Possession
A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story
By
Nana
Chapter 13
Please see Author's Notes at the end of the chapter.
"You've got things to say," said John. "Go on. Tell me, then."
John watched as Sherlock hesitated, then looked away, as though suddenly unsure of himself, or uncertain where to begin. Now that the moment had finally come that John was forced to fully acknowledge the truth about Sherlock, the silence greeting John was tinged with a touch of diffidence, almost of shyness. John couldn't blame him. What did one say or do after such a stunning revelation?
John himself was still feeling more than a little punch-drunk, still trying to get his bearings on a world that seemed to have tilted on its axis abruptly, destroying certain beliefs that had been unassailable truths throughout his life and thrusting upon him the knowledge, as certain now as gravity, that somebody or something like Sherlock could exist in the same sphere of reality as he did. It was as though somebody had suddenly and unequivocally found out that the earth revolved around the moon. How did one cope with such an alteration in one's way of thinking that was of such life-changing magnitude?
The panic and nausea brought on by the initial shock were subsiding. John was a doctor, and his special coping mechanism, courtesy of his medical training, was kicking in. Mental triage— that process of determining the priority of addressing certain situations based on the severity of the likely consequences. Right now, he had to push down all thoughts that threatened to break his already-fragile composure and which would result in his running away from Sherlock, screaming his head off. It simply wouldn't do.
As if to spare them any further awkwardness, Sherlock's phone suddenly started to ring.
"It's Mike," said Sherlock as he looked at the caller ID before bringing the phone to his ear.
John, wiping an unsteady hand across his dry mouth, was about to look away when Sherlock's voice, raised in sharp accents, drew his attention back to him: "No, no! Tell him…tell Anderson to step away from the machine. Now! Tell him to turn away and not even so much as look at it!"
Sherlock looked absolutely furious as he listened to what Mike had to say. "Okay, you'll have to turn the thing off manually. There's a red master switch at the back. Turn it off. Wait five minutes before you try turning it on again," he said shortly.
John stared at him wonderingly as Sherlock shifted impatiently in his seat, irritation clear in his every movement.
"What? Nothing?" Sherlock finally said. "Oh, perfect. Just perfect. My congratulations to Anderson for breaking the machine simply by trying to turn it on. Of course there's a right way and a wrong way of initiating the start-up for the machine! All he had to do was look it up in the manual! He had to make sure the balancing solution was replaced and the waste solution discarded before he did anything else. Has the man not enough neurons to work that out? What's to be done? There's nothing to be done now. Repairs will take a few days and it's going to be quite useless starting any experiments while the machine is broken. At the rate things are going you might as well send Anderson in for brain repairs along with the machine. That ought to save us some problems in the future."
Sherlock punched the end call button on his phone emphatically, turned to look at John, and said, "What?"
John was actually laughing in that quiet, breathy way of his, eyes cast downwards on his lap. "Nothing," he said. "It's just…it just struck me as funny."
"What was?"
John looked up. "You," he said. "I mean, you're a bloody vampire, for crying out loud! You said so yourself that your life is measured in centuries, not decades."
"So?" asked Sherlock with a shrug and a tilt of his eyebrows.
"So what are you doing, going through such hard slog as a scientist and researcher when you can be in Paris or Venice or some other exotic locale, enjoying yourself?"
Sherlock frowned, as though he did not quite follow. "Who says I haven't been to Paris and Venice and just about everywhere else?"
John raised his brows. "So, you'd prefer to be stuck in a lab in Manchester over those places?"
"Wouldn't you?' asked Sherlock.
"God, no!" exclaimed John, looking at Sherlock with a what-is-wrong-with-you expression. "I mean, if I have an eternity to burn, I'd take myself off on a permanent vacation, somewhere sunny and warm and nowhere near a hospital."
"Give it a hundred years and I promise you the novelty of being on vacation will wear off," said Sherlock. "After all, you can only have enough of loitering around a pool or a beach day in and day out. You will find that ennui will easily be your biggest enemy. This is the work I've chosen to do because I find it absorbing and worthy of my time and effort. Besides, at any age you happen to be living in, you will always need money, and money, as we know, does not grow on trees."
John shook his head at the logic of it all, though he couldn't stop himself grinning. Jesus, he couldn't believe it. He was actually discussing the practicalities of everyday vampire life with…well, a vampire. After a moment, Sherlock joined him by chuckling softly.
"So this is what you've been doing your entire life? Scientific research?" asked John.
"Not my whole life, no," replied Sherlock. "Until four hundred years ago science was not science as we know it. Most tedious. I've had…various occupations throughout the years."
"Really? Such as?"
"What does it matter what I did in my past lives?" asked Sherlock. "Those years are gone, never to return. To ruminate over those dead years is to give way to sentiment, a concept I have no wish of acquainting myself."
John frowned, but decided not to press Sherlock further. Instead, he asked, "How old are you?"
"I can't really say for certain. There are whole periods of time that I cannot take into account."
"Why not?"
"Because I slept through them."
"Hold on. You…slept through them. Do you mean to tell me you hibernate?" asked John, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
"No one can stand absolute reality for very long, John."
"When does this process happen? Like every hundred years or so?"
"There's no definite pattern to it. It's usually during times of intense physical or mental stress, though I can simply shut down by lulling myself into that state whenever necessary."
"And when do you wake up?"
"Again, it varies. It could be months, years. Sometimes even decades."
"So how long have you been living your present life?"
"I woke up sometime in 1976."
John exhaled a breath. Amazing. Simply amazing. "And Sherlock Holmes isn't your real name, of course," he said.
"It's as real as all my previous names, simply because it names me," said Sherlock. "Though for the sake of verity, I lifted that name off a tombstone in a Sussex churchyard, the original bearer having died sometime in the 1820's."
John bit his lip, tried not to look at Sherlock and finding that he could not look away. Just what was it about this creature before him that he could fall under his spell so effortlessly? And yet all Sherlock ever did was to tell John the truth about himself.
"I don't think I'd like to find out how you managed to fake all your identity papers and documents," said John. "Though that must be a feat in itself."
"That would be a wise course of action," agreed Sherlock.
"How about your family? Where do you come from?"
"I don't remember my parents. It was so long ago. Though I do have a brother," Sherlock replied, scowling.
John did a double take. "You do?"
Sherlock made an annoyed gesture. "The only reason why I remember him is because he makes it a point to seek me out each and every time I wake up," he said. "Though to be frank I'd much rather that he leaves me alone."
"And right now, does he…"
"No. He hasn't found me yet. He's getting slow. Although I'm sure it will only be a matter of time before he does."
"Why don't you want to be in contact with him?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Too much history between us," he said succinctly.
John nodded. As strange as it sounded, that was one aspect of sibling relations that he could perfectly understand and sympathize, although he was sure that in Sherlock's case, he meant it both literally and figuratively.
"So now you're Sherlock Holmes, scientist," mused John. "For how long are you going to maintain this identity?"
"As long as I can," said Sherlock, eyes on the trees and their gently swaying branches holding the last handful of red and golden leaves. "I do rather enjoying living at this age. So many new technological developments, especially during the last twenty years."
"Yes," said John, smiling gently.
"There was a problem, before we met," said Sherlock. "I got into a spot of bother. I thought, at that time, that if I managed to get myself out of that mess, that perhaps it would be good for me to disappear and sleep again."
"But here you are, wide awake," said John. "Why didn't you just take off then?"
"And start all over again? No. It's never easy, falling asleep and waking up God knows when to forge another identity from scratch. It's extremely troublesome, and it's not going to get any easier anytime soon. Besides, I have…unfinished business."
"And what unfinished business might that be?"
Sherlock glanced at John. "Perhaps it may do you good not to know too much about it," he said softly.
John shook himself out of the lull that Sherlock's words were gradually placing him in. Even after the massive shock he had just experienced, it was easy, so easy, to put everything out of his mind and just listen to Sherlock's fascinating account of himself. John must never forget that he was not dealing with a man here.
And yet, he wanted— needed— to know everything about this extraordinary being.
"Perhaps. Though it might help a little if I were to know the gist of the problem," John said, guileless blue eyes round and brimming with mild persistence.
Sherlock exhaled soft laughter. "Stubborn, aren't we?" he said. "All right. That female colleague that I mentioned. I tried to feed from her. She shot me. Small caliber gun, never saw it coming. She managed to shoot me twice, here and here."
Sherlock gestured at his midriff. "The bullets did not penetrate that deeply, owing in part to my heavy coat and the layers of clothes that got in the way, but the blood loss was severe enough to disable me. I managed a few miles from the lab before collapsing. When I woke up, I found myself in the hands of a madman, the most dangerous kind."
John watched as Sherlock's eyes flitted shut. "He knew what I was," said Sherlock in the same soft, thoughtful voice. "He had some deranged notions about wanting to be a vampire and had some firm ideas on how to achieve it; namely, through me."
"He…wanted you to transform him into a vampire?" said John.
"Yes. He did not just want to be transformed, he wanted to consume me in the process. In short, he wanted to be me, the way some people would ingest the bones and body parts of a tiger to become one."
"Oh my God," said John quietly.
"Oh my God, indeed," echoed Sherlock in an expressionless voice. "For days I despaired of my life. Then an opportunity arose, unexpected but welcome. There was a girl in his group who was more…receptive to reason than the others. She helped me escape. So now here I am."
"So now here you are," echoed John faintly. "By the way, how do you feed exactly? I don't see any fangs anywhere."
"And I give you full permission to shoot me dead if you ever see a set growing in my mouth," replied Sherlock curtly. "I've never heard of anything more absurd."
"So, how…?"
"There is a sharp, retractable stalk, very much like a needle, just below my tongue. It's—" Sherlock stopped speaking abruptly as he saw John suddenly sit up, a gleam of interest in his eyes.
"Show me?" asked John, his expression rapt.
Sherlock drew away a fraction, as though offended by the very idea. "John Watson, that is probably the most indecent thing anyone has ever asked of me," he said quite gravely.
John actually burst out laughing, a ring of hysteria somewhere in its depths. "Please?" he asked. "Come on. Just a little—"
"No." Sherlock's tone brooked no opposition.
John settled back in his seat, clearly disappointed. Sherlock continued to watch him for a time, wondering at this strange, cheeky man who couldn't seem to be afraid of anything for long.
John was silent for a long time. Then he said, "I know you're going to scoff at this, but I just want to get it out of the way. Can you really transform a person into a vampire by drinking his blood?"
Sherlock gave John a long-suffering look. "For God's sake, John, do use your head. Do you think it's really possible for me to transmit my condition as if I were an infection?" he asked.
"Well, I wouldn't know what to think, would I?" asked John defensively. "All the vampire stories point to that. At the very least, you feed off a person's blood. Sometimes, you get to share each other's blood before that person becomes a vampire himself. Until now, I've never met an actual vampire who could set the record straight."
Definitely fearless, thought Sherlock as he stared into John's unwavering gaze. Astonishing.
"No, of course I can't transform anyone," Sherlock finally huffed. "No matter what all the stories would say, I am bound by the laws of physics just like everybody and everything else in this universe, and that's simply, physically impossible."
"Oh," John said, looking away. Something in his tone of voice registered with Sherlock, who shot him a searching glance.
There was nothing for a while except for the sound of the wind in the trees, a soothing balm to John's frayed nerves.
Sherlock continued to look at John. "You seem to have recovered especially fast from your shock," he observed.
"Have I?" asked John.
Sherlock looked down at John's hands, fisted so tightly on his lap that the knuckles were white. He smiled at John's averted face.
"So, what now?" John finally asked.
"Unless you'd be so good as to release me immediately by giving me that bill of health to present to Mike in Manchester, then I see very little recourse but to continue with our sessions for a while longer," said Sherlock, his gaze suddenly on the trees, some children playing a few yards away, the giggling fountain, anywhere but on John.
There was only one logical question arising from that statement, but John chose not to ask it.
What's going to happen after that? What are you going to do with me after I have outlived my usefulness?
No, he was not even going to think about it now. John felt that he already knew what was going to happen. He also knew he wouldn't be able to do anything to stop it. He did not know at the time, but the moment Sherlock set foot in his office, things had already been set irremediably in motion. There was no turning back, no way to change the final outcome, and the less people he dragged into the matter, the better. He could not risk anyone else dying just because he would, soon.
There was nothing else to be done. So for now he would continue to see his vampire. Never mind what was going to happen to either of them afterwards.
Author's Notes: John's question to Sherlock regarding his choice of working as a scientist as opposed to having the time of his life and living in Paris or Venice is lifted from an Anne Rice interview wherein she expressed her views about the Twilight series of books and films.
Sherlock's waking in 1976 coincides with Benedict Cumberbatch's birth year, just as John's age coincides with Martin Freeman's. Likewise, Sherlock's place of work is a nod to BC's having studied at the University of Manchester.