Some heavy shit here, man.
((Your Last Post:Balthazar let out a growl as he eyed the mortal, taking a step forward again. "I'm going to put you right in your place, boy." He grinned wide and lunged forward, one of his hands moving to pin John to the wall, the flat side of his arm pressing down across his chest and arms. He pushed most of his weight against the other. Sherlock let out a low groan, eyes bleary as he pushed himself away from the desk. His muscles ached as he tried to register what was happening. A shadow appeared in his vision towards the kitchen and he let out a growl, clambering to his feet before he staggered into the kitchen.
Balthazar jerked his head back at the side of Sherlock and frowned only briefly. "You've no right hidin' this one from me, Sher!" He barked loudly, anger seeping into his voice. "It's been a week!" He turned his head back and opened his jaw wide, moving his fingers out of the way to the side of John's throat. Sherlock let out a hiss and bounded forward, looping his arm around Balthazar's neck and yanking him hard and away from John. With his fangs bared, he threw the vampire to the floor before pressed his knee down into his chest. "It's about to be the rest of your life, Balthy." He said in a dangerous voice before he plunged his fingertips into his throat and dug them around the skin and trachea before he adjusted his arm and pulled it out. Bathalzar let out a sharp scream of pain but it was immediately silenced upon the disconnection of the organ. Sherlock threw it aside, chest heaving. "Same rules apply to him" He kicked the other swiftly in the face with his foot. "as they /continue/ to do for Mrs. Hudson." Balthazar clawed at the floor before Sherlock turned to glance at John. "Knife." He gestured towards the knife holder by the range. "Silver." He'd made the mistake of touching one once. His chest continued to heave--the remnants of Balthazar's last meal was on the floor and it was making him quite dizzy. The bastard was a liar.
He stepped over the other's wriggling form before moving towards the sink. He turned the water on and stuffed his hand beneath the stream. The blood fell to the sink and he was quick to yank his shirt off and toss it in as well. He was breathing noticeably hard and he let out a growl before dunking his head beneath the water. ))
John: John kept his distance, recognizing that Sherlock was restraining himself at the moment. He retrieved the silver knife as instructed and watched over the vamp. He ignored the ache in his chest as best as he could, distracting his mind by trying to piece together all of what just happened. Vamp--Balthazar apparently--broke into the flat, attacked, and apparently Sherlock hadn't taken him out to dinner in a week--not that that had stopped him from eating based on the blood on the floor…Maybe he was an ex. John tilted his head slightly, clutching the knife tightly in his grip. Balthazar made no move, still trying to recover from Sherlock's previous counter attack. John clenched his teeth. Sherlock was stronger than he looked. He could've taken John in the woods at any moment and won. Especially considering how out of practice John currently was. His usual mind games and tricks were designed for hunting, not for surprise attacks. He'd have to reconsider his tactics if these types of visits were to be expected. "So, mind explaining everything that's going on? I thought you said there wouldn't be any unexpected visits during the night. Though I guess I didn't make myself so clear. Boyfriends are fine so long as they're not trying to eat me. There."
stormy joined the chat 11 minutes ago
John: ((hello!))
Sherlock joined the chat 6 minutes ago
Sherlock: (Hiii. It died the first time lol.)
John: ((lol kk))
Sherlock: Sherlock let out breath once he'd pulled himself from beneath the water. His hair dripped and portions of it were stuck to his face as he turned his head to glower at John. "I have a ready told
Sherlock: (Gah too soon,)
Sherlock: You that I do not have one." He spit out a bit of water that leaked into his mouth. He pushed away from the sink and grabbed a tea towel before mushing it through his hair. "He is part of the hive. Not particularly smart, as you can see." He turned his head to inhale hard. The blood was definitely getting quite appetizing, even if it was partially digested. He swallowed hard and took a slow breath. "John," he began stiffly, knowing he wouldn't be able to keep this up for very long. "Feeding on anything but humans, correct?" He needed a point of clarification before he did anything. He was desperate and his insides were on if with anticipation.
Sherlock joined the chat
Sherlock: [Alright, now on my computer versus my iPad.]
John: John swallowed thickly, considering the terms. That's what he'd said. That's what Sherlock had agreed to. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out, nodding slowly. He backed away from the vamp at his feet keeping the knife in his fist was a security measure. Did he want to watch this? He had to didn't he? He couldn't just trust that Sherlock would let this vamp go. Wasn't that the entire point of this plan? To make sure more vamps got offed? John took another step back. He didn't want to be too close to Sherlock when he attacked. "Yes," John said, more calmly than he'd expected of himself. Another step back. He swallowed again. He'd seen vampires feed before. But he usually used that as an opportunity to attack them. He never simply stuck around to make sure that they got the job done properly. He bit his lip. "Anything but humans."
Sherlock: Sherlock eyed him for a few moments, hand clenching the edge of the counter. "Turn around, John." He said slowly, noting the hesitant look in his eyes. "It's not pretty. It never is." And with that, Sherlock dropped down onto his knees before grabbing the writhing man by the throat. His head was jerked sideways, Sherlock's fingers wrapping tightly into his dark hair. The sweet taste came over him like a euphoria and in that instant, Sherlock was an animal trying to survive, draining the last bits of Balthy's food and then what little sustenance he had that kept him he alive. The vampire drained to a paper white color, mouth moving in a silent scream as he thumped his fists hard against the ground. Sherlock kept feeding until the thumpings weakened and stopped. He unlatched his teeth from the blood mess and sat back, chest rising and falling as he let out a sigh. Christ, that felt good. It was a bit gross tasting (vampires weren't supposed to /eat/ eachother, after all) but it was more than enough to get him by on for at least the rest of the day. Balthy was merely passed out and Sherlock's eyes, glazed over, rolled onto John. He waved his hand off. "Through the che-chest, John." He pulled himself to his feet, stumbling as if he were drunk before he turned the water on and dunked his face to clean himself of the blood again.
