Love of Heaven and Hell

The Scene of the Crime

    When John woke up the first thing he saw were two eyes staring back at him. Thankfully they weren't yellow, or even blue, because that would mean Victor and that would mean someone would be getting a bullet through every major organ in his body. But no, they were curious green eyes, Sherlock's eyes, and that was more annoying than creepy.
"Have you been watching me sleep?" John asked with a yawn, rubbing his own disgusting poop colored eyes and sitting up.
"No, I just realized you were waking and I was...um, making sure you weren't dead?" Sherlock muttered.
"So you were watching me sleep." John clarified.
"It sounds creepy when you put it like that." Sherlock muttered guiltily.
"Of course, because it is creepy you nitwit." John pointed out with a laugh, but he smiled up at Sherlock, happy to see his smile returned.
"Any werewolf activity that I should know about?" John asked.
"Nothing, you were right." Sherlock sighed.
"As usual it would seem." John said with a laugh.
"We're going to hunt him down, right?" Sherlock asked.
"While he's human, yes. If we could kill him before he wolfs out that's a bonus as well." John decided.
"Wouldn't it be harder to, you know, kill him while he's still Victor?" Sherlock asked.
"Not for me it won't be." John shrugged.
"Why did you hate him so much, you said that you didn't know he was a werewolf, so why didn't you like him?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know, he was just those kinds of people that thought they were better at everything, and he acted like he was more of an expert on the paranormal than I was." John shrugged. Of course that was barely scratching the surface of the pure hate that radiated off of John, but he decided not to mention the truth.
"You weren't, jealous were you?" Sherlock asked uncertainly, blushing the slightest bit.
"What, no...no of course I wasn't jealous, I was happy you had someone that you liked." John pointed out. Lies, all lies.
"Oh, okay." Sherlock muttered, sounding even the slightest bit disappointed.
"I just don't know what was different between Victor and the guy in the suit shop." John pointed out with a laugh. Sherlock took the card out of his pocket with a shy laugh.
"Saving it for a rainy day." he admitted, and John only laughed, but made a mental note to 'accidently' drop the card into the shredder when he got the chance.
"Alright, so let's gear up and go werewolf hunting." John decided, flicking off his blankets and rolling out of bed with a groan. Once he was all dressed and ready to go it was already nine, but neither of them felt very hungry and they didn't even think of going out to eat breakfast. John was just digging through his weapons bag to find a new pistol when he stopped dead.
"Sherlock have you seen the silver bullets?" he asked, picking up the big bag of salt to make sure they weren't hiding underneath.
"No, I thought you had them." Sherlock pointed out. He was in the bathroom trying to attack his bed head with a hairbrush, unsuccessfully of course. John didn't mind it though, in reality the free hanging curls were a big improvement to the beautiful innocence radiating around Sherlock.
"Oh no, he was smarter than we thought." John muttered, throwing the salt back into the bag with anger and flopping on the bed. He had taken the silver bullets from the bag when they weren't looking, and that's why he took their guns, because the only silver bullets they had left were in those magazines.
"Well this is perfect isn't it? No silver bullets, and we can't just by some, because we need to stay low now that our room was wrecked, we called the police on a murder, and we dug up a grave." John groaned. "How are we supposed to kill the bloody thing when we can't KILL IT?" John demanded, throwing a pillow across the room with anger.
"John, calm down, calm down, we still have this." Sherlock pointed out, holding up the silver knife proudly. John sighed thankfully; at least they weren't completely helpless now.
"This is miserable. How could we let a werewolf get so close?" John groaned, throwing the guns, now useless, back in the bag.
"Wouldn't they at least slow him down?" Sherlock asked nervously, patting down yet another curl that released itself from the mass.
"Yes, but they won't hurt him at all." John groaned. "Give me the knife." Sherlock handed him the blade nervously, as if he expected John to strike down on him instead.
"So this is all we have against a giant, man eating monster. I little dagger." John sighed, looking at the weapon with annoyance.
"Better than nothing." Sherlock pointed out.
"You and your optimism." John mumbled. "Get in the car; we're going to kill this thing once and for all." Sherlock nodded, grabbing a loaded gun anyway, it probably made him feel better even though it won't do anything but make the beast madder. John got into the car and slammed the door rather hard; once again Victor was the cause of his sudden anger.
"God, this guy is so much more trouble than he's worth." John decided, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for Sherlock to get his seatbelt plugged.
"So, where might he be?" Sherlock asked as John got the engine running.
"Haven't the faintest to be honest, why don't we try the Trevor house first?" John recommended. Sherlock nodded with a sigh, obviously he didn't want to think too much about his lost love. John really hoped he wasn't lying about the whole wanted thing, he really hoped Sherlock didn't have any real feelings for that creep.
"So, um, what do we do if we find him?" Sherlock asked nervously, twiddling the gun in his hand.
"Safety's on, right?" John clarified. Sherlock paused, checked, and nodded.
"Yep." He agreed.
"Good, I don't feel like getting shot by my only ally." John said with a slight smile, trying to lighten the mood that was already the darkest of dark.
"I don't want to shoot my only friend." Sherlock agreed, putting the gun back down. John noticed that he had used friend, not ally. Did he see them as friends? John certainly did, but he never really thought Sherlock saw him as anything more than a handler. That lightened John's mood ever so slightly. They drove through the gates to the Trevor house, and John wasn't all that surprised when it was still covered in police tape. Thankfully though, there were no police men or cars swarming around, so all they had to do was get inside through a window or something.
"Do you think he went here?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.
"Not really, but I think it's a good place to start." John admitted, getting out of the car and walking up the polished sidewalk. Now the bloodstains from Mr. Trevor were all but a small red patch on the cement, but which wolf had killed him was the question.
"Do you think Mr. Trevor was a werewolf as well?" John asked Sherlock, who was poking around in the flowers for some reason.
"No idea, but he's out of the picture now." John shrugged. Sherlock plucked a nice pretty pink flower from the bush and examined it.
"Is that evidence of some kind?" John asked, getting the silver knife of out his belt just in case.
"No, it's just pretty." Sherlock admitted with a shy smile. Let's play a game called guess his sexuality. John just laughed though, Sherlock really was a little kid at heart, even if he had been dating a werewolf for a little bit.
"Come on, we're not here for the beauty, we're here for the bloody werewolf that wants to kill us." John pointed out. Sherlock walked over, looking a bit disappointed, and traded his flower for the shot gun.
"Don't look so sad." John said with an encouraging smile, taking the flower from Sherlock's hand and putting it behind his ear, so he looked like some type of hipster hippie girl. But Sherlock just laughed, and for a moment you'd think they were just happy flirtatious teenagers, not a care in the world. But of course there was a care, there were a lot of cares in their world, and unfortunately they had to take care of those cares now or else people, or even they, might get hurt. John would certainly have liked to stand there and look into Sherlock's brilliant green eyes for the rest of eternity, the pale pink flower contrasting against his hair yet blending in with his skin; he was beautiful, truly beautiful. How was Aphrodite still the beauty goddess if Sherlock was alive and well? Mysteries worth solving apparently.
"Alright, let's get this over with." Sherlock sighed, looking up to the police tape covered door with a nervous expression. It was still in pieces from when Victor had gone after his mother, but it was boarded up with a piece of plywood to keep looters out.
"Let's go through a window." John decided, leading the way to the basement window, happily seeing it was still propped open.
"The house doesn't look all that damaged, so he must not be here, right?" Sherlock asked.
"He's got to be human now, remember? It's not nighttime." John pointed out.
"Oh ya, I forgot." Sherlock muttered, sounding truly distraught. John rolled under the window and landed on his feet in the cement basement, still dark and as creepy as before. He flicked on his flashlight and the first place he checked was the pipes in which Victor had been chained to. Of course he wasn't there; the only remains were two shackles dangling uselessly from the pipes and a little yellow evidence marker from the local police. Sherlock landed beside him with a thud, raising his gun and looking around desperately.
