Love of Heaven and Hell

Watson Vs. The Wolf Man

John slapped himself awake and scrambled out the door, loading his gun clumsily as he ran through the darkness. The crickets weren't chirping now. There were more screams, now that he could hear them they were obviously Sherlock's, but what was attacking him, where was Victor? John kicked the door open with one mighty kick and it flung open, the lock breaking and everything. He was met with a horrible sight. The mattress was shredded, the carpet was in tatters on the floor, a chair overturned, and the lamp broken in shards on the now revealed hardwood, but the worst part was Sherlock, who was struggling to breathe much less scream, pinned to the wall by his neck. The wolf was here, but it was no ghost, was no old lady, it had model hair and piercing blue, now yellow, eyes. Victor was the werewolf.
"Drop him!" John demanded, thrusting his gun in Victor's direction. Sherlock was helpless; trying to kick out, but there was nothing he could do. There was a scratch mark across his cheek, bleeding heavily onto his clothes; he was clawing at the hands throttling him. Victor turned around in surprise, and with a growl dropped Sherlock to the floor and leapt at John. To be honest John had no idea what he was supposed to do, so he took a shot, which the wolf dodged, knocking the gun out of his hands.
"John!" Sherlock groaned, but there was nothing he could do except lay on the floor and cough. John's pistol was too far away for him to reach and the wolf was bearing down on him, teeth pointed and claws wicked, going in for the kill. John sprang backwards and plucked a piece of wood that was lying on the ground, he didn't know if it was the flooring or the remains of a bedpost, but he thrust it at the beast. Once again his only weapon was smacked, but this time it split in half, the splinters spraying all over John. He ducked out of the way and wall took yet another beating, the wallpaper getting ripped off in massive shreds. For a moment the two looked at each other, Victor's yellow eyes bearing into his soul, John trying to summon all the hate and anger he had ever felt for this mutant wolf in front of him.
"Sherlock, get out of here!" John exclaimed as he kicked the wolf in the side. Victor shuttered and yelped, but only swiped at John, who dodged and rolled across the destroyed mattress to the other side, throwing a large shard of glass from the light bulb at the creature's head. Sherlock scrambled for the door, but the wolf kicked him in the head, sending him sprawling into the wall with a shriek.
"No!" John exclaimed, jumping at the creature in a daring, suicidal feat. He tackled the creature, sending it sprawling into the wall and driving a good solid punch to its jaw. Whatever he had done, it sent the message, Victor stumbled away, grabbing the two fallen guns, and with one last growl ran off through the busted open door into the night. John stood there, defeated and torn between running after him or caring for Sherlock, but a faint moan brought him back to reality.
"Sherlock." He muttered, turning around and wiping the sweat off of his forehead, seeing the boy crumpled in a ball against the wall, blood gushing from his cheek and neck.
"It was him; it was him all along..." Sherlock muttered, letting his head fall against the wall in disbelief.
"Are you hurt?" John insisted, knowing that his physical wellbeing was much more important than some silly heartbreak. Sherlock looked up at him and, once again, John saw how truly unprepared for this world he was. His green eyes were streaking tears down his face, he was heartbroken, lost, unbelieving. Sherlock was fragile glass, and Victor's betrayal was a sledgehammer.
"Sherlock..." John muttered, coming closer and sitting next to him at the wall. Sherlock looked at him for one instant and broke into a fit of sobbing, not bothering about his wounds or about the destroyed room; he wrapped his arms around John and sobbed onto his shoulder, shaking uncontrollably. John was clueless about what to do, he was used to these kind of plot twists, he was used to betrayals and monsters and unbelievable happenings, but he wasn't used to having someone who wasn't used to them. He patted Sherlock awkwardly on the back, trying to calm him down the best he could, holding his fragile body to himself and making sure that he was well taken care of, that he knew that there was someone out there that cared for him even if his first choice was a beast in disguise.
"It's okay." John muttered, running his fingers through Sherlock's short curls in an attempt to calm him down.
"Did you know?" Sherlock muttered, looking up ever so slightly at John.
"No, of course not, I was stuck in his trap as much as you were." John assured, brushing a lone tear rolling down Sherlock's unmarked cheek with his thumb.
"I'm so scared John. I'm so scared." Sherlock admitted, snuggling closer to John like a child clinging to his mother.
"I know, but I won't let him hurt you, not again." John assured. Sherlock was still shaking like a phone on vibrate, but there was nothing John could think of that would make him feel better.
"How could he do that, how could he just..." Sherlock cut his sentence off, neither really needed to elaborate on exactly what Victor had done.
"Sherlock I know, but we're going to find him, and after we find him we're going to put a bullet through his stupid heart." John pointed out.
"He took the guns." Sherlock pointed out.
"I'm a hunter Sherlock; I think you're forgetting that. I've got plenty of other guns." John laughed, wanting to hold him closer still, but he was pretty sure Sherlock's sob session was over and he wanted to get revenge.
"Are we going to go after him?" Sherlock asked in a whisper, as if he didn't want anyone to hear when there was no one but John around.
