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[fangsforhire]

consultingsister  bared their pretty throat : 👩‍⚕️

‘Shit Holmes, this isn’t how I expected-’ A hiss escaped immortal lips, abruptly cutting off his reunion speech. It had been a while since they had crossed paths, life and work having gotten in the way. Ever since Moriarty’s demise he’d been distancing himself from everything he had known, a hollow place sort of left inside. ( Whatever feelings for Jim he’d had had become way too complicated to decrypt, and he’d done his best to drown his sorrows. First through the normal means, cigarettes and alcohol, then when that hadn’t worked, he’d gone hard-core. ) To say being back in London now was bizarre was putting it lightly. Of course he knew that Sherlock had survived, that it had all been for nothing and yet there was no point crying over spilled milk. Any fury he’d felt had dispersed as he put his sole focus on finding his feet again. He’d survived without authority before, he could do it again. Being free-lance was certainly less stressful. 

‘Christ, that burns.’ The smell of antiseptic polluted his senses, causing his nose to wrinkle as he watched Cecilia apply pressure to the knife-wound, feeling splinters of the blade press deep. Weapons were always hit and miss thanks to his unique flesh, but this one had been freshly sharpened and caught him unaware. The audacity of humans never failed to amaze him. ( Tongue swiped his teeth, permitting physical contact until his patience ran out, putting considerable distance between them, getting up to pace. ) London looked and felt the same, many going about their day without a care in the world, the absence of Moriarty and his minions, unnoticeable. Yet how the mighty had fallen, the remains of the web having scattered from Sherlock. He had to wonder why she was even giving him the time of day, honestly. Or did she realise things weren’t as clear cut as her brother believed?

‘Thanks, anyway. I owe you one - yeah?’

[fangsforhire]

| ℒ |

~ @pcthologist

‘Precisely.’

Exclamation was made at the TV, listening to the newsman prattle about recent developments, the bulk of theories each as wacky as the next. Apparently Holmes had either survived by hurling onto a Barbie bouncy castle or was secretly made of elastic or some shit. He’d waved his hand in frustration, scoffing at the audacity of some people’s desperation to seek attention. ( Did anyone believe in this rubbish? ) About to turn off the idiocy, he’d come to pause as the talk turned to Moriarty, and how there was no body. Absolutely zilch and it was this that he was whole-heartedly agreeing with. It was kinda sus alright - not to mention unbelievable. Why wouldn’t Holmes have shouted from the roof tops that he’d won? Why wouldn’t he have enticed Moriarty’s men out of hiding? 

What had been the point of it all? He clearly had no issues in playing dead, only to return and expect everyone to roll out the red carpet. Talk about theatrical. It was adorable really that he believed he’d bested them; that Moriarty’s network was truly dismantled and the last of those loyal had gone over as M had liked to croon, to the side of the Angels. A stupid analogy in his opinion, considering that celestials were warriors, designed for various duties. Angelic may be a term human beings liked to throw around, but the divine were not fluffy bunnies in halos. Purlease, had no one read the Bible? 

Hand rubbed his forehead, turning up the volume and drowning out the rest of the world as he listened intently for any inclination that he wasn’t barking up the wrong tree - glaring as the weather took over, and Moriarty was mentioned no more. ( Ugh, fine. He’d have to do this alone - go with his original plan and make his way through Holmes's tribe. ) Starting with her, Molly Hooper, ‘ex-girlfriend’ of Jim from ‘It.’ Unbearable cat lover, mundane according to his former Boss - achingly ordinary. Fantastic. The only plus? Her occupation. 

Getting in and out would be child splay for he’d learned long ago, no one guarded the dead and Morgue’s were a sanctuary in their own right, the bodies deceased enough that he wouldn’t accidentally encounter those who dealt with resurrection. ( It was a relief, since he wasn’t oblivious as the rest of the population and was very much in the know. ) How they even could be so blind was beyond him; feet making their way from his safehouse, the stench of death already polluting his senses. Of course that was the downside to ambushing her there, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the gurney with a tilted head. Rotting corpse anyone?