John: John swallowed. Maybe he should've accepted that order. But he'd have felt childish if he turned around to stare at the wall while Sherlock ate. It wasn't as if Sherlock had to do that while John had eaten--the meal was looking a bit less appetizing now though. He leaned down only once Sherlock had made it to the sink again. Just in case. The look in his eyes had been a bit less than comforting to him. John stabbed the knife hard through the vamp's ribcage. That was always where to start. He wondered for a moment if Sherlock had ever killed any of his own before. Maybe he'd ask about that when they got to know each other better. He pulled the knife from the vamp's chest and made quick work of sawing off the head. Yes, it was just a precaution, but John had been raised doing that. And burning it. Just in case. The lack of blood within the vamp made it a bit less messy at least. He peered over at Sherlock when he was finished, taking the head and stuffing it into the fridge (because there wasn't a fire going yet and he wasn't sure where Sherlock kept the matches). "How're you holding up there?"
Sherlock: Sherlock had filled the sink and dunked his head into it several times throughout the course of John sawing up Balthy's body. He was the least worrisome vampire in the hive, but no doubt, they'd just lost there snitch. Sherlock had pulled his head out with a gasp of breath, eyes wide as the oxygen filtered back into his lungs. He cleared his throat and spit into the sink before he unplugged the drain. He'd taken to just letting his hair drip by the time John spoke up and he turned to look at him. "...decent enough." He said in a low voice. He grabbed his hair and wrung it out before pushing it back and standing up straight. "...he tasted the way onions and shit smell." He made a face and looked down to the body laying on the floor. They certainly had a mess to clean up before Mrs. Hudson returned. At the very least, Sherlock didn't feel like his insides were going to carve themselves out of his middle. He took a step back and sighed, pushing his hand to his forehead. "Going to have fun with this one at least. Get your...little head." He waved his arm at the fridge before he ducked beneath the sink to grab a trash bag. He moved towards the top of the body and draped it over the stump of the neck before dragging it down. It made it to the middle of his chest and Sherlock pulled it tight before tying it off. "Going for a walk to take care of this. I prefer to not have Mrs. Hudson see such a sight. She's terribly too old for....this." She'd seen plenty of smaller appendages, but he wasn't quite sure how she would take to seeing a decapitated individual lying on the floor. He grabbed another bag and tossed it to John before bending down to muscle Balthy's body into a sitting position. Christ, he was heavy! With a grunt, he was able to get him balanced onto his back and shoulders. "There's a bin in the alley." He said stiffly, moving towards the staircase. "Matches are on top of the freezer. Grab them, would you?" There was something poetic about this, but he pushed on and down the stairs, rounding around into Mrs. Hudson's flat where the door that lead to the back of the building was.
John: John took the head from the fridge, found the matches, and got the logs from where the sat next to the fireplace. Was he really about to flame a vamp in a fire place? It wasn't the most sanitary of places. But what did he care about that? He found a newspaper and shredded it at the bottom of the pit, stripping the wood thin from one of the logs before tossing that in as well. He worked two logs into the fireplace and set them up close to the kindling. There were better ways to set this up, but he was working with what he had. He struck a match and held it to the kindling until it burned bright. John blew against it lightly and then harshly alternating until one of the logs finally caught. He set one another log out and didn't place the head in until the second one had caught as well. The smell was atrocious, but John was used to it. He'd treated enough burn victims in Afghanistan to know how to deal with the scent of burned flesh. And hair. Still it was less than pleasant and John doubted the landlady (Mrs. Hudson if John had heard Sherlock correctly) would appreciate it from her new tenant. Maybe Sherlock had air-fresheners around here somewhere. John snorted at the thought of a vampire spraying Fabreze about his flat. He stood up and made his way back to the dining room. John sighed. He'd been hungry before. Now his appetite was hiding in some undisclosed location. He tossed the food in the bin and made his way back to the living room, reading though the spines of books on the bookshelf to pass the time. It was mostly horror and mysteries, though a few chemistry and biology books stood out to John. He'd studied from a few of them while training to become an army medic. John heard the door reopen and looked over curiously.
Sherlock: Sherlock had come back a good fifteen minutes after, face red and looking quite tired, but he managed a very forced smile and a nod to John as he shuffled back in, stretching out his limbs before heaving a sigh. "One down, then. It's a good start." He wrinkled his nose at the smell that filtered in through his nostrils. He made a small gagging noise before clapping his hand over his nose. "That stench." He hissed between his fingers before moving around the flat in search of something with a better smell. He found a few cans of febreeze near the dryer (thanks to Mrs. Hudson of course, since his experiments some times stunk to high heaven) before tossing one to John. He shook his and aimed it upwards, holding the trigger down as he walked about the entirety of the flat. It was better, but he could still smell a few hints and he'd wasted his can in under a five minutes. He tossed it to the floor before crawling onto the couch and tugging open the windows. He dropped down onto the couch with a grunt of a sigh before turning to look at John. He furrowed his brows. "You alright then?"