"Not until we patch you up. By now he'll be hiding, we should wait until tomorrow, and I don't think he'll leave town." John decided, patting Sherlock on the back once again and giving him an encouraging smile. Sherlock returned it weakly, but he didn't look happy, he didn't look like he'd be happy in a hundred years.
"I should really get this cleaned out." Sherlock decided, feeling the gash in his cheek, which John was sure would make the coolest scar ever.
"Probably." John agreed, lifting himself to his feet and helping Sherlock up as well. "You don't have a concussion or something, do you?"
"I don't have a headache, if that's what you're wondering." Sherlock decided, sniffling and wiping the spare tears from his eyes. It was obvious now that he was ashamed of being such a cry baby, but John really didn't care. If he didn't have to be the authority figure he would've broken down in sobs as well, but not for the same reasons. John had so much he had to cry about, but he locked all of these feelings in permanently, and they were just sitting there, waiting to be released. John got the medical kit, which was in a bag that now had a large, claw induced gash in it.
"How did you manage to cause this much damage?" John asked with a little smile, trying to cheer Sherlock up a bit. Sherlock didn't say anything; he just muttered something and sat on a part of the mattress that wasn't torn up.
"How are we going to get this cleaned up?" he asked, looking up at John with worry.
"Shame, we accidently left our door open and a wild dog or something broke in and ransacked it." John sighed.
"That doesn't sound believable." Sherlock pointed out.
"Look around, what else could it have been?" John said, sweeping a hand around the room.
"Alright then, wild dog it is." Sherlock sighed, as if he weren't all too happy with their lie.
"Okay, stay still, this is going to hurt." John warned, pressing a cloth of disinfectant over Sherlock's cheek wound. Immediately Sherlock went rigid, gasping a little bit at the sudden pain. The gash was deep, but thankfully it didn't go all the way through. That would've just been a disaster. Sherlock was a good patient though; he didn't cry or scream, he just sat there, taking in his own pain as if he deserved it.
"I'm sorry about Victor." He muttered as he put a big Band-Aid on Sherlock's cheek.
"It's okay." Sherlock sighed, sounding like it was anything but okay.
"Did you love him?" John asked, only after he said it did he realize of how personal of a question that was. Especially now, after the man just attacked them.
"Have you ever loved someone just because you know they'll love you back?" Sherlock asked quietly, almost too quietly for John to hear. But he sat on the bed beside Sherlock, hoping they could have another sob cuddle fest thing.
"Well, no, not really." John shrugged.
"I didn't love him, I just, I loved the feeling he gave me. He made me feel wanted; he made me feel like I wasn't just some deadbeat that was sent to Earth by accident. I've never been wanted before." Sherlock sighed.
"Sherlock don't say that! You're not a deadbeat; you're a beautiful, brave, powerful, funny, and all around likable human being, I'm sure you'll have guys lining up around the corner." John assured.
"Beautiful?" Sherlock asked with an accusing smile.
"Well, you know, some might see it that way." John shrugged.
"Just to be sure, you're not a werewolf right?" Sherlock asked.
"No, of course not." John laughed.
"What do we do now?" Sherlock asked after a little bit of an amused silence.
"I honestly have no idea, get another room or try to sleep on these things?" John asked, pulling a handful of cotton from the bed and sighing.
"Or we could sleep in the car." Sherlock shrugged.
"Let's get the manager now, it'll be easier, get all the weapons and everything that could be lead to violence and what really happened in the car." John instructed, throwing Sherlock a fallen knife from the bag. He sighed, looking around with a frown. So Victor was the werewolf. Was he disappointed? No. Was he surprised? Yes. John really didn't suspect Victor was a werewolf, of course he hated him, but he didn't seem wolf like. Maybe it was a creepy family tradition, grandma had it, mother had it, she bit Victor, but why would they chain him up in the basement? They didn't like violence, neither the grandmother nor mother, so if Victor tried to kill someone chaining them up in the basement seemed like a good way to keep him from starting any disturbances in the world. A good thirty minutes later they walked into their new room, bags and guns with them of course, and the manager was having a panic attack over the other room. This room looked exactly like the old one, but it was a tad cleaner.
"Alright, who's tired?" John asked with a small laugh.
"I couldn't sleep for the life of me." Sherlock admitted.
"I'm tired, so don't bother me." John decided, flopping into the bed and pulling the covers up to his chin.
"So you're going to leave me here in the dark, all alone?" Sherlock asked, the fear evident in his voice.
"Yep." John said with a guilty laugh. Now that he was lying down his eyelids were drooping and the world around him began to feel very unimportant.
"What if the werewolf tries to get me?" Sherlock asked.
"He won't. John assured, rolling over and covering his head with the pillow in an attempt to block out Sherlock's worried ramblings.
"How can you be sure?" Sherlock muttered, his green eyes scanning the fresh new room with worry.
"Because I've hunted these things before and never have I seen one attack twice a day. They're cowardly." John pointed out. Sherlock nodded uncomfortably, but set his head down on the pillow, still wide awake.
"Good night." He muttered.
"Anything but." John agreed, letting his eyes close and his exhaustion take over. Finally he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.