‘Shame. They’re not the only one with rigor mortis setting in.’

[fangsforhire]

{ So I'll find what lies BENEATH; your SICK twisted smile. }

FLASHBACK;

MORIARTY.

A mere WHISPER amongst men. A name crafted to produce mass fear and panic. Genocide heavy in the air. Oh while it was completely true he did disregard most rumours. How could he idly let this one pass by? ( M so anonymous that he’d become infamous within the criminal world. Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. ) One too many times of hearing about him had indeed piqued his interest. How could one human attract the continual attention of deadly convicts?

Head shook as he SNATCHED the newspaper article and flung it carelessly aside. Getting in touch with the right people proved second nature; but he hadn’t expected to be approached, to be ensnared within his spiders web like a moth to a flame. Crafty fucker wasn’t he? Keeping his distance had proved effortless; executing expected targets, remaining in touch with only one man. ( Sure, M had captured his eye- said to possess genius intellect but he was a ghost too. ) Few knew his name. Destined to forget the second it left their lips. He’d eradicated, erased any footprint through history. With centuries under his belt, it was easy-peasy. It also aided him in the fact he owned no paper trail - created rather than born unlike the majority of all species.

Perhaps that’s why he’d naively ASSUMED it would all be plain sailing - that he’d endure contracts until the man ceased to exist. He hadn’t expected to become so intrigued… and yet, curiosity wasn’t a sin, no? When you play with fire, you get burned. He’d discovered this the hard way, and so why was he prepared to dance in the flames now? ( It was simple; the headline had spread - Moriarty was dead. Yeah right. Hadn’t you heard pigs can also fly? ) Eyes blinked rapidly as he re-read the words printed; disbelief evident. No text - no phone call. Radio silence; oh wasn’t it awful? It made his skin crawl. Sure M had become noisy, engaging the media but to commit suicide so… messily? From what he’d researched on the man; while theatrics was his style; he loathed getting his hands dirty. So why would he change tactics now?

‘Doesn’t make sense. Fucking imbeciles.’

The NIGGLING escalated, prompting him to slip trade-mark weapon into the confines of his jeans and follow all leads. It was after exhausting the obvious he’d found himself upon the roof; sniffing the air suspiciously. ( The stench of blood profound and yet - really; O-positive? The most popular blood type known to man? Disappointment became overwhelming; wrinkling his nose in disgust. Surely one such as Moriarty exhibited the rarest? ) Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose; using inhuman senses to locate blood traces the police had overlooked.

Not even forensics could impress or out-do a vampire seeking ANSWERS.

Getting enough DNA evidence entailed half hanging from the edge; using ancient abilities and gaining excruciating temples. ( However somewhat grimly satisfied; it was deposited inside the vials he used to sate thirst. ) Sacrificing them in the name of science and ignoring all instinct- dead man's blood utterly… revolting. Not appetising in the least and oh my word did it stink; urging him to empty his stomach contents as heavy duties followed the very path Holmes himself had.

Thankfully SECURITY had died down as dusk fell - permitting him to drop gracefully and land without a sound. ( If anyone witnessed the display; they would have seen nothing but a blur, moving with clinical precision, a smirk gracing his lips. ) After all, if anything could unearth such mystery it was he. 

PRESENT;

TIME had passed like the pulse behind a bruise; enough facts revealed that he was becoming cockily confident. All the while Moriarty’s empire was being dismantled - unfaithful followers fleeing pathetically across the continent. ( Jesus, you’d think they had no self-respect. Shredding documentation, displaying cowardice. Surely they expected to be rounded up like cattle? How could they believe he was as deceased as the media claimed? ) Did only he hold enough brain cells to do nothing? Lying low, calmly preparing for the moment he’d pursue him like a predator hunting prey? Tracking held it’s difficulties but locating specific humans even ones as elusive as Moriarty was very much achievable. With the right pressure. The rest seemed blind and he wasn’t surprised when only he established Sherlock Holmes was also still unfortunately breathing.

