Possession

A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 18

This chapter marks the end for part II. The latter part is rated T/M, though nothing explicit…yet. Enjoy!

Please see Author's Notes at the end of the chapter.

"It is the demon, Father. The most terrible one of all."

- Father Cayetano Delaura, on Love

From "Of Love and Other Demons", by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

"No," said John, mind still partially frozen although his mouth appeared to be working just fine. "Oh God, no."

"Surprised, are we, John?" inquired Sherlock, baring his teeth in a lupine smile. "I knew I was, when I saw you with her. So fast. Off with the old and on with the new, is it?"

John's mind finally caught up. "Get. The. Fuck. Out of here," he said, accentuating each word just to make himself absolutely clear that he was not amused to see him. "Before she comes back!"

Sherlock affected not to have heard him. "Although I didn't realize you'd be so desperate, going out on dates with people you hardly know," he continued, his voice low, his words pouring out in a rush. "You couldn't possibly have known her before this week. What do you actually know about her, John, apart from the fact that she's an anesthesiologist?"

"What?" said John, brows lowering into a heavy frown. "Hold on, she's—"

"And would just anyone do? I thought we had something going, John."

"I thought you said the courtship is off," hissed John, unable to keep his voice from rising. "And anyway, it's not as if we actually have anything going on—"

"Oh John, what makes you think the endpoint would differ, even if the courtship were off?" asked Sherlock, shaking his head at John's naiveté. "The moment you said 'oh God, yes', you're mine to do as I please."

John stared at Sherlock. "And what does that even mean?"

"Lose her." Sherlock's voice was cold and clear as ice.

"Wha-? No! Who the bloody hell do you think you are?"

"You know exactly what I am," said Sherlock, his gaze boring into John.

He wasn't kidding. Sherlock's pupils were dilated, and not just because of the dimly lit interior of the restaurant. John could see actual fury in those cold depths, and knew Sherlock's threat was real, which made him even more furious, holding firmly on to Sherlock's gaze and refusing to look away first.

"Lose her or I shall have to involve her in my plans concerning you," continued Sherlock.

John finally had enough. "Get the hell out of here, you…you fiend!" he gritted.

If anything, John's words only made Sherlock's smile wider. "Oh yes. A veritable fiend. A demon fresh from the pit. Call me what you like. I'm sure I'm all that and more," he said. "But I'm the only one who can possess you, John, and if I can't have you, nobody else can."

Sherlock watched as John's mouth fell open in disbelief at his words, then saw John's gaze suddenly and involuntarily shift to a point beyond him, saw his angry expression change to an appalled one.

"So she's back," Sherlock said, his eyes narrowing as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Shall I turn around and introduce myself? I haven't really given her a thorough once-over."

John's voice sounded oddly strangled: "No."

"That's my John," murmured Sherlock, nodding. "You know what you'll have to do then, don't you?"

Aloud he said, "I'll see you later then, darling."

With that, he launched himself at John. The move was so sudden, and John was in such cramped quarters, that there was simply no way he could dodge Sherlock. Even if he could, Sherlock's hand was immediately around the arm he had thrown up, effectively immobilizing it in a vice-like grip. John felt the impact as the back of his head slammed painfully against the wood of the window pane behind him, but he did manage to angle his head away just in time so that Sherlock's lips only managed to graze his cheek.

But the damage was done.

Having made his point, Sherlock pulled away from John smoothly, stood up and without ever turning to look behind him at the woman, was out the door as quickly as he had come in, leaving John to deal with the aftermath.

Startled silence inside the entire restaurant as John, dazed, took in the staring faces, the expression on Jeanette's face as she stood, frozen like a statue, a few feet away. Her beautiful face looked suddenly a lot less beautiful because of the horror and disgust mingled there.

After-dinner coffee was definitely out of the picture now. In fact, at the very least, he knew he was never going to be able to use the goddamned lifts at the clinic again if it meant he might bump into Jeanette there.

He removed the shaking hand from his mouth and made a feeble attempt at a smile. "Would you believe that's one of the hazards of being a psychiatrist?" he told her rather breathlessly.

His hands were still trembling when he got home. In fact, his entire body was shaking in reaction, still. He threw his coat down on the sofa and paced the length of the living room, hands on his mouth, his face, desperately trying to get a hold of himself and utterly failing.

