Crossover Fic: Second Opinion (Sherlock/Supernatural)
Title: Second Opinion
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)/Supernatural
Rating/Content: PG-13. Crossover with Supernatural. Vampirism. John Watson whumpage. Probably crack.
Word Count: 1300-ish
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or their respective worlds.
Summary: Through a confusing sequence of events John Watson gets bitten by a vampire, but he'll be fine if Sherlock will let the Winchesters help.
A/N: Written in under 3 hours for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #7: Crossover. Not betaed or Brit-picked or Ameri-picked. May incur editing later. [LJ-Only]
-.-
Second Opinion
by Caffienekitty
-.-
"I'll not let you give that concoction to John until I've analyzed it!"
"By the time you do, it'll be too late! He's got less than an hour before he goes full vampire permanently!"
The young man (who very evidently was never with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and after giving three different musician's names during the many times their paths had crossed in this investigation had eventually given them the name of Sam Winchester) stood face to face with Sherlock in the remains of a 'vampire nest', cleared of victims and bodies.
John's head throbbed. His eyes throbbed. And he was so hungry.
"Vampires don't exist, and I am very efficient at chemical analysis." Sherlock growled, stepping into Sam's personal space and looking up to meet the slightly taller man's eyes.
John held his head and wished for the hundredth time since the 'vampire' had bitten him (in his bad shoulder, wasn't that just the way?) that everyone would stop shouting and turn the bloody lights down. He also wished their hearts weren't beating so loudly and they didn't all smell mouth-wateringly delicious.
Sam's 'fellow agent' Dean stood nearby, arms crossed, holding a machete and watching Sam and Sherlock argue, while keeping an eye on John. Dean gave the impression of just casually leaning against a wall, coincidentally holding a recently wiped-clean eighteen inch length of sharpened steel, but even if John couldn't hear the man's heart he would be able to tell that Dean was anything but calm or casual.
Sam clenched his jaw and glared at Sherlock. John could hear his teeth grating. "This 'concoction' is the only thing that's going to keep your friend from becoming a blood-sucking killer. He has to be given it now, or it'll be too late."
"John would never be like those crazed cultists," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "His strong moral principle would never allow him to kill without reason, and he'd never voluntarily drink anyone's blood."
John shivered.
"Reason doesn't have anything to do with it," Dean said from his pseudo-nonchalant position. "They're vampires. It's thirst and hunger and survival, and your buddy's done damn good to have resisted the urge to feed this long, but even he won't be able to hold out much longer."
"Vampires," Sherlock scoffed. "A mere shared delusion by a group of drugged youths with weak minds; thinking of themselves as vampires and bleeding innocent people to death, engaging in hemophagia to bolster their delusional identity. John's will isn't weak. The drug they inflicted on John will clear his system in a few hours, and he'll be none the worse for wear."
"Yeah?" Sam said. "So how do you explain the 'cultists' teeth?"
"If you'd have let me examine them..."
Dean snorted. "Fat chance."
Sherlock and John had found the building before the Winchesters had, following the clues and finding a house of horror. People penned like cattle, signs of prolonged blood loss and dehydration pointing to the nature of their captivity. Then their captors had attacked, and would have completely overwhelmed Sherlock and John if the Winchesters hadn't arrived shortly after, swinging machetes. If John had any thought about informing the local authorities about the decapitated corpses the Winchesters had removed somewhere, the hunger was drowning it out.
Sherlock sniffed. "Dental appliances."
"Really."
"There are shops that cater to any sort willing to pay. I've personally seen more convincing fangs made in the back of a nightclub. There is a logical explanation for everything, and none of it requires feeding John a cup of untested sludge to 'prevent him from becoming a vampire'." Sherlock punctuated his statement with a derisive snort.
"Yeah?" Dean reached out and tapped John on the thankfully unwounded shoulder. "Show 'im the teeth, Doc."
John's inward-turned gaze snapped up to the young man with the machete. Dean returned an almost sympathetic stare, unwavering.
"I- If it's all the same, I'd really rather not." John hunched down into himself. He felt like he'd not eaten in a month and he was surrounded by walking plates of rare roast beef. He didn't know what might happen if he let the teeth out, and he didn't want to know.
"Kind of life or death for you," said Dean. "I mean, we could try to hold back your buddy Mr. Science and feed you the antidote he's keeping you from having, but I've seen him fight when we were taking out the nest and it'd get real messy. He wants proof before he'll let us help you, so you gotta show the teeth."
John wrapped his arms around his knees, hunching into a ball on the dilapidated sofa. He looked up at Sherlock, who was still trading glares with Sam.
"Clock's ticking, Doc." Dean shifted his grip on the machete.
John sighed. "Sherlock. Look at me."
Sherlock kept glaring at Sam. "You know this is completely illogical, John."
"Please. Look at me."
Sam raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked over towards John's huddled form with a huff.
John glanced over at Dean, gripped his arms tightly around his knees, then looked at Sherlock, closed his eyes and let the fangs descend.
