History of a Vampyre Ch 4: Muse, a sherlock fanfic

Right! So. I apologize again for the delay: I was traveling and there was no internet. But here's chapter 4! CLIIIIIMMMAAAAXXXXX!

THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE FOR READING, REVIEWING, ALERTING AND JUST PLAIN EXISTING. Love you! Also, applause for Neko's possessed Ipod, Lanshannarra's MONSTER (REMIX) which is JUST PERFECT for this story (I don't think I can add anything to it...but...maybe), and for OnTheWinterSolistice's (reviews are appreciated at any time! thank you!) song request which I will madly work on for the rest of the night so I can post it asap.

Disclaimer: All italized song bits belong to Muse's "Time is Running Out." There's actually an excellent Sherlock vid for this song on Youtube as well as "Hardest of Hearts."

Chapter 4: Muse

I think I'm drowning

Asphyxiated

I wanna break this spell

That you've created

As the months past, it only grew worse.

Other weaknesses, other flaws in his god-like strength, showed their ugly head. Crosses gave their wearers bubbles of protection: Sherlock simply couldn't get near them. All of Moriarty's men seemed to have powerful flashlights to blind and wooden bullets loaded to injure. Hypnotism was blocked somehow. It was maddening.

How in all the levels of hell did Moriarty know all this? How had he found out his secret? Sherlock had killed everyone, deactivated every camera, checked all of Mycroft's employee's loyalties. He, Sherlock Holmes, had to constantly watch his own back now, let alone John's. Weak, fragile, human John. John-who-was-too-good. John-who-would-likely-not-survive-this-all-out-war. Sherlock could feel the statistics of survival slipping through his dead fingers and his plans to take John, far, far away, growing, mounting, becoming almost real despite the doctor's protests.

You're something beautiful

A contradiction

I wanna play the game

I want the friction

"Sherlock, no!" John yelled at his flatmate. "I don't give a damn! I'm staying with you!" He could feel the blood rush into his face along with the anger smoldering in his gut and oozing off him in waves.

"John, I'm only concerned for your safety-"

"My safety! My safety! This coming from the man who got shot for the sixth time today because he was a bloody idiot that ran for a bullet that you knew was going to miss me!"

"I'm fine-"

"'Cause I was there! Can you imagine if Lestrade found you like that! All comatose with raised black veins popping out and by the way completely dead because, did you know Detective Inspector? I'm a fucking vampire, but that must have slipped my mind. Sorry about that."

There was silence for a moment in the flat. John deflated, suddenly feeling drained. He hobbled over to his favorite chair and sank into it, putting his head in his hands. Sherlock just stood there in his pjs and dressing gown, analyzing his flatmate, imitating a cold statue with eyes. "I want you to survive this," Sherlock said softly, silkily. "I want you to live beyond me. I'm durable. I can make it. I just doubt my ability to protect you along with taking care of myself."

John sighed. "I'm going to make it, Sherlock. We'll make it together. We're a team. I'm not totally useless: I can go where you can't, remember? Those things called churches were all the murders have been recently. I was in the army too and have this nifty thing called a gun. And I make you heal the fastest after you've been shot."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Dr. Watson."

You will be the death of me

When Sherlock tasted John's blood now, the most dominant emotion was worry. Undercurrents of concern. Love was there too, of course, but also a sinking feeling, a downward spiral of the stomach, a lifelessness, a small temptation to give up overridden by a swell of courage. It left Sherlock shaky sometimes. He was not supposed to feel that on John Watson.

He could tell John wanted to be turned. Wanted to become permanent, fixed, like Sherlock. The plan had benefits: they'd be together forever, John would be more durable, Mycroft would be annoyed to no end. But some part of Sherlock, some insistent but small corner of his brain couldn't bear the thought of seeing John dead, even if logically he knew John would come back. But imagine: a still John, a cold John, a John with blue-tinged lips and glassy eyes, maybe bruises around his neck. Stiff limbs in atrophy, dead weight. The etch of last thoughts still deducible on his face. That heartbeat that Sherlock had decided was the best sound in the world would be silenced.

Sherlock couldn't just let that happen.