He couldn't do this, not anymore.

Sherlock had gone too far this time. It simply wasn't just his night and his date in tatters. Sherlock had done nothing less than to grab onto the very fabric of his life and rendered it in shreds— the heartless bastard.

John could bear it no longer. Something had to give, or he felt he would go mad.

He tore his hands from his face, breathing harshly, surveying the living room with wild eyes. He felt like throwing something, or downing an entire bottle of something strong enough to make him pass out— anything to lessen the nauseating pressure deep inside. Then he remembered he never kept anything stronger than red wine in the chiller, and the throwing dramatics was simply not his style, no matter how much he may be driven to it.

He sat down hard on the sofa, cradling his aching head in his hands.

Oh God! What to do?

Think, John, think! What could have driven Sherlock to do something as outrageous as that? What could possibly be his motivation?

Apart from driving me mad, you mean? He asked himself. He was in self-shrinking mode now, was he? Great. Just great.

The voice inside him refused to be deterred: Well, of course, aside from that. If there is anything aside from that…

He thought for a moment, willing his heart and his breathing to slow down as he forced himself to do a bit of analysis.

I've never seen him this furious before, he finally said to himself. This is the nearest he has ever come to losing it. Come to think of it, he really did seem to have lost it back at the restaurant…

Okay, good. That's good. Keep thinking…why would he be so angry?

Because he thinks he bloody owns me and therefore I should never have a life of my own, John thought angrily.

And how do you feel about that, John?

Is there any other fucking way to feel about it? John asked himself, exasperated. Of course it makes me angry!

No, I mean how do you feel about Sherlock thinking he owns you?

John was silent for a moment, stunned.

You do realize maybe that's where all the answers lie. Of course you do, you've always known, but you just never wanted to dig deeper into it.

Shut it.

Sure. Go ahead and shut me up again, and I promise this is going to go nowhere, as always. Perhaps it's about time that you be honest and just think things over, John. Don't cringe away from it. Why have you never wanted to go deeper into it?

Because it's scary, that's why.

Why is it scary?

Because he's a monster and I am little more than food to him. He may toy with me for any amount of time, but in the end, things are going to go only one way— he's said so himself— and truth be told, I don't want to die just yet…

That's only partly the reason, and you know it. What's the other part?

I am so not going there right now, he told himself, angrily. He could feel the shrink in himself backing off, as if in grudging agreement.

Okay. Fine. But have you considered that there were episodes when Sherlock had not been himself? Apart from the restaurant, there was that time when he had not been able to feed because of you; and that last session, when he had shouted to drown out your words…

What had you been about to say to him to anger him so?

John sighed. I don't know what it was exactly. It's just that, he was panicking, because he was used to playing this game but somehow he found something new to it this time around— something he didn't understand and it upset him. It seemed as though he had always been in control and for the first time he's not and it had frightened him.

And this new, upsetting element…what do you think it is?

How the hell can I possibly know what it is? He snapped at himself.

You can try guessing. (The words, also delivered in a sharp retort)

John exhaled loudly. Something to do with the empathy that's sprung up between us…he did say I must never be anything but prey, that there is no such thing as an exception…

And this previously perfectly balanced predator is left unhinged enough to go rampaging through a restaurant at the sight of you going out with somebody else. An incredibly thoughtless, clumsy move for somebody like him. What does that tell you, John?

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at himself. Look, I know how it must appear, but I cannot seriously think that he's capable of it…

Just answer the question, John.

He sighed. It appeared as if he were jealous, and he had acted as though he had to fucking mark me as his property. But this is probably more wishful thinking than anything. I cannot possibly think that he's capable of that—

Because if he's indeed capable of it, what does it mean, then?

No, he can't be, so don't think about it. It's impossible…

Is it? You thought it would be impossible, too, in your case, but look at the state you're in.

Shut up. Just shut up…

You can just ask him, let him clear things up. He did say he'd see you later. Darling.

Really? And just how am I supposed to go looking for him at this time of night?

The thought was barely out of his head when his eyes widened.

The shrink's voice inside him was smug as he had the last word: You still have those sleeping pills left over in the bathroom cabinet, don't you?

