Ok, we all know that these particular people don't actually belong to me, right?
Oh and our favorite brothers are only two years apart in age in this story. And I'm stealing their dad's name from another story. I apologize to the author (Blind Author, I believe) but it is a perfect name, and I couldn't think of a better one.
There was a good reason Sherlock would rather work with the dead. It wasn't because he preferred them dead, at least not for the reasons everyone thought. They were just less tempting dead. He had been doing so very well not to slip up, not to give in to his urges. He had been resisting for four hundred years.
Then John Watson strolls into his life.
He would have been fine with the man if he didn't smell so damn good. And it wasn't John's blood that smelled so good. It was just his natural scent. It wasn't just the musk that was most males. There was something under it all that called to Sherlock. Something dangerous. A smell that was probably left over from the war. Sherlock had smelled war heroes before though; none of them had this particular scent. John's was just…more somehow. More dangerous, more heady.
Sherlock could ignore something for a very long time when he put his mind to it. Up to a point anyway. John was that point. It had gotten bad enough that Sherlock rarely stayed in the same room for more than a couple minutes unless he had to. John knew something was wrong, had in fact tried to get the dark haired man to talk about it, but of course, no luck.
John had taken to spending most of his nights up in his room, Sherlock doing the same. When they did end up in the same room for an extended period of time they started arguing. And it wasn't about anything in particular, just whatever happened to be on their minds at the time.
It was one of these fights that made Sherlock realize that all his control meant nothing.
"If it bothers you so much just leave!" Sherlock yelled, pacing angrily around the living room, finally tired of constant nagging at him to eat something.
John flinched as if he had been struck, his eyes wide. "Is that what you want? For me to leave?" He asked, lowering his head to look at his feet.
Sherlock was glad John wasn't looking at him. If he had been he would have seen how very not human his flat-mate was. The taller man's eyes were gold, his lips pulled back over sharp canines as a low growl issued from his throat.
"It would probably be for the best," he replied icily, though inside his heart was breaking. He tried to ignore the choked sound that came from John, tried to ignore the rush of shame at his callousness. Instead he stared resolutely out the window. He saw John nod quickly, his hands coming up to rub his eyes as he turned to his room.
"Fine," he said. "I'll pack tomorrow if you can put up with me for one more night."
Sherlock didn't bother to say anything; John was already halfway up the stairs. As soon as the other man was out of sight, Sherlock collapsed in on himself, his shoulders shaking. "Sorry, John. So sorry."
I can't stay here… need to go out…need to think… John paced his room furiously, trying to decide where he could go to get away for a while at this time of night. It was only a little after 10pm but that was still rather late to be wandering around. He decided to take a short walk anyway.
John pulled his shoes back on and went back downstairs, pointedly ignoring the other man still in front of the window.
Sherlock watched John walk away from the flat, tension singing through his veins. He didn't want him out there by himself, especially after dark. Sherlock knew very well what could go wrong, knew how many things out there went bump in the night. He was one of them. He made a quick decision to follow him. Just to make sure he was okay, of course.
Carefully he slid the window open, easing himself through slowly. As he let himself fall to the street, he asked himself why he was doing this, why he cared enough to do this. He couldn't think of anything.
John wandered for what felt like hours but was only about twenty minutes before he found himself lost. Even with all the running around he and Sherlock did he still had no real idea where he had ended up this time.
There was a noise off to his left, it sounded like a trash can getting knocked over. He walked slowly over to investigate, drawing his browning as he went.
"Hello?" He called. "Anyone there?"
A sound behind him had him spinning around too late to stop the blow to his temple, too late to hear low hum of a car engine idling around the corner. He was too late bringing his arms up, his head connecting painfully with the concrete.
The last thing he heard as he was being piled into the car was the impossible sound of Sherlock calling his name, voice frantic.
So, let me know what you think. I have more(about 20 more chapters) ready to be posted but I want to see how this is received first. Also I am looking for a reliable beta…. Mine took off on me….
I also have a bit of a dilemma. Wings or no wings? Let me know what you think.