John: "A bit bruised up," John admitted with a chuckle at Sherlock's expense. He picked up the can that had been disposed of on the floor and tossed it in the nearest bin. Last thing he wanted was to slip on it if another one of Sherlock's little guests showed up. Besides, he always tidied things up. That was a habit the military had probably managed to engrave on his soul by now. He heard the door downstairs open again. John grabbed his blade from his jacket, getting a bit frustrated now. If this was another unexpected vamp…John turned into the hallway blade shoved by his side. "Look I don't know who--," John stopped himself at the sight of the frail lady with a short bob cut down the stairs. Oh. The landlady. Shit. John could've made a better first impression but he'd have to make due with what he had. "Oh. Hello there. Um. Well." He shoved the knife into his jean pocket, trying his best not to scare the woman. He raised his hands to show that he was unarmed. "I'm John Watson. I think I'll be moving in upstairs, with, uh, with Sherlock."
Sherlock: Mrs. Hudson had paused briefly at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, blinking as she looked up to the top of the stairs. "Oh..." She said slowly at his words. She wrinkled her brows slightly as Sherlock moved around John to lean into view. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson. I would've phoned, but--" She grinned. "Nonsense!" She waved her hands. "Plenty of room, dears. Make yourself comfortable!" She hobbled towards the rack and peeled her jacket off to put on the hook. "I was going to put an advertisement out for you later on this week, Sherlock. So glad you finally found someone to take up the spare bedroom." She chuckled and Sherlock frowned. "Yes, truly it is." He looked to John with a flat expression. "So glad." He shook his head and pushed away from the door way before tugging John's arm and pulling him away from the door. "I would suggest keeping blades out of sight." He said stiffly, letting go once they'd entered the kitchen again. He grabbed his shirt from the sink and wrung it out as best he could before balling it up in his hands. "She's not much into violence and I don't particularly enjoy seeing her mad. It's....like hell, to be real honest."
John: John perked an eyebrow. The vampire was scared of a little old lady. And he needed someone to rent out the spare room. "Was this your intention all along? Lure whatever hunter was stupid enough to come after you in the woods and make a new flatmate?" John asked amusedly. "Thought you said you could pay the rent. Something about a few millennia to work up enough money for a place." He was moving in with a vampire that couldn't pay the rent. He chuckled at the thought of that. Though it did make sense. Sherlock wasn't exactly the day-job type at all. He'd probably burn to death trying to work a nine to five shift. "I'll be moving my equipment in tomorrow before eleven. That's when I'm expected to check out of that motel. All my stuff is there actually. Will she be around then?"
Sherlock: Sherlock scowled. "I can pay for a home in the hills four times the size of the average house. I just don't /want/ to." He said, glowering at the other before moving around him to disappear down the hall to his own bedroom. He was in there long enough to grab a new shirt and toss the wet one into the hamper. He came back into the sitting room, tugging his shirt over his head. "It was a more convenient option after you decided you weren't going to slit my throat. It didn't come about as an idea until I'd asked you about. Don't think so highly of yourself. You might fall over from your ego." He made a stupid face at John and proceeded to pick up the papers that had been knocked from the floor before moving to the kitchen to dig out a container of bleach. He opened it up and sloshed it onto the floor where the blood spots were. He grabbed a sponge and rolled his pant legs up to begin scrubbing at the spot. Mrs. Hudson, hopefully, would remain downstairs long enough for him to get it cleaned up. "If you don't want to be here, John," He lifted his head. "I'm more than willing to boot you during feeding time?"
John: John rolled his eyes. "Calm down there, princess. It was just a joke. I can't pay rent anyways. I haven't gotten a job yet," John said easily, heading to the kitchen and grabbing another sponge to help out with cleaning the flat. The stench of too much Fabreze was bad enough. The floorboards could use a clean anyways. He pulled his trouser legs up and knelt near Sherlock, beginning to work at the worst of the stains. "That's another thing I'll be looking into tomorrow. Gotta find a decent job in a hospital now don't I. Or a clinic. I'll search through the papers for something. Or if you've got a laptop I can start rummaging through positions tonight." He fiddled with the thought of Sherlock working on a laptop. John glanced up at the man. He would seem out of place on one. Yet again, he wasn't exactly born in the right century for them now was he? Had he adjusted to the times? John went back to scrubbing at the floor, changing his position to work on a different area. "You haven't got a job, have you? Or something that you fill your free time with?"
Sherlock: He rolled his eyes and dropped his gaze to the floor, leaning down a bit to scrub hard at a particularly dark spot. John's words went through one ear and popped out the other and it took him a moment to realize he'd been asked a few questions. "Oh.." He blinked a few times, loosening up the pressure on his wrist slightly but the scrubbing motion remained. "Right. Laptop, yes. Job, no. Something to occupy my time?" He frowned slightly and stopped, sitting back on his haunches. "I do...sort of. A bit of a hobby as Mrs. Hudson likes to think." He lifted his eyes to John. "Consulting detective." He shrugged lightly and leaned back to wet down his sponge again and wring it out. "For the Yard. Their investigators are notoriously slow so the DI comes 'round when he needs additional help." He started scrubbing again.
