Love of Heaven and Hell

If Only Death Ran in Their Family...

    He gave Sherlock a helping hand up, electricity sparking through their hands when their skin touched, and then they were off through the tombstones. It was dark and creepy, always great when it's nighttime, you're in a creepy old graveyard, there's a werewolf ghost, and it's a full moon. John just noticed the moon part now, and a shiver went down his spine. If the wolves had attacked on days other than today, does that mean they could change at will? John didn't want to point that out to Sherlock, hoping that the boy wouldn't panic. Nevertheless John was just as fearful as he Sherlock was, every rustle in the tall, overgrown spots of grass was a werewolf, crouched to pounce, every bird chirp was a low, menacing growl. Sherlock was staying very close to John, which was kind of nice, but every time he looked at Sherlock he saw Victor instead, Victor standing so close, Victor kissing Sherlock...John shuttered with anger, gripping his gun and looking around once more. It seemed like the maze of tombstones went on forever, but, after a good hour of searching...
"Here! Maryanne Trevor!" Sherlock exclaimed, having wandered around for no apparent reason. John sighed with relief; he was starting to think that Victor had just sent them on a wild goose chase. He walked over to where Sherlock was standing, rubbing off the dust from the stone and pulling some of the long grass to make it more visible.
"Do you think this is her?" Sherlock asked.
"I doubt there are many other Trevor's in here, the date checks out." John muttered, reading the weathered inscriptions. "Well then..." he decided, grabbing for the bag.
"Wait!" Sherlock insisted, grabbing John's shoulder and making him freeze. "Shouldn't we pay our respects?" he asked in a small, nervous voice as if John was going to yell at him.
"Um, okay." John muttered, standing up straight and looking down at the grave. Sherlock had his eyes closed and was silent, as if this stupid werewolf deserved a moment of silence. John was silent as well, but he didn't close his eyes for fear that the ghost would pop out while their backs were turned and eat them. This was stupid, they were going to burn her body anyway, and she's been eating her own daughter, how did Sherlock think this was a good idea?
"Okay." Sherlock said with a deep breath, looking around nervously.
"Alright, let's dig her up." John decided, throwing Sherlock a shovel and keeping one for himself.
"This isn't legal, is it?" Sherlock asked, holding the shovel but looking at it with worry, as if the police scared him more than a werewolf ghost.
"No, of course not." John laughed, throwing the bag so that it didn't get sprayed with the dirt and sinking the shovel into the ground. As it turns out, Sherlock wasn't a very good construction worker. Actually, Sherlock wasn't very good at anything athletic. After about ten minutes he had shoveled like three shovelfuls of dirt and couldn't continue, leaning heavily on his spade and wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"What's up with you?" John asked, daring a small laugh.
"How do you do this?" Sherlock sighed, stepping out of the shallow crater they were creating and sitting down on the grass.
"It takes practice I suppose." John shrugged, shoveling even more dirt out without hesitation or pain. The amount of graves he's dug, it was a bit of a shame really. He's dug up and mutilated more corpses than he could even remember, what a sad life. Soon the dirt pile was rising and the hole was getting deeper, so deep in fact that John's head was just poking out and Sherlock's legs were dangling in.
"So you do this a lot then?" Sherlock asked.
"Yep." John said with a guilty smile. He had shed his leather jacket and Sherlock was balling it up in his hands, probably not even knowing he was doing it.
"What do we do when we get to the coffin, how do we get in?" he asked curiously.
"Well, we either break it open or use the latch, usually breaking is easier though, back then people were buried in the crappiest of coffins, they were all wood..." his sentence was cut off with the hallow clunk of his shovel hitting something solid. "Bingo!" John exclaimed. "Sherlock, hand me the bag." He instructed. With a powerful smack he brought the metal down on the wooden coffin, making the old wood crumble like dust.
"See, told you." John said with a laugh, shoveling the wood to get through to the corpse. Empty eye sockets stared up at him, with strands of thin white hair clinging to the bone and scraps of skin. John revealed more of the corpse and had to jump out of the hole to avoid having to step on her dress, which was tattered and ripped. The smell was the worst though, it was always the worst, the smell of dead, rotting flesh trapped for centuries, it wasn't a pleasant odor. Sherlock must've smelled it as well, because he clasped his hand to his nose in disgust.
"This is so disrespectful." Sherlock muttered as John dumped salt into the coffin, followed by a nice gasoline shower.
"It's what's necessary, if we don't do this, Victor will die." John pointed out.
"I don't think you'd mind that." Sherlock muttered.
"What do you mean by that?" John asked, offended even though it was the obvious truth.
"Oh come on, I saw your face, you're disgusted by him, by, us." Sherlock pointed out.
"Oh, so it's an us now?" John asked.
"I don't know." Sherlock admitted. John sighed, lighting a match and staring at the flame, the only light other than the moon and stars.
"Fire away." He muttered, throwing the match in the pile of bones and wood and lighting the body ablaze. The fire spread easily, lighting the entire hole on fire. John lead Sherlock away from the rising flames, just so their shoes didn't catch or anything, but there wasn't immediate danger. They watched the bones burn slowly, you could hear things collapsing, skulls, rib cages, coffins, they were all victimized by the roaring flames.
"So it's over now?" Sherlock asked in a weak voice, seemingly transfixed.
