ooc.
ROUND TWO.
ic.
It had been over two weeks since Dahmer discovered that Sherlock followed him from Jasper Valley. During that time, he hadn't heard anything at all from his old partner. At first, the male believed that she had listened to him and went back home. But he could still smell her scent here and there, although never close to his home. He would be wandering through the territories, either exploring or gathering supplies for the tree house and he'd stumble across her scent. It was difficult for him – his mind would be on other things, but in that instant of recognition Dahmer would be transported to years ago when things were easy between the two. He would halt mid-step and merely stand where he was for several moments, assaulted by the memories he held dearest. The mental reel would finish and Dahmer would be left there with nothing but the knowledge that the past was the past, and things would never be the same again. It was enough to prevent him from seeking his old friend out – instead he would take a steadying breath and move on, alone as ever.
The anger that had erupted from him had boiled steadily for days, turning cool after a week and then solidified into regret soon after, settling heavily in his throat. He was still angry at Sherlock – but it was a detached sort of anger, something he couldn't access himself. Rather he felt it, but the emotion didn't have the same control over him, not like it did when he stood in front of her. When he saw that look of exasperation in her face as she apologized to him, something broke inside of Dahmer. And he'd been spending the last few weeks nurturing whatever it was inside of him, trying to put the pieces back together. He was succeeding – a little, at least. He'd met a fair few other wolves and hadn't spent all his time alone. He was mending. But the knowledge of her continued presence nagged him - why was she still here?
On this particular day, though – Dahmer's thoughts were as far from Sherlock as possible. He still felt the small ache located somewhere near his throat – but in the hustle and bustle of the day's activities, it was easy for the male to ignore it. It was hurricane season and Dahmer was preparing his home in case of violent weather.
The day was perfect for that sort of thing – it had dawned crisp and clear with just a slight breeze. Dahmer was up with the sun, eating a quick meal before settling into his comfortable routine. He'd finished gathering the supplies needed the night before and set about the task of sorting everything into their proper place. By noon, the male was ready to get to work. The day had progressed – clouds moved in from the horizon, dark and brooding. The sun was hidden amongst the grey blanket, making the once promising day gloomy and overcast. A cold wind blew in from the East, whistling through the trees. It sent the branches into a flurry, their leaves of bright fire dancing furiously.
Although the day's weather was a far cry from those of the mid-summer, the coolness was lost on Dahmer. He was busy working hard, lost in his thorough preparations for the upcoming storms. He was currently high up on the branches of his tree, balanced carefully as he fitted his measured wood together, nailing them into place with even strokes of his hammer. He worked slowly, methodically and with a cheerfulness that he hadn't felt in a while.
Dahmer moved quickly from one branch to another, steadying himself on the wall of his house, before switching over to the other side with an easy nimbleness that seemed at odds with his vast size. He pushed up against the far wall, judging its place before taking one of the nails he held between his lips and hammering it into the wood. Oblivious to everything but the task on hand, Dahmer went about his day peacefully, humming to himself as he worked.
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