I'm a fic writing machine. Another BBC Kink meme prompt filled.
Title: Immortal Love Not by best title ever, but eh.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: Some violence, not very graphic sex. Serious crack. In other words, what should be absurd and silly, but somehow is tender and dramatic. dub con
Spoilers: Kinda sorta for the end of the Great Game.
Word Count: 1652
A/N: Written for this prompt on The BBC Sherlock Kinkmeme. Normally I'd write out the prompt, but in this case, it might be more fun to read the fic straight and guess what the cracky prompt was, then see if you were right.
After the fireball had turned to smoke and the ceiling of the pool had fallen around them, Sherlock dived though pitchblack water to find John. He could hear the thudding of the man's heart beating fast, too fast, wasting his precious air on fear - no more than fear, pain. Sherlock tasted blood in the water. Faint, spoiled by chorine.
His fingers found John's arm first and followed it to his body. A problem made itself apparent in the chunk of cement ceiling that was resting against John's belly. Sherlock lifted it off and flung it away, and felt John's hand weakly clutch his ankle.
John's heart went faster. There was little time now, Sherlock wrapped an arm around his chest and pushed off the floor, bringing him to the surface, forcing John's head above the water.
"Breathe," he said. And John coughed. The smell of blood was suddenly much, much stronger.
John was dying. Every instinct in Sherlock's body told him that. He could smell death on his breath. Hear it in the rapid, irregular beat of his heart.
"Sherlock?" John asked. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." It would take a lot more than an explosion to kill Sherlock. In fact, he'd come to wonder if anything could. Strangulation incapacitated him only so long as the blood was cut off, a knife wound might make him shaky for a minute or two. He could generally shrug off bullet wounds unless they were to the head. These days he tried to avoid being shot because having to have your brother cover up your autopsy was embarrassing.
John was not that lucky. He was mortal - like most people. And he was dying, the way most people did.
Sherlock judged that it would take at least an hour for crews to cut them out. That is assuming they arrived quickly and had their act together, which was not at all a certainty. John wouldn't be alive in an hour.
No. He couldn't let it happen. John was not "most people." He was John, unique, amazing, flattering, wonderful. There was a way to save him - a forbidden way, a way with many, many consequences for both of them, but it would work.
Sherlock let out a brief whistle and listened. His ears detected a gap at the edge of the pool where the ceiling had buckled up. It wasn't a big gap, but it didn't need to be. Just large enough for Sherlock and John to fit with ground beneath them.
He swam with John tucked against his side, swift strokes until he reached the gap. Then he pulled himself out, reached down and yanked John up and over the side. He could feel John's begin to shake with cold and blood-loss. He could smell the adrenaline and endorphins on his breath, as John's body threw out all the stops to try and keep him alive. Even now a surgeon in a competent hospital room could probably fix his bruised liver and cracked spleen. They could put in a tube and release the pneumothorax that slowly strangled his lungs. Sherlock couldn't do any of those things.
He could only do the one thing.
"Shh," he said to John. "I'm going to heal you. You aren't going to die."
"Is okay," said John. "I'm fine. They'll dig us out soon." His voice shuddered with the cold. Sherlock didn't feel cold.
"No, I'm going to heal you," Sherlock repeated. "But first, I'm going to take away your pain."
John's fingers found his arm and squeezed. Sherlock grabbed the hand and pulled back on the soaking wet sleeve. He placed the cool wrist up to his mouth and found the pulse point with his tongue. Two slim, needlelike bones, normally mistaken for extra teeth in xrays, pushed down. Sherlock allowed his hunger to rise, knowing that it would be frustrated. John didn't have enough blood to spare.
Carefully he pierced the artery. He felt the reflex injection from his special saliva glands. It contained a powerful combination of analgesic, hypnotic and euphoric agents. Mycroft had once said that the bite was the perfect interrogation tool. What he meant was the perfect seduction tool. John's blood welled in his mouth, untainted, pure. He swallowed once, but no more. A second injection coagulated the blood and he drew back, knowing that the only sign of injury would two pin prick marks, easily mistaken for bug bites.
"John? Do you still hurt?"
John shook his head slowly. "I feel strange."
