I Can Outlast Cold, Can You Outlast me? (Sherlock Holmes '09 fanfic)
Title: I Can Outlast Cold, Can You Outlast me?
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2015
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine, etc.
Warnings: Major, non-permanent character death
Summary: Crack-fic. Prompt was: watson is a werewolf and holmes is an ex-con. they both have magical powers and are trying to defeat she-who-must-not-be-named (maryireneadlermorston) and in a final show down holmes is killed by drapery. Thereloveiscannon
Written for shkinkmeme, originally posted Here
I Can Outlast Cold, Can You Outlast Me?
There is an overwhelming feeling of constraint and restriction, of an almost deafening lack of freedom when one’s own body provides the cage. He might have choices in the daylight hours, but when a full moon rises, he turns into something else entirely, something inhuman, and the feel of that animal instinct, that savagery, isn’t something that can be willed or locked away come day. He carries it with him, inside him, a bundle of sins tucked close to his heart for which he will never be absolved.
His name is John Watson, and while others might call him a doctor, he knows that is only a façade he tries to hide behind. He is a werewolf, and he sometimes cannot breathe for the evil he knows lies underneath his skin.
./.
Sherlock Holmes used to be a criminal. A master criminal. It kept him entertained, for a little while-the thrill of being caught, the temptation to prove his superiority over others, the swiftness with which he had to move and the lightness of finger he had to learn. He was only caught if he wanted to be, and then only when it was for some larger scheme, or to place a face to the name, to the string of crimes he has left behind.
He left calling cards, sometimes. He loved the adulation, the respect that he had earned. He hurt no one (too easy, too simple to wield a gun against a foe when disarming him took so much more ingenuity). Sometimes he could not be bothered to keep the trinkets he made away with.
He lived in the lap of luxury, when he wanted, and sometimes he wandered the streets in rags. Life is a choice to be lived, and he was fully intent on living all of it.
He’s over crimes, now. Bored with it, yes, although there was a fair amount of heavy-handed coaxing from his brother, Mycroft. Mostly, though, it became too much effort to hide from his stalker, the neighborhood policeman on his trail. Lestrade, while adorable in his own right, really needed to stop following him so very closely, and try to get out more. Plus, Holmes ended up feeling guilty when Lestrade would drink himself drunk after yet another dead end. (He’d oft dress in disguise and buy him a drink.)
So Holmes is reformed. Entirely reformed. Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally get some sort of scratch (or knife wound in his side). Sometimes life is simply better lived out loud.
It’s how he meets Watson, after all.
./.
After several of their encounters, Holmes, who is rather intrigued by Watson, by the way he carries himself and holds himself and seems to regard himself, offers to buy Watson a drink in thanks. Watson refuses.
Naturally Holmes meets up with him at Watson’s favorite drinking establishment and continues chatting as if he were invited, and welcome, even. Watson’s face is a toss-up between amusement and irritation, but Holmes keeps on, flash and charm and all the old tricks he used in his old days, until the amusement is winning outright.
When Holmes follows Watson to his door and presses his lips against Watson’s, Watson doesn’t shove him off.
But he does go inside alone.
./.
Three nights after, Watson takes himself to the country.
He wakes up with blood on his hands and a dead lamb at his feet, torn to pieces.
./.
Here is where things get more interesting:
Holmes, on top of his overwhelming intelligence, his swift feet and nimble hands and buckets of charm that he uses and abuses-on top of all of this, Holmes has a bit of a gift.
Besides the fact which he’s a most excellent lover.
Really.
Most excellent.
But besides that fact, Holmes has a gift, and that gift rather happens to be magic.
It’s rather frowned upon in polite society, so it’s not really something Holmes tends to discuss. It’s also the rare thing in his life he doesn’t actively use and abuse. It’s there, shimmering just below his skin, power at his fingertips, but honestly, how uncreative is that? If he’s already got the amazing intellect, and swift feet, and nimble fingers, magic simply seems like cheating.
So he doesn’t really use it.
Except…
Well, he sort of likes to keep tabs on Watson.
./.
After the man-the impossible, impossible man-had spent practically an hour discussing how one Lestrade was stalking him (and did Holmes honestly not understand that the poor inspector was simply trying to do his job?), it was ridiculous that Holmes could even now be stalking him.
