Sherlock Holmes lay unconscious and handcuffed to John's bed, a soft piece of fabric securely tied between his lips. It'd been easy for John to slip the chloral hydrate into his flat mate's coffee, even easier to carry the taller, thinner man up the steps to his own room where the bed had been ready and waiting. John felt as though he'd been waiting for this day ever since he'd spotted the consulting detective in the bright lab at Bart's.
John had been waiting for centuries really.
Seated on the edge of the bed, he reached out and flattened the rumpled lapel of Sherlock's black suit—no need to put wrinkles in such fine material. His eyes ran over the dark purple shirt, buttons fit to burst; over the expensive black trousers, the shiny black shoes. He disliked the gag in his companion's mouth, and although he knew Sherlock Holmes was not a man for screaming, John wanted the chance to speak, to explain his actions so far and what was to come. There was a lot to explain.
First, he needed to wait for Sherlock to wake. It took much less time than John expected. Sherlock tried to gasp air through his lips but made a muffled choking sound around the fabric. That was when his eyes shot open, bright light blue. John knew he would be somewhat disoriented from the drug but not so disoriented that his eyes did not immediately find John, sitting there above him. The handcuffs rattled when Sherlock tried to sit up, and John heard his heart rate increase.
"Sherlock. Let me explain."
He didn't try to speak through the gag. He froze, stretched out on the bed, his eyes fixed on John.
John folded his hands in his lap and studied his palms. "You say I see but don't observe. How true of you, Sherlock." He ran the tip of his finger over his own lifeline. "Was it the limp? The cane? The way I found you to be so astonishing? Did all of my brokenness and wonder blind you to what I really was? Maybe." He lifted his gaze and met Sherlock's, whose chest now rose and fell in quick bursts, betraying his veiled panic.
They'd known each other little more than a month, and now, the seemingly sweet John Watson had handcuffed the great detective to a bed, bound and gagged, with no one around to hear. John could only imagine the crime scene photos scrolling through Sherlock's brilliant mind.
"You can't blame Stamford. He didn't know—never knew. Never suspected." John shook his head. "He didn't know how putting you in my line of sight would end, how it would end here, with you at my mercy." He rubbed his eyes, so tired of hiding from Sherlock. Now that he'd made up his mind … Well, he'd made up his mind the moment he'd shot that cabbie, hadn't he? He'd decided no one would take Sherlock from him. No one.
"It'll hurt, Sherlock," he continued.
Trapped in handcuffs, Sherlock's long fingers curled into fists.
"I remember it hurting," John said. "But I need you to understand, I want you to understand, why I need to do this. Your mind, it has to be preserved. I can't sit back and watch you get old, your brain wasted away. I can't. The world needs you." He smiled and licked his upper lip. "If I'm honest, I need you. I've spent so much time looking for you." He put his hand on the center of Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock didn't tense beneath his touch. "The body matches the mind—quick, brutal, beautiful. I need you to stay like this forever." John inched closer on the bed. "Do you understand, Sherlock? Do you see andobserve?"
His lips moved around the gag, and John made out a single, rumbling word: his own name.
John untied the fabric, confident Sherlock would not start cawing for help. If John knew Sherlock, his curiosity would keep him subdued.
Free of the gag, Sherlock pressed his lips together and then licked top and bottom. "You don't mean to kill me," he said.
John hesitated. "It's part of the process, yeah. But I'll bring you back, and you'll wake up like me."
Sherlock's dark eyebrows lowered. "Show me what you really look like."
John allowed the creature to take over, and his light eyes turned black. The tips of fangs hung over his bottom lip as he stared down at his captive.
"How?" Sherlock commanded. "You eat normal food. You walk about in the day."
"All you know of my kind is merely myth. We're no different from you, except for …" He tilted his head. "Well, a few minor differences, of course."
Sherlock didn't blink. "Do I have a choice?"
John reverted to human form. "No." He returned his hand to Sherlock's chest and caught the thud-thud of his heart between his fingers.
"If you are what I presume you to be, you're strong enough to overpower me, so why am I bound? Why slip drugs in my coffee when you could forcibly take what you seek?"
John moved his hand up and cupped Sherlock's face. Still, his friend did not flinch. His heart rate had slowed, as well. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to find cold resolve in the face of death. "I didn't want you to fight me. I didn't want to hurt you more than I have to."
"How do you know I would have fought?"
John ran his thumb across Sherlock's cheek. "People fight when they're dying. Even the brave ones. Even men like you. They fight against the darkness. It's human nature." He pulled his hand away and gestured to Sherlock's supine form on his bed. "It's easier if you're like this, for both of us. Believe me."
"You've done this before, chosen someone," Sherlock said.
"Once. A very long time ago."
"And what became of him?"
John smiled. "He painted the Sistine Chapel, among other things. He eventually took his own life. Grew tired of immortality. He was brilliant, of course, but not as gorgeous as you."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You mean to take me as a lover. I assume I have a choice in that at least."
"Yes. But know that, if given the opportunity, I would worship you like a king." He ran his thumb over Sherlock's bottom lip before dragging his hand away again. So close to his goal, it was becoming harder and harder for John to control his urge to take, touch, feed. The creature, usually easy to manage, boiled beneath the surface. It bobbed up for a glance with every jump of Sherlock's pulse. It wanted.
"You said it will hurt."
John nodded.
"How does it happen? What's the process?"
John smirked—his intended, always a scientist, even when held prisoner and about to be killed. "I cut you open. I drink your blood until you die. Then, I give you a bit of mine, and you live again." He looked away. "It's the feeding that hurts. The blood will turn to fire in your veins. I wish it were different. I wish I could pleasure you instead, but birth is painful. The gag will have to go back in, I'm afraid."
"You can't possibly believe I'll beg for mercy."
"You won't even be conscious of your actions while I feed. Your screams could conceivably wake a city block."
Sherlock blinked up at him several times. His Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed. "How long have you known? How long have you planned this for me?"
John ran his hand again over the fabric of Sherlock's suit, ironing wrinkles with his palm. "Since I shot a cabbie to save your life. Since I realized I couldn't let you die—not ever. Not with all you have to offer. Think of what you could accomplish with lifetimes, Sherlock."
"By your side?"
John's hand rested on Sherlock's hip. "I can dream of such things."
"My fate was decided weeks ago, and I had no idea."
"You saw but didn't observe."
Sherlock chuckled and stared at the ceiling. His shoulders were relaxed, despite the handcuffs binding him to the bed. He took long, slow breaths.
John stood before straddling Sherlock's hips on the bed. Sherlock still stared above him as John unbuttoned the top of his shirt. His hands hung loosely in the cuffs, even when John replaced the fabric gag, even when John touched his face—warm for not much longer.
"Just so you know."
Sherlock's eyes met his.
"I feel it's my duty to preserve every brilliant bit of your mind and body. But, for the record, I do love you. How could I not?" He leaned closer. "Are my actions selfish?" He pressed a kiss to the side of Sherlock's throat. "Let history decide."
And Sherlock screamed.