Bury it

I won't let you bury it

I won't let you smother it

I won't let you murder it

Despite the defense Moriarty had put up, Sherlock was on fire. Not literally, but mentally: he was solving cases faster. He and John had overturned opium dens, underground absinthe trade, a particularly nasty cult that bought body parts and other illegal material, a cocaine ring (connected to Sherlock's past dealer, interestingly), a strong sex trafficking operation that led all the way to Northern Ireland, the group of artists who'd made the false painting in the Great Game, a huge cache of stolen jewels. Moriarty was losing connections quickly.

Our time is running out

You can't push it underground

You can't stop it screaming out

In that same time frame, if Sherlock didn't have healing powers, John would have been in the A&E 15 times.

If John hadn't been there to drag Sherlock's prone body away and heal him from wooden objects, Sherlock would have been discovered and even more dead 37 times.

Sometimes Sherlock and John just laid in bed and held each other, quiet enough to hear each other breathing, hear John's heartbeat, hear Sherlock's absence of one, hear that they were still alive.

I wanted freedom

Bound and restricted

I tried to give you up

But I'm addicted

Sherlock had promised not the hypnotize John any more, but it seemed like every week, every day, every hour the idea of hypnotizing John to acquiesce to going away seemed more tempting. Sherlock knew he needed him, needed him desperately, but they were creeping towards the end. But whose end was it?

One of the reasons Moriarty's organization was coming down was because of an informer. The informed didn't know how Sherlock's secret had been discovered, only that all employees were now forced to drink a vervain mixture, which prevented the hypnotism, and carry wooden bullets. Higher up members were also to wear crosses at all times.

These measures did not stop Sherlock from imagining ramming the every single person under Moriarty's employment against the wall, demanding what he wanted to know, and sucking the fool dry until he had learned every single bloody secret. But if he did that to the informer, he would not be able to get any new information. And John wouldn't like it.

Now that you know I'm trapped

sense of elation

You'd never dream of

Breaking this fixation

John had finished his blog entry and was now humming something by the Eels to himself while making tea in the kitchen.

"I think this is the last case, John," Sherlock said, standing in the living room, one paper in his hand out of the hundreds scattered about the flat but actually in some sort of Sherlockian order of thought.

John almost dropped the kettle at Sherlock's small announcement. "What?" he said.

"I think I've found the 'Dear Jim' corner of Mr. Moriarty's business," said Sherlock, smiling with all his teeth, his eyes alight, his body practically trembling with excitement. "If we go to Lestrade right now we can-"

"What happens after this?" John interrupted. He put the kettle down, his hand didn't shake, his leg was painless. "What do we do? He's going to come straight after us."

You will squeeze the life out of me

Sherlock's mind was whirring (imagine the blood, the rush of this chase, the final crushing blow in Moriarty's skull), faster and faster, but John's question ground it to a sudden halt. They were going to stop the biggest source of Moriarty's clientele, practically everyone in his organization would be compromised, including the mastermind himself.

Of course there would be retribution. Sherlock's mouth went a little dry and he felt his eyes widen. "Oh," he said softly. He really looked at John, his jumper and jeans covering all the places Sherlock had bit him, criminals had shot him, hard objects had bruised him, knives had cut him. His heart.

"We can go to Lestrade in the morning. I'll text Mycroft to arrange safe houses. We'll go into hiding and watch Moriarty being caught from telly." He wiped out his phone and texted at inhuman speed to both men and John put the kettle on. But then tea was useless because Sherlock had finished texting and was kissing John like he never wanted to leave because he knew that tonight could be the last night not just for Moriarty.

Bury it

I won't let you bury it

I won't let you smother it

I won't let you murder it

Moriarty did indeed take immediate action after the dating website, the shopping website, the chemist website and all his Dear Jim websites had froze, been hacked, tracked, and now his number was up. But it wasn't what Sherlock or John had been expecting. Moriarty burned down Bart's with Molly Hooper inside it.

Our time is running out

You can't push it underground

You can't stop it screaming out

How did it come to this?

John screeched the cab to a halt in front of the burning building, rocketing the confused driver into the dashboard. "Sherlock, go get her!" John shouted, pushing the detective out of the cab and Sherlock darted past the firemen and hoses and straight into the flames. The world seemed tinged yellow and orange and black. Smoke was everywhere, filling Sherlock's lungs with heat and making his eyes water. He dropped to the floor and zoomed up the levels to Molly's office, shouting her name over and over. It was so hot and the fire had obviously started in the morgue where she worked. Flames were licking the woodwork, the ceiling was collapsed in some places, and suddenly Sherlock's jacket was on fire too so he flung it off and continued his search.

"Molly Hooper! Molly!" he screamed, tearing his vocal chords with his strength, but feeling them instantly heal. This wasn't working! Sherlock stopped. Focus, Sherlock, focus. He closed his eyes. He stood straight, ignoring the smoke that would choke any human in seconds, that would blind eyes and deprive lungs, because he wasn't human now was he? He listened. Crackle, pop, roar, shouts, screams, and...a single frantic heartbeat, upstairs. Sherlock's eyes snapped opened and in a second he'd shot himself through the ceiling to the above floor and he followed the small sound. The sound like the steps of a mouse or the beat of a butterfly wing. It lead him to a locked closet which he ripped off the wall by the hinges and there was Molly collapsed in the corner among the jackets and scarves.

In an instant he'd scooped her up and launched them out of the nearest window to a backstreet. Free from the smoke and flames and heat and into the arms of the confused fire-crew who couldn't explain Sherlock's lack of injuries from a jump like that.

You will suck the life out of me

Moriarty had eluded capture.

Sherlock and John intentionally did not.

The sun just sinking into the horizon to paint the world a bruised purple and dark blue, all together they were on the roof of Riechenbach Industries, a Swiss shipping company. Moriarty stood there, a wild green gleam in his dark eyes, his hair disheveled and suit wrinkled. Four guards pushed Sherlock and John roughly towards the ground, this move having no effect on Sherlock and an interesting one on John, who Sherlock caught, uprighted, and in the next second snapped the necks of all four guards. The bodies hit the floor roughly in piles of useless flesh. Sherlock stood as tall as he could, turned his head slowly, and glared at Moriarty. John's blood was coursing through him, making him doubly strong, doubly alive, doubly dangerous.

"Now that we're alone," Sherlock said. "Time to die."

Moriarty grinned and replied, "Not for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't care. He appeared at Moriarty's side, fangs grown and eyes red as life itself, and was about to tear out the mastermind's heart when someone slammed through the roof access door and impossibly fast had a knife to John's throat and pressing the man backward into him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," sneered a throaty voice. "Or your little human pet bites the dust." Sherlock froze. That man had no heartbeat. Sherlock couldn't hear one. His scent-some mix of cologne and also, also...No. It was impossible. How did Moriarty find-

Sherlock heard a click against his back, against his heart. "Guess what I saw through a camera backed with batteries? You wouldn't believe. Johnny boy snatched from jaws of death by the likes of you. And wooden bullets, my dear, are wonderful invention."

Bury it

I won't let you bury it

I won't let you smother it

I won't let you murder it

The man who was touching John was stuck in his early thirties, had short straight brown hair and a leather jacket and jeans. American. Helping Moriarty for the fun of it and wanted to use his connections. Uncaring. Had deep regrets about lost love. In reality old. Very, very old.

"One move, vampire, and your mate is dead," the other said.

"Why are you helping him?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound persuasive. "Are you looking for someone? Moriarty's network is dead. I killed it. How will he help you now?"

"Be quiet, my dear," Moriarty seethed. The gun exploded into Sherlock's shoulder. The staggered. No, not yet: compartmentalize the pain, Sherlock. I can't die again yet because John-

"Sherlock!" John shouted, struggling against the other vampire's death grip. "Let me go! We can help you. Sherlock's a consulting detective. He can find anyone. He knows the city, he knows every single crime that ever happened. He can track. Please. Look at Moriarty! He's not going to help you. You know he's not going to help you. Figure it out!" Sherlock could tell that John was spewing everything he could think of. "Let me go!"

"You humans," the vampire sneered. "So desperate in your petty games." His arm moved to around John's chest. "When really, you are so, so, so fragile." Sherlock's world was spinning, but he could see the man's muscles press against John. Stay here, Sherlock. Focus past all the pain.

"No! Stop!"

Crack. Crack. Pop. pop. CRACK. John doubled over in pain, gasping. His ribs. Sherlock could hear them splintering, breaking, every single one. The unknown vampire then plunged his fangs into John's neck, biting him and sucking out the blood and spitting in out onto the ground. "He tastes disgusting."

Sherlock moved like lightening.

Moriarty's gun fired another shot before sailing into the air to land on the roof. Sherlock's fist connected with an almighty crack into the other vampire's jaw, dislocating and breaking it. John fell to the ground.

Our time is running out

You can't push it underground

You can't stop it screaming out

John's vision was blurring. His chest felt like it was on fire. Massive internal bleeding, punctured lungs, ripped diaphragm, neck bleeding, vision reeling, and head swimming. Had he broke his stomach lining? He lifted a shaking hand to his neck, stop the bleeding, Watson, that's the first thing you learned wasn't it. His other arm cradled his middle as he sat up. He wanted to scream, scream to make it all go away, but that would worry Sherlock. Sherlock, where was Sherlock?

Two figures were dancing across the rooftop, trading punches and kicks and bites like they were sweet nothings and shifting in between the light and dark. One second Sherlock was pinned to the floor. Next second the other vampire was. The following Sherlock's neck was broken, but then he was all right.

The big black form of Moriarty was swimming closer. Something hard was next to John. Something in a familiar shape. Focus, Watson, focus. His hand left his middle and fingered a trigger. A gun. He swung it around to face the shadow of Moriarty. "Stay there," he shook. Watson forced himself to breath: it felt like he was inhaling fire. Ignore it. He closed his weaker eye and the world became a tad sharper. "Come closer and I'll shoot."

Moriarty darted forward and John fired. Somewhere the two figures had stopped moving. The world seemed to shift and suddenly Sherlock was over of him, shielding him, all he could see was Sherlock. In the almost non-existent light, John saw that Sherlock's skin seemed to be cracking in places, his breathing was labored, the wood in him at spread spidery veins of poison through his shoulder, but his eyes were aglow. The gun was still in John's hand.

"John," he whispered. It sounded like an apology, like a heart breaking, like a caress, like a single tear hitting the dirt, like a fragile, ancient glass puffing into dust.

But then Sherlock was being torn off him by stronger arms, the detective flying somewhere behind John and a more vicious face replaced his, one that had crimson eyes with a black iris in sooty eyelids and a mouth that seemed full of canine teeth. On instinct John fired the gun in his hand, the gun loaded with wood, and then the thing was gone and only three people were on the rooftop of Riechenbach.

But Moriarty wasn't being detained and the world was going blacker and blacker and John was decided that yes his stomach acid was burning his insides, the little enzymes breaking down his other cells, his tissues, his organs. The gun was ripped from his hand and another shot rang out, but who did it hit because John couldn't tell what did or did not hurt anymore. Was this blindness? Everything was rip, roar, pain, and no his eyes were just shut. He collapsed on the floor entirely and wondered if dying for Sherlock had hurt like this? Breathe, Watson, try to breathe.

Someone was shouting his name, calling him back, but it hurt too much to do anything. But it was Sherlock, his Sherlock. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock's face and hear bullets flying into Sherlock, Sherlock who was blocking them from hitting John, but Moriarty was a piss poor shot anyway because he didn't like getting his hands dirty usually. Sherlock was muttering incoherently almost, his lips moving at such fast speed, but John could make out the words "don't leave me" and if that needed any extra meaning Sherlock's face got big and John felt the familiar easy slice and sting of Sherlock in his neck.

The next moment, though, Sherlock was gone and John was lying alone sideways, at an angle enough to see the detective collide into the criminal and both fall, fall down down down off the roof of Reichenbach.

John passed out after that.

How did it come to this?

Review! Song requests result in longer periods between updates (because I have to write them) and, if I get one that doesn't fit in this story line, some timey wimey, spacey wacey magic 're-arrange chapters or sequels or other crazy weirdness.' Also...the story isn't over until I tell you and then there's magical credits that thank everybody. I have taken (hopefully won't anymore) a while to update this story but I promise to NEVER EVER leave a story hanging...because I'm desolate when other writers do that. So don't worry! :D