Love of Heaven and Hell

Operation Burn Grandma

John woke to a knocking on the window, which made him jump so badly he smacked his head off of the roof with a metallic clang. The sunlight hit his eyes with a sting; he had slept for what felt like days.
"What?" John demanded, looking out the window to see Sherlock's sleepy face smiling down at him. "Sherlock, god, what time is it?" John asked, rubbing his eyes and sitting up.
"Oh, only eleven thirty." Sherlock sighed, opening the door and sliding inside before John could do anything to stop him, like he would anyway. John groaned, scooting over in the seat and shieling his eyes from the bright sun, which had illuminated three times since yesterday.
"I uh, here." Sherlock said, handing him a paper cup of coffee, which was obviously stone cold. Nevertheless John sipped at it, as to show Sherlock that his affection didn't go unnoticed.
"So, how was your night with Victor?" John asked, saying the name like it was poison.
"It was fine. Nothing happened, if that's what you're wondering." Sherlock pointed out, looking rather offended. But a huge weight was flung off of John's shoulders; at least he hadn't lost Sherlock completely. John noticed that Sherlock was wearing only his dress shirt, and not his jacket, but for Sherlock that looked almost scandalous.
"We ought to get you some proper pajamas." John decided.
"Why don't you like Victor?" Sherlock asked, leaning his curly head on his shoulder.
"Who said I didn't like him?" John asked, taking another sip of cold coffee.
"You did." Sherlock pointed out. It was true.
"Oh." John muttered. "I don't know, I feel like he thinks he knows more about this stuff than I do, and that's preposterous because I'm a hunter, and he's a victim." John pointed out.
"I think he only wants to help, he's not after your job, he doesn't want to take me away from you, he's only trying to help." Sherlock assured.
"I know, I know that Sherlock I was just a little bit upset over the whole werewolf thing, it's not your fault and I'm sorry I was taking it out on you." John sighed.
"You were more taking it out on him." Sherlock said with an innocent laugh. John giggled a little bit, just because his smile was present.
"Ya, ya I guess I was." John agreed.
"Where did you end up going?" Sherlock asked after their silent, guilty giggling wore off.
"Oh, just to the bar. I ended up doing research all night anyway." John shrugged.
"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked curiously.
"Not really, no one seems to think there is such a thing as a werewolf ghost." John sighed.
"You don't think he's lying do you?" Sherlock asked, sounding worried.
"No, of course...well I don't know, I honestly can't say." John sighed.
"I don't think he is." Sherlock said confidently.
"I think we're both biased, for opposite reasons." John decided. Sherlock nodded in agreement; of course he was right, Sherlock would stand up for him while John would shoot him down in any way possible.
"You know what we have to do though?" John asked.
"Interrogate?" Sherlock suggested, sounding a bit apprehensive all the same.
"No, not interrogate, burn the grandmother's bones, just to be sure. I don't know what to do about a werewolf ghost, but I know what to do about a ghost, so we're going to burn the bones tonight." John decided.
"Why do we do everything at night?" Sherlock asked.
"Because I don't think you want a family visiting old Aunt Maggie to see two knuckle heads digging up a grave and staring a fire in it." John pointed out with a laugh. Sherlock laughed as well, his smile lighting up the small car more than the sun ever would.
"Once again you're right." Sherlock decided.
"Have I ever not been?" John asked.
"Well....yes." Sherlock decided.
"In all the time we've known each other, I think I've been wrong at least all of it." John agreed, and they both burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. John didn't have time to realize how truly happy he felt when it was only he and Sherlock together until Victor walked out of the hotel room, his brown hair glistening in the morning sun. This might not have been so truly irritating if he would've bothered to put on a bloody shirt, but alas here he was, and his tee shirt was somewhere else. Sherlock's laughter died as he noticed Victor walking towards them, male model swag on full activate, but he looked more like a jealous, protective boyfriend than anything. The sight of Victor, of course, in this condition, made John want to throw something threw a window, but he only clenched his coffee cup in his hand and prepared for the worst. Victor opened the car door, blue eyes sparkling, looking between Sherlock and John suspiciously.
"Good morning." he said simply to John, who merely nodded his greeting.
"Victor...what are you doing out here?" Sherlock asked, it was a simple enough question, but John snickered at the disgusted face Victor made at being questioned.
