My first attempt at ANYTHING, so sorry for any format issues or incorrect lingo, etc... This was simply stuck in my head and interfering with life, so I had to get it out. This was so fun to write! There may actually be up to 3 parts if anyone shows any interest, so let me know with reviews!
Important things: I haven't seen Season 4 and got into this late, so this was due to Mitchell-withdrawal from the Season 3 finale. Consider it an AU to that. I've ignored the Wolf-Shaped Bullet thing, Herrick, and kept Richard Hargreave and Seven alive to toy with. Annie got rescued from purgatory, but there's no Annie/Mitchell romance.
I'm American. Any Brit-speak I attempt will be atrocious, therefore I've kept it to a minimum. Also, I use commas incessantly. That's about it. Enjoy!
I own nothing. Being Human is (alas!) not mine.
1362 years. It was a funny way to end them. She had always assumed that she would go out in a more grandiose manner. Assassinated perhaps. Suicide, even. She had to admit that what amounted to little more than a hunting accident had never really crossed her mind as a possibility. Life was funny that way.
George awoke to the dank, musty smell of damp earth and vegetation. He lifted his head from the ground and groaned, looking about. He was lying in what seemed to be a large field, thoroughly bordered by woods on all sides. To his right, he could hear the distant mournful cry of gulls. Near the coast, then. He frowned, confused. He had begun quite a bit further inland and didn't usually end up this far from his starting point. He had carefully taken all his usual precautions; checking for campers, lovers and vagrants, all while dragging a recently spoiled cornish game hen through the tangled undergrowth in concentric circles. Had he caught scent of something besides poultry after he had changed? For once, he wished he could remember some of his lupine wanderings.
With another groan and much bodily creaking he pushed himself up from amongst the sharp stalks that covered much of the ground. He looked down and gave himself a quick once-over, checking for damage. Filthy and malodorous, but overall in good condition. He grinned, feeling a bit more buoyant with yet another stressful transformation safely under his belt.
He stretched and cracked his back, twisting about to survey his surroundings. He was in a completely unfamiliar area. Sighing, he decided to take the woods to his left. With the sea to his right, it was his best bet. Hopefully he could find his way back to the tree hollow that he had stuffed his duffel and clothes into. Otherwise, he could only pray for a farm house with a clothesline. Sometimes he thought waking up completely nude was the worst part of this entire ordeal. It wasn't, really, though. The worst part of it, the part he saved for right before he turned, was the "what-if". The guilt and the worry of "what-if-i-kill". In those dark moments he could fully appreciate how Mitchell must feel ninety-nine percent of the time. "I don't have days off", Mitchell had once said. At the time, George had thought that seemed like quite a cop out, but every time he went through his own little guilt-ridden internal monologue he realized just how unbearable that must be.
George started into a bit of a jog, to ward off the cold as much as to cover ground. After only a few bounds ahead he stopped short, squinting at the far end of the field. His breath hitched in his chest and he felt a horrible, twisting sensation as his stomach dropped. Several yards ahead, lying half obscured by the bent grasses, was a dark shape. A distinctly human shape.
"Oh, no." For a moment he stood, frozen. "Oh, no, no, no..." He was shaking as he forced himself to move forward. He crept toward the body, determined to face what he was sure he had done as the werewolf. The murky dawn light showed him what he least wanted to see; blood. There was a woman, face down, and she was covered with blood. It had congealed in her hair, matting her long, dark curls into clumps. It soaked her brown suede jacket until it shone like burnished leather. It was everywhere, covering everything. The very ground was saturated with it.
With an inhuman sound of misery, George knelt beside her, not even feeling the fresh lacerations on his knees from the unforgiving stalks below. He reached a shaking hand toward her arm. There was no reaction from her as he snatched at her cold wrist and pulled it closer. His fingers closed over where her pulse should be and he murmured a fervent prayer under his breath. "Oh please, oh please," but there was nothing. No beat, no rise and fall of her chest. There was nothing left of her but this shattered body. He had finally done it. He had killed.
George dropped the woman's limp arm and let out a keening sob. He was burying his head in his hands when he saw her flinch away from the sound. He leaped backward with a shocked cry and a pounding heart. Not dead! His brain screamed with relief. He quickly knelt at her side again and reached gently around her shoulder to turn her onto her back. She cried out weakly, and George realized he was muttering an apology to her over and over.
He looked down at the bloody mess of her chest. Her coat had a jagged tear across the left and he could see the gaping wound beneath. There seemed to be no blood issuing from it, and no wonder, he couldn't believe that she had any left. He looked to her face and was amazed to see her conscious and a pair of sharp green eyes staring back at him. She didn't look to be afraid. Maybe she just didn't understand that he was the same monster that had attacked her. Her expression was almost curious, he thought.
He stretched his hand down to check her pulse again. He was going to have to move her and wanted to make sure that she was strong enough. His fingers fumbled about but were still unable to find the gentle thrum of blood in her veins. An odd look crossed his face as a new thought slowly began to take root. She watched him as though wondering if he would work out this little mystery on his own. Brow furrowed, he slid his shaking hand to her neck and pressed it to her still absent pulse.
"Oh God..." She was a vampire. Had to be. It was the only explanation.
Suddenly she let out a sharp laugh as she watched the realization dawn on his face. It ended in a gurgle of blood and she cringed into herself as it turned into a wracking, choking cough. She cried out in dismay as blood sprayed from her lips. Her slender body gave a shudder in his arms as her eyes rolled back in her head and she went limp.
Vampire or not, this was his doing and he would do everything he could to save her. Mitchell had told him once that vampires could indeed die if they bled out completely, and this one had to be very close to it.
He ripped off some remnants of her ruined jacket and used it to pack the huge tear in her chest. He gathered his arms beneath her and, with some strain, managed to heft her up as he stood. With no better plan, George headed into the woods, praying that he could find his bag with his mobile. All his senses still thankfully wolf-sharp, he did his best to find the scent of his own back trail.