fic: "Stretching." Vampires and hunters. chapter 8

[ariadne_chan]

Title: Stretching
Author: ariadnechan
Characters for the fic John/Sherlock, John/OCS; Irene/Moriarty, Irene/Kate, Irene/OC, Mycroft/OC, Mycroft/ Lestrade, Elsie(OC)/Holmeses, Moriarty/Elsie Holmes and Sherlock Holmes one sided, Moriarty/Sebastian Moran, Moriarty/OCs.

Fandom: Sherlock BBC fusion with Vampire: the Masquerade; some Bram Stoker’s Dracula; and my own vampire world.
Rating Fic: R/ Chapter: R
Betas: Fabulous friend mildred_bobbin You are awesome and I love you!
Warnings: Some possessiveness and blood drinking from an oc. Mentioning of sins of rape from a sinner but nothing graphic. *from John pov who feed from sinners so he see bad things as sins not so much this writer, obviously rape is a very low act from very low and bad people, but not necessarily had religious connotations*
Summary for the Fic: The Holmes family had being hunting the rogue vampire, Moriarty, for centuries. Little by little he had been taking the world into his web but now the
Vampire Council has sent "The Sword and The Healer" to resolve the situation. Meanwhile, London was rearranging itself to receive a new wild card, Sherlock Holmes.

Summary for the chapter: John fights against himself and Lestrade prepares himself for the worst.

You can read the chapter: Here in Ao3
Or go to Here all the Chapters in AO3
And Here in LJ to the Master post





Chapter Eight



'Rituals of Blood and the Fear of the Truth'





London, University Royal Hospital, 2009.



John was afraid for the first time in centuries. He had never felt so out of control than he did right now. He had been successful in avoiding the frenzy and the transformation that it had caused to his body. But he had been careless with several humans and now possibly Lestrade would think there was something fishy about his nature. He was not a newborn, how had this happened to him?



This man, this impossible, beautiful, brilliant man had changed his life completely in less than three days. This was unacceptable. But here he was, with his Sherlock Holmes, entering the hospital to the A&E and he wouldn’t be separated from him, because he physically couldn’t leave his side.



John took Sherlock’s hand, feeling his heart beating in his chest, smelling his blood still surging from his wound, and he needed to be positive that no one other than him would be tasting it.



John knew what his priorities should be. He had a really important assignment which was growing more important by the minute. He needed to go to Edinburgh right this moment to inform Sir Arthur, The Ash, and find Clarisse and tell them about the real plan of Jim Moriarty. John was the only one who really knew what was happening and maybe the only one who could do something about it.



The time had run out already, John knew he needed to find the right clan of werewolves and convince them to work in partnership with their old enemies in order to save Europe. Who knew if more places were in jeopardy. Werewolves were tricky, even if now they were not at war and in a good diplomatic relationship, this didn’t mean that werewolves and Vampires were friends or brothers in arms. John had some werewolves friends in the past but, in his long afterlife, they could be counted on one hand.



John needed to focus, but instead of being on the road he was in hospital, rooted to the detective’s side; unable to leave him alone, before making his claim for everyone to see.



John’s rational mind knew that, for now, he could not take Sherlock. First, he needed to kill Moriarty, and that was proving to be more difficult than expected. He must finish the disaster the mad prince was conjuring upon the human and the mirror world, and only then he could kill him. Then he could take Sherlock and explain to him what he really was and what it would mean to be bonded and turned by an ancient vampire such as him.


The vampire was really lost. They wanted to take Sherlock to the operation room and John growled at the doctors. John had to physically hurt himself to stop from ripping them apart or tearing the minds of the nurses trying to separated them. Anthea was there and John tried to focus on the woman, while digging his nails into his hands, drawing blood. He saluted her and he excused himself hastily and left the A&E. He would hunt tonight and regain his control, there was no other alternative.



It was really not that hard to find suitable prey. His mind supplied a sinner some levels above.



The man was asleep, hooked to an IV solution and medicine bag pumping in his bloodstream.



The man was fifty, not appealing at all. He was the chief editor of an entertainment magazine, a serial rapist. His last victim was a university girl, who had been there for an interview, after he first attacked her she had run from his office and he pursued her into the street where he was hit by a car. He was a bloody scum, usually the better blood to taste.



John closed the door and made the room disappear from view. He took the needle off with ease and then he bit. The blood was rich and invigorating but nothing like Sherlock’s perfumed and velvety essence. He sipped the blood until he knew the man would certainly die if there wasn’t a transfusion soon enough. John lapped the wound and left no other mark than the same one from the needles in his vein, and he set the line again. John went to the private bathroom to clean himself and rinse his mouth with the toothpaste he found there.



A calmer John came back to the waiting room to join Anthea with two cups of tea, and he was able to think again.



“Mycroft will not come tonight?” asked John, smiling and offering the tea to the assistant.



“No, he is occupied cleaning the scene and he has a personal matter to attend to, but he will be here tomorrow first thing in the morning, or in a moment in case of an emergency, Dr. Watson.” Anthea didn’t smile but accepted the tea with a nod.



“I need to go on a business trip once I’m sure Sherlock is okay. I have reason to believe Sherlock is in danger, because the injuries I treated before the ambulance arrived were even worse than they are now. We were followed by a vampire who fired upon him, Moriarty is closer to getting his hands on him. Please call Hunter security for him in the hospital at all times. I will stay here until you come back tomorrow, but send the first shift now. I will call you with the specifics from the operation and let you know how everything goes, so go catch some sleep and come back as soon as you can in the morning to exchange shifts with me.” John had almost the entire plan for the next day in his mind, now.



