jim wasn't angry, he just grinned with both fangs and tackled him to the mattress.
Sebastian touches the bite mark on his neck, fingers lingering there. His mate. Every drop of blood in his veins belongs to Jim Moriarty, and every single thought is his. He shivers and as always he can't tell whether it's fear or anticipation.
He picks up the speed a little, pushing himself, and notices another jogger up ahead on the street--head down, cap pulled over his face, bottle of water in one hand.
The jogger moves to the right to avoid him and takes a long swig, draining a good gulp. And in an instant--the instant he recognizes the profile--the jogger tosses the rest of the contents into Sebastian's face.
Holy water.
Sebastian screams. The jogger pounces.
Two hands become two paws and claws are tearing at his neck, he's choking, he can't breathe, he tries to fight free but he's pinned down everywhere, he can't move, he can't escape, and there's a snarling in his ears that goes down into his bones and grows louder and louder and until everything goes black and silent.
When he wakes up again, Sherlock Holmes is sitting next to him and there's a pale glow of light over the horizon. Sebastian immediately tries to sit up.
"You can try to run." Sherlock is perched on the park bench next to the tree, hands folded over one knee, without a single hair out of place. There's a cloth spread out next to him, a vial and an empty needle sitting on top of it. "But it's about four minutes to sunrise and I've injected holy water into your bloodstream, so I wouldn't recommend it."
Oh fucking hell. Sebastian's head is swimming, his vision is all blurry and it won't focus, it won't stop. He's going to die. He lolls his head and gasps.
"I was going to break every bone in your body," Sherlock continues evenly, "but you were unconscious so there wasn't really any point. On the whole this is better."
"You think he'll stay with a man like you?" Sebastian slurs out. "When he knows what you are?"
Sherlock tilts his head. His eyes are very pale, they're not quite blue and not quite gray. "I see. I believe I need to clear up a misconception," he says finally. "Jim Moriarty has told you he's your mate. He's not. He's your sire. John says it's unfair and stupid, that vampires can only sire and thrall and not mate like equals, he says it's cruel." He's off in the distance considering that, his face thoughtful.
"You're lying." Sebastian feels like he's going to be sick. Maybe he already has been, he's not sure. He can barely see anymore.
"No, my brother's done the research. All of it. That's part of his position in the government, you know." Sherlock states it simply--not gloating, not confiding, just reciting a fact. Somehow that's the worst thing of all. "Moriarty was the one lying to you, to keep you happy in your thralldom. And then you shot my mate with a silver bullet."
"Let me go," burbles Sebastian, pleading now.
"No," says Sherlock quietly. "You shot him in the paw because you wanted to see him limp and bleed to death, because a wound to a werewolf won't close with silver in it. You would have killed him slowly and enjoyed his suffering."
"I'm sorry--"
"No, you aren't." He says it in that same quiet, toneless, matter-of-fact way as he stands up. "I'm not a better man than you or him, Sebastian. I'm just luckier."
He walks away with his hands in his pockets. Beside him the sun rises, and a body bursts into flame.
-
"Sherlock, a sire knows the instant a thrall's been killed--"
"Yes, I know that."
"And you've left John alone at the flat?"
"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson's in." Sherlock waits, then allows himself a small smirk. "Really? You've never noticed it before?"
"How remiss of me." Mycroft's smooth voice pauses. "I've just received the message, the remains have been taken care of."
"Good."
There's a longer and much more significant pause. "And?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "When John's healed enough to walk properly, we'll go out together."
"I'll ask him, you know--"
"Are you going to tell on me to Mummy if I don't?"
"Sherlock, you can't change what you are." Mycroft's voice is unexpectedly gentle. "You'll just hurt yourself if you try. You don't think I haven't wanted it, too?"
Sherlock blinks. He can't think of an answer to that, and when he opens his mouth again Mycroft's hung up.
--
John is back in his human form, and stripped down to his trousers under the sheets, when Sherlock lets himself into the bedroom. He mumbles something sleepily as Sherlock runs his fingers over the bullet scar in his shoulder and opens one eye, owlishly.
You can only become a werewolf by being bitten by a werewolf in their were form. John's bite mark is fainter now, almost invisible, but Sherlock knows its place and texture by heart--through his fingertips, his tongue, his lips and his cheek, through the taste of John's blood in his mouth.
"You chose me as a mate," says Sherlock aloud. "You saw me as a wolf, you know everything I'm capable of and who I am, and you chose me. You chose to become like me. Why?"
John shrugs underneath Sherlock's hand. His eyes are not pale; they are very, very blue. "Because I love you."
"Why?" Sherlock repeats, frustrated.