John: "Oh, of course. Where else would a vampire work, but Scotland Yard. As a detective. I should've realized," John said, nodding along. The oddness of this all was beginning to just settle with him now. The floor was nearly finished now. "I'll start that job hunt now. I trust you can manage here," he said, pulling his trousers down over his legs. He could really use a shower. Especially if he'd be sleeping in these clothes for the night. He shrugged it off, figuring he could take care of that later. Right now, he needed the laptop. He glanced around and saw it hiding below the coffee table. Naturally. He opened it up and met the passcode protected screen. He tried typing in 'password' but apparently that wasn't correct and he needed to try again. "Could you tell me your password?"
Sherlock: Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded, quickly wiping up the rest of the blood before tossing the sponge to the sink before grabbing a rag out from underneath the sink. He tossed it to the floor and used his foot to wipe everything up. "Fuck you." He said loud enough for the other to hear him as he dried the floor. He bent over and grabbed it before moving into the hall. He popped the washer open and tossed it in before rolling his trousers down again. He scooped up a book from the table and dropped down onto the couch, not particularly realizing that his password might have sounded off to anyone but himself, especially since it was regarded as an insult usually.
John: "Right. Will that be with the space or without the space?" John said with a snort. He tried it both ways before Sherlock could respond--with the space apparently. He carried the laptop over to the armchair that still needed some breaking into and plopping himself down into it. He spent the next few hours searching online for places nearby and was relieved when he found a few positions open in clinics relatively close to the flat. One of them was bound to take him. He went over to the bookshelf and turned on the printer sitting on it, glad to find it was wireless. John printed out applications and filled them out neatly, trying to keep his handwriting from veering off to the side. When he was halfway through the third one, a question popped into his mind. "Does you…DI boss person know about your little…condition?"
Sherlock: Sherlock was pouring through an anatomy book the entire time. He only glanced up on occasion to watch John write and get up. Most of the book was devoured and he'd been on the last section when John spoke up. He scowled and shut the book. "My condition?" He said slowly, tossing the book to the coffee table with a frown. "It's not a disease." He shook his head. "But no, he doesn't. I much prefer to keep it that way too. I'm already well enough of a freak without my unfortunate vampirism being introduced into the equation. I am more than sure that I would be hunted down like an animal if that were to get out." Part of him was sure that Donovan would jump at that opportunity too with Anderson tailing behind. He fell silent again as he sunk back into the chair. "Is there anything else you wish to ask of me? Now would be a time to do it since I'm mortified by the illustrations in my book by what the lack. Don't hold back. Haven't heard a new question in over a millenium." He raised his eyebrows and scoffed.
John: "Alright then," John said looking up from the current application that he was working his way through. It was a dull process anyway. He could use a good story to keep his mind occupied while he made his way through them. He opened his mouth then shut it again. What if his question--the one that had been tickling the back of his mind for the past few hours actually--was insensitive. He didn't want to offend Sherlock on the first day of knowing him. Yet again he had been instructed not to hold back. He licked his lips and then turned his face back down to the papers. Make it as casual as possible. "How were you turned?"
Sherlock: Sherlock let out a sigh. "That was anticlimactic, John." He dropped his head back and seemed to melt into the shape of the couch. "I was...thirty-five. A not so successful chemist, but for the record, I have improved greatly." He shut his eyes, drumming up the images of his mind. "The Roman Empire." Oh how he missed his dear sweet home. He hadn't been born there but it had been a lovely place to visit--inspiring thinkers and philosophers seemed to have cropped up every other year or so. Some were rubbish, but a fair few were just fantastic and Sherlock was amazed that their ideas had lasted long throughout time to still be /remembered/ today. "Something around 100 AD, I think." He sighed. "I was returning from...somewhere. Memory is a bit spotty, you'll have to get past that." He turned his eyes onto John. "Night time, of course. And I was just...jumped on my way home. Down by the Thames. London was much different back then. Mostly dirt, but I think that the vampire had...intended to kill me. Not turn me. Regardless, he bit me and sucked me mostly dry but someone had stumbled along--a drunkard and his escort, I think. He was in a rush and just left me on the side of the road to die. The escort had noticed me and I eventually was taken off to be cared for until I recovered, but I wasn't human anymore. I killed about two priests and six others before I'd gotten far enough from the city. It's..not exactly an interesting story, John." He shrugged his shoulders.
John: John nodded slowly, scribbling down his social security number on the sheet. "100 AD? Christ, you're old," John said trying to sound flippant, but a bit amazed at that. Sherlock had watched as the world was shaped. That was…incredible. He understood why no Hunters had managed to snag him yet at least. Sherlock had enough time to practice out running them. He bit at his lip, not wanting that to be his last comment before they engaged silence. He thought a follow up question quickly. "So…uh, do you have a, um...favourite…colour or something?" Weak. But he doubted that Sherlock had heard that one in a while. Catch him off guard a bit. John turned to the next application, scrawling his name into the proper box.
Sherlock: "Old? Hardly." He rolled and shook his eyes before slipping from the couch to snatch up one of John's completed applications. His eyes grazed over the handwriting. Undoubtedly he would need to use it at some point, but so it was best to familiarize himself with it now. He feigned interest in the rest of the application as well. "I don't look old at least." He moved the paper aside and looked down at John but his expression melted away to a confused look at the next question posed to him. "Colour." He said slowly, pushing the paper back onto the stack. "I don't know." He shrugged. "Blue, I guess. Dark blue though." He rolled his shoulders and moved to sit on the floor, drawing his knees into his chest as he wrapped his arms around them. "What about you then? What's it like being a mortal in the 21st century?