Anthea put the plan into action and called for the Hunter association. John used the time to think more about what he had to do. He would have time to think about Sherlock Holmes after his interview with Sir Arthur. He exhaled the air he didn’t need to hold in his chest and sipped his tea; it was a little cold by now.



The hunters arrived a little before the surgery had ended. Sherlock was all right but he would be out on sedatives and meds for 12 hours at least.



Anthea left for her home and called Mycroft; while John entered Sherlock’s private room.



Alone with Sherlock, John stayed sometimes simply observing the detective who looked so young and fragile in the bed. He got beside Sherlock and scented him, and finally he kissed those heart shaped lips.



“Mine and no other,” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear. He sat in the chair beside the bed and took Sherlock’s hand in his.



“Mine.”




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Central London, Mycroft’s Flat, 2009.



By the time Lestrade entered the car, he knew that Mycroft was privy to his nature. After all, he was a Holmes, maybe he’d known for some time, but playing with him had been good for Mycroft up until this point, but not anymore? Greg was really anxious and afraid of losing everything.



At first Lestrade had fallen for the man, because he saw his precious Elizabeth in him. Greg was right though, Mycroft was the reincarnation of Elizabeth as Sherlock was day by day more close to Elsie Holmes. But Mycroft Holmes was much more than Elizabeth, and Greg had only fallen deeper after the time they met; they’d talked a lot, because of Sherlock.



At first, between Mycroft’s big brother complex and real concern for the broken Sherlock, they started to meet in the Holmes’ way, via abductions in his car. The Detective started calling them dates and flirted without shame at every opportunity he had, he couldn’t control himself before the man. He was so proper and civil that Greg wanted to make him disheveled and come undone.



And one night he had accomplished it. They were fighting because Sherlock was clean and wanted to live on his own and Mycroft wasn’t having it. Soon he was not sure how they were kissing, all mouth and teeth and dominance, and Greg had pinned the taller man to the wall effortlessly, not noticing he had done it, and Mycroft was panting, his member hard and his erection letting itself be known. How much Lestrade had wanted to bite his beautiful neck then and always. He contented himself with nipping and sucking instead, leaving a mark that proclaimed, “You are mine Mycroft Holmes!”. Mycroft had opened his shirt, leaving his tie on, and Greg with a smirk, grasped it pulling Mycroft closer into another maddening kiss while with his other hand explored all the skin he could grab and scratch it with his own nails until blood came out, disrupting the white with crimson, tasting a little of that heaven. That was enough, Lestrade had taken his clothes off, ripping off what he couldn’t undo. And had taken him against the wall right there. Things were finished too soon; they were too much invested and breathless. Lestrade had lapped all the seed between their bodies leaving Mycroft totally undone.



After that night, three years ago. When Mycroft had some time on his hands he would look for him and kidnap him and they ended up like that where ever they could reach. His door, the studio, and sometimes they did reach the bedroom. But they never talked about ‘this relationship’ they had, only of work or history, a subject both of them loved. They sipped some bourbon or other alcoholic beverages, some times dinner or breakfast and then they parted ways to work.



Moriarty had never said a word about it. Except at the beginning when he’d just met Mycroft and he had asked for his help in taking care of his baby brother.



“So you are playing double agent now, my pet?” had said the mad prince looking at him with mischief.



“You know very well where my loyalties are forced to be my Lord,“ he had said, spitting the words and eliciting a real smirk from the madman, Moriarty always was amused by his rebelling.



“That’s good to know because you know very well what would happen to you otherwise, my little amusing pet!” Moriarty said laughing at him openly.



“You know I will know!” The prince had mocked him while leaving him there, knowing he was trapped.



But Lestrade couldn’t be far from Mycroft Holmes like a moth can never be far from the flame which could kill it. So now he was there, in Mycroft’s studio, waiting for the bourbon to be poured and his life to become more deeply fucked up that it already was, because it always could be bloody worse, of course it could.



“Now, my dear Gregory, I think a presentation of yourself is in order and overdue, it is not?”




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London, University Royal Hospital, 2009.



John passed some time during the night creating temporal guards in the room. John bit his finger and started marking his territory with his sigil on the floor, the door, the medical instruments, the bed and, finally, he put one on Sherlock himself with his blood on his forehead.



John kissed Sherlock's dormant lips for the last time and he made sure he wouldn’t rise from his sleep until John came back.



The guards John put in place would be his eyes and ears in his territory and his ward, so even if he was far away he would know if someone was taking him away from the room or if Sherlock was in danger.



He had asked for some things to be brought up to him by Anthea in the morning for his trip. He was ready.



When Anthea came back first thing in the morning, with his backpack, John was sat at Sherlock’s side.



“Good Morning Anthea, this is a letter for Mycroft, there are instructions for the hunters.” John was serious and imposed his voice a little to be very clear and remembered by the assistant.



“Only you, Mycroft and human staff are authorized to enter into Sherlock’s room, even the DI can’t enter ever. I put some guards there and it is very dangerous for anyone who enters who is non-human or not authorized under my commands. Do you understand Anthea?” John looked at her as if she was a little girl who needed things to be explained to her and led about it.



Anthea nodded and understood, even the condescension; she was no fool, and for John she was a little girl and he was really upset because of Sherlock and you don’t cross a possessive vampire.



“I’ll shall do as you ask and be certain your instructions will be met. I wish you luck, Dr. Watson.”



John certainly would need all the good will he could get. He smiled at her. “Thanks, I’ll come back as soon as I can.”



John got to the roof, disrobed himself, turned the backpack smaller and let himself fall from the top of the building into the open sky, spreading his open arms to catch the wind to reach the end of the city limits.


To be continued....