At the very best, it was a far shot. John was pretty sure it was not going to work out. After all, how could one possibly control one's dreams enough to shift them according to one's plans? It was virtually unheard of.

But he had no choice. This was the only option available, and although he knew it would probably prove fruitless, he was desperate enough to give it a try.

He had to sleep deeply enough to dream. More than that, somehow he had to be able to tap into Sherlock's dreams and resonate with him. And once he was able to do that, he owed him a special payback…

Sheer impossibilities! But he took the sleeping pills anyway. Even then, he slept fitfully for the first two to three hours. Towards dawn though, he finally began to dream. Uneasy, fleeting dreams that seemed to shift and melt into each other. Various scenarios, each one forgotten the moment he turned his attention elsewhere. He was searching for something, something important.

He was inside his office at 221B Baker Street, but he needed to be elsewhere. Where? He could not remember.

He took the stairs down and opened the main door of the clinic to a darkened street filled with thick, swirling mist. It was so thick, turning the light from the streetlamps into mere globs of white and yellow in a miasma of grey and black, that he stood frozen on the pavement for a moment, unsure of where to go.

And he was afraid.

What could be lurking there in the mist? That vampire boy with the shiny eyes—?

Vampire.

Sherlock.

Get Sherlock!

The fear melted away and raw anger gradually took hold of him as he remembered what his quest was. Sherlock was here, somewhere. He was sure of it. He was going to find the bastard and demand some answers. Answers that Sherlock had been unwilling to impart during waking moments.

He set off down the street, his steps as sure as if there was no fog swirling about him at all.

He was going to find him, and even if Sherlock chose to be elusive, he was going to make him come forth. This was his dream after all. His and Sherlock's. He had as much control here as the other had.

The mist gradually lifted, and he found himself in an unfamiliar part of town, with old brick buildings set in dark alleys and narrow streets. He spotted a familiar form clad in that long, dark coat, walking just a few yards ahead of him. Running noiselessly, he was behind him in seconds, his hand grabbing at one shoulder—

The figure suddenly turned and caught his arm before he could throw a punch. The grip was incredibly strong, the bite of those long fingers on his wrist painful, but John was beyond caring. He set his head down and rammed his shoulder into Sherlock's torso with all his strength.

The force of his onslaught apparently caught Sherlock by surprise, sending them crashing against a brick wall nearby. This time John succeeded in smashing his fist against one of those cheekbones, earning a soft grunt from Sherlock and sending him sprawling back a couple of steps. He recovered quickly though, catching John's fist before it could connect with his face for the second time. For a few minutes, there was no sound except for their harsh breathing as they tussled for leverage.

John wanted to shout out all the foul things he had wanted to say to Sherlock, but his pent-up rage made speech impossible. He could not find the words to shape his thoughts. So he let his anger out in pure, physical form, attacking Sherlock with everything he had.

Even then, it was extremely difficult. Sherlock suddenly sent a knee up against John's stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs as he doubled up in pain. Such pain! God, that sensation felt real enough. Unkind hands gripped his shoulders and finally forced him against the wall.

"Oh, John…John," said Sherlock, shaking his head even as a thin smile made its way to his lips. "Ever so impressive. I wasn't expecting you'd get to this point so fast, and all on your own."

"I've got a score to settle with you," gritted John through clenched teeth, one hand gripping Sherlock's as it remained fisted on his chest.

Sherlock's brows lifted. "Says the man pinned to the wall," he said.

"Why?"

Sherlock did not bother pretending not to know what John meant. "Oh, let me see," he said, affecting to think. Then: "Because I can."

"Why don't you just kill me and be done with it!" snapped John.

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"Tell me why you followed me on my date."

Sherlock stared at John, the smile slowly easing away from his face.

"Tell me why you were mad enough to make a scene in public like that," continued John, his voice suddenly hushed.

Sherlock regarded John with hooded eyes for a moment before something seemed to click in his brain.

"You think you're so special, don't you, John?" said Sherlock, his eyes narrowed, a corner of his lip curled in a sneer. "Special enough to make me lose my head over you, change the entire way I hunt because of you? You think I won't be able to take you in the end just as I had all the other special people I've ever come across?"

"Take me then," said John softly.

Sherlock blinked. Evidently he had not been expecting that.

He stared as John reached up and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, lifting the collar away to expose a sliver of his throat.