John doesn't answer at once. When Sherlock makes an impatient movement: "Okay--your mind works on about a thousand different levels at once, it's like a TV turned on to all the channels at the same time, because you see everything, every single little detail about--I don't know, a shoelace or a bit of mud. And sometimes you forget what's important because there's so much information and you can't process it all, and that's when you start shooting bullet holes in the wall, which incidentally, you still owe Mrs. Hudson that cheque for two hundred fifty pounds. And then when you get outside for a proper walk, or we go out for dinner, or when we have sex--it helps. You stop thinking for a while, you let yourself relax. And that's what I want, I want to keep you breathing and sane and happy. More than anything else in the world, I want you to be happy."
It's like John has picked up a scalpel, neatly opened up his chest, applied a defibrillator to his heart, and sewn everything back up again. Sherlock has to remind himself to breathe. "That's not-- You're a good man," he says finally, his voice cracking, "you're better than this."
"Not really, no," says John calmly.
"You're wrong," insists Sherlock, fragments flying everywhere, "you don't know--"
"I do know." John hoists himself up on his elbow to look Sherlock closer in the eye. "You can't change what you are. And I don't want you to."
--
"Oi," complains Lestrade, as a huge looming wolf shakes himself off all over Lestrade's brand new suit, "it's not my fault you forgot your umbrella here!"
--
Charles Augustus Milverton trundles back downstairs, tipping his hat to Mrs. Hudson and heading out into the night air. He's heading back to his house beside the graveyard where he eats, digging up coffins and tearing into his feasts--the ghoul's hunger will never be satisfied.
Sherlock lies on the couch for about an hour or so after he leaves; John finishes his supper and tidies away the dishes. He's just putting away his glass when a snout nudges at his free hand.
Minutes later two wolves slip outside and dart away into the shadows, unseen. The game is on.
Anyhoo. This one got really, really long, and I feel like I could make a universe out of it with Mummy's badass werewolf backstory and the Baker Street strays and Irene Adler the siren, and I don't even know, I'm just going to leave this here.
Homo homini lupus
Sherlock/John, 6765 words (whaaaaat), R for some imagery.
Sebastian gets the bathroom door locked behind himself and leans against the sink, getting his breath back. Any moment now Jim will be back, Jim will walk in and see what happened--
He straightens up. He's still in his suit, he's still holding the gun in one hand. He'd shot the wolf in the front paw with complete and unerring precision, one silver bullet, splitting the skin and sending blood spraying everywhere--
The wolf had yelped with pain, cringing back and shuddering, and that had been beautiful. "He shouldn't have let you off your leash, bitch," he'd chuckled--
And the werewolf had snarled, and that torn bloodied paw had whipped forward, and that can't happen, it never happens, vampires are the fast ones--they blur out of sight, they run and fly with blinding speed--werewolves are slow and stupid and weak--
Sebastian raises a hand to his cheek, where there's a smudge of dried brown-red blood that's not his own and three long jagged gashes. He realizes after a moment his fangs are still bared, retracts them as he swallows audibly.
He can't let Jim see this. This can't be happening.
--
The wolf drags himself up through the open window, falling gracelessly to the ground with a thump and slowly pulling himself to his feet. He limps upstairs, halting and trying hard not to whimper, and scratches at the door.
"It's open," comes the answer from inside.
He nudges the door wide and heads in. Sherlock is tuning up his violin, listening intently for the right pitch as he plays one note, two, and doesn't turn his head. John lies down on top of his feet and gives a low whine.
"Good hunting, then," says Sherlock absently, twisting a peg, and then-- "What's happened to you?"
John makes a whuffing noise, that small resigned sigh he lets out as a human, the rueful expression perfectly identical as a wolf.
"Get off--" Sherlock is a flurry of movement, charging across the flat to grab tweezers and soaking cloths and antiseptic. John waits patiently, lying with his head between his paws and his tail thumping gently against the floor; the whites of his eyes are visible as the bullet comes out, his ears flattened back against his head, but he whisks his tail gallantly when Sherlock looks at him and barely makes a sound.
Sherlock's hands are completely steady and his face is the colour of a corpse. "Who did this to you? Moran?"
John huffs agreement and nuzzles at Sherlock's hand, baring his throat, eyes shut. Now that the bullet's out it's better--still hurts worse than hell, but he can't feel the silver trickling like hot ice through his veins.
"I'm going to break every bone in his body," continues Sherlock, in the same flat detached tone.
Bit not good. John wants to touch Sherlock, with fingers and palm, but even thinking about shifting back sends a fresh wave of pain and nausea through him. He settles for leaning against Sherlock's knee as Sherlock bandages the wound in gauze, focusing on breathing steadily.
