#captainsherlockh

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captainsherlockh

The butchers had closed for renovation, and he'd thought, he'd thought so darn foolishly that he could manage. It was only a week, just one god damned week. But sitting there, making polite conversation with one of Sherlock's snivelling clients was killing him. Her pulse beat slick and heavy with each wrecking sob that left her chest, he didn't flinch, didn't react at all. He even managed to hold his tongue when she wandered into the kitchen and began brewing herself a drink-- then it happened. 

One of Sherlock's experiments had been left, jutting out at an awkward angle on the table, the wench walked straight into it. The scent hit him with the proficiency of a train, it was unbearable. His fingers busted the fabric of the sofa as blue eyes widened to painful extremes. 

He couldn't do it, it was too much. 

Before his mind and willpower had time to get him out of there, his body had already acted. Moving him from the sofa at inhuman speed to pin the woman and her bloodied stomach up against the far wall. She screamed, it didn't matter. Without a lick of control his head stooped and tore into the paper-thin flesh of her throat where he began gulping back mouthful after mouthful of that luxurious substance that he'd spent the better part of 500 years forbidding himself from. 

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