A lone figure trudged through the dimly lit streets of London. The shadow slowly moved ducking in the alleyways and avoiding the more populated areas of the city...
'loping...'
'limping...'
'crawling...'
The figure's heart beat heavily in its chest, and the pallor of its skin-'if he were still in his skin'- would be a stark contrast to the pitch-black of his hair.
'He was bleeding.'
The coppery smell was unbearable, especially if it were coming from his own body. It made an unpleasantly gruesome trail across the streets.
'His limbs were on fire. '
He could barely walk. In fact, he was sure a few of his legs-and maybe even a rib or two-were broken.
Rain beat heavily on the body, making the journey much more difficult than it should be. The figure leaned his body against a brick wall, greedily breathing in the humid air.
He hurt.
It was a bloody stupid idea to jump off of a building. The figure would have smiled ruefully.
It was even more stupid to shift in an ambulance.
He could remember the look of shock across the faces of the paramedics.
'A man brought a defibrillator to the still- human body.
"CLEAR!"
Its eyes snapped open.
And he shifted.'
The figure remembered the look of terror on the man's face as a wolf- larger than any fictional hound- sunk his teeth into the flesh of the paramedic's arm.
The bliss of the hunt had clouded his mind. Though, he was sorry. He had lost himself to his instinct on more than one occasion.
By now, they were probably looking for him.
'They knew...'
They knew that Sherlock Holmes was very much alive and that he was a werewolf.
And dangerous.
But he needed to get to the warehouse. He needed help. Alpha would be there. He'd help.
The now Sherlock-turned-wolf lay down on the cold, hard concrete, the small stream of blood emanating from his head...
And waited.
He wasn't in the warehouse, but Alpha would find him.
The wolf released a small whimper.
Maybe, he could stay in this alley... and sleep. Maybe he could rest... for just a moment. It wouldn't hurt. The pool of blood made for a nice blanket.
In his stupor, the wolf could make out another figure. It was coming closer, and closer. Sherlock took in another breath, analyzing the scent of the newcomer. It was a clean scent, with a hint of spice or cologne- 'Clean, spice, pastries.'
'Alpha.' The wolf's dazed mind supplied. He held in a whimper that was bubbling in his throat.
'Mycroft!'
Suddenly, the world tilted, as blackness overtook him, and Sherlock knew no more.
--- The warehouse mentioned is the warehouse from the first episode. And since weres are quick healers, Sherlock would survive the fall, though with tons of injury, and unable to return to human until his bones were healed.
Re: Were-prompt!!!
-------
A lone figure trudged through the dimly lit streets of London. The shadow slowly moved ducking in the alleyways and avoiding the more populated areas of the city...
'loping...'
'limping...'
'crawling...'
The figure's heart beat heavily in its chest, and the pallor of its skin-'if he were still in his skin'- would be a stark contrast to the pitch-black of his hair.
'He was bleeding.'
The coppery smell was unbearable, especially if it were coming from his own body. It made an unpleasantly gruesome trail across the streets.
'His limbs were on fire. '
He could barely walk. In fact, he was sure a few of his legs-and maybe even a rib or two-were broken.
Rain beat heavily on the body, making the journey much more difficult than it should be. The figure leaned his body against a brick wall, greedily breathing in the humid air.
He hurt.
It was a bloody stupid idea to jump off of a building. The figure would have smiled ruefully.
It was even more stupid to shift in an ambulance.
He could remember the look of shock across the faces of the paramedics.
'A man brought a defibrillator to the still- human body.
"CLEAR!"
Its eyes snapped open.
And he shifted.'
The figure remembered the look of terror on the man's face as a wolf- larger than any fictional hound- sunk his teeth into the flesh of the paramedic's arm.
The bliss of the hunt had clouded his mind. Though, he was sorry.
He had lost himself to his instinct on more than one occasion.
By now, they were probably looking for him.
'They knew...'
They knew that Sherlock Holmes was very much alive and that he was a werewolf.
And dangerous.
But he needed to get to the warehouse. He needed help.
Alpha would be there. He'd help.
The now Sherlock-turned-wolf lay down on the cold, hard concrete, the small stream of blood emanating from his head...
And waited.
He wasn't in the warehouse, but Alpha would find him.
The wolf released a small whimper.
Maybe, he could stay in this alley... and sleep. Maybe he could rest... for just a moment. It wouldn't hurt. The pool of blood made for a nice blanket.
In his stupor, the wolf could make out another figure. It was coming closer, and closer. Sherlock took in another breath, analyzing the scent of the newcomer. It was a clean scent, with a hint of spice or cologne- 'Clean, spice, pastries.'
'Alpha.' The wolf's dazed mind supplied. He held in a whimper that was bubbling in his throat.
'Mycroft!'
Suddenly, the world tilted, as blackness overtook him, and Sherlock knew no more.
---
The warehouse mentioned is the warehouse from the first episode. And since weres are quick healers, Sherlock would survive the fall, though with tons of injury, and unable to return to human until his bones were healed.