When Sherlock is done he hooks two hands underneath John's belly, lifting him up, but John barks--not unkindly--and slips out of his grasp to hobble over to the stairs. "You're the doctor, why are you walking on a broken paw?" Sherlock snaps, probably more roughly than he means to. Or maybe not. John wags his tail in reply--if he could just smile or something--and hops up the stairs as carefully as possible.
He curls up on Sherlock's bed, his mate's scent all around him, and breathes in gratefully. It's soppy but he's just had a silver bullet pulled out of his paw so everyone can just bugger off, and he falls asleep in the middle of his thought.
--
"Mycroft?"
A long pause on the other end. "He's out, Sherlock," says Lestrade's voice finally. "And so should you be."
"Yes, I imagine he's still feeding at three in the morning." Sherlock doesn't bother saying it under his breath. The cabbie shoots a puzzled look over his shoulder but keeps quiet.
"When was the last time you shifted, eh?" Lestrade's voice isn't foggy with sleep; he's probably waiting up for Mycroft to come home. Sherlock can picture him pouring a mug and sitting hunched over on the sofa, maybe flipping through the channels on TV. "Be honest."
"I don't need to--"
"Yes, you do," Lestrade cuts in sharply. "You're getting everyone worried about you, Sherlock, you know what happens if you stay out of were form too long--"
"Stop nagging," Sherlock says shortly. "And tell my brother to call me when he gets back."
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to talk to him."
"Since when?"
"Just tell him to call me," the detective snaps, and turns off his mobile on Lestrade's "What are you do--". "Pull over here," he tells the cabbie.
"Into the alleyway?" The cabbie looks bewildered.
"Right now, please." They come to a stop, the brakes squeaking, and Sherlock tosses a bill at the cabbie--"The change is yours"--before climbing out.
He walks down the alleyway--darkened, deserted, overgrown with trees and littered with broken beer-bottle glass--and waits until the driver's disappeared before taking off his coat.
--
Sebastian lifts his head from the pillow to glance at the clock; he's got about an hour and half. His thighs and back are still sore from riding Jim and he's pretty sure he needs a shower, but there's time for that later. If he's going to get a run in tonight it has to be now, before the sun comes up. He unwraps Jim's arm from around his waist and crawls out of bed.
A few minutes of fumbled clothing and rummaging through the darkness for keys and shoes, and he's out jogging on the street. He taped a bandage on over his cheek--the cuts wouldn't heal, no matter what he did--and when Jim raised his eyebrows he said shortly that he'd aim for the head next time. Thank God Jim wasn't angry, he just grinned with both fangs and tackled him to the mattress.
Sebastian touches the bite mark on his neck, fingers lingering there. His mate. Every drop of blood in his veins belongs to Jim Moriarty, and every single thought is his. He shivers and as always he can't tell whether it's fear or anticipation.
He picks up the speed a little, pushing himself, and notices another jogger up ahead on the street--head down, cap pulled over his face, bottle of water in one hand.
The jogger moves to the right to avoid him and takes a long swig, draining a good gulp. And in an instant--the instant he recognizes the profile--the jogger tosses the rest of the contents into Sebastian's face.
Holy water.
Sebastian screams. The jogger pounces.
Two hands become two paws and claws are tearing at his neck, he's choking, he can't breathe, he tries to fight free but he's pinned down everywhere, he can't move, he can't escape, and there's a snarling in his ears that goes down into his bones and grows louder and louder and until everything goes black and silent.
When he wakes up again, Sherlock Holmes is sitting next to him and there's a pale glow of light over the horizon. Sebastian immediately tries to sit up.
"You can try to run." Sherlock is perched on the park bench next to the tree, hands folded over one knee, without a single hair out of place. There's a cloth spread out next to him, a vial and an empty needle sitting on top of it. "But it's about four minutes to sunrise and I've injected holy water into your bloodstream, so I wouldn't recommend it."
Oh fucking hell. Sebastian's head is swimming, his vision is all blurry and it won't focus, it won't stop. He's going to die. He lolls his head and gasps.
"I was going to break every bone in your body," Sherlock continues evenly, "but you were unconscious so there wasn't really any point. On the whole this is better."
"You think he'll stay with a man like you?" Sebastian slurs out. "When he knows what you are?"
Sherlock tilts his head. His eyes are very pale, they're not quite blue and not quite gray. "I see. I believe I need to clear up a misconception," he says finally. "Jim Moriarty has told you he's your mate. He's not. He's your sire. John says it's unfair and stupid, that vampires can only sire and thrall and not mate like equals, he says it's cruel." He's off in the distance considering that, his face thoughtful.