Sherlock: *"
John: John thought it over, hesitating in his writing for a moment. "I dunno what to compare it to really," he admitted. He let himself ramble as he worked through the sheets, "I haven't got any other centuries to compare it to. Not that I've lived through at least. Unless you mean the 20th century. In which case…the mobiles are smaller, I guess. Touch screens and such. You already know that though." John yawned and stretched out his arms for a moment before returning to his paperwork. "Cars are more compact I guess. Every thing's…faster. More effective. I dunno. I didn't really have an ordinary 20th and 21st century life growing up. Spent most of it in motels and such. Had to keep moving around, never staying in the same place for over a month or two. Slept in a car from the time I was about twenty to twenty one. Got pissed at my da over a hunt. Came back eventually. Went to college for a bit. Got a degree in medicine. Harry wanted me to do that." John frowned. He didn't want to talk about her right now. He never really did. He sighed. "Then I went back to hunting. I always do. It's just what I know best." He decided to cut the story there. Sherlock knew that his sister was dead already. No need to go there again. "And you? What was it like growing up back in hundreds?"
Sherlock: He let out a snort. "Sound interesting to me." He perched his chin on his knees and watched the other carefully, but the question was turned back on him. "You know. Stirring revolutions in Roman rule, the downfall. The uprisings. Nothing a text book can't tell you." A thin lipped smile came over him and he dropped his legs flat, pushing his hand through his hair. "I want to know about you, though." He brushed off his own history and leaned forward, pressing his forearms into his thighs. "I've never actually had a conversation with a hunter outside of the usual "you're not going to kill me" sort of thing." He lifted his eyebrows. It was strange--he was getting a rather intimate view of his supposed enemy. He couldn't exactly deny either that John was quite...different from most individuals he had countered.
John: John scrunched up his eyebrows. He scribbled down a few more key details to his identity to postpose his answer for a few more seconds. He only opened his mouth again when he reached the sixth application. "Well I haven'y exactly had a full blown chat with a vampire before either," John noted. He scribbled down his date of birth. That would be a decent place to start. "I was pretty ordinary until I was about five or six. One of those birthdays had just past. I can't remember which. But my mum was killed a few days after it. Werewolf attack. I wasn't in the flat. Happened to be staying by a mate's for a sleepover. We left that town and no one told me that's exactly what happened until I was about eleven or so. Harry started teaching me how to shoot when I was about nine though. Didn't tell our da about that. So as far as he ever knew the first time I ever shot a gun was when I was about eleven. He was shocked to find I was a dead shot already." John chuckled down at the sheet. "Before he let me hunt with him and Harry he had me do this test in the woods. I had to survive a week without any food or shelter, just whatever I could make do with on the land. I stood for two because I liked the challenge."
Sherlock: "Hm." He said, making a face and nodding his head. "Bit of a downer for a childhood, but brilliant none the less. Explains a lot about you." He shrugged lightly and spied the paper by pushing up onto his knees to peer over. He pulled back after seeing nothing too incriminating. "Well let's see..." He rubbed his chin. "I was a servant boy." He looked up at John with a snort. "For this...aristocrat fellow. My mum owed him a debt once upon a time before she died, which wasn't too common in my day, and so I had been sent to work for him. I was a courier among...other things." His voice trailed off as he made a disgusted face. The aristocrat in question was both a sodomite and a pedophile, but that was a detail that didn't need to arise in this conversation. "So I was a good runner. Washed my hands of that at fourteen and sort of whored myself out with apprenticeships. Carpentry, which I was terrible at, botany, terrible at that too, but eventually settled in an apothecary." He pursed his lips. "Fourteen until twenty-three. I didn't realize how long ago that was until just now..." His voice trailed off, a hint of nostalgia in his voice before he cleared his throat to refocus himself. "Quite a pair aren't we?"
John: John snorted lightly, absorbed with Sherlock's little history. "Quite the pair," he agreed. He peered up from the papers and looked over to Sherlock. He shook his head and chuckled a bit. That didn't even begin to cover them. John rubbed his eyes and checked his watch. Shit. It was late. He had to wake up before eleven to get to the motel. John sighed. He should just make the trip now. It wasn't like he'd be getting any sleep tonight anyways. He shoved the papers away from himself and stretched out his arms, loosening the tense muscles in them before rolling his shoulders. He dragged himself to his feet and said, "I'm just going to head to the motel now. I need some clothes now anyway. You want to come with? I could use the extra hand while it's still safe for you to go out. And this way your landlady won't see all my weapons either."
Sherlock: Sherlock tilted his head and nodded. "Suppose so. Sound logic. Just need to grab a pair of gloves." He pushed his willowy frame up and turned sharply to grab his shoes from beside the arm chair. He tugged them on and shuffled off down the hall towards his bedroom. Sherlock pulled open the nightstand drawer and dug through it to find a pair of dark leather gloves. He tugged them on over his hands and shuffled back out to the sitting room. He scooped up his coat and pulled it on, tossing the scarf around his neck before tying it off. "Not too far?" He cocked his eyebrow up as he shoved his hands into his pockets to feel around for some cash. Thankfully, he'd found some. He pulled it out and rolled the notes flat in his palm. It should be enough.