The hunger spiked viciously, raging through John like a torrent of lava. The scent and sound of all the hearts in the room beating, the blood rushing, it inundated him, threatened to make him launch from the couch towards the nearest source, the one approaching quickly. John had never been more ravenous in his life.
He dug his fingernails into his own elbows, locking his shaking arms around his knees so he couldn't leap at anyone in the room like he'd seen the 'cultists' do. The 'cultists' who didn't fall when he'd shot at them to keep them from the cages of screaming men and women, then to keep them from Sherlock and himself.
He had chased one down into a basement, shot him when he charged at John in the darkness, but then John had fallen like a rag doll under the man's unstoppable charge. The 'vampire' had bitten into John's shoulder, tearing flesh like like candy floss, then nipped delicately at his own wrist and forced his blood into John's mouth.
In the room now, someone's heartbeat had become so loud and fast nearby, John swore he could feel the vibrations of it in the air. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock (of course Sherlock) crouched down beside him, peering up into his mouth with his magnifier, an expression of intense concentration on his face.
John was flooded with the urge to bite and drain the trusting life sitting so close by. He turned his face away, gasping, clenching his eyes shut, but felt Sherlock's gloved hand on his chin, pulling John back to face him, fascinated by the fangs.
"Sherlock, please. Don't-"
"You should see for yourself John! It's a full second layer of aciculate canines that extrude from the gingival tissues! But how-"
John felt Sherlock release his chin and poke at his upper lip. Through the leather glove, John could feel Sherlock's pulse, smell his blood.
His eyes snapped open and in a flash of movement too fast to be human, he gripped Sherlock by the forearms and pulled him close, only resisting by a hair's breadth the urge to sink his extended fangs into the ambrosial river he could smell just under the surface of his friend's neck.
John clenched his teeth, hard enough to creak, and he snarled into Sherlock's face. "Get. Away. From me."
Sherlock blanched. Dean and Sam both shifted closer, Dean bringing the machete around to hold it in both hands, eyebrows lowering. John breathed, keeping his teeth clenched, shaking hands still locked around Sherlock's forearms.
"So. Sherlock." Dean said, voice and stance far calmer than the beat of his heart declared. "You still gonna give us trouble about curing your friend? Or should we just wait and chop his head off?"
John shoved Sherlock away with a desperate whimper. He forced the fangs to retract, then curled back into a tight ball, burying his face in his knees to keep the delectable scent of Sherlock's too-close blood out, ineffectually. He could hear Sherlock swallow over the beat of his heart.
"Yes. Yes of course." Sherlock's voice was almost subdued. "But I'll want a sample for analysis."
"Of course you will."
-.-.-
(that's all there is.)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)/Supernatural
Rating/Content: PG-13. Crossover with Supernatural. Vampirism. John Watson whumpage. Probably crack.
Word Count: 1300-ish
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters or their respective worlds.
Summary: Through a confusing sequence of events John Watson gets bitten by a vampire, but he'll be fine if Sherlock will let the Winchesters help.
A/N: Written in under 3 hours for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #7: Crossover. Not betaed or Brit-picked or Ameri-picked. May incur editing later. [LJ-Only]
-.-
Second Opinion
by Caffienekitty
-.-
"I'll not let you give that concoction to John until I've analyzed it!"
"By the time you do, it'll be too late! He's got less than an hour before he goes full vampire permanently!"
The young man (who very evidently was never with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and after giving three different musician's names during the many times their paths had crossed in this investigation had eventually given them the name of Sam Winchester) stood face to face with Sherlock in the remains of a 'vampire nest', cleared of victims and bodies.
John's head throbbed. His eyes throbbed. And he was so hungry.
"Vampires don't exist, and I am very efficient at chemical analysis." Sherlock growled, stepping into Sam's personal space and looking up to meet the slightly taller man's eyes.
John held his head and wished for the hundredth time since the 'vampire' had bitten him (in his bad shoulder, wasn't that just the way?) that everyone would stop shouting and turn the bloody lights down. He also wished their hearts weren't beating so loudly and they didn't all smell mouth-wateringly delicious.
Sam's 'fellow agent' Dean stood nearby, arms crossed, holding a machete and watching Sam and Sherlock argue, while keeping an eye on John. Dean gave the impression of just casually leaning against a wall, coincidentally holding a recently wiped-clean eighteen inch length of sharpened steel, but even if John couldn't hear the man's heart he would be able to tell that Dean was anything but calm or casual.
Sam clenched his jaw and glared at Sherlock. John could hear his teeth grating. "This 'concoction' is the only thing that's going to keep your friend from becoming a blood-sucking killer. He has to be given it now, or it'll be too late."
"John would never be like those crazed cultists," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "His strong moral principle would never allow him to kill without reason, and he'd never voluntarily drink anyone's blood."
John shivered.
"Reason doesn't have anything to do with it," Dean said from his pseudo-nonchalant position. "They're vampires. It's thirst and hunger and survival, and your buddy's done damn good to have resisted the urge to feed this long, but even he won't be able to hold out much longer."