Now, squinting through the sniper SCOPE; his frustrations increased tenfold. Chin resting on the table he’d shifted closer to the window, achieving that perfect vantage point. Watson, Sherlocks… pet - unleashed and displaying grief was sickening. ( The grave had been placed with tender loving care; for no one dared speak ill of the dead. Lying through their teeth to lessen their own guilt. ) What did they always drone? He was wonderful; never hurt a fly. Yeah, fucking right. Codswallop. Even the ex-army Doctor was performing a heartening tribute; all the while Lucien could see clearly, Holmes viewing his own memorial.

Finger itched to pull the TRIGGER but thankfully, he refrained.

Well, the BASTARD surely was cold he’d give him that. He mused - after snapping several photos undetected. Had he and Moriarty contracted the idea together or were it a sheer coincidence they were both alive and kicking? ( Packing up; he listened to the fading presence; already aware of Holmes’s master plan. ) He was going to disassemble what was rest of his nemesis which was amusing really. Had Moriarty persuaded him over to the dark side? Did he believe he was doing it all for the greater good? A tongue ran over teeth as he bound his time and discreetly returned to his car, armed with the proof he’d required for his own peace of mind.

Leverage.

If SHERLOCK was alive; Jim definitely was. There was no uncertainty anymore. Like following bread crumbs; for that delightful crimson substance he’d analysed? An average john-doe; no doubt collateral damage in the grand scheme of things; it was geniuses in its own right and yet it had infuriated him to no end. ( Why hadn’t anyone else bothered to believe the impossible? Were they all sheep shepherded by their master? ) He had damn good reason to eliminate them on the sight. Probably would have done had he not been aware of Holmes’s intentions. Let the deducer try to dig dirt up on him. He’d pat his back if he managed to obtain a single scrap, his tracks far too covered to care.

No, his focus was on searching for M and well - miraculously hours later, he’d hit the jackpot. ( Too soon; much too soon. ) Moriarty wanted to be found - he may as well be wearing a neon sign that screamed to those with any remote common sense. Were they all staring through splatters of mud? Why hadn’t they worked it out? Or was it the conscience he lacked that kept them from considering the alternative?

Well, whatever it WAS; sitting on such knowledge was boring and it wasn’t like he had anything to lose. For fear did not plague him; the only thing tending to keep him awake at night being an undesirable boner. ( So uncouth but then no one was perfect; not even the slippery snake, he’d located nearby, no doubt eagerly awaiting his arrival. ) For surely he found this entire affair tedious. His existence dragging just as Lucien was his feet, nails dug into palms.

Strikes of anticipation. Staking the place out - INSTINCT.

Alas, only once he’d taken his own PRECAUTIONS; did he shift closer towards the building; listening intently. Sure enough, this scent was more like it; sweet and intoxicating. Consuming his very being; taunting the devil within. ( Down boy; this is business, not pleasure. ) Scolding himself for premature excitement he found the opening he was looking for. All but purring as he gained access to the flat; azure blues twinkling in mischief.

‘Well well. Should I say some cheesy shit like gotcha, kitten. Or is that too cliche?’

[fangsforhire]

{ Your PROMISES; they look like lies Your honesty; like a BACK that HIDES a knife. }