John: John nodded. "We'll need a cab both ways," John said. The motel was a little ways off from Baker Street. Not over thirty minutes by cab. But maybe a little over an hour by foot. John had had enough with the day as it was though. A cab ride would be much easier. He lead Sherlock out of the flat and down the stairs, glad he hadn't taken off his shoes since he arrived. He hailed them a taxi the moment he saw one making its way down the street, and told the cabbie the address. It was a pretty quiet ride there, but John used the time to mull over the day's--or rather night's--events. The thought of settling in with Sherlock was less intimidating than it had been a few hours ago. Sherlock wasn't too bad after all. When they arrived at the motel John lead Sherlock to his room. It was just a single, complete with a bed and a little kitchenette. John had redecorated the walls with newspaper clippings on strange occurrences that had lead him to Sherlock in the first place. His weapons were in his suitcase along with his clothing. He kept everything compact and neat just in case he needed to make a quick leave. And because of his army habits. He packed his laptop into his suitcase before he began to strip the walls clean of the papers. "Are you going to help or what?"
Sherlock: Sherlock was staring at the walls with interest, though he let out a small noise when John started stripping them from the wall. "Ah..." He made a noise. "Yes...I just wasn't aware I had a fan club." he smirked and stepped forward to strip a few newspaper clippings from the wall. "You make it seem hard to find me." His eyes grazed over a few photos as he stacked the pages in his hand. "I have a website, you know." He turned to look at the other with a bit of a smirk. "With inquiries. I always get back to those who leave messages." That was partial truth. Sherlock only answered questions he deemed relevant and that was a small number of them.
John: "Didn't exactly know your name, did I?" John said evenly. He stuffed the papers into the bin, figuring the housekeepers wouldn't be all too interested in his rubbish when they came around. John headed to the bed and took his da's old journal from between the mattress, packing it into his luggage right beneath a layer of clothing. He didn't want the cover or any of the pages to get disheveled. It was the only thing he had left from his family now. He treated it with care. "I'd have Googled you if it was that easy. Didn't know exactly what I was looking for either. Have you ever tried hunting anything before? I mean, not like animals or…people I guess, but actually going after other beings of the, um, supernatural variety."
Sherlock: He found himself grinning as he helped John pack up his things. "All the time." He shook his head. "That's how I found the vampire who turned me. I had immense pleasure in ripping his spinal cord out. He wasn't exactly strong, but he was an excellent hider. Apparently a thief." His eyebrows raised slightly, having seen a particular journal get stuffed. He'd have to ask about that in a bit once they were back at the flat. "It's a matter of observing, and," He glanced around. "...having fully seen your research skills, you can definitely improve. A bit." He shrugged his shoulders and held out a hand. "Anything you don't want to carry, just toss to me."
John: John perked his eyebrows at the short tale. He didn't take Sherlock for the violent type. Then again he wasn't really. Only when need be. John ducked under the bed and pulled small weapons trunk from beneath it. "You can carry this actually. Just until we get another cab," John said, hefting it up and bringing it over to Sherlock. It wasn't particularly big, but it made up for that in its make--being plated with silver and iron beneath the wooden exterior. He picked it up when he returned back from war, replenishing his supplies and weaponry in the old inn hunters occasionally visited when things were going too bad to handle on their own. Barely anybody had been there the day he'd come in. Just the manager, who'd cut him a fair price for everything he needed considering John's circumstances and the fact that the manager had owed John's father a favour once. John made one last round through the room, checking that he'd left nothing behind. Once he was sure of that, he dusted the salt off the windows and into a rubbish bin. "I'm just getting back into the business. My cases used to take me a little under a week to get through. There' a lot of 'lore I need to brush up on still. I imagine you've got plenty of books on that somewhere in the flat, yes?" He tugged his suitcase behind him and started to head out, hailing a cab on the main road.
Sherlock: He chuckled and nodded, grabbing hold of the handle with a gloved hand before watching John carefully recheck the room over. "I've got plenty of books. Plenty of knowledge too--fair amount of run-ins with others. It's just a matter of figuring out what I haven't deleted from my mind yet." He gave the other a bit of a toothy grin before heaving it up and onto his shoulder. It was quite heavy for a box, but still quite light for Sherlock. He would just have to make sure to watch himself whenever he was near John's things. There was an awful amount of silver. This morning, the only silver in the house had been the cutting knives but he'd never even bothered to touch those. He just used scissors to cut things when needed. "Speaking of which, what's in that book of yours?" He cocked an eyebrow up. "The one beneath your clothes?"
John: John scowled. "None of your business. It's off limits," John said evenly, keeping his gaze ahead and getting into the first cab that stopped for them. He gave the address as if he'd been living there for his entire life. He sat in silence. John hadn't wanted Sherlock to even know about the journal. He'd tucked it away for more than just safe keeping. It was his most valuable possession. Containing everything his father had leaned about hunting written down in that slanted handwriting of his. A few pages of it had been composed by Harry as well. It had a few of her hunts scattered about its pages. The one about the shapeshifter had been his favourite. It had been one of the hunts she'd gone on with da during that year he was away. She'd managed to knick it in a bear trap of all things. It had fallen face first into the thing. When they arrived at 221B, John pulled out his luggage, keeping it close now that he knew Sherlock knew where the journal was. He sighed and waited by the door. "I'll be needing a pair of keys if you've got some upstairs."