"Vampires," Sherlock scoffed. "A mere shared delusion by a group of drugged youths with weak minds; thinking of themselves as vampires and bleeding innocent people to death, engaging in hemophagia to bolster their delusional identity. John's will isn't weak. The drug they inflicted on John will clear his system in a few hours, and he'll be none the worse for wear."
"Yeah?" Sam said. "So how do you explain the 'cultists' teeth?"
"If you'd have let me examine them..."
Dean snorted. "Fat chance."
Sherlock and John had found the building before the Winchesters had, following the clues and finding a house of horror. People penned like cattle, signs of prolonged blood loss and dehydration pointing to the nature of their captivity. Then their captors had attacked, and would have completely overwhelmed Sherlock and John if the Winchesters hadn't arrived shortly after, swinging machetes. If John had any thought about informing the local authorities about the decapitated corpses the Winchesters had removed somewhere, the hunger was drowning it out.
Sherlock sniffed. "Dental appliances."
"Really."
"There are shops that cater to any sort willing to pay. I've personally seen more convincing fangs made in the back of a nightclub. There is a logical explanation for everything, and none of it requires feeding John a cup of untested sludge to 'prevent him from becoming a vampire'." Sherlock punctuated his statement with a derisive snort.
"Yeah?" Dean reached out and tapped John on the thankfully unwounded shoulder. "Show 'im the teeth, Doc."
John's inward-turned gaze snapped up to the young man with the machete. Dean returned an almost sympathetic stare, unwavering.
"I- If it's all the same, I'd really rather not." John hunched down into himself. He felt like he'd not eaten in a month and he was surrounded by walking plates of rare roast beef. He didn't know what might happen if he let the teeth out, and he didn't want to know.
"Kind of life or death for you," said Dean. "I mean, we could try to hold back your buddy Mr. Science and feed you the antidote he's keeping you from having, but I've seen him fight when we were taking out the nest and it'd get real messy. He wants proof before he'll let us help you, so you gotta show the teeth."
John wrapped his arms around his knees, hunching into a ball on the dilapidated sofa. He looked up at Sherlock, who was still trading glares with Sam.
"Clock's ticking, Doc." Dean shifted his grip on the machete.
John sighed. "Sherlock. Look at me."
Sherlock kept glaring at Sam. "You know this is completely illogical, John."
"Please. Look at me."
Sam raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked over towards John's huddled form with a huff.
John glanced over at Dean, gripped his arms tightly around his knees, then looked at Sherlock, closed his eyes and let the fangs descend.
The hunger spiked viciously, raging through John like a torrent of lava. The scent and sound of all the hearts in the room beating, the blood rushing, it inundated him, threatened to make him launch from the couch towards the nearest source, the one approaching quickly. John had never been more ravenous in his life.
He dug his fingernails into his own elbows, locking his shaking arms around his knees so he couldn't leap at anyone in the room like he'd seen the 'cultists' do. The 'cultists' who didn't fall when he'd shot at them to keep them from the cages of screaming men and women, then to keep them from Sherlock and himself.
He had chased one down into a basement, shot him when he charged at John in the darkness, but then John had fallen like a rag doll under the man's unstoppable charge. The 'vampire' had bitten into John's shoulder, tearing flesh like like candy floss, then nipped delicately at his own wrist and forced his blood into John's mouth.
In the room now, someone's heartbeat had become so loud and fast nearby, John swore he could feel the vibrations of it in the air. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock (of course Sherlock) crouched down beside him, peering up into his mouth with his magnifier, an expression of intense concentration on his face.
John was flooded with the urge to bite and drain the trusting life sitting so close by. He turned his face away, gasping, clenching his eyes shut, but felt Sherlock's gloved hand on his chin, pulling John back to face him, fascinated by the fangs.
"Sherlock, please. Don't-"
"You should see for yourself John! It's a full second layer of aciculate canines that extrude from the gingival tissues! But how-"
John felt Sherlock release his chin and poke at his upper lip. Through the leather glove, John could feel Sherlock's pulse, smell his blood.
His eyes snapped open and in a flash of movement too fast to be human, he gripped Sherlock by the forearms and pulled him close, only resisting by a hair's breadth the urge to sink his extended fangs into the ambrosial river he could smell just under the surface of his friend's neck.
John clenched his teeth, hard enough to creak, and he snarled into Sherlock's face. "Get. Away. From me."
Sherlock blanched. Dean and Sam both shifted closer, Dean bringing the machete around to hold it in both hands, eyebrows lowering. John breathed, keeping his teeth clenched, shaking hands still locked around Sherlock's forearms.
"So. Sherlock." Dean said, voice and stance far calmer than the beat of his heart declared. "You still gonna give us trouble about curing your friend? Or should we just wait and chop his head off?"
John shoved Sherlock away with a desperate whimper. He forced the fangs to retract, then curled back into a tight ball, burying his face in his knees to keep the delectable scent of Sherlock's too-close blood out, ineffectually. He could hear Sherlock swallow over the beat of his heart.
"Yes. Yes of course." Sherlock's voice was almost subdued. "But I'll want a sample for analysis."
"Of course you will."
-.-.-
(that's all there is.)