"Come on," prompted John, still in that quiet voice. "You're fond of saying I owe you a meal. Come and get it."

Sherlock's grip slowly eased away from John's chest. He could sense Sherlock's breathing suddenly changing— growing fast, erratic— and tried to suppress the strange, growing excitement that he himself was feeling. He felt Sherlock's hungry gaze slide down his throat and settle at the strong, steady pulse he must see there at the base. He saw the hand that Sherlock was lifting towards him and knocked his fingers away.

"No," said John. "None of that Vulcan nerve pinch for me, thanks."

Seeing Sherlock's look of incomprehension, John said, "I want to be awake to see you at it."

He saw the muscles of Sherlock's jaw working. Sherlock's hand came up again, this time to cradle the side of John's face as he angled it away to expose more of his throat. John fought to stay calm as Sherlock brought his head down to nuzzle his neck. At last, he could feel Sherlock's parted lips at the base of his throat, feel the hot breath fanning out to tease his skin, sending frissons of awareness down his spine. He closed his eyes and waited.

And waited.

John heard the growl first, deep in Sherlock's throat, before he felt Sherlock wrench his head away abruptly from his neck. He flinched as Sherlock sent a fist into the brick wall inches from his head, sending loose fragments of brick and mortar flying.

"Are you satisfied now, John?" said Sherlock, his voice rough with fury and anguish. "Are you happy with the results of your attempts to humanize me?"

John stared at Sherlock, shock and something more potent stirring inside him.

"Is this what you wanted to see, John?" he heard Sherlock saying, his face only inches away from his. "You want to see me starving, unable to feed, is that it?"

John shook his head, his voice suddenly gone.

"Tell me then. What do you want to happen?" Sherlock demanded, his gaze as hard as flint.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, John had brought up a hand to Sherlock's nape while the other caught his face, effectively immobilizing him as John brought his head forward to crush his mouth against his.

It wasn't a kiss.

It was too brutal, too punishing a thing to be called one.

He heard Sherlock's muffled exclamation of surprise, felt him recoil, bringing his hands up to wrap around John's to pry them away, but John only hooked an arm around Sherlock's head to keep him securely in place as he kept up the vicious, grinding pressure on Sherlock's lips.

God, he had to do this. Do something, anything, to relieve the burning feeling inside him before it consumed him totally.

A few more seconds, and Sherlock finally managed to twist his head away savagely. John felt a stinging sensation on his bruised lips, could taste the sharp, metallic saltiness of blood on his tongue. The kiss had left him bleeding, and he knew that Sherlock had tasted it too, could smell the minute amount of blood on his cracked lip.

A moment as they stood there panting, frozen. Sherlock could not seem to tear his gaze away from John's bleeding mouth. Then, with a low moan, he lowered his mouth back to John's lips.

John forced himself to remain still, not knowing what to expect. Well, in a way he did: a single drop of blood to spark the feeding frenzy of a vampire. He expected Sherlock to devour him then and there. What he did not expect was the light touch of Sherlock's tongue on his lower lip.

Just that.

Just the tip of Sherlock's warm, wet tongue lapping once, twice, on his bottom lip— the gentlest of touches— licking away the rosy drop that had gathered there.

It was over all too quickly. John swallowed hard as Sherlock pulled away again, his gaze a clash of desire, hunger and misery as it raked over John's face.

Sherlock watched John lick his lips, his mouth parting to form one fiercely whispered word: "More."

Sherlock lost the struggle with himself as he leaned into John then. He felt John's arms wrap around him tightly even as he lifted a hand to cradle the back of John's head, his other hand under John's chin as he brought his mouth to touch softly on John's parted lips.

His kisses were so soft, so tentative, like the touch of a watercolor brush on paper. John could feel Sherlock's eagerness straining against the tense muscles of his shoulders, and yet he was holding back, as though uncertain, afraid. John groaned, flicking his tongue reassuringly over the cupid's bow of Sherlock's upper lip before sucking on his full, lower lip.

Oh God, he had wanted to do that for so long and never realized it until now. It felt so very good.

Sherlock shifted his head, changing the angle of their kiss, his mouth parting a bit more under John's. John accepted the unspoken invitation and drove his tongue into Sherlock's mouth.

The kiss quickly turned desