Chapter VIII
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John panted and ducked behind a tree.
He'd been running for miles but he couldn't stop; could never stop. He wasn't there yet, he wasn't done yet.
He wished to The Walkers, to The Fates that he was done, that now was yet.
John gasped, catching his breath before inhaling deeply. The lime green tang of sour apples swirled before his eyes followed by the white-blue of a fresh water stream washed the green away.
John inhaled again and got the sudden hit of the musky scent of power and fear.
John gritted his teeth and growled quietly in the back of his throat.
He was ready for the hunt.
The kill.
He began chasing the scents, the instincts to find what could be his took over as he ran, kicking up dead leaves as he flew through the trees.
Then he was upon his quarry, his speed making it easy for him once he got on the right path; this one was clever, had presented a challenge. Covered their tracks and tried to escape.
No one could escape.
Not even him.
He grabbed a shoulder using his momentum and weight to throw the body to the floor and twist so that he was on top.
What he saw made him pause though. A small boy, tiny really stared up at him from a pale, malnourished face. Brown tangled curls were pasted to his sweaty forehead and wild green irises stared up at him in fear.
He looked to much like Sherlock.
John felt sick.
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The men had come the next week, from the army they said. Knocked on the door and made demands for The Hunter.
It didn't what anybody else wanted, this was the law.
The law was the law.
John's fainting hadn't improved but his nosebleeds were gradually getting less frequent. The household had begun to relax; believing they wouldn't come, that the doctor hadn't reported it.
They'd been wrong, so wrong.
Sherlock had received a kick because he'd spat an angry word at them, he was lucky that they thought so little of him that that is all he got. Greg made sure to hold him close after that, keeping a hand over his mouth.
For a moment he thought- believed- John looked grateful about that.
Mycroft stood silently watching with his parents as John was taken; lifted out of bed with a care not normally reserved for Others, his simple linen trousers clung to his frame as the plain cotton shirt did. Both garments were too short but the men didn't seem to care. The reverence they showed did not seem to have extended to the chill fog that had settled over the ground or the dew that made the grass damp and cold when they set John standing upon it to walk in bare feet.
The family and Others watched in a silent mourning as John was taken away with no goodbyes or apologies offered; in a distanced, cold manner.
He watched him stumble and a soldier support him. One of the serving Others ended up carrying the sickly figure from sight.
Mycroft's mother stood, unmoved by the sights and turned to go in before John had even disappeared. His father soon turned back to the comfort of home too. The main household of Others had remained inside so in the end it was only three children stood on the steps of the house staring at nothing but the cool grey mists.
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The boy looked terrified and croaked out one word. "P-please..."
John snapped back from thoughts of a little boy he'd been made to leave to stare at the frail child underneath him.
"Please."
John swallowed and looked mournful. "I'm sorry."
The boy's eyes began to well-up. "My mother's waiting for me, just beyond the borders-" His voice broke. "Please."
"You know... You know I can't do that..."
"Why? Why not? You have my father already. You don't need me."
John growled. "That's not how this works! I can't help it, just like you can't help hiding. Cloaker."
"How did you-?" The boy started.
John winced. "I can tell. I can't help it."
The boy shook his head. "I hid myself, you found me but- but let me go and I'll hide myself better, I promise. Please. Just tell them you couldn't find me."
John breathed in unsteadily, the boy's looks and reasoning were reminding him too strongly of what he'd lost.
"Please." The boy begged again.
John stared down at the tiny creature. All of his instincts screamed that he'd be useful, that he could use him. But that wasn't what would happen if he didn't move, the boy would be taken, as his father had been.
He shook his head, he could lie; he could save the boy. He had a family after all, and what did John have to lose? No one, not anymore.
John began to stand and as he did a hand fell on his shoulder. "Good work, Hunter." Said a gravelly voice- that voice, John hated it to his very core. It made his hackles rise and made him want to snap and hurt the man. It sent shivers down his spine and set his teeth on edge.
The hand tightened on his shoulder and pushed him to the ground. "But, what have we here?"
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We know, we're so sorry it's so late! But to be fair I've been working on a late birthday treat for M, the amazing girlfriend she is. When I upload it we'll let you know! Here's the description if you're interested:
Everyone should go camping.
Even if it's only once.
One day John Watson made up his mind that this applied to Sherlock Holmes too.
Looking back at it, Sherlock couldn't pin point when John decided to drag him to the middle of nowhere to share a surprisingly cosy tent. He also couldn't quite remember exactly when he started to love this crazy short man with the worn jumpers and blue eyes, the man with the soft smile.
He only knew that he was here and he did.
Not sure what it's going to be called yet! Like the idea or have a suggestion PM us.
Thank you to everyone who's still with us and a special thanks to the amazing people who reviewed! Wholockinan221, nedermg, foxeeflame, MeemeBear, Second daughter of Eve, IamthePhantomoftheOpera and teentitan42!
THE MORE YOU GUYS REVIEW THE FASTER WE'LL UPDATE! We'd love to hear what you have to say or what you absolutely loath about this/us.
From M and C.