And yet.
And yet Watson had run into the man practically everywhere he went. It had gotten to the point of…
Well.
It wasn’t exactly terrible, it was just…Watson knows he isn’t safe. Not to be around, not to be friends with, certainly not to be lovers with. He knows the darkness he carries next to his heart.
However, when Holmes is suddenly not there - not just one day, but another, and another - Watson does something he’d always sworn not to do.
Because Watson-Watson may be a werewolf masquerading as a doctor, but that’s not the only secret he keeps hidden underneath his hat. Watson has magic.
He doesn’t ever use it, because the brush he’s had with the unnatural and blasphemous, the thing he turns into every full moon is enough for him. But he knows something is wrong. He’s sure something is wrong.
So he follows Holmes’ trail.
./.
When he finds Holmes, he is sure he made the right decision.
When he finds Holmes, he finds Holmes naked and tied to a bed, with some fawning creature-worse, he can see it in her eyes, he can see what she is, recognize her as she-who-must-not-be-named, the thing that clothes itself in a soft female form and has wreaked ruin on London for years.
maryireneadlermorstan
Dark hair and red lips are his default, it’s said, but she can be anything that any man wants. The perfect woman. But now-now she seems enraged.
“You should love me!” she screams at Holmes-Holmes who, naked and bound as he is, seems almost amused. “All men love me!” she cries.
“Ah, my dear,” he says, looking rather apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ve chosen…poorly, with me. If you could, perhaps, make yourself look like-ah, Watson!” he cuts off, seeing the doctor/werewolf behind her. “A perfect example of the form you should have tried on if you wanted me to love you!”
Watson blushes to the roots of his hair. “Holmes, I’m not sure if-”
“Come now, dear, we can talk of this later. Right now I do believe she’s going to try to seduce you.”
It does appear that she is-her hair is getting lighter and her features softer and warmer and kinder. It must be said, however, that however lovely the image is in front of him, the naked Holmes behind her is rather distracting.
“Holmes, just one moment,” he says, sidestepping the fawning beauty and reaching up to unbind Holmes.
“Ah,” Holmes says. “You should take advantage of the moment.”
“Take advantage?” Watson says, pretending confusion. Holmes rolls his eyes.
“Kiss me, obviously,” Holmes sighs gustily. Watson blushes again.
“I can’t,” he says. “I’m not safe, you shouldn’t-”
There is a roar behind them, their moment disrupted, and Watson turns in a flurry. Something knocks into him, and his cane/sword goes skittering across the floor. His breath is loud in his lungs, his heart tight as he sees the creature close in on Holmes.
And then there’s a flash of light above, and Watson looks up and sees a miniature moon. A miniature full moon. He has only a moment to make a strangled yell and then he’s transformed.
./.
When Watson opens his eyes, the light from above is gone, she-who-must-not-be-named is lying unconscious on the floor, and the still bound Holmes is looking rather guilty.
“Wasn’t sure what would happen,” he says. “I just knew you always disappeared around a full moon, and…”
“What? You-what?”
“I…sort of have magic powers. I don’t usually use them, though!” Holmes says, looking even more guilty.
Watson snorts. “This is ridiculous,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Holmes says, miserably.
Watson shakes his head. “Not that, old cock. I have magic powers as well. Also, I’m a werewolf, but I suspect you figured that out.”
Holmes’ eyes are wide, but his lips twitch suspiciously, as if he were attempting to hold back laughter. “Well.”
“Indeed.”
“Are you going to untie me now?”
Watson grins rather predatorily, and draws closer. He kisses Holmes, almost delicately. He’s not used to kissing. He’s not used to any sort of interaction like this, actually. It’s never been safe. It’s still not safe, his head yells, but his heart tells it in no uncertain terms to go fuck itself.
Holmes makes a desperate sort of needy sound that makes even his head stop and go awww. So Watson reaches up and pulls Holmes free of his bindings. They roll around on the bed, Holmes doing things with those nimble fingers and golden tongue that have Watson forgetting it was ever a bad idea for him to be with someone.
However, at perhaps the worst possible time, when Watson, too, is naked, and Holmes has seen and furiously licked at the injuries Watson’s body has sustained, injuries his mind had been sure must be frightening and disgusting to look upon, there is a stirring noise on the floor.
