Work Text:
Humans are fragile, ephemeral things. Their lives are fleeting. They bleed too easily and once broken, do not mend so well as wolves.
Yet John has followed him where few can, across open ground in the dark, after a shadow that would rend them both from limb to limb.
Sweat clings to his lover’s skin, pulse thrumming beneath the salt that beckons Sherlock’s tongue. Later he will lick John’s throat clean, lavish other parts of him as well, until he has his good doctor thrashing beneath him. Later means they will both be home, whole and unbroken.
John’s gaze flickers towards him, a silent question. There’s half a moon tonight, rising above the restless moor, melting shadows to silver before them. Sherlock scents the air, stills, listens to the earth listening, and knows which wolf has crossed before them.
Two points west as a compass spins, by the copse on the rise. This is where they will find him. This is where they must slay him. There is no room for mercy now, though Mycroft would argue that there is mercy in this killing. A wolf run mad will only bring ruin upon them all.
He is beautiful from a distance. Sharp-edged against the climbing moon. A legend among legends. And once a friend.
He howls, taunting.
Sherlock answers.
“Hello Bond.”
