Burden of Proof
By Alecto Perdita
Chapter 12- Easter Sunday II (Together, they can never break us)
Rating: R
Warnings: Consent issues (dub-con vibes), threats of rape, nothing graphic/explicit but warning just to be safe
Posted: October 27, 2012


John doesn't know how or when that demon got into his friend, but he's going to save Sherlock no matter what.

John deposited his overnight bag at the foot of the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called.

No reply, but he could hear movement from the floor above. He scrubbed one hand tiredly over his mouth, before mustering his strength to climb the stairs and face his eccentric (and frankly mad) friend. With the way his phone had been ringing off the hook all day, John anticipated neither a pleasant nor an easygoing evening.

There were several good signs. The building appeared intact (almost within the first hour after he initially left, Sherlock had texted a list of experiments with potentially explosive ingredients; John couldn't veto them all fast enough). No smoke or the scent of burning things. Everything was very quiet and very still.

As he neared the landing, he caught the faint whisper of words. Despite himself, John smiled. Was Sherlock still trying to converse with him when he was out of the room? Had Sherlock continued that habit when he traveled the world over? John would never ask. He couldn't; it raised a number of embarrassing questions. But the possibility that Sherlock may have carried on to a John possibly continents away warmed his heart.

"Sherlock, what have you done now? First, Mycroft and then Greg."

Whatever John had expected, it wasn't the utterly vulnerable and desperate expression on Sherlock's face (the likes of which he hadn't seen since Baskerville).

"What's wrong?" John asked, not bothering to hide his growing concern.

"John." Sherlock finally choked his name out. His body jerked as he made an abortive motion to reach out.

Before he could ask again, Sherlock came flying across the room and pushed John against the flat door, slamming it shut. John stifled the grunt when his back collided against the wood. A dull jolt of pain jostled his spine and injured shoulder. But most of all, Sherlock was an unyielding wall of flesh and muscle pressing against him. Sherlock smelled of damp wool and what John fancied as London itself. The feel and scent stole the air right from John's lungs, even as his pulse jumped and raced like a jackrabbit's.

Sherlock's face was mere centimetres away—the long muscles of his neck straining as he ducked down to John's level. His pale eyes were a breathtaking electric blue today, with all of his considerable attention focused on John. John couldn't fight the full body shudder or the weakening in his knees. Sherlock must have found what he was searching for, because he broke into a smug and toothy grin.

What? John knew not. He didn't dare to hope.

Sherlock didn't want him—couldn't possibly want him.

A large warm hand cupped his cheek and Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the ridge of his cheekbone. "My dear John," he muttered softly.

Sherlock stole whatever words and sense that remained by pushing his lips firmly against John. The kiss was soft and almost thoughtful, but it was enough to jolt John out of his haze. He planted his hands on Sherlock's firm chest and tried to thrust the other man away. He pulled back and his head thunked against the wood—gaping as air struggled to reach his lungs. But Sherlock's arms, caging John on either side, prevented him from disentangling them entirely.

John swallowed convulsively and asked, "What are you doing?"

There was that small crease in between Sherlock's brow, the one that meant he was displeased. "Stop talking."

The hands previously braced next to John's head trailed down and encircled his wrists, tugging each hand off his chest before trapping John's hands against the door. The possessive gesture made the world go fuzzy around the edges. Maybe he had actually met with an accident en route and never made it back to 221B? Maybe this was heaven? (If there were demons, it only seemed fair that the opposite was true as well.) Or this was some vivid coma dream. He had read medical articles about those. No other explanation made sense at this point.

Another shiver coursed through John when he felt Sherlock's hot breath caress his jawline. "Stop thinking, you're not particularly good at it." Sherlock hissed before sealing his lips back over John's again.

Just as John melted into the sensation, Sherlock pressed back more insistently and nudged his mouth open with a swipe of his tongue. The only thing holding John up at this point was the door and Sherlock (who was invading all his senses). That clever tongue curled around his own, compelling him to respond in kind. And John fought back with everything at his disposal (because Sherlock was a battlefield all into himself and John was a soldier), sucking and licking and nipping and hands breaking out of Sherlock's loose hold to grab any body part in reach.

