I am so very, very sorry it took me all this time to get the next chapter up but I have an excuse . To cut a VERY long story short, my laptop died on me. I waited three weeks to save up enough to get it fixed, then sent it off. Four weeks later, I get a call telling me that they cant fix my problem, even though they said they could. Took me a week to get it back. Now, its going be at least another four weeks before the guy I know fixes it and sends it back. Luckily, all my files were on a flash drive, but I havn't been able to get a lot of computer access to get this typed up. Right, on with the story (thank god!).

Ahhh... I've been so incredibly mean to Watson... Time to be mean to Holmes now eh? This chapter continues from chapter 7, and leads up to the morning Watson received the letter from Caswell, all from Holmes' POV. Next chapter will continue from Holmes' POV, and end where we last left Watson.

To all reviewers: Thank you very much for your kind words throughout Que Sera Sera so far. You have all been wonderful, and I can only hope you will choose to forgive me for my ridiculously long absence. Here is the next chapter. It is a short one... a very short one.

Limits to the Semi-Human Mind

[-]

Holmes' Point of view

After finding it appropriate to remove my finger, Caswell had chosen to leave me very much alone and very much in pain. Even with the moon high in the nights sky, a single candle had been left lit upon the table opposite me. I was sweating profusely, and suddenly thankful for my lack of upper body attire. The shock of the injury refused to leave me; the stub of my finger felt as though it had been exposed to a naked flame. I should not have been shocked to see so little blood for such a wound; my heart no longer beat in my chest. It would be therefore wise to presume I had no natural blood-flow. How strange that I should be in this state, yet still amongst the ranks of the living. At least to some extent in the very least.

My future looked hopeless; how could I possibly live as I had done before? Would I be faced with questions whenever I was wounded? Would I ever be able to walk in the sunlight without feeling such nausea? Was this the full extent of my vampirism? If so, wouldn't it be logical to think I should be feeling... hungry... quite soon? I glanced at the pathetic remnants of my left finger. I very much doubted that I would ever play my violin in quite the same way again. This thought filled me with black sorrow, yet I shook it away, unwilling to think of such things whilst my mind was unable to operate properly.

Another sharp stabbing pain; I could not help but grit my teeth resolutely against the inevitable waves of nausea that followed. This was not the first time I had ever found myself in such a situation, yet I had never been injured in such a crippling way before. Usually, my captors were more violent and demanding, as opposed to the crazy-calm exterior of Jack Caswell. This type of wound would be career-damaging for many, yet somehow I thought it the least of my troubles.

As Caswell turned to leave me through an exit I could not see, he thought it fitting to tell me that I would suffer no infection from my wound. Apparently, even a half-life such as myself benefited from a few select perks that the vampire race enjoyed as part of their 'blessing'. He told me that although I was still essentially human, I would live to enjoy an extraordinarily long lifespan of eighty to ninety years and would never suffer from illness. He told me I would soon begin to notice a sharpening of my senses and a darker, nameless urge for violence against my fellow men would stalk me wherever I would seek to go.

Even as Jack Caswell alerted me to these changes, I became steadily conscious of his words as he spoke them. I felt no cocaine in my system for my four week sleep had flushed all traces of the drug from my system, yet I felt incredibly alert and hyper-aware of my surroundings as I would usually if I took to the needle. I noticed colours standing out much bolder than usual, each one screaming out at my senses as though each individual shade had a tale to tell, whether I wished to hear it or not. It shocked me to the core.

''Join me and work towards my goals'', he had said. Even as I strained to stare at my hand and ignore the vast phantasmagoria of my confused senses, I whispered through a clenched jaw, ''No.''.

That had been some hours ago. In a place such as this, there was no solid way to calculate the amount of time that had passed since then. I could feel the slow approach of the sun despite the moon still shining above; never before had I utterly loathed anything without a good, logical reason. Now I was reduced to... what exactly? A slave to my instincts? A thing driven by base urges? Even now, I could feel something, some dark presence within me, a plague demanding it's wants be given into. I dared not dwell on it for a moment longer, lest said perversions be given a name- a name I feared I would recognise.

But what of Watson? The very thought of his name made the thing within cackle and leer, with my own voice no less. Even if I did manage to escape, I would never force my presence upon him, for I knew I would begin to pose a threat to him. This threat would grow and fester; I could not allow that to happen. I decided then and there that I would flee away from everything I once knew. Perhaps I would make my silent retreat to the country and take up a profession most unlike the one I follow now. Something completely unrelated with my habits and interests, so that I couldn't be tracked. Bee keeping, perhaps. I doubted I would pose much of a threat to them.

It pained me to plan on leaving Watson behind, but once again, it was necessary to preserve his safety. Right now, he was undoubtedly in much more danger than I, for it certainly appeared as though Jack wished me to live... or un-alive, depending on how one would care to interpret my continued existence. I could not fathom why Caswell was so insistent upon my cooperation, but I certain that he would have little or no use for Watson. His safety was not as guaranteed as my own. Not whilst Benjamin was tailing him, and certainly not whilst Jack refused to elaborate on what it was that he wished me to do. I could only hope that Watson would come to his senses and flee as far and as quickly as possible. I doubted he would.

It would be surprising to many to learn that I have never really thought of Watson as being my biographer or colleague. No, even from the very moment I laid eyes upon him, I could tell that he was a man of immense worth. I wasn't mistaken. His time abroad had done nothing to harden the softness of his heart, and although he is incredibly persistent upon the condition of my health I cannot bring myself to think any less of him for his meddling. I have never stopped to seriously consider the theory of fate, and have often berated others for speaking of such utter nonsense, yet as I stood confined within Caswell's grasp I found myself re-evaluating the entire concept. Chance alone could never have brought such an honourable individual to the door of 221B.

I laughed bitterly; a single night of being imprisoned had made me reconsider the un-considerable. My body moved without my conscious will, struggling against my restraints to escape the impending sun. My very skin crawled. Soon I began shake, the contraption I was bound to rattling violently until I thought I might be literally irritated to bedlam from the noise alone. As the first beams of light struck the floor before me through the hole in my roof, despite the incredible discomfort, despite being imprisoned by a monster, despite that damned voice within my soul, my only thoughts were for Watson's safety and the future of my closest friend.