"You are high," said Sherlock. "I'm going to do something very strange to you now. You will like it." He then worked to remove John's clothes. "Do you remember how you once said it was fine if I were gay? Remember how I put you off and told you I was married to my work?"
John's heart had slowed considerably from the bite, but now it began beating a bit faster. "I love you, too, Sherlock," he said. There was fondness. "I am fine with it being chaste."
"I'm going to love you in a very not chaste way."
"Here? Now?" He laughed, a weak little chuckle. He was still dying, but the bite had taken away his fear as well as his pain. "A little late isn't it? Perhaps after I've had a nap."
"No, John. It has to be now."
"Yes, it would be. And yet, it can't. I think I'm dying." John's voice grew sad. "I'm sorry about that, Sherlock. I should have lied." He breath was shallower, chopping his sentences into bits. "Thank you, for taking away my pain. I'd ask how, but I think I'm beyond that now."
"You aren't beyond that. Hold on. Not much longer." John's clothes were wet and clung stubbornly to his skin, in his frustration Sherlock resorted to using strength, tearing the fabric apart. It felt cathartic, like he was finally ripping away the last barrier between them.
There would be no secrets after this. No oh-so-quiet trips up the stairs in the early morning hours, no picking of locks, soft padding over to the bed where John lay. No bites too quick to rouse, too strong to be resisted. No holding John's unconscious body to his chest while he drank, slowly, stretching the stolen moment as long as possible. No lying with him in the dark, listening to his heart beating, John's taste still fresh in his mouth, his body on fire with stolen vigor.
Sherlock gathered John to him. He didn't resist. Sherlock wished that he could seduce John in a more normal way. Have it be slow. John was always so proper. He'd have preferred it that way. But maybe this was better, without the awkwardness of anticipation. Only passion and pleasure and the ultimate gift.
He let himself become hard. It had been so long since he'd allowed that luxury. The consequences of sex were too steep. He'd feared that it might be difficult, but his body was eager - nearly overeager. He'd been starved for this, he realized. This would be easy.
John didn't resist being rolled on his back or his knees spread and hoisted. "There are worse ways to go." Sherlock wasn't sure if those words were for him or John was saying them to himself.
"You aren't going," he said back, and then pushed in.
John gasped, awash with pleasure, numb to pain. He probably thought he was dreaming. Sherlock had certainly thought so when it was his turn to be in that position. Because he could, he grasped John's cock, but he was too far gone from blood loss to achieve an erection. Nonetheless, even limp, John came. Sherlock smelled his semen, and then he thrust thrice more released his own.
John cried out grabbing at Sherlock's arms painfully. His body spasmed, muscles tight, belatedly trying to fight off something it didn't understand, but knew on some deep level was wrong.
"It's okay," Sherlock assured him. "It's okay, you are healing."
"I'm on fire," he gasped.
"No you are alive." He held John, ignoring the increasing pressure of his grip.
"It's seeping through! It's in my veins! What have you done to me, Sherlock?"
"Procreation," said Sherlock. "Conception."
"You've fucked me alive?"
"Worse. I've fucked you immortal." Sherlock smoothed his drying hair away from his face. He could feel how twisted John's expression was. "If you like, I can bite you again and numb the experience more."
"No," gasped John. "No, let me feel this. I'd rather know than be out of my mind. You are a vampire, aren't you? How long?"
"Centuries."
"And Mycroft?"
"Longer."
"Not your brother," said John. "You two look nothing like each other."
"My brother in blood. We were made by the same father. And now there will be you."
"Ah," said John and his body seemed to collapse. "It's better now. Am I dead?"
"Of course not," said Sherlock. "You are alive. That at least I could give you. But I've taken more." He ran a hand soothingly over John's head. "I hope you like my company John, because you and I will be together for a very long time. There will be no more girlfriends, no marriage or children. No sex outside of me or my kind. You understand why. There can't be too many of us.
"Now there will be secrets and you will cultivate others for meals. Use them, want them, but never truly love them. Watch them age and wither. So close and yet always beyond your reach. You will seduce their children, feed off their kindness, their bitterness, and then they too will grow old and die. When you've buried enough friends you will grow cold and alien inside. And what part of you once cared will die."