In retaliation, Sherlock dragged his lips across John's jaw and down his neck. Sherlock spent long moments lavishing attention on his bobbing Adam's apple until it left him panting with want. The sensation of a smile against his skin was his only warning before Sherlock bit down and sucked what would become a violent bruise onto his neck. The subsequent spike of lust and arousal swept over him in a heady haze.

He clung harder to Sherlock, never wanting to let go. Yet his mind still rebelled where his body wanted to surrender.

(A chilly Cornish night and a moon that seemed to swallow the black overhead—wool fisted in his hand—)

Too good to be real.

(—a dead man's kiss—a monster's cruel headgame—wasn't real)

Wasn't real at all.

This must be what it was like when Sherlock put together those crucial pieces to solve his puzzles. All the relevant points of data flashed before his mind's eye: layered under that tangy chemical undertone was the smell of sulphur; Sherlock's warm but bare wrist devoid of his wristwatch; his flatmate's almost pleading expression when he first came in; Mycroft and Lestrade's concern; and a dozen other smaller details that painted a not-quite-right picture.

John tore his mouth away and gasped for air. He was probably telegraphing too much, so his only hope was that the demon didn't already know he was a hunter. "Sherlock," he gasped. "I can't."

In response, the taller man bucked his hips, grinding his erection against John's thigh.

John could only taste bitter bile.

"You want this." Sherlock (no, that demon riding his body) palmed John's half-hard cock through his jeans. "Why stop now?"

John suppressed the urge to throw the demon off—that would anger it or give him away. The demon leaned in again and John's skin crawled. John sent a silent prayer in thanks when he found what he needed—police-issued handcuffs—in the left pocket of Sherlock's coat still draped over the demon. He vowed never to berate Sherlock about pickpocketing Lestrade again. He twisted out of the demon's grip with a move he hadn't used since his army days and shackled Sherlock's hands behind his back.

It flexed its arm in an effort to test the binding, but John already knew that alone wouldn't keep the demon.

It smiled again with Sherlock's face, then speaking with his voice. "John, naughty naughty."

It wasn't even trying anymore. John wanted to hit it.

John whipped out the flask of holy water from the inside pocket of his jacket and splashed the content all over its face. It screeched and reeled back, steam rising from its face in reaction to the holy water. Using his forward momentum, he charged forward and sent them both crashing down into the coffee table. The table shattered underneath them. John rolled away before trying to catch his breath, clawing at his armchair for support when an old unwelcome pain knifed through his leg.

The demon snarled—eyes completely black as it was compelled to reveal its true nature. It tried to reach for him before freezing suddenly and struggled against an invisible force holding it back; its face contorted with confusion.

John took several more ragged breaths before addressing it, "Don't bother, you're sitting on top of a devil's trap." The trap had been laid under the rug months ago when Sherlock was out of the flat. His observant flatmate never noticed because he never cleaned (which was what John was counting on).

It settled back and the black in its eyes receded "You're a hunter." It threw back its head and cackled, "Well, isn't this just a delicious turn of events?"

"Shut up," John snapped. Rage buzzed beneath his skin, like a swarm of angry insects, and tinted everything with the cooper tang.

There was a faraway look in Sherlock's eyes before focusing its attention back to John. "Oh, Sherlock's asking what a hunter is. He has no idea at all! Why, John, I think you've managed to keep a secret from the great Sherlock Holmes." It smiled with Sherlock's lips and teeth, but all the angles and edges seemed unnaturally sharp.

John's pulse hammered away in his ear. It was almost too difficult to hear over the roar of his rushing blood. "I said shut your mouth."

"The two of you are a pair, a friendship rebuilt on a bed of lies. So many lies. You keep the wool pulled over his eyes regarding the true nature of the world; he lies to you about his feelings."

Feelings. Sherlock's feelings for John.

Demons lie; they lie all the damn time.

"What do you want with Sherlock?" He spat the words out around his grinding teeth, focusing exclusively on Sherlock's face to spot hints of his friend being held captive within.