"You're lying." Sebastian feels like he's going to be sick. Maybe he already has been, he's not sure. He can barely see anymore.
"No, my brother's done the research. All of it. That's part of his position in the government, you know." Sherlock states it simply--not gloating, not confiding, just reciting a fact. Somehow that's the worst thing of all. "Moriarty was the one lying to you, to keep you happy in your thralldom. And then you shot my mate with a silver bullet."
"Let me go," burbles Sebastian, pleading now.
"No," says Sherlock quietly. "You shot him in the paw because you wanted to see him limp and bleed to death, because a wound to a werewolf won't close with silver in it. You would have killed him slowly and enjoyed his suffering."
"I'm sorry--"
"No, you aren't." He says it in that same quiet, toneless, matter-of-fact way as he stands up. "I'm not a better man than you or him, Sebastian. I'm just luckier."
He walks away with his hands in his pockets. Beside him the sun rises, and a body bursts into flame.
-
"Sherlock, a sire knows the instant a thrall's been killed--"
"Yes, I know that."
"And you've left John alone at the flat?"
"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson's in." Sherlock waits, then allows himself a small smirk. "Really? You've never noticed it before?"
"How remiss of me." Mycroft's smooth voice pauses. "I've just received the message, the remains have been taken care of."
"Good."
There's a longer and much more significant pause. "And?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "When John's healed enough to walk properly, we'll go out together."
"I'll ask him, you know--"
"Are you going to tell on me to Mummy if I don't?"
"Sherlock, you can't change what you are." Mycroft's voice is unexpectedly gentle. "You'll just hurt yourself if you try. You don't think I haven't wanted it, too?"
Sherlock blinks. He can't think of an answer to that, and when he opens his mouth again Mycroft's hung up.
--
John is back in his human form, and stripped down to his trousers under the sheets, when Sherlock lets himself into the bedroom. He mumbles something sleepily as Sherlock runs his fingers over the bullet scar in his shoulder and opens one eye, owlishly.
You can only become a werewolf by being bitten by a werewolf in their were form. John's bite mark is fainter now, almost invisible, but Sherlock knows its place and texture by heart--through his fingertips, his tongue, his lips and his cheek, through the taste of John's blood in his mouth.
"You chose me as a mate," says Sherlock aloud. "You saw me as a wolf, you know everything I'm capable of and who I am, and you chose me. You chose to become like me. Why?"
John shrugs underneath Sherlock's hand. His eyes are not pale; they are very, very blue. "Because I love you."
"Why?" Sherlock repeats, frustrated.
John doesn't answer at once. When Sherlock makes an impatient movement: "Okay--your mind works on about a thousand different levels at once, it's like a TV turned on to all the channels at the same time, because you see everything, every single little detail about--I don't know, a shoelace or a bit of mud. And sometimes you forget what's important because there's so much information and you can't process it all, and that's when you start shooting bullet holes in the wall, which incidentally, you still owe Mrs. Hudson that cheque for two hundred fifty pounds. And then when you get outside for a proper walk, or we go out for dinner, or when we have sex--it helps. You stop thinking for a while, you let yourself relax. And that's what I want, I want to keep you breathing and sane and happy. More than anything else in the world, I want you to be happy."
It's like John has picked up a scalpel, neatly opened up his chest, applied a defibrillator to his heart, and sewn everything back up again. Sherlock has to remind himself to breathe. "That's not-- You're a good man," he says finally, his voice cracking, "you're better than this."
"Not really, no," says John calmly.
"You're wrong," insists Sherlock, fragments flying everywhere, "you don't know--"
"I do know." John hoists himself up on his elbow to look Sherlock closer in the eye. "You can't change what you are. And I don't want you to."
--
"Oi," complains Lestrade, as a huge looming wolf shakes himself off all over Lestrade's brand new suit, "it's not my fault you forgot your umbrella here!"
--
Charles Augustus Milverton trundles back downstairs, tipping his hat to Mrs. Hudson and heading out into the night air. He's heading back to his house beside the graveyard where he eats, digging up coffins and tearing into his feasts--the ghoul's hunger will never be satisfied.
Sherlock lies on the couch for about an hour or so after he leaves; John finishes his supper and tidies away the dishes. He's just putting away his glass when a snout nudges at his free hand.
Minutes later two wolves slip outside and dart away into the shadows, unseen. The game is on.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-11-15 05:07 am (UTC)<.<
:3
Okay, okay. Mrs. Hudson is at least part-brownie.
I'm so thrilled that you love it! ♥ I had an absolute blast writing it and I'd like to come back to it at some point in the future. Thank you so much! *many snogs*