Sherlock kissed his brow. "I've done a supremely selfish thing, John. But, god help me, I love you. I couldn't let you go."
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: Some violence, not very graphic sex. Serious crack. In other words, what should be absurd and silly, but somehow is tender and dramatic. dub con
Spoilers: Kinda sorta for the end of the Great Game.
Word Count: 1652
A/N: Written for this prompt on The BBC Sherlock Kinkmeme. Normally I'd write out the prompt, but in this case, it might be more fun to read the fic straight and guess what the cracky prompt was, then see if you were right.
After the fireball had turned to smoke and the ceiling of the pool had fallen around them, Sherlock dived though pitchblack water to find John. He could hear the thudding of the man's heart beating fast, too fast, wasting his precious air on fear - no more than fear, pain. Sherlock tasted blood in the water. Faint, spoiled by chorine.
His fingers found John's arm first and followed it to his body. A problem made itself apparent in the chunk of cement ceiling that was resting against John's belly. Sherlock lifted it off and flung it away, and felt John's hand weakly clutch his ankle.
John's heart went faster. There was little time now, Sherlock wrapped an arm around his chest and pushed off the floor, bringing him to the surface, forcing John's head above the water.
"Breathe," he said. And John coughed. The smell of blood was suddenly much, much stronger.
John was dying. Every instinct in Sherlock's body told him that. He could smell death on his breath. Hear it in the rapid, irregular beat of his heart.
"Sherlock?" John asked. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." It would take a lot more than an explosion to kill Sherlock. In fact, he'd come to wonder if anything could. Strangulation incapacitated him only so long as the blood was cut off, a knife wound might make him shaky for a minute or two. He could generally shrug off bullet wounds unless they were to the head. These days he tried to avoid being shot because having to have your brother cover up your autopsy was embarrassing.
John was not that lucky. He was mortal - like most people. And he was dying, the way most people did.
Sherlock judged that it would take at least an hour for crews to cut them out. That is assuming they arrived quickly and had their act together, which was not at all a certainty. John wouldn't be alive in an hour.
No. He couldn't let it happen. John was not "most people." He was John, unique, amazing, flattering, wonderful. There was a way to save him - a forbidden way, a way with many, many consequences for both of them, but it would work.
Sherlock let out a brief whistle and listened. His ears detected a gap at the edge of the pool where the ceiling had buckled up. It wasn't a big gap, but it didn't need to be. Just large enough for Sherlock and John to fit with ground beneath them.
He swam with John tucked against his side, swift strokes until he reached the gap. Then he pulled himself out, reached down and yanked John up and over the side. He could feel John's begin to shake with cold and blood-loss. He could smell the adrenaline and endorphins on his breath, as John's body threw out all the stops to try and keep him alive. Even now a surgeon in a competent hospital room could probably fix his bruised liver and cracked spleen. They could put in a tube and release the pneumothorax that slowly strangled his lungs. Sherlock couldn't do any of those things.
He could only do the one thing.
"Shh," he said to John. "I'm going to heal you. You aren't going to die."
"Is okay," said John. "I'm fine. They'll dig us out soon." His voice shuddered with the cold. Sherlock didn't feel cold.
"No, I'm going to heal you," Sherlock repeated. "But first, I'm going to take away your pain."
John's fingers found his arm and squeezed. Sherlock grabbed the hand and pulled back on the soaking wet sleeve. He placed the cool wrist up to his mouth and found the pulse point with his tongue. Two slim, needlelike bones, normally mistaken for extra teeth in xrays, pushed down. Sherlock allowed his hunger to rise, knowing that it would be frustrated. John didn't have enough blood to spare.
Carefully he pierced the artery. He felt the reflex injection from his special saliva glands. It contained a powerful combination of analgesic, hypnotic and euphoric agents. Mycroft had once said that the bite was the perfect interrogation tool. What he meant was the perfect seduction tool. John's blood welled in his mouth, untainted, pure. He swallowed once, but no more. A second injection coagulated the blood and he drew back, knowing that the only sign of injury would two pin prick marks, easily mistaken for bug bites.
"John? Do you still hurt?"
John shook his head slowly. "I feel strange."
"You are high," said Sherlock. "I'm going to do something very strange to you now. You will like it." He then worked to remove John's clothes. "Do you remember how you once said it was fine if I were gay? Remember how I put you off and told you I was married to my work?"
John's heart had slowed considerably from the bite, but now it began beating a bit faster. "I love you, too, Sherlock," he said. There was fondness. "I am fine with it being chaste."
"I'm going to love you in a very not chaste way."
"Here? Now?" He laughed, a weak little chuckle. He was still dying, but the bite had taken away his fear as well as his pain. "A little late isn't it? Perhaps after I've had a nap."
"No, John. It has to be now."
"Yes, it would be. And yet, it can't. I think I'm dying." John's voice grew sad. "I'm sorry about that, Sherlock. I should have lied." He breath was shallower, chopping his sentences into bits. "Thank you, for taking away my pain. I'd ask how, but I think I'm beyond that now."
"You aren't beyond that. Hold on. Not much longer." John's clothes were wet and clung stubbornly to his skin, in his frustration Sherlock resorted to using strength, tearing the fabric apart. It felt cathartic, like he was finally ripping away the last barrier between them.
There would be no secrets after this. No oh-so-quiet trips up the stairs in the early morning hours, no picking of locks, soft padding over to the bed where John lay. No bites too quick to rouse, too strong to be resisted. No holding John's unconscious body to his chest while he drank, slowly, stretching the stolen moment as long as possible. No lying with him in the dark, listening to his heart beating, John's taste still fresh in his mouth, his body on fire with stolen vigor.
Sherlock gathered John to him. He didn't resist. Sherlock wished that he could seduce John in a more normal way. Have it be slow. John was always so proper. He'd have preferred it that way. But maybe this was better, without the awkwardness of anticipation. Only passion and pleasure and the ultimate gift.
He let himself become hard. It had been so long since he'd allowed that luxury. The consequences of sex were too steep. He'd feared that it might be difficult, but his body was eager - nearly overeager. He'd been starved for this, he realized. This would be easy.
John didn't resist being rolled on his back or his knees spread and hoisted. "There are worse ways to go." Sherlock wasn't sure if those words were for him or John was saying them to himself.
"You aren't going," he said back, and then pushed in.
John gasped, awash with pleasure, numb to pain. He probably thought he was dreaming. Sherlock had certainly thought so when it was his turn to be in that position. Because he could, he grasped John's cock, but he was too far gone from blood loss to achieve an erection. Nonetheless, even limp, John came. Sherlock smelled his semen, and then he thrust thrice more released his own.
John cried out grabbing at Sherlock's arms painfully. His body spasmed, muscles tight, belatedly trying to fight off something it didn't understand, but knew on some deep level was wrong.
"It's okay," Sherlock assured him. "It's okay, you are healing."
"I'm on fire," he gasped.
"No you are alive." He held John, ignoring the increasing pressure of his grip.
"It's seeping through! It's in my veins! What have you done to me, Sherlock?"
"Procreation," said Sherlock. "Conception."
"You've fucked me alive?"
"Worse. I've fucked you immortal." Sherlock smoothed his drying hair away from his face. He could feel how twisted John's expression was. "If you like, I can bite you again and numb the experience more."
"No," gasped John. "No, let me feel this. I'd rather know than be out of my mind. You are a vampire, aren't you? How long?"
"Centuries."
"And Mycroft?"
"Longer."
"Not your brother," said John. "You two look nothing like each other."
"My brother in blood. We were made by the same father. And now there will be you."
"Ah," said John and his body seemed to collapse. "It's better now. Am I dead?"
"Of course not," said Sherlock. "You are alive. That at least I could give you. But I've taken more." He ran a hand soothingly over John's head. "I hope you like my company John, because you and I will be together for a very long time. There will be no more girlfriends, no marriage or children. No sex outside of me or my kind. You understand why. There can't be too many of us.
"Now there will be secrets and you will cultivate others for meals. Use them, want them, but never truly love them. Watch them age and wither. So close and yet always beyond your reach. You will seduce their children, feed off their kindness, their bitterness, and then they too will grow old and die. When you've buried enough friends you will grow cold and alien inside. And what part of you once cared will die."
Sherlock kissed his brow. "I've done a supremely selfish thing, John. But, god help me, I love you. I couldn't let you go."