And then-oh then, she-who-must-not-be-named rises, towering above the, all soft curves and beautiful body and delicate features that are rather lost upon the two naked, rutting men.
“You have broken my heart!” she screams, desperate and terrible and enraged. She flies at them, and they both jump up, synchronized in their thoughts, their magic entangling together. Just as they finish, though, as they are still backing up, the drapes across the window, loose from the earlier fight, drop upon Holmes. Alone, they would have been nothing, but evidently the fake-moon rays from earlier had somehow crystallized the cloth, and Holmes falls to the floor, dead.
Watson makes a strangled noise and gathers Holmes up in his arms, pulling him into his lap and rocking him, tears falling from his eyes to land on his lover’s pale, beautiful face.
And then a soft hand brushes along his bare arm.
“Thank you,” maryireneadlermorstan says. “The beauty that you have shown me-the love that you know, that I now want to know…and the female bodies and forms!” she says. “I had no notion of what my skin looked like, of how my body moved, supple and soft and…You are right,” she says. “I shall find myself a lady to love, and perhaps that will be enough to make me happy, to make me forget the burden of my own creation.”
“It was enough,” Watson says, his voice strangled, “To make me forget mine.”
maryireneadlermorstan slides a hand along his damp cheek gently. “I am so sorry,” she says. “As you have helped me overcome my grief, I can do no less for you.”
She kisses Watson’s forehead, and then leans over him and places her lips gently against Holmes’. As she pulls back, Holmes gasps in a breath of air, and she smiles at them. “May you both find peace,” she says. And then she looks at Holmes, who is frowning, eyes scanning, attempting to ascertain what happened. “Perhaps not too much peace for him,” she laughs. “He would be bored with such a life.”
“Holmes!” Watson yells, delighted. Holmes grins up at him as maryireneadlermorstan slides out of the room.
“Hello, dear,” he says. “Did I miss anything?”
Watson makes a desperate noise and kisses him. Fuck safety and niceties and werewolves and magic, he thinks. He pulls back for air, and Holmes grins up at him.
“I'm sure it can wait,” he says, and pulls Watson's head back down until their lips meet again.
...Finis...
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2015
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes is not mine, etc.
Warnings: Major, non-permanent character death
Summary: Crack-fic. Prompt was: watson is a werewolf and holmes is an ex-con. they both have magical powers and are trying to defeat she-who-must-not-be-named (maryireneadlermorston) and in a final show down holmes is killed by drapery. Thereloveiscannon
Written for shkinkmeme, originally posted Here
I Can Outlast Cold, Can You Outlast Me?
There is an overwhelming feeling of constraint and restriction, of an almost deafening lack of freedom when one’s own body provides the cage. He might have choices in the daylight hours, but when a full moon rises, he turns into something else entirely, something inhuman, and the feel of that animal instinct, that savagery, isn’t something that can be willed or locked away come day. He carries it with him, inside him, a bundle of sins tucked close to his heart for which he will never be absolved.
His name is John Watson, and while others might call him a doctor, he knows that is only a façade he tries to hide behind. He is a werewolf, and he sometimes cannot breathe for the evil he knows lies underneath his skin.
./.
Sherlock Holmes used to be a criminal. A master criminal. It kept him entertained, for a little while-the thrill of being caught, the temptation to prove his superiority over others, the swiftness with which he had to move and the lightness of finger he had to learn. He was only caught if he wanted to be, and then only when it was for some larger scheme, or to place a face to the name, to the string of crimes he has left behind.
He left calling cards, sometimes. He loved the adulation, the respect that he had earned. He hurt no one (too easy, too simple to wield a gun against a foe when disarming him took so much more ingenuity). Sometimes he could not be bothered to keep the trinkets he made away with.
He lived in the lap of luxury, when he wanted, and sometimes he wandered the streets in rags. Life is a choice to be lived, and he was fully intent on living all of it.
He’s over crimes, now. Bored with it, yes, although there was a fair amount of heavy-handed coaxing from his brother, Mycroft. Mostly, though, it became too much effort to hide from his stalker, the neighborhood policeman on his trail. Lestrade, while adorable in his own right, really needed to stop following him so very closely, and try to get out more. Plus, Holmes ended up feeling guilty when Lestrade would drink himself drunk after yet another dead end. (He’d oft dress in disguise and buy him a drink.)