EARLIER; Perhaps enraging GOVERNMENT officials were on the list of most impulsive but that didn’t prevent him from doing just that. The tipping point had been discovering Eurus had personally participated in manipulating Moriarty. ( Fuck-sake, why he’d ever convinced himself to associate with humans was beyond him. ) Slithering within the shadows had been tranquil compared to the anarchy surrounding him currently. Would he ever learn that being a solitary creature was beneficial for his mental health? That social interactions were as much as a hindrance than an asset? Alas, the only communication tolerable right now was his little CORRESPONDANCE with a certain Holmes brother.  The back and forth delicious to say the least. Receiving yet another response exhilarating. ( What had started as a whim, had lead to a dance of sorts. Demands increasing. ) Oh and he could just imagine the cold sweat, the sinking sensation inside his stomach. Even the frustration at coming up empty when he searched for a man that didn’t exist to any systems. Mycroft had no chance of digging dirt on him; how could he not be enjoying having the upper hand? Fingers brushed the PACKAGE which had been deposited at the expected location. Thumbing the money he didn’t require with an air of suspicion. Something about tonight seemed different, an unease in the air he didn’t yet understand. ( Yet no human was in nearby vicinity that should provoke this level of paranoia. ) The alley quiet, stench of piss quite repugnant. Nothing stirred - yet his hand travelled down towards the concealed weapon, unable to shake away the feeling of… wrong. If only he’d LISTENED to his instincts, hm?

NOW;

‘Fuck.’

Unknown SUBSTANCE spread across palms; ears ringing. Almost simultaneously nearby cameras tilted in his direction and a car breaks shrieked. His hesitation had cost him; red-dot brushing his clothing alerting him to the sniper rifles no doubt aimed at various parts of his anatomy. Dropping the paper bag, he grunted; trying to analyse what had been disturbed. ( Odourless - undetectable. No doubt it should be making him very sick - perhaps even unconscious - yet all it did was enrage him. ) Who the fuck did Mycroft think he was, attempting to poison him? Staging this over the top ambush? A sigh of annoyance left his lips; ordered by numerous voices to get on the ground. Teeth gritted.

Fighting would result in an immense BODY-COUNT. No one would survive the wrath he was capable of. Surrendering wasn’t an option either - so he chose the third option; one no one saw coming. He allowed himself to be shot, having raised his own weapon deliberately. ( They needed him alive; that was clear. The bullet penetrating his shoulder just an attempt of a distraction. ) Oh, but playing the human bubbled him with hilarity; hauled by hands from behind, wrists that could shatter with so much as a twitch of violence. Restraints that were heavy-duty to an extent where fastened with precision and a taser was pressed against his skin. Okay, that did it - guns were one thing? But electricity? Eyes tightening he headbutted the culprit, breaking their nose and spat through split lips.

‘While I appreciate the theatrics; really I love performing arts - I suggest  you don’t do that again because if you do;  I’m going to get angry and to quote Hulk?  You won’t like me when I’m angry.’

Blood leaked across his tattered suit; the WARNING enough to make them listen. Perhaps they could sense he was dangerous - yet so far he hadn’t seemed anything but stronger than the average. ( Playing right into their hands and stumbling into the awaiting vehicle, not phased when a bag was dragged over his head and a gun pressed underneath his chin. ) Christ, this was some thriller movie bullshit, huh? Breathing through his nose; he did protest as the specially made hand-gun was found; along with his backup firearm, squeaking his outrage as the car took off like a bat out of hell. ‘So where we off to? See the wizard?’

Sniggering to himself; no one answered. Inconveniently REFUSING to shed light on the situation, enabling him to use advanced mind. Clearly, this was Mycroft’s doing - he was valuable which meant he wasn’t extendable and the metal clicking was proof that he could effortlessly escape should he want to. ( Aww wasn’t that adorable? ) The British government thought they had him in their custody. Thought he would crack under interrogation no doubt. Underestimated him like every other stinking man on the planet.

Bless. They were so out of their depth.

Discomfort radiated as the car was bumped along VARIOUS roads - eyes far from blind underneath the makeshift mask; squinting and easily able to re-trace the route they were taking. ( The powder had dried on his hands, no doubt a ruse. For they didn’t seem overly concerned it was doing nothing. ) He assumed a normal person would panic when realising a possible chemical was being ingested through their skin. When in actual reality so far the only thing which had rubbed him up the wrong way was the taser. That and the tedious silence which was more than dragging.