"Ugh, boring!" It declared in a stunningly good imitation of Sherlock's usual mannerism, but its far-too-wide smile stretched like a rictus across Sherlock's face. "Come on, John, there are so many better things we could be doing instead playing twenty questions. You have me all tied up with nowhere to run." It purred, taking unfair advantage of Sherlock's low baritone and pitching in a way that unmistakably suggested sex. The demon readjusted its position, sitting up and parting legs wider to draw attention to the bulge that hadn't subsided in the least.

It was getting off on tormenting John.

It had absolutely nothing to do with what Sherlock (trapped and no doubt, disgusted) wanted.

John rose to his feet and forced himself into the kitchen, sliding the partition closed behind him. It was probably a mistake to let the demon out of his line of sight, but he couldn't look at Sherlock's face right now. He inspected the science equipment laid out on their kitchen table and selected two of the largest and cleanest Erlenmeyer flasks, before filling them both with water from the tap. From his pocket, he drew the rosary from church earlier and wrapped the string of beads around the neck of both flasks. He kept his voice as low as possible when chanting a familiar Latin blessing.

"Come back, John!" The demon called, using the same exaggerated pronunciation that Sherlock sometimes used when he particularly wanted something. "Don't tell me you don't want a piece of this, I know you're not blind! I can see it as clear as day. Well, that and I picked up a few tricks about reading souls and desires from Charlie. I'm amazed that for the most observant man in London, he completely missed the fact that you want him desperately. He's so worried about other people stealing you away: Victor, Mary, anyone else who even glances your way. Such a jealous and possessive little thing he is. No one must have taught him how to share when he was a kid."

He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the demon's words and to concentrate on the prayer.

A blessed moment of silence before the demon started up again, "So, are all British guys as ridiculously repressed as the two of you? Don't be mad, John, I was just trying to help. Otherwise, you idiots would have spent the rest of your stupid, short mortal lives dancing around each other until you're too old and gray to enjoy a good 'shag.' I don't see the problem. Sherlock's gagging for it, guy might finally loosen up if you shove a dick up his ass. I don't mind lying back and thinking of Mother England, but then you had to be a total downer with the whole I'm-a-big-bad-hunter."

John was shaking by the time he finished with the holy water. At the door, he had to double back for the container of salt from the back of the cupboards.

The demon looked up as soon as he re-entered the living room. Its bored expression melted into lust and desperation, baring Sherlock's long neck in seeming submission, it whimpered, "Please, John. I need you. Fuck me."

He hit the demon with a bit more holy water than he meant to. The familiar snarling and thrashing of a demon in agony was a preferable sight to that thing shamming as Sherlock. He was surprised to find how easily he managed to disconnect this creature's suffering from his friend, but there was still the uncomfortable twist deep in gut. "I'll ask you one more time, what do you want with Sherlock?" His words were as steady and heavy as steel.

Black eyes resurfaced as an automatic reaction to the dowsing. "I'm sorry, was the pain supposed to be a turn-off?"

His hand shot out to grasp Sherlock's chin, tilting the head back. Sherlock's lips were swollen and kiss-reddened. John must have stared too long or too hard (he did that to Sherlock—against his friend's will), because those lips quirked up with a knowing smirk. Usually, that smile made John's heart race with excitement, but now it stoked his anger.

John used his finger and palm to pry open the demon's mouth. He never liked doing this, but he needed answers. Was Sherlock specifically targeted? Was there backup on the way that John needed to look out for? He poured a mouthful of liquid into the open orifice and held its head aloft to keep it from spitting out the water. Though, the burning hiss and choked gurgle of pain was incredibly hard to bear.

He reminded himself that holy water didn't hurt the human, just the demon. Sherlock was fine—was going to be fine as soon as John got this thing out of him.

John stepped away from the demon, putting some much needed distance between them. He watched impassively (on the outside at least) as the demon spat the remaining swallows onto the rug. "You are right about one thing: You're not going anywhere. I want some answers first. Then I'm going to send you back to where you belong."

"If you must know, your Sherlock was incidental. He was a convenient meatsuit when I needed a new one." It sneered. "He is nice enough that I was considering taking him on a permanent basis."