So Holmes is reformed. Entirely reformed. Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t occasionally get some sort of scratch (or knife wound in his side). Sometimes life is simply better lived out loud.
It’s how he meets Watson, after all.
./.
After several of their encounters, Holmes, who is rather intrigued by Watson, by the way he carries himself and holds himself and seems to regard himself, offers to buy Watson a drink in thanks. Watson refuses.
Naturally Holmes meets up with him at Watson’s favorite drinking establishment and continues chatting as if he were invited, and welcome, even. Watson’s face is a toss-up between amusement and irritation, but Holmes keeps on, flash and charm and all the old tricks he used in his old days, until the amusement is winning outright.
When Holmes follows Watson to his door and presses his lips against Watson’s, Watson doesn’t shove him off.
But he does go inside alone.
./.
Three nights after, Watson takes himself to the country.
He wakes up with blood on his hands and a dead lamb at his feet, torn to pieces.
./.
Here is where things get more interesting:
Holmes, on top of his overwhelming intelligence, his swift feet and nimble hands and buckets of charm that he uses and abuses-on top of all of this, Holmes has a bit of a gift.
Besides the fact which he’s a most excellent lover.
Really.
Most excellent.
But besides that fact, Holmes has a gift, and that gift rather happens to be magic.
It’s rather frowned upon in polite society, so it’s not really something Holmes tends to discuss. It’s also the rare thing in his life he doesn’t actively use and abuse. It’s there, shimmering just below his skin, power at his fingertips, but honestly, how uncreative is that? If he’s already got the amazing intellect, and swift feet, and nimble fingers, magic simply seems like cheating.
So he doesn’t really use it.
Except…
Well, he sort of likes to keep tabs on Watson.
./.
After the man-the impossible, impossible man-had spent practically an hour discussing how one Lestrade was stalking him (and did Holmes honestly not understand that the poor inspector was simply trying to do his job?), it was ridiculous that Holmes could even now be stalking him.
And yet.
And yet Watson had run into the man practically everywhere he went. It had gotten to the point of…
Well.
It wasn’t exactly terrible, it was just…Watson knows he isn’t safe. Not to be around, not to be friends with, certainly not to be lovers with. He knows the darkness he carries next to his heart.
However, when Holmes is suddenly not there - not just one day, but another, and another - Watson does something he’d always sworn not to do.
Because Watson-Watson may be a werewolf masquerading as a doctor, but that’s not the only secret he keeps hidden underneath his hat. Watson has magic.
He doesn’t ever use it, because the brush he’s had with the unnatural and blasphemous, the thing he turns into every full moon is enough for him. But he knows something is wrong. He’s sure something is wrong.
So he follows Holmes’ trail.
./.
When he finds Holmes, he is sure he made the right decision.
When he finds Holmes, he finds Holmes naked and tied to a bed, with some fawning creature-worse, he can see it in her eyes, he can see what she is, recognize her as she-who-must-not-be-named, the thing that clothes itself in a soft female form and has wreaked ruin on London for years.
maryireneadlermorstan
Dark hair and red lips are his default, it’s said, but she can be anything that any man wants. The perfect woman. But now-now she seems enraged.
“You should love me!” she screams at Holmes-Holmes who, naked and bound as he is, seems almost amused. “All men love me!” she cries.
“Ah, my dear,” he says, looking rather apologetic. “I’m afraid you’ve chosen…poorly, with me. If you could, perhaps, make yourself look like-ah, Watson!” he cuts off, seeing the doctor/werewolf behind her. “A perfect example of the form you should have tried on if you wanted me to love you!”
Watson blushes to the roots of his hair. “Holmes, I’m not sure if-”
“Come now, dear, we can talk of this later. Right now I do believe she’s going to try to seduce you.”
It does appear that she is-her hair is getting lighter and her features softer and warmer and kinder. It must be said, however, that however lovely the image is in front of him, the naked Holmes behind her is rather distracting.
“Holmes, just one moment,” he says, sidestepping the fawning beauty and reaching up to unbind Holmes.
“Ah,” Holmes says. “You should take advantage of the moment.”
