The Ice Truck Killer

“Good. No sleeping. Winchester would kick my arse if you died on me.” Sherlock forced a smirk. They weren’t friends by any means but…for whatever reason the serial killer was friends with the hunter and it had been enough to force him to take action. He had thought about calling an ambulance but that probably wouldn’t be a good idea, all things considered. If he could find a way to do a blood transfusion, everything should be fine. It would be horridly unsanitary but he couldn’t worry about that right now. The biggest risk would if the blood would be compatible.

Once more, Sherlock looked around the room for useful items. Damn it. He’d just have to use his own supplies. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two, unused needle and rubber tubing he used as a tourniquet. He injected the needle into the tube, then his own vein and threading the tube inside his arm. With precision and finesse he carefully removed the needle but left the tubing in so the blood would flow through the tube. He repeated the process on Brian with the other syringe, but made sure he didn’t press down on the needle so no blood would come out and his blood would go inside the serial killer.

When he felt the warm rush of blood go into his arm, he relaxed more, before he chuckled some again, slowly looking up at the other, though his vision wouldn’t focus, all he saw was a spot of black and a smear of blue. “Thankfully for both of us. “ He began, closing his eyes again. “I’m AB negative so I don’t......Don’t think I’ll reject it.” Maybe.

Her lips parted, mouth falling slightly ajar. How did he know about the animals? No one knew, not even when the Claids found the box of bones she kept as trophies under her bed, they only assumed she had collected the remains of roadkill as a sick hobby. They’d only gotten the part of it being a sick hobby correct. Only it as a darker pastime.

Of course he’s gonna know about it, he’s in your head, isn’t he? A twisted figment of imagination.

And he wasn’t wrong. Killing those cats only left her partially satisfied, as though she were merely going through the motions of it now.

And he’d said “someone” not “something”.

Someone

Oddly enough, she didn’t find the idea of it to be particularly repulsive. In fact, the converse was true. She felt tentative excitement, but

“I don’t even know where to start,” she told the man who was (her guest? a visitor?) in her room. He hadn’t given a name, but he knew hers.

Again, in your head, remember?

What the fuck..?

What had she stumbled upon? The set of some messed up indie horror movie? It looked like the kind of shit Lena would love: sociopaths on murderous rampages, strange rituals, gore..the gore never looked real. This couldn’t be real.   The pale body on the table was upright, and strapped down like Frankenstein’s monster..Drained of her life, waiting to be fizzled back into existence. Julia snapped out of her shock the moment the man took a step towards her.

Oh, shit.

Sherlock gave his best smile but let it twitch into a frown. “Yeah, tomorrow would be fine.” Tired, yeah right. He kept his thoughts to himself however. “Come find me tomorrow when you are read.” The obnoxious smile returned and he moved his foot out of the way so the door could close all the way.