"Seeing if you were okay of course. You didn't return, and in times like these we have to take care of our own." Victor pointed out. Sherlock still seemed speechless, and it wasn't a difficult leap to figure out why.
"Well that's very kind of you, but no one came after me when I disappeared all night." John pointed out. Victor frowned slightly at John's interference.
"We knew you could take care of yourself." Victor pointed out coolly. John and he kind of had a glare off, and it was all John could do to keep himself from bashing his ungrateful, boy stealing model head into the window.
"I was worried, I almost went looking for you, but there was no car and it was dark, and you know, there's a werewolf out there." Sherlock said, his sentence dwindling as he saw the annoyed expression on Victor's face.
"Okay then, let's get both of you inside, people will wonder what we're doing." Victor decided, grabbing Sherlock's wrist a bit roughly and pulling him out of the parking lot. Of course now Sherlock was awestruck now, obviously he couldn't be in such close proximity with shirtless Victor without losing his way of speaking. John sighed; no one cared about him, nooo, just leave John in the car to get eaten by the bloody werewolf. John got out of the car himself, slamming the door and following the two love birds into the room. The curtains were drawn and as soon as John shut the door the orange lamp light was the only source of light, making everything look a lot dimmer and bloody romantic then necessary. Victor sat on the bed, well, sort of lounged, as if trying to show off his six pack, where he even had the time to do sit ups and crunches was beyond John, but the outcome was obvious.
"So, what to do then?" Sherlock asked, his guilty eyes wandering on Victor the makeshift model and then moving back to John for the game plan. Well, first we're going to drive a blunt object through your boyfriend's six pack...
"Well, we should probably burn the bones, Victor where is your grandmother buried?" John asked, trying his best not to throw something.
"Shady Brooks Cemetery, not far from Oak Hills, I could show you." Victor offered.
"We're not bringing you." John said, and it came out a lot eviler than he wanted it to. Sherlock glared at him like an accusing teenager, like dad, why are you ruining my life? "What I mean is that you're the one the wolf is after, and it's more likely to be haunting the cemetery than anywhere else." John decided.
"But could I just bait it, and you could kill it like that?" Victor suggested.
"No, of course not, the only way to kill a ghost is to burn its bones, so the more it stays away the better." John decided with a triumphant smile. Victor, who was obviously disappointed, spread his face into what he wanted to look like a smile of relief.
"Oh, good then." He muttered. But no, it wasn't good, not for him, because then he would be leaving Sherlock, and he thinks that he needs to keep Sherlock on a very tight leash. Hahaha Victor, loser... John sighed, clicking the magazine in and out of his gun in thought. A werewolf ghost, well, ghosts burn; werewolves die with silver, should he shoot the thing in the brain with a silver bullet and then burn the bones? He was all very confused, but right now that must be the best course of action.
"Alright, this is what we're going to do. Tonight, we'll find her grave, go to whatever brook cemetery and..."
"Shady Brooks." Sherlock corrected quickly. If Victor had said that John would've thrown the bed post at him, but he only smiled at Sherlock.
"Yes, that, we'll go there, shoot the bones with silver because I really don't know what else to do, burn the bones, and all of this would be over." John decided.
"Perfect." Sherlock said happily. "Wait, if it's over..." he looked over at Victor with wide green eyes. They were obviously thinking the same thing, if it's over than where will Victor go?
"Sorry, but there's only enough for two on this road trip." John decided. Victor sighed heavily, accepting his fate. John just might have had the slightest bit of remorse if Victor had been wearing as shirt, but alas, no remorse and no shirt.
"I don't want Victor to leave." Sherlock muttered.
"Sherlock, I can barely afford food for myself and you only have two outfits. We need guns, ammo, hotel rooms; we simply can't afford to keep him." John sighed.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sherlock was acting like Victor was some sort of puppy they found on the side of the street, begging to keep it.
"What, you're lucky we've kept him this long!" John debated.
"Whoa, Sherlock, Sherlock come on, I can see when I'm not wanted." Victor pointed out; placing a gentle hand on Sherlock's to calm him down. Yep, that shut him up completely.
"One more night, that's all I can give you, then we'll split town and move onto the next freaky accident." John decided. Sherlock looked close to tears, but Victor nodded as if he were some hero, modest and accepting his fate. John hated him so much.