He ignored its effort to nettle him. Like suspects in interrogation, it rarely paid to take the demon's bait. "This has something to do with Sherlock's latest case, that blackmail case he was working on. You're somehow involved in that. How?"

"He's right about you," it cooed with a sickeningly patronizing smile. "You are marginally smarter than the rest of these sad sacks of meat. Not too smart though, if you think I'm going to spill the beans. That would spoil all the fun."

John couldn't help himself. He had to be sure. "Sherlock's still in there?"

"Of course! He's listening to every word we're saying. You should have heard him when you first came back; he was so worried about what I might do to you. His threats were some of the most creative ones I've ever heard, and I've been to Hell. It was quite touching considering the sort of person he is. He'd make a brilliant demon someday, don't you think?"

He balked, throwing more holy water across the demon's face. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Sherlock is nothing like you lot."

"You really believe that!" it gave a short bark of laughter as it shook itself like a wet dog. Sherlock's curls were plastered flat against his head from sweat and sanctified water. "Did Sherlock ever tell you about the time he killed a man?"

John froze.

It continued, "Well, more than one man: three men and a woman. You know that technically makes him a serial killer, right? Turns out Sally Donovan may have been right about psychopaths and boredom. If that doesn't get him assigned downstairs, I don't know what will. Well, I can think of a few things." It leered at John with familiar pale eyes, intense gaze sweeping up and down his body.

"They were criminals. Murderers. Not good men. He did it to save people."

"You really are disgustingly loyal, aren't you? So ready to believe in the great Sherlock Holmes. Yeah, they were bad, bad people. Still, he would never have had to kill them if he hadn't sought them out in the first place. Murder is still murder, and murder's a sin, doncha know? To be fair, pretty much all of them backed him into a corner—sorta kill-or-be-killed types of situations. So if you're hard-pressed, you could classify those as self-defense. But they're just the tip of the iceberg: extortion, torture, arson, homemade explosives... The list goes on and on. Your boy's a bonafide criminal mastermind in practice."

"You talk too much," John hissed. He fought the urge to deck the demon, but that would ultimately hurt Sherlock more than it. He clenched his fists and stilled his body against the thrumming tide rising within him.

"Oh, John Watson, look at you, all steel and righteous fury. You have no idea how much that turns him on. Opps, Sherlock didn't want you to know any of that." It snapped its mouth shut with an audible smack. Had its hands been free, it would probably be miming the motion of a zipper across its lips. But the demon didn't stay quiet for long—they never did. "He's just like a puppy, so hung up on having you think the best about him, so desperate to keep you from finding out he's really a monster on the inside like all those things you hunt."

Something in John snapped.

The second flask was filled with salt before its content was poured down the demon's throat. It gagged in an effort to not choke, because John held tight and made sure it drank every last burning drop. When he finally let go and stepped away, the demon fell forward and threw back up some of the holy water. The one thing that demons tended to forget was that once they took a body, they became susceptible to most of the weaknesses too. It rarely mattered in the long term as demons took a hard toll on their bodies, but it didn't mean it couldn't still hurt like hell for them while damage was inflicted on their vessels. John knew that Sherlock would forgive him for this momentary discomfort when it meant they got to watch the demon gasp and heave in pain.

"I'm done playing your games. If there's anything else you want to say before I exorcise you, now would be the time."

It followed John's movements with angry dark eyes while wearing Sherlock's most thunderous expression. The reality of its situation must have sunk in. It knew its expulsion from Sherlock's body was given and inevitable. "You have no idea who you're crossing, hunter."

"Exorcizamus te—"

Its expression transformed into something completely inhuman and its body quivered under strain. "You stupid fuck, I would have fucked you against that door. I bet you would have loved that though. You'd love for him to hold you down and fuck you. You were practically ready to spread your legs and beg for it like a fucking whore."

John sped up over the next lines. His mind whited out of all other thoughts except for the well-rehearsed verses falling from his lips. "Omnis Immundus Spiritus, Omnis Satanica Potestas, Omnis Incursio Infernalis Adversarii, Omnis Congregatio et Secta Diabolica—"

The convulsions grew stronger with each Latin word muttered, but the demon continued to spit vitriol like a caged beast. "I wouldn't have been gentle about it. I can hold you in place with just my pinky finger if it wasn't for this fucking trap. I would have just bent you over and fucked your hole without any lube. You could scream and beg all you want, but I wouldn't have stopped. I would have fucked you until I tore your insides to shreds and left you bleeding out on the floor. And you're fooling yourself if you think your precious Sherlock wouldn't have also enjoyed every moment of—"

John's hand moved without thinking, splashing the last of the holy water over the demon's torso. It had been a long time since he felt this sort of detachment from himself, like he was watching his own actions from outside his own body. Intense surgeries had been like this—once; long ago—and then there had been war itself. Now the feeling returned as he watched the demon writhe on the floor while wearing his best friend's skin.

"Ergo Draco Maledicte, Ut Ecclesiam Tuam Secura, Tibi Facias Libertate Servire, Te Rogamus, Audi Nos!"

Sherlock's mouth fell open and an unseen force yanked the demon's smoky black form out. The smoke churned anxiously, writhing against the invisible force binding it before it was dragged down into the floor. John's ears rang and he knew he would be haunted by that agonized screeching tonight (if he could even sleep after all this). Utterly limp, Sherlock fell facedown onto the rug and its charred spots (Mrs. Hudson was going to be furious).

From this distance, it was impossible to tell if Sherlock was still breathing or not. Panic gripped John for long seconds before he could finally shake it off.

He sank to his knees next to Sherlock's prone body and gingerly rolled the other man onto his side, while still mindful of the fact he was handcuffed. Sherlock was pale and sweaty, but his chest rose and fell steadily with shallow breaths. John brushed back a stray, wet curl. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so, so sorry."

He couldn't help but feel like this was entirely his fault.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, hazy for a moment before they focused on him. "John," he croaked and then lost consciousness again.

John gave into the impulse to hold his friend close, ignoring the coldness and wetness seeping into his shirt. He needed to reassure himself with Sherlock's presence. Everything else could wait until later.

-x-x-x-

The next time that Sherlock awoke, he almost wished he hadn't. His head was blessedly light and empty, but every muscle screamed as pain knifed through his whole body, like it was one large exposed nerve ending. Raw and scratchy, his throat felt as if he had been screaming for an extended period of time. His shirt stuck unpleasantly to his clammy chest and equally clammy hands weakly groped around in the dark. After a moment, he hissed and stilled—every movement lodged another spike of pain into his frontal lobe. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut to block out the aching, but it remained as a dull, persistent buzz in the background.

He flexed his fingers though, reveling in the fact he could.

The rest of his mental faculties took interminably long to come back online. The bed shifted (his bedroom) as the weight of a second person settled next to him.

"Sherlock?" John prodded gently.

Then he remembered the demon, John coming home early, John's soft lips and hard body... Sherlock had done unforgivable things to John. The demon had said even more despicable things with his mouth. Everything blended together in a fever dream of hallucinations, shame, and the demon's disturbed imagination he couldn't fully purge. His stomach rebelled and Sherlock lurched over the side of the bed. A bowl appeared on the floor underneath him, but Sherlock had nothing left in him to throw up (he didn't remember the demon either eating or drinking anything). He dry heaved for almost a minute, as a pair of warm and steady hands brushed back his hair.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Just breathe."

John helped ease him back onto the bed when Sherlock finally caught his breath again. A cool, wet flannel towel moped away the sweaty sheen from his forehead. John's hand lingered over his cheeks, leaving trails of heat in his finger's wake. Sherlock tried not to lean into the warmth and found it exceedingly easy when his body refused to operate properly.

He opened his mouth to speak, but all that escaped was a croaked noise approximate to John's name.

"Here, drink this."

A glass with a straw in it was guided to Sherlock's chapped lips. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the first drop hit his parched throat. He slurped the cool liquid greedily, but then broke into a coughing fit.

"Slowly!" John admonished. "You're dehydrated. When was the last time you ate?"

"Friday." He would have gotten around to eating today if it wasn't for the demon.

His flatmate fixed a stern glare on him. "I'm going to make you some soup and give you a slice of bread. Hopefully, you'll be able to keep it down. Later tonight, maybe we can see about getting you something more substantial. You're going to need the extra energy and calories"

"Yes, doctor." Sherlock couldn't manage as much bite as he wanted, but John's nagging concern was familiar.