Hell it was a relief to REACH their destination; manhandled into what he identified as a chair, gun moving to rest against the back of his head. What scare tactics. Really they were going full out no? What were they going to try next, removing his finger-nails? Hanging him upside down? ( Grumbling; he stretched somewhat as the bag was removed; the building blank to say the least. ) Plastic wrap visible. Oh great so they were going to torture him? Or was this another persuasion technique? Did people usually crumble to this shit? Well, unfortunately for them; they hadn’t met anyone like him. 

Why not put them out of their misery?

‘Okay, enough is enough hm? You’ve been so rude. Restraining me; if your employer was into bondage; he should have just said. Also this entire fancy affair… it’s very not scary in the slightest. I’m practically falling asleep over here. Couldn’t fetch me  a pillow; could you?’

[fangsforhire]

{ Now you're just SOMEBODY; that I USED to know. }

‘Coffee, black. Sitting in.’

Abrupt INSTRUCTIONS are given to the over-enthusiastic waitress with an air of indifference; already drowning out all nearby thoughts of current customers. Human beings are predictable, infuriating and the utter bane of his existence and yet, quite unavoidable. Bustling about their day, setting his teeth on edge. ( Even clients tend to rub him up the wrong way. ) Making unnecessary demands; attempting to be menacing. Amusing really, considering he can rip their hearts out without so much as breaking a sweat. Few ever understand the predicament. It is honestly so effortless to end them; that really, there is actually little point doing so.

‘Thanks.’

A flushed face, TREMBLING fingers and the woman places down his choice of poison before stumbling off. Shaking his head, Lucien scrapes back his chair, discreetly emptying the contents of a vial to the now bearable liquid and stirs at human speed. ( Another sleepless night has left him restless. ) Not that it should come as a surprise. The day he actually gets decent shut-eye will be a miracle. Erratic mind in over-drive, darkness teasing semi-shut lids. Ugh. With a sigh, he picks up the cup, takes a gulp... when suddenly each muscle involuntary tightens.

‘The actual fuck?’

Fangs throb as if on queue, nails digging into palms; nose twitching in DISBELIEF. A familiar scent has just overwhelmed the senses. ( Moriarty’s aroma unmistakable. ) Hurredily swallowing the mouthful of blood coffee before he chokes; he squints and scans the faces of the premises; frown crossing his features. 

How the fuck can HE be here?

[fangsforhire]

{ And all the kids cried OUT “Please STOP; you’re scaring me.” }

FLASHBACK;

Deafening reverberation of bullets striking a TARGET ricochets through the disclosed room of the safehouse. Gunpowder residue heavy in the air. Oh, as if on instinct violent azure eyes narrow; concentration evident as numerous PROJECTILES fall. ( Slugs clattering across wood; one - two - he loses count of how many time he fires before he’s positively trembling. ) That urge to kill pressing in; consuming his very BEING. It’s with a halfhearted wince that he finally cusses and propels the firearm at the wall, rotating on his heels.

( Moriarty is DEAD - supposedly - maniac madman has finally lost at Russian roulette and paid the ultimate price. Yet he’s not six feet under; there’s no fucking body to bury. So HOW can it be? )

Expensive shoes SNAP across laminate, leather jacket swaying as he passes the air-con; pausing only to retrieve his PRIDE and joy - blade encrusted with an emerald. Sadistic glance passes the person which resembles the one he seeks before; abruptly blade is thrust into the GUT of the human, raised to his lips and licked. ( Ah, ecstasy burns through his veins - pure fucking bliss. ) He savours the sensation of crimson on his tongue; disregarding the muffled GAGGING splutters escaping the expiring male - soon to be deceased and hums a laugh.

‘Blood’s beautiful, NO? Truly exquisite.’

FANGS emerge, involuntary from his gums. Glinting like the weapon he is wielding. Oh, that poor man, he’s wrestling to hold his INSIDES in; his effort futile. Lucien watches his pathetic attempts, admiring the contrast of red and then turns heartlessly around; leaving him to gradually drain. ( Drip, drip, drip. Wait for it! ) He spins at the ULTIMATE minute when the man is clinging between life and death and allows his fist to collide with broken features. Hearing the satisfying crunch of bone, only to BACKHAND him, grab him by the hair and with a flick of his wrist, metallic implement slices his jugular, spraying him in his most sought after substance. Tssking as the pulse ceases to EXIST; he leans in close, a seductive moan betraying his arousal.

‘It really is. You should have APPRECIATED it more.’

Methodically he begins to CLEAN up; erection pressing against his trousers. Demanding to be taken care of; a hand does wander down but only to scold his much too hard cock, for getting off on murder. So INAPPROPRIATE! A twisted smirk spreads across his lips; skipping off to unwind and its as he lights up that he hears it. ( Oh for fuck sake - what now? ) Cigarette smoke billows in the air, RING - tone persistent. ‘Well I’m not a vampire but I feel like one. Sometimes I sleep all day - because I HATE the sunlight.’ Grunting, swift hands retrieve the vibrating device; eyes scanning the number - or lack off. UNKNOWN. For a moment a thrill shoots through him; convinced that his suspicions are about to be confirmed. That the elusive bastard is playing yet another GAME; finding hilarity in his… struggles.

‘Speak.’

PRESENT;

Hope breeds MISERY so they say and well - considering he’s just spent time wasted talking to Moron, oh hell is he inclined to agree. His temper has flared, simmered and then been replaced by cold DETERMINATION. He dresses at inhuman speed after taking a scolding shower; water having taken increasing tension from taut muscles. ( Sebastian’s been following every lead - to be honest, he sounds a fucking MESS - Lucien doubts he even knows what sober is at this point. ) Huh - lucky fuck. Alcohol will not solve his problems. Intoxication almost impossible to reach at the LEVELS required to forget black eyes and smug smirks. He shakes his head to rid himself of yet another flashback; Jim sending him out of TOWN.

Why hadn’t he ARGUED? Refused point blank? Questioned the necessity? Moriarty’s underground network was global for FUCKS-SAKE. Why would he need one of his assassins in Italy? Well, now it made sense; of course. He hadn’t wanted Lucien to even be tempted saving him. ( He’d made it perfectly clear, IMMORTALITY was off the cards. Even threatened him dramatically, that if he dared he’d cut off his balls and feed them to him… ) Yeah, like he’s ready for that RESPONSIBILITY. His previous progeny still loathes him and who can blame him? Teeth clench as he releases a layer of glamours; allowing prominent scars to be seen.

They are scattered like constellations and for once, he WEARS them.

For this to work, he has to be PREPARED to play all angles. He needs some…sort of CLOSURE and if that means taunting Sherlock then so be it. ( Insanity leads you to push past your limits; to shatter your promises and betray your ex-Boss. ) At least that’s what he tells himself, recklessness encouraging him to leave the SECURITY of his four walls. Nails dig into palms as he proceeds forth, the stench of London polluting the air. God, do humans even try going unnoticed? His nose wrinkles and he HESITATES within viewing distance of the flat.

Time heals all wounds. RIGHT? Wrong. They fester.

He FLINCHES a tad; anxiety very much real. For once his guard is down and he’s on show, fully exposed - or so he BELIEVES - skin tingling. ( He’s more than well aware of the man’s ability to analyse what others overlook but in that aspect, they aren’t so different. ) His acute senses are an asset in DETERMINING whether someone is friend or foe. His internal studies very much successful; oh this is definitely going to be interesting.

CAT AND MOUSE, ANYONE?

He TUGS at the cuff of his suit, counts to ten and then enters off the street, making his way with deliberate noise towards the door above. The smell of tea revolting to say the least. ( Yet, he’s already on full alert - listening intently for the sound of FOOTSTEPS nearby. ) Sherlock is alone, no doubt bored out of his brains, or else coping with his recent trauma.

AFTER ALL - AS JIM HAS CROONED - SURVIVING THE FALL ISN’T THE PROBLEM - IT’S THE LANDING.

{ God damn right, YOU should be SCARED of me WHO is in control? }

[fangsforhire]

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