Sherlock: Sherlock frowned but chose to say nothing as he followed the other into the cab. It was an awkward silence from there (though Sherlock's curiosity was piqued quite well). When it pulled alongside the flat, Sherlock got out and lugged the case with him and following John to the door. "Yeah, got a spare on the mantle." He said in a soft voice, fishing his own from his pocket before turning the lock over and the pushing the door open. It swung open and Sherlock stepped back to allow the other inside before following after him. He kicked the door shut with his foot before lumbering up the stairs and setting it on the coffee table atop a few of files. He didn't particularly care. "Right then." He shuffled towards the mantle and lifted up the skull before tossing it backwards in John's general direction. "Key. Don't lose it. That's the only other copy." He returned Billy and turned around, stripping himself of his jacket and scarf before moving back to the box. He leaned down next to it and eyed. He was curious about a lot of things now, but most of which he knew would not be satisfied for now. They appeared to be prying questions and he was sure that John didn't quite trust him that much. "Just weapons in here?"
John: John nodded. "Yeah. Hope you don't mind guns all to much. Got a few of those in there," John called, dragging his suitcase to his room and setting it on the bed. He fetched a key from the bottom of the case. Then John made quick work of hiding the journal again before returning to the living room. His lips twitched into a boyish grin when he saw Sherlock near the box. He made his way forwards and took his little key from his pocket, shoving it into the box's lock. "Keep your gloves on. We need to compare weaponry. What do you generally use?" John opened the lid. It was a standard package. There were three different gun models--a Glock 17, a Colt 1911, and a Winchester Model 1897 shotgun. He had cases of bullets all labeled according to what they were filled or made with--some being rock salt, others silver, and then the regular ones. The machete laying across the length of the box was pure silver and blessed by a priest with holy water. Blades of different makings sat in pouches along the lining of the case and Mojo bags hung from the top lid, dangling over everything. "I know I haven't got any holy water here. I've been meaning to stock up on that lately. Nor do I have any propane for a quick fire. And I haven't gotten new fake IDs since I returned from Afghanistan. But again, I can stock up on those another time as well. What have you got scattered about here?"
Sherlock: Sherlock blinked as he leaned his head into the box. Jesus, it was like a schizophrenic's best friend here. "Wow." He muttered, letting his eyes fall upon the contents of the box. He heard something of a question and he pulled his eyes back to John and frowned, tilting his head slightly. "Ah, right. What I've got. Well..." his voice trailed off as he pushed himself to his feet, shuffling towards the mantle of the fireplace. "Teeth, for starters. Usually scares the little ones. Humans, mostly." He nodded before wiggling his hands. "Bit of strength." He pulled Billy up by the cap and flipped him over before pulling out a hand grenade. "Pineapple grenade." He shrugged and stuffed it back in. "The kitchen knives I'm not particularly fond of, handgun in the breadbox, tons of salt in the cupboard from Mrs. Hudson, another handgun in my bedroom and a box of certain chemicals." He steepled his fingers together and turned to face John. "I'm much more adamant to believe your stash will be more useful than my own." He lifted his brow up slightly at the other.
John: John blinked. "Teeth?" Did he hear that bit correct? He couldn't have. What person used teeth in the fight agains the supernatural. "Did you just say teeth?" He took a beat to compose himself a bit from that one. He had not been expecting that bit. He took a breath and quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock. Upon receiving not much explanation aside from a shrug John cracked his knuckles and stood up. "We ought to scatter some of these about the flat as well. I'll be keeping a fully loaded gun in my room so don't try anything funny with me." He took the Glock and ran it to his room, shoving it beneath his pillow before rejoining Sherlock. "We can keep the silver tucked away in the box if it makes you uncomfortable, but I'd prefer to have a few knives scattered about just in case we have a repeat of that vamp situation we had earlier. I noticed you don't keep salt on the windows. Any particular allergy there? I've never heard of vamps being harmed by salt before. I like to keep it up in case of demons. But again, if you've got an allergy, just say so now."
Sherlock: Sherlock let out a groan and pushed his hand to his face, rubbing circles into his forehead. He waited until the other came back before he looked at him. "Yes, John. I said /teeth/. The sharp little things in my mouth? Piss me off and I can do some damage with them. Besides, it's not as if humans are the only thing we vampires eat, you know." He grumbled, shaking his head. "And go ahead with the salt. I've...never needed it myself." Sherlock was well established in his little supernatural world of being someone not to trifle with, but he supposed, with John around, it was a good idea. "Silver is fine too. I'll just need to watch what I touch." He waved his hand off, dismissing John's comments as he turned about the flat to glance things over. John was a strange one.
John: John nodded, starting with the salt along the windows. Demons were always tricky to deal with and he'd rather not get possessed by one again like that time when he was fourteen and the other time at around twenty four. He'd gotten the proper tattoos to ward them off but those could be burned away and John was all for a back up plan. Once he was finished he fished a few of the knives out and scattered them into each room. "I'm going to put one of the knives in your room incase we ever get stuck in an attack. It'll be under on top of your desk. It's just a pocket knife, so as long as its folded up you should be fine if you accidentally touch it," John called from inside the messy room. He dipped out of there quickly, deciding it wasn't his place to stay in too long. He took the shot gun out, loaded it with silver bullets, and hid it beneath the sofa. He finished off by bringing the case into his room and shoving it beneath the bed. He wiped off his hands and returned to Sherlock. "There. It's already beginning to feel all homey here." He smirked.
