The first hunter, with a look of surprise, seized him, threw him to the ground, slammed his head against the motorcycle, and slit his throat, plunging him into eternal darkness. Then, he turned to another target, running, overtaking, snapping and knocking down frost-covered cedar trees ahead. After dealing with the second pursuer, he felt a sharp pain spread from his forepaw.
He was wounded.
He howled, pressing his injured paw hard against the ground, watching the crimson blood seep into the snow, a glaring red against the pure white. The cold gradually numbed his senses; he could barely feel the pain in his wound. But he knew he couldn't run, he couldn't run like this.
He froze, the sudden explosion behind him catching him off guard. The excitement of the transformation temporarily disoriented him, but now, part of the mission was accomplished—the base was destroyed—he heard three distinct wolf howls confirming this to him. His fellow Russians. He quickly adjusted, responding with a howl that conveyed his predicament—a cry for help, injury, and danger to his mate.
He received an immediate response.
He limped cautiously toward the right direction. He didn't want to think about how long it would take him to reach his destination with his injured leg. The initial howl was ten miles away, and he hadn't even covered two-thirds of the distance. Reverting to human form wasn't a wise move; in such low temperatures, without warm clothing, he'd probably freeze solid within fifty yards.
He heard the engine's roar again, not far away, but still out of sight. He crouched down, arched his back, and assumed an attack stance, deliberately ignoring the consequences of this action that would worsen his injured foreleg. If he fell, it had to be in the fight.
"You really think I'd abandon you?"
John was alive and unharmed.
It was incredibly awkward to be on a snowmobile in wolf form, but they'd done it anyway, his belly pressed against the seat, his paws dangling in the air. Before starting the engine, John quickly rubbed the soft fur on his neck.
Two gray wolves provided cover on either side, and soon after, a larger and stronger black wolf appeared, leading the way. From their growls, he knew the area was safe; the remaining pursuer had been dealt with, the lab had been razed to the ground, and they weren't far from home.
They met under the helicopter, the rapidly spinning wings creating a strong wind and a roar. He smelled home, his powerful "clan," and those familiar, heartbreaking scents. Only now did he truly realize how much he missed it—all of it, everything.
The Russian brothers left immediately after the handover; their mission was over.
Strong hands supported him, lifting him off the motorcycle. Someone asked him if he could transform back. He nodded, transforming back into human form, his injured fingers and arms stiff and numb in the biting cold wind. They wrapped him in a warm blanket and carried him directly onto the helicopter. He was cold and tired, and a little uneasy, amidst the mingled smells and noise around him.
"Here, I'm here."
He sniffed his partner, indulging in his scent, nuzzling against his chest, even though they were both strapped in.
"John."
"Everything's fine, I'm here, we made it."
They were taken to a small private airfield.
His arm was treated and temporarily bandaged, and he put on a coat, the thick fabric providing warmth. They jumped out of the helicopter and walked on the runway cleared by snowplows. Not far away was a small jet airliner, ready to take off at any moment, next to which stood a familiar man, always wrapped in a three-piece suit under a thick coat, a black umbrella draped over his arm. Beside him was another familiar figure, long brown hair draped over her shoulders, her eyes fixed on the Blackberry in her hand.
"So, you received my signal?"
"Yes, I received it." He snapped back impatiently, "Three months. What took you so long?"
"Russia, my dear brother. When someone is kidnapped to a hidden, impenetrable base, believe me, they're going to do it quietly and flawlessly. Even with our powerful network and raising the alert level, it's not as easy as it seems. But thankfully, the best and smartest things always flow in your blood."
He nodded to the brown-haired woman. "I recognize your style. Good virus."
"Thanks." She glanced up at him, then turned back to her phone, a faint smile of satisfaction on her face.
"Looks like you've accomplished something quite productive."
He growled in his throat to signal his brother to stop staring at John, and when Mycroft tilted his head back in his usual condescending manner, he silently threatened with a tight-lipped lip.
"Welcome back, Captain Watson," his brother continued. "I suppose we weren't fortunate enough to meet before. I'm Mycroft Holmes, and he's my brother, Sherlock. I think you're closer to him now than anyone else."
"Yes, yes," he quickly interrupted Mycroft, "I'm sure all of this…" He paused, sensing something was wrong, and turned to his partner. "Captain Watson. That Captain Watson! Watson of Myvand? The only one who escaped and survived?"
He recognized the name; Mycroft had mentioned it at least two or three times—the only human to have survived the Myvand "swarm" ambush. A bullet wound to the shoulder, Afghan, a soldier, a medic—he'd never told him his full name. Foolish! He should have seen through it. He wasn't the only one in the cage with secrets. Oh, something always goes wrong.
He grinned, revealing white teeth.
"We'll talk about this later, dear," John said gently, stroking his arm with his gloved hand.
Later, yes. They had so much to talk about, including removing the electronic chip from his neck and many other issues that required further discussion.
Boarding the plane, he sat beside his incredible partner. He stared out the small window for a moment as the plane smoothly taxied down the runway, gradually lifting off the ground and ascending into the sky. His clothes were too small and tight; he longed to shed them and regain his freedom. John was equally impeccably dressed; he could only smell his faint, almost imperceptible scent. He turned his gaze back, nuzzling his head against John's bare neck, inhaling the scent; John's breath calmed him. Mycroft watched them both with a dismissive yet slightly disapproving expression, his brow furrowed, clearly troubled by something. Undoubtedly, his own personality and certain changes that had occurred after his long imprisonment were the root of his brother's gloom. But it didn't matter; it no longer mattered.
He was free now, that abhorrent base was destroyed, and John was beside him, his fingers gently stroking the back of his head soothingly. He yawned, allowing himself a moment of peace for the first time in three months, letting out a satisfied sigh as his partner gently caressed him.
END