"It should be." John agreed. Sherlock nodded, stepping closer to John to fight off the chilly wind. John had the strangest urge to wrap his arm around him, pull him closer or something, hold his hand and enjoy his company. But alas, neither made a move, they only stared at the flames until finally they died out, and all that was left in the hole was a heaping pile of ash.
"Well then, let's shovel some of this dirt back in and we'll be on our way." John decided. It actually took a lot shorter to get the dirt back in the hole, and once it looked like some animal was digging around, John considered his work to be done. Sherlock, who was now cold or something, had pulled on the leather jacket, snuggling down into its warmth so he looked like the most pathetic motorcyclist ever. John paid no attention to that though, he knew if he asked Sherlock would insist he take it back, and Sherlock looked positively radiant in it. John had no idea what made Sherlock so appealing, he had no idea what separated him from all of the other women in the world, but he knew that if he had to pick someone to spend the rest of his life with he'd pick Sherlock, but Sherlock would undoubtedly pick Victor. Stupid Victor. John wished it had been his bones that they'd just burnt, and not his hag grandmother. Whatever, he'd be gone in a day; all he needed to get through was one more stinking day of that rat scuttling around his man.
"Sherlock we should go." John decided, stuffing the shovel in his bag and starting off over the hills once again.
"Back to the hotel?" Sherlock asked, almost hopefully.
"Yes, back to the hotel." John agreed with a sigh. He knew what was waiting for him at the hotel, well, more waiting for Sherlock, probably with roses and chocolates and an engagement ring. John shuttered at the thought of the two getting married, how much of an overall life ending disaster would that be?
"Coming." Sherlock agreed, bouncing along side of John, the zipper on the leather jacket clinking metallically. John walked to the gate first, and threw the bag over the top after making sure no one was around to see them jump the fence again.
"Oh, we have to do this again?" Sherlock asked fearfully.
"Unfortunately for you, yes." John agreed, jumping up on the bars and scaling his way over easily. Sherlock groaned, looking up at the top as if it was a million miles away, but a look of nervous determination was evident on his pale face. John landed catlike on the other side, looking in on Sherlock through the iron rungs with a little smile of encouragement. Sherlock jumped onto the bars before he could hesitate, climbing up the gate, taking a deep breath, and rolling over the top. This time he held on, even though he did shriek, but his foothold stayed and his hands were clutching onto the bars so hard John was afraid his knuckles would burst out of his skin. But Sherlock slid down ever so slowly, cautiously, as if he thought a three foot drop would violently kill him.
"There you go! I'm a proud parent." John laughed as Sherlock landed safely on the sidewalk, looking quite proud of himself.
"I hate doing that." Sherlock decided, but he was smiling all the same.
"Let's get going then, things to do, towns to leave." John decided.
"What about Victor, I know you're not his biggest fan, but can't we bring him with us?" Sherlock asked in a pleading tone.
"No Sherlock, even though I don't like him it's true that we can't afford another person on this Highway to Hell, we're booked and broke." John pointed out.
"Fair enough." Sherlock sighed.
"What, do you think it's true love?" John asked as they got to the car, throwing the bag in the trunk and sliding into the driver's seat. Sherlock didn't answer; he simply stared at the dashboard, deep in thought.
"How about this, I'll stay out of the room tonight, I'll sleep in the car, and if you want to get engaged for all I care, knock yourselves out, but everything ends in the morning and we're leaving town." John decided. Sherlock nodded, looking completely depressed now. John didn't tell him how much he wanted Sherlock to deny that request, to tell him how much he disliked Victor, he didn't tell Sherlock how he loved him, how guiltily he was attracted to him like a beautiful gravitational pull. Now that he thought of that it was best he kept that to himself, that was actually really creepy. The rest of the car ride was silent, John was feeling his stomach twist with disgust, he felt himself wanting to simply drive out of town and not look back. Who cared about Victor, why did they need an explanation, why did they need to say goodbye? But nevertheless he pulled into the driveway, staring at the door in disgust.
"Alright then, good night." John muttered, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel with annoyance.
"Thanks John, for everything." Sherlock decided, as if he thought that's what John wanted to hear, which in reality it wasn't, at all.
"No problem." John muttered. Sherlock did wait around to make sure John was okay or anything, he jumped out of the car and walked up to the hotel door, fixing his hair as he walked. Before Sherlock could even knock the door flung open and Victor greeted him with a tight hug, pulling a now disoriented Sherlock into the room and slamming the door shut. John sighed, staring at the door with annoyance. He hated Victor, he hated ever speck of that worm, from his beautiful bloody eyes to his wavy stupid hair, he'd just love to put a nice bullet through his unworthy skull. John sighed, reclining the seat back and staring up at the dark ceiling. The idea of Sherlock right now, kissing that bloody hag of a boy, it was disgusting. Why couldn't John have accidentally fallen for anyone else, not the one person that was unavailable to him? Sherlock was like a diamond buried in quicksand, sure you might be able to retrieve him for .23 seconds before you die. But right now, just as John was drowning in the sand, it seemed worth it. If only they hadn't come here, if only John had scrolled down farther and picked some stupid poltergeist to investigate, life wouldn't be as miserable as it was now. John was dozing off peacefully, listening to the crickets chirping in the tall grass around the parking lot and letting his mind take hold when an earsplitting scream broke his silence. At first he thought he had imagined it, it had been part of some bad dream right? Then it came again, more desperate, and a gunshot, Sherlock was in trouble.