Usually days go by quickly when you're a hunter, always watching your back, always preparing for the worst. Nope. Today it was absolutely pathetically slow, the seconds ticking by like hours, all because Victor and Sherlock were sitting together on that stupid bed, holding hands. John noticed a couple of hours ago that their fingers were interlocked, and so far neither of them had moved. And then, about an hour ago, Sherlock had sunken his head onto Victor's bare shoulder, which made John want to just burst into flames and bring the roof down on Victor's bloody hear. But of course then he would be hurting Sherlock, and that simply wouldn't do. Finally (emphasis on finally) the clock struck eight o'clock, and John bolted up from him bed. They had to do this after hours for the cemetery, and John estimated that everyone would be gone by eight.
"Alright, Sherlock got your gun?" he asked.
"Should I be using silver or rock salt?" he asked curiously, fiddling around with the magazine and nearly spilling it on the floor. Some hunter.
"I have no idea to be honest." John shrugged, packing the salt, oil, and matches into a small duffle bag and throwing it over his shoulder.
"Alright, I'll be back." Sherlock decided, getting up but not moving. It was obvious he wanted another sappy goodbye, and, unfortunately, Victor stood up as well.
"Now you be careful, Grandmother was evil, apparently she still is evil." Victor muttered.
"I'm be fine, you should be watching your back as well though." Sherlock pointed out. Victor laughed a shy laugh, one that made John choke on his own hate, and looked down on Sherlock. This was the moment John was expecting, but he could never be able to prepare for it. Victor leaned up and pulled Sherlock's head closer, planting a gentle loving kiss onto his lips. John couldn't take it, he grabbed the bag and stormed out of the room, not bothering to look back to see just how Sherlock was reacting. John sat in the car for a good five minutes before Sherlock came stumbling out, as if he were drunk or something, drunk on love no doubt. Sherlock fell into the car and closed the door, and John could see him opening and closing his lips like a dumb fish, as if reenacting his kiss once more.
"Well how was that?" John asked teasingly, but in reality it was his breaking point for Victor.
"That was...huh that was brilliant." Sherlock muttered.
"So what's different between Victor and the guy at the suit shop?" John pointed out. Sherlock stayed quiet, as if he hadn't heard him. John just rolled his eyes and started up the engine, driving down the road following a little map he had stolen from the motel. Shady Brooks Cemetery wasn't too far from Oak Hills, as Victor had promised. John pulled up next to the wide gates, which were closed for the night, and stared up into the never-ending hills of marble tombstones.
"How are we supposed to find her?" Sherlock asked cautiously.
"No idea." John admitted, getting out of the car and chucking his bag over top of the fence. John didn't even hesitate to jump onto the iron, hoisting himself up and over the fence, the spikes at the top not even slowing him down.
"How am I supposed to do that?" Sherlock asked through the fence as John landed on his feet.
"Just do what I did, climb." John shrugged, as if it were self-explanatory.
"Ya, sure climb." Sherlock muttered grabbing onto the fence and starting to climb up it nervously. Obviously Sherlock had never fence jumped before, because by the time he got to the top the entire fence was shaking.
"Hey, calm down okay, you've got all the time in the world, and I won't let you fall, just stay calm." John assured. Sherlock nodded, but if anything that made him more scared.
"Now swing your leg over the top, and then the other one, and then you're on the other side." John directed, but Sherlock wouldn't move.
"Swing your leg Sherlock!" John insisted. Sherlock took a deep breath and then swung one of his legs over. But apparently he had forgotten about the iron spikes at the top because as soon as he swung his leg over he yelped and started falling towards the grass. With an ear shattering shriek Sherlock fell over the side of the fence, flailing and screaming like his entire life was over. John threw the bag and his gun and took on the act of Superman, bracing himself for impact and catching Sherlock in a princess carry thing. Sherlock's arms wrapped around his neck like a sloth or something, but his face was pressed so close to John's that he almost wished he were Victor so that Sherlock would go the extra centimeter.
"Oh, um, thanks." Sherlock muttered, and John gently dumped him onto the ground. Sherlock went sprawling into the grass, spitting dirt and getting grass stains on his nice clothes, but he was laughing all the while.
"Let's just get this over with, shall we?" John asked with a sigh, but he couldn't help smiling.