John placed a fresh towel across Sherlock's forehead and moved away. For a heartwrenching second, Sherlock was sure the other man was leaving him and he couldn't think. Couldn't think of anything beyond the idea of John walking out the door and never coming back. He hated the demon more than anything—hated it for destroying, in a matter of minutes, all the hard work Sherlock had put in to keep his friend for just a little bit longer.

Someone was panting and moaning (it was him).

"Sherlock, listen to my voice. You need to calm down. Take deep breaths." John threaded his fingers through Sherlock's, providing the only necessary anchor. Sherlock gripped the offered hand tightly and took large gulps of air to combat the tightness in his lungs. He concentrated on the marcato huff of John's breath, his steadfast presence, the play of streetlights through the window on the ceiling overhead, the dim warmth cast by the lamp on his nightstand, London thrumming all around him... He absorbed all of those little bits into himself, until his heart no longer felt like it was trying to rip itself out from inside his chest.

The bed bounced slightly as John settled further on the mattress—their legs barely brushing up against each other. John still hadn't let go of his hand and their intertwined hands rested in the space between them. Sherlock tried not to hold on any tighter, but the impulse proved difficult to fight when he was so absolutely convinced his friend could disappear into thin air without warning.

Because the world no longer made perfect sense. Its fundamental principles had changed overnight.

John must have sensed his turmoil. "You have questions." The other man declared with more than a hint of irony.

Deja vu. How their roles had reversed since then. But this was good, he could focus on the facts and push all those messy emotions back for now. He would need time—a lot of time—to examine the damage done to their partnership.

"Is it gone?"

"Yeah, it's gone. It's not coming back." John gave his hand a brief squeeze, as if trying to reassure him (which was ridiculous; Sherlock was fine; he didn't need reassurances).

"What did you do to it?"

"Exorcised it, means it gets sent back to Hell."

"This was not the first time you've dealt with a demon."

John had been prepared—almost to the point where he had expected something like this to happen.

"No, it's not."

Quiet slipped into the empty nooks and crannies of their conversation. Sherlock welcomed the respite—it was a chance to process the new onslaught of information, to adjust his expectations, to re-examine old evidence anew. Despite the lethargy weighing his body down, his mind raced as new associations formed between nodes and the cascading activation solidified the links between them. He was building new networks and output bins as they laid there, populating them with what little information he had on hand. But there were too many gaps in his knowledge—far too many holes to be acceptable.

He needed to know more.

"What else is out there?" Sherlock turned his head to the left, looked up at John and asked.

The other man pursed his thin lips, considering, "Ghosts, vampires, werewolves, went up against an Irish pagan god last year. Pretty much everything you might have ever read about, that's if you haven't already deleted all that. And if rumors are to be believed, that includes angels."

"Yes, Constance did mention something about angels."

"Constance?"

"The demon. Don't they usually have names?"

"I don't know. I guess. It's not like I invite them over for tea and cakes, and then we have a conversation about the weather." John rolled his eyes.

"How could you tell though? Even Mycroft didn't notice the difference." And Mycroft was even more observant than Sherlock.

"Not entirely, Mycroft texted me after coming over this morning. He thought something might be wrong. I know you think I'm daft, but even I know you coming onto me like that is out of character for you." John's words seemed strained somehow, matching the coiling tension resurfacing in Sherlock's belly.

They each stared resolutely at a wall—anywhere but at each other.

John's next words were softspoken, "Plus, you weren't wearing the wristwatch."

"The watch?"

John retrieved the broken wristwatch from the nightstand and turned over the metal backing that had come loose. In the dim light, Sherlock just barely made out the elaborate laser etching on it. It shared some similar artistic motifs with John's tattoo, namely the pentagram. He should have noticed that. Had he and then subsequently deleted the knowledge?

"This was supposed to keep you safe," John said as his shoulders slumped a bit. "As long as you wore this, no demon would have been able to possess you."

He turned a critical eye to his flatmate, namely at his bare wrists. "What about you? You must wear something similar."