“Take advantage?” Watson says, pretending confusion. Holmes rolls his eyes.
“Kiss me, obviously,” Holmes sighs gustily. Watson blushes again.
“I can’t,” he says. “I’m not safe, you shouldn’t-”
There is a roar behind them, their moment disrupted, and Watson turns in a flurry. Something knocks into him, and his cane/sword goes skittering across the floor. His breath is loud in his lungs, his heart tight as he sees the creature close in on Holmes.
And then there’s a flash of light above, and Watson looks up and sees a miniature moon. A miniature full moon. He has only a moment to make a strangled yell and then he’s transformed.
./.
When Watson opens his eyes, the light from above is gone, she-who-must-not-be-named is lying unconscious on the floor, and the still bound Holmes is looking rather guilty.
“Wasn’t sure what would happen,” he says. “I just knew you always disappeared around a full moon, and…”
“What? You-what?”
“I…sort of have magic powers. I don’t usually use them, though!” Holmes says, looking even more guilty.
Watson snorts. “This is ridiculous,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” Holmes says, miserably.
Watson shakes his head. “Not that, old cock. I have magic powers as well. Also, I’m a werewolf, but I suspect you figured that out.”
Holmes’ eyes are wide, but his lips twitch suspiciously, as if he were attempting to hold back laughter. “Well.”
“Indeed.”
“Are you going to untie me now?”
Watson grins rather predatorily, and draws closer. He kisses Holmes, almost delicately. He’s not used to kissing. He’s not used to any sort of interaction like this, actually. It’s never been safe. It’s still not safe, his head yells, but his heart tells it in no uncertain terms to go fuck itself.
Holmes makes a desperate sort of needy sound that makes even his head stop and go awww. So Watson reaches up and pulls Holmes free of his bindings. They roll around on the bed, Holmes doing things with those nimble fingers and golden tongue that have Watson forgetting it was ever a bad idea for him to be with someone.
However, at perhaps the worst possible time, when Watson, too, is naked, and Holmes has seen and furiously licked at the injuries Watson’s body has sustained, injuries his mind had been sure must be frightening and disgusting to look upon, there is a stirring noise on the floor.
And then-oh then, she-who-must-not-be-named rises, towering above the, all soft curves and beautiful body and delicate features that are rather lost upon the two naked, rutting men.
“You have broken my heart!” she screams, desperate and terrible and enraged. She flies at them, and they both jump up, synchronized in their thoughts, their magic entangling together. Just as they finish, though, as they are still backing up, the drapes across the window, loose from the earlier fight, drop upon Holmes. Alone, they would have been nothing, but evidently the fake-moon rays from earlier had somehow crystallized the cloth, and Holmes falls to the floor, dead.
Watson makes a strangled noise and gathers Holmes up in his arms, pulling him into his lap and rocking him, tears falling from his eyes to land on his lover’s pale, beautiful face.
And then a soft hand brushes along his bare arm.
“Thank you,” maryireneadlermorstan says. “The beauty that you have shown me-the love that you know, that I now want to know…and the female bodies and forms!” she says. “I had no notion of what my skin looked like, of how my body moved, supple and soft and…You are right,” she says. “I shall find myself a lady to love, and perhaps that will be enough to make me happy, to make me forget the burden of my own creation.”
“It was enough,” Watson says, his voice strangled, “To make me forget mine.”
maryireneadlermorstan slides a hand along his damp cheek gently. “I am so sorry,” she says. “As you have helped me overcome my grief, I can do no less for you.”
She kisses Watson’s forehead, and then leans over him and places her lips gently against Holmes’. As she pulls back, Holmes gasps in a breath of air, and she smiles at them. “May you both find peace,” she says. And then she looks at Holmes, who is frowning, eyes scanning, attempting to ascertain what happened. “Perhaps not too much peace for him,” she laughs. “He would be bored with such a life.”
“Holmes!” Watson yells, delighted. Holmes grins up at him as maryireneadlermorstan slides out of the room.
“Hello, dear,” he says. “Did I miss anything?”
Watson makes a desperate noise and kisses him. Fuck safety and niceties and werewolves and magic, he thinks. He pulls back for air, and Holmes grins up at him.
“I'm sure it can wait,” he says, and pulls Watson's head back down until their lips meet again.
...Finis...