"It's all clear." John assured, shining his flashlight at the steps as if Sherlock might forget that he first met Victor down here. They walked up the creaky wooden steps, above the blood spot where Mr. Trevor was killed, which also had a yellow marker over it. Wow, these police really know what to do... John creaked open the door and listened, holding his hand up for Sherlock to wait, in case someone was wandering around. But the house was silent, and the only sound John heard was Sherlock wobbling around on the wooden step, as if he had lost his balance or something.
"We're good." He decided. John opened the door wider and walked into the polished house, now completely destroyed. John sighed, looking around the room for any sort of evidence of where Victor might have gone. John was poking around a couple of papers on the table, but they were all taxes and newsletters for retirements and things, he really couldn't care less, and they didn't help the investigation one bit.
"I don't think this will help, unless Victor's decided to terrorize some elderly." John said with a little laugh, holding up the retirement home flyer for Sherlock to see. But Sherlock wasn't listening, he was standing there looking quite upset even with the flower in his ear, staring glassy eyed at a little picture tucked away behind numerous magnets on the fridge. It was of Victor, of course, even though they claimed to not have a son, the dad must have wanted to at least remember him. It was nothing special, just a teenage Victor in the basement, without shackles on his wrists though, standing next to the open window and looking out longingly. John didn't say anything of course, he didn't want to ruin the moment, but ever sad look in Sherlock's eyes convinced him that he really did like Victor, no matter what he said. John let the pamphlet fall back on the table and continued the search upstairs, these stairs not nearly as creaky but a lot more scratched up then the ones in the basement.
"John, John?!" called a desperate voice from downstairs.
"What!" John called, racing down the steps two at a time and jumping down to the landing.
"Oh, I just didn't know where you went." Sherlock admitted, coming out from the kitchen with a guilty smile, all while tucking something, no doubt the picture, into his pocket hastily.
"I just went upstairs, it's okay." John assured with a little laugh, going back up the steps to investigate. There were a lot more yellow markers strewn across the house, and a lot where on the steps where there were scratch marks and all that. Of course the police were completely clueless about just what had killed Mr. and Mrs. Trevor; surely Victor wouldn't be a suspect considering he's not supposed to exist. They'd probably just look for whoever had a big dog with a taste for rich old people. The glass and wood shards had been swept from the floor, which made maneuvering around the floor a lot easier. The destroyed bedroom door still clung to its hinges, and the bloodstain that had once held Mrs. Trevor was still present, marked once again with a yellow number 13.
"There's nothing here." John groaned, putting the knife back onto his belt with defeat. But he couldn't think of anywhere a werewolf would like to hang out, or even Victor. He hasn't been in the town at all before, so where would he go? It was a mystery to John, and he's spent most of his life tracking down stupid supernatural beings.
"Well, where else do you think he would go?" Sherlock asked.
"That's the thing, I have no idea. Did he mention anything to you, any place that he's always wanted to visit?" John groaned.
"Not particularly." Sherlock muttered. John sighed, this was hopeless, it was trying to find a needle in a haystack, but astronomically harder.
"Do you think we should just wait around for an attack?" John suggested.
"Well, I don't know, he might be going out for another person, he must be hungry, so maybe we should go in a crowded area and wait you know?" Sherlock suggested.
"Do you think he'd go for another boyfriend?" John asked. Sherlock looked down, suddenly there was a flush in his cheeks, and John immediately regretted his words.
"I'm sorry..." John started.
"It's fine, don't worry about it." Sherlock assured. "Maybe he would, considering he seemed pretty eager to jump on the first opportunity." John thought for a moment, what could they do to possibly attract a gay werewolf? Well, what would you do for a regular werewolf? Bait, they needed bait, and John knew the precise place to get some.
"Sherlock, do you still have the suit shop attendant's number?" he asked. Sherlock looked a little bit confused, but dug around in his pocket for a while to get the card out. John laughed slightly, but took the card, making sure the numbers were still intact. 1tc