Pink crept high on John's cheek as he coughed embarrassingly, "Yeah, I have something more permanent."

"The tattoo."

John nodded.

That dark and jealous streak resurfaced. "Mary has the same tattoo. She is also a hunter." The word hunter and all its newly acquired implications rolled awkwardly off his tongue.

How long? Since before they met? For as long as they'd had known each other? No. More recent than that. This was that new set of behavior and baggage Sherlock had observed when he first came back. This was what John had put away for the sake of their friendship because he wouldn't tell. This was the life—the secrets that John shared with Mary Morstan—she was the source.

Sherlock should be mad. He should be terribly cross with John for not sharing these things with him beforehand (never mind that Sherlock occasionally withheld information from John for his own good!). But John had tried to tell him once, in the middle of a warm night last December. He remembered how on edge his flatmate was about the Hyde Park shooting. Sherlock had brushed him off then, and John had not brought it up again.

Would he have believed John without having seen the evidence firsthand?

Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Maybe, maybe not. This wasn't just new evidence—this was a paradigm shift.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John shook his shoulders gently.

Sherlock blinked, registering his hands steepled against his chin and his flatmate's worried face peering from off to the side. He waved John away and snapped, "I was thinking."

John's expression tightened. "You checked out for nearly ten minutes."

"I'm fine, stop worrying."

"I need to ask you some questions."

Sherlock tried not to show how much that declaration worried him, but his already weakened body betrayed with a tremor in his hands. "Really, John, the demon was trying to rile you up." Which was true and Sherlock didn't want to discuss all the other topics discussed.

"Not about what the demon said. They lie all the time, everyone knows that. Unless you want to talk about it..."

No.

No.

No.

"Ask your questions." He snapped and pressed his hands together to still them.

"Where and when did the demon get into you?"

Sherlock could handle this. "I encountered the demon at Charles Milverton's house, the blackmailer I was investigating. It caught me off-guard. As for what it wanted with me specifically, I cannot say. It seemed almost a matter of convenience given its previous body was damaged."

"Good, good." John nodded to himself before hesitating. "Did it do anything while it was in you?"

"Other than purposely irritating Mycroft and Lestrade?"

"Nothing else out of the ordinary?"

Sherlock paused as his discomfort grew. "I don't know. I lost almost nine hours at one point. It kept me from being aware. But I'm certain it had something to do with Eva Blackwell's disappearance."

"Okay, first order of business is figuring out what happened. Hopefully it's nothing too problematic, if not, maybe Mycroft can help sort it out."

He swallowed down his indignation at the thought of asking Mycroft for help. But it was for the better to keep the option open when he had no idea to what extent the demon had done damage to his reputation. Although the question of how to prove the existence of the paranormal to his brother was an interesting one to entertain.

"We should go back to Milverton's house." With John's expertise, they would be able to expel Milverton's demon, get rid of his blackmail materials, and hopefully find Lady Blackwell in one piece.

"Wait, why?"

"The demon was taking orders from Milverton. Then it stands to reason that another demon is currently in possession of Milverton."

John cursed, "Shit, you couldn't have said something earlier. Two of them... Do you think the other one suspects anything?"

"I have not been in contact with Milverton."

"Okay, right, change of plans. I'm going to go to Milverton's house, set a trap for him, and find out what he knows. You'll stay here—"

"No!" Sherlock growled. "I'm going as well."

"It's too dangerous and you're still weak from before. You need rest, Sherlock."

"No, this is my case. You cannot keep me out of it. You can try handcuffing me to the bed, but we both know I'll find a way out. It's better if I come along in the first place." His logic was irrefutable. He needed to see the case to its end. The idea of letting John face another demon on his own, even given his greater experience, was unacceptable.

John's capitulation was most evident in the slump of his shoulders. But he wasn't happy about giving in—only doing so because he was aware that Sherlock would not be dissuaded. "Fine, but you're going to eat something while I get the supplies we need."

Sherlock chose not to argue the point. His body was despicably exhausted.

