substituteskull | (no subject)

He'd heard talks when he was little. Bloodlines are important, purity more so. He remembers his father telling him this. Remembers his mother crying a little and his sister yawning. She's the first born. She's the special one. The contract is written and John, barely old enough to hold a pen much less write his name, is told to make his mark on the line labeled 'collateral.' He doesn't understand it but he draws a little Mickey Mouse head, one ear lopsided. He remembers a man with a long nose and a weasel-like face smiling with a pinched expression at him and saying something along the lines of: "well" and "that will do, I'd imagine."

After that, childhood memories resumed like normal. He remembers a few unhappy moments, centred mostly around puberty when all he wanted to do was fight anything that moved and join the Army when he was just a bit older. And he remembers times when his mother would be gone for a week here or there. Always on 'business' though she was a housewife by trade and cultivated flowers for fun.

When he'd gotten old enough to ask properly, his parents sat him down and told him of their alliance, ancient and sacred, of how their family stood in as surrogates for what could well be the entirety of the human race. He'd not believed it at first and even scoffed at the explanation. Vampires don't exist and if they did, he reasoned, it'd be easier to feed off of many people and not just one. People need months to regenerate heavy blood loss. And buying that older vampires need less blood is--

Well, far fetched.

John'd been away on his first tour of duty abroad when his sister's name was drawn and her service started. He wasn't there to meet her protector nor to watch her fall into madness over it.

Madness. Drugs. Alcohol abuse. All of these can cause impurities. All of these can ruin a candidate. It's no wonder that Clara rejected his sister in the end. Or that John was taken from the active duty roster almost immediately because of it.

The collateral was needed. Not to replace Harry exactly, for what protector would be able to stand the blood of the sibling they'd rejected? No, to serve a sentence for the failure of the Watsons to uphold their end of the bargain.

John finds himself unhooded and terrified in an old warehouse, eyes barely adjusting to the light as the weasel-like man with his squinty smile stands before him. It's been decades and the man doesn't look as if he's aged a day. John swallows and despite his terror, realization hits him hard about what this is. And why. "John. Pleasure to see you again. You've aged...well. Oh Sherlock, really. Come out here and meet your human. You really are incorrigible. Dining on rats is for children. I'll not have you sulking."

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Incorrigible? Hardly.

He merely didn't feel like playing this silly game Mycroft wanted of him. He didn't want a human, didn't care for it one bit. He was perfectly fine doing things his way, no matter what his brother thought of it. Or anyone else. That was the thing most likely.

A Holmes drinking from small animals like some low life. Like some nobody. It must sting so badly for his brother, for his entire line. Probably part of why Sherlock did it, beyond just not wanting to deal with the whole human factor. Also to prove that he could function just fine on his diet of small animals, though Mycroft insisted that he would never be at his full potential eating that way.

"If I were sulking I would not be here." Sherlock speaks up, stepping out from the shadows. He's clearly not invested in the whole ordeal, head down and looking at a cellphone that he's typing away on. The human's fear is so thick he has to look up and take a peek at him, at first glance he would seem normal. Boring. Ordinary. Heart rate quicker than normal due to said fear, typical human.

And then Sherlock sniffs, just a little, as if clearing his nose of something, but no. No it's to get a smell of the human, his scent. He... John, smells... interesting. Even Sherlock's interest is mildly piqued.

"Watson's son I take it." Not a question, more a statement of fact. He'd been around her enough to smell the hint of her in John's blood, but John... he was much more than just that.

"Mm. Yes. Mummy's quite fond of her. Clara, not so much of his sister. I wouldn't grow attached, Sherlock."

John might be afraid but he also doesn't like being kidnapped! Or hooded. Or driven to whatever this horrible place is and then offered up like a gift to some strange looking creeper with silvery-blue eyes who happens to be sniffing the air.

"Excuse me," John says, an attempt to be polite even as he twists his mouth. "Don't you think you ought to ask me how I might feel about your arrangement? I'm due for a second tour of Afghanistan shortly and--"

Well that has all eyes on him. Mycroft actually chuckles. "My dear doctor Watson, I'm afraid you signed the contract yourself."

John's mouth drops open. "I drew a few circles! And I was four!" he bellows. The woman with Mycroft actually looks about ready to giggle.

"I don't plan on growing attached, I'm not interested." A lie. He is interested, but he doesn't want to play to Mycroft's ways. Doesn't want to take this human and behave like the others. He's fine as he is, he doesn't need this.

The human, John, is quite loud, very indigent, considering his circumstances.

"Should have read the fine print." Sherlock remarks offhandedly in the middle of outbursts and amused noises from the peanut gallery.

"I think I've had enough of this, as has Doctor Watson. Take him back home, Mycroft. I don't want a human." He says, tugging his gloves back on and stuffing his phone into his coat pocket, turning to leave.

"The most brilliant thing about being in charge, Sherlock, is that I get to decide what you do and do not need." A beckon towards John finds the human walking closer, only to blink, shake his head, and cross his arms over his chest.

Call everyone surprised at that. Even Mycroft's mouth hangs open slightly. At his age, for a human to be able to withstand a command-- Impossible. No one moves and no one breathes, not that John notices.

"I'm not going to be someone's midnight snack because of a coerced signature," he contends, having no idea just how special he is.

Or how dangerous.

Mycroft's mouth clicks closed. "Sherlock."

Sherlock is ignoring him, as he typically does. Mycroft can hem and haw on and on about how he's the boss, but it makes no difference to him. He'll do what he wants either way. Still, he can feel it when it happens. More he can feel the surprise from Mycroft when his command is broken.

By this human. Just a human, a human who's hardly young in years, though John isn't old either, still...

The younger Holmes will turn on his heel, looking back.

"Oh this just got interesting." There is the slightest little curve of one side of his mouth up, knowing his brother must be so very peeved by this. If not amazed as well. This just doesn't happen.

"Funny, Mycroft, it seems along with me, Doctor Watson doesn't want to listen to you either. We might get along better than I thought." Why yes, he did just say that as if he planned on taking him now.

No, John thinks to himself. This did not just get interesting. Just put me back in the car and take me back to where I belong-- That's not here. That's not with these people. John is adamant about that.

"Listen, I appreciate all of this, I do. But I'm going home now." If only he knew how to drive! John is left with his arms across his chest and a vaguely dumbfounded look about him, lips screwed up and pressed together thinly.

Mycroft is having none of this however. "Enough!" he commands, but John doesn't budge, doesn't relax for even a moment. It's as if he doesn't really register what's happening.

Truthfully, he doesn't.

When the Holmeses smirk at one another, Mycroft ends up rolling his eyes. "Please come along quietly, Doctor Watson. There's no need to resort to violence."

"I hadn't thr-- Oh. You mean against me."

Mycroft laughs. "Precisely."