Sherlock: "Homey like a bomb shelter." He said dully once the other had returned. He did a quick walk around the sitting room before turning to John. "Now then. Anything else you feel you need to do?" He lifted his eyebrows in slight curiosity before shaking his head. "No, no. Actually, don't answer that." He disappeared down the hall into his bedroom for a moment and grabbed a chain from his nightstand before coming back out. "This is for you then." He said slowly, offering out the gold chain towards John. Hanging on it was a tiny vial fully of a familiar scarlet liquid. "Just in case your plan goes awry and you need quick fix." He smiled slightly, eyes locked on the pendant. It was a particularly clever device of his own making--moderately cold to the touch to keep the blood inside at the right consistency but virtually undetectable even to a vampire's nose.
John: John took the pendant gingerly, and observed it in his hands. Chilly. He held it up and was confused for a moment. Blood. "What's it for exactly?" John wondered lightly, unsnapping the clasp and fixing it around his neck. He let it hang there for a moment, glad it wasn't touching his skin at the moment. He wasn't all to fond of the cold in the first place. Still, if Sherlock deemed the little device useful for humans, John decided to go with it. He bit his lip. There were so many questions he had for Sherlock. John could hardly stand that they were all so ready to burst from his seams, as he couldn't ask them all at once. One at a time, John. One at a time. He took a slow breath and fiddled with the pendent on his neck. He needed a shower too. So much to still get done. One at a time.
Sherlock: "A vial of tainted blood. Sangue Debolezza." He smirked slightly. "If a vampire comes to close, just shove it into their mouth or break it on their face. Just make sure the blood touches their skin." He nodded slightly, making to add a note. "Not on me, by the way. I don't wish to die a painful death." He nodded his head slowly and took to the couch again, dropping down into before glancing to the other. "Any questions you feel the need to ask of me? I feel as if there's more--I certainly have some still."
John: John nodded. "I want to get my 'lore straight here," he said, pushing the pendent beneath his sweater. He sat down at the other end of the sofa and said, "I know that there's two different types of vampires: the Bibulis I believe you call them and the…sorry, blanking out on the name….Uh the Comedenti I believe. And I know one of them can change a human into a vamp from a mutual blood trade and the other is from a bite. You're from the one with the bite, yes?" John paused for a second before adding a follow up. "And one of the two, dunno which, can control humans like with their minds. Less common obviously, but…can you do that? 'Cause you're not exactly common for a vamp."
Sherlock: [skjdhfs--where is it you've found those two? I haven't been able to find them anywhere. o: ]
John: ((lol I just made it up. should've warned you. whoops. just make it up. The names weren't all too important))
Sherlock: [OH. LOL. BECAUSE THE COMEDENTI HAS SOME PLACE THERE. Gosh I'm retarded. Okay. xD <3 Thanks.]
John: ((lol I just google translated stuff into latin. have I made up something that's real?))
Sherlock: [Just missing the word anima to comedenti! Anima comedenti is "soul eater". :3 Sounds super vampy to me~]
Sherlock: He snorted lightly at John's words. "Close enough. Anima Comedenti. " He said, relaxing against the cushion and draping one leg leisurely over the other. He smiled lightly, quite fond of this conversation for some particular reason. "The mutual exchange in blood is a blood-oath. I could do one if I so desired. It's not strictly labeled per type." He cleared his throat. "Biibulis are the weaker type who rely heavier on blood-oaths. I'm not that type." He grinned at himself, letting his eyes shut. "I progressed beyond that many eons ago. Hence why I have no problem consuming my own. Partially anyways. He tasted terrible." He cracked an eye open to look at John. "I could, potentially, "control" a mortal's mind as well, but that depends on a certain set of factors that must present." He snickered. "Most of which is how much they believe what I'm saying and whether or not they're weak minded." He popped the other eye open to look at John before leaning over towards him. "Care to find out?"
John: John watched over Sherlock for a moment. This was a bit like a trust fall now, wasn't it? Except instead of risking a fall, he was risking his life. Was he up for that? Sherlock hadn't eaten him yet. He had more than enough opportunities to as it was. But did John trust him? He bit at his lip. He was too curious sometimes. "What'll you do? Exactly," he pressed, leaning forwards just a bit. He'd need to know how to defend his mind from attacks like that if they were going to go after the big heads in the vampire society. Might as well start practicing. "And would an anti-possession tattoo keep it from working? 'Cause I've got one of those."
Sherlock: "No, I don't think that will..." he said slowly, staring into John's eyes with his own in search of a weak spot. A warmth radiated from John and he latched onto that, focusing onto it. "Might make you slap yourself, but it just depends on how far I can get in." He stopped blinking. "But I'm not possessing you. Just...being suggestive. Alluring, if you will." He lifted his eyebrows in, boring into the natural walls of John's mind, his breathing even. He had to say it was a bit of a tough exterior, but once he'd latched himself firmly on, he inhaled sharply and shut his eyes. "John," He said slowly, having to quickly formulate something to say. He could do so much to John right now (limited of course, John wasn't particularly as weak as he had imagined him to be). "Bark like a dog, would you?" His voice was quite smooth and he took to opening his eyes again to lock them onto the other. "While you're at it, finger up your left nostril." They were ridiculous but he was almost sure John wouldn't bother doing them on his own.