When John left the room this time, Sherlock thankfully didn't have another panic attack (one was embarrassing enough). As his flatmate banged around the kitchen (pots clanging against the cooktop and contents being shifted in their cupboards, Sherlock decided on a quick shower. He was uncomfortably sticky from the exorcism.

He made it into the tub without falling and cracking his skull open, despite the shaky state of his knees. He stood under the warm spray, allowing the water to massage the aching muscles in his back and arms. His hands wandered idly over parts of his body, tracing the multitude of scars—big and small—earned during his long exile from London. Between the faded nicks of an active and troubled childhood, the marks of drug abuse from his mid-twenties, and a lifetime of working with chemicals, his skin had never been pristine and unmarred. Being a consulting detective had added an impressive array of smaller scars to the collection. Now there was the discolored patch of burnt skin splotched over his right flank, the bullet scar that graced his upper left bicep, the swatch of healing knife cuts that would vanish with time, and the nonnegligible number scattered across his back.

His fingers trailed down to his wrists, where angry red bruising had formed from the demon straining against the handcuffs. After rubbing irritably on the spots, the small stretches of already abused skin broke and bled. Pink circled the tub's drain and Sherlock fought the sudden resurgence of nausea.

This was intolerable. The sight of blood never troubled him before.

But the demon had a very vivid imagination and didn't understand the concept of oversharing. It had been more than a little enamored with the idea of John's blood outside of his body.

He didn't know how long he had been in the shower—his eyes singing from a combination of the water and not blinking for extended periods—before John knocked on the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, are you okay in there?"

"Stop hovering. I'm not a child!"

John said nothing further in return. Sherlock waited until the other man's footsteps faded down the hall and turned off the water. He dried off, sloppily bandaged his wrists (because he couldn't stand the thought of more touching from John), and slipped back into his bedroom. He considered getting dressed again, but couldn't muster the energy. He pulled a dressing gown around his naked frame, tied the sash around his waist, and marched out into the kitchen as if nothing had changed.

John's gaze followed Sherlock around the kitchen as he checked to see if any of his experiments could be salvaged (the demon had ruined each and every one of them). His skin crawled and itched from all the emotions the demon had shaken loose. Sherlock was defiant though and turned to look at John, who was sitting by the writing desk with a tray of food. Their eyes met across the length of the living room (hot and heavy and heady; and Sherlock regretted not having gotten dressed first). John's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed; he was also the first to break the stare.

"Come over here," John called. "We're not going anywhere until you eat and explain the case to me in full."

In between mouthfuls of soup and bread, Sherlock did just that. John took notes in his moleskin, like he did for any of their other cases. But even upside down, Sherlock could make out the less familiar bulletpoints about the paranormal (witch?; demon?; was it summoned?; binding spell? search for altar).

John was staring again; though his attempts to be surreptitious came off as anything but. His sneaking glances grated on Sherlock's last nerve. With a bang, Sherlock slammed the spoon down on the table (he failed to startle John). "What?"

"What was it like, being possessed?"

"You've never been."

John shook his head. "No."

Sherlock clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palm. Empty, weak, draining, helpless, soul-crushing: just a few adjectives or the parts that could be explained, but then there were the parts that defied explanations. Finally, he settled on, "Annoying when I couldn't use my own body, boring because there was nothing to occupy my mind."

John remained unconvinced and tried to prod further, "I'm here if you want to talk about it. Demons have a way of messing with your mind. You should never blindly believe anything they tell you."

His inside went cold. Of course. This was John's way of gently letting him down. Don't believe anything the demon told you: I don't want you. Not really. Under normal circumstance, John was a red-blooded bisexual man with a relatively high libido. You couldn't fault his body for reacting.

He stood and left the room without another word. He needed to focus on the case if they were going to find Lady Blackwell alive. Everything else could wait until later.


I apologize for having deleted the chapter earlier. I had a mini-freakout about the way the chapter ended, but I think I've amended it in such a way that it no longer bothers me.

I only seem capable of angst/drama. I'm so sorry, especially for taking so long to write this chapter. OTL

Next chapter will bring us back to the case as John and Sherlock track down Milverton in order to find out what he's really trying to do.

Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, and following, especially for sticking with this story for so long. Feel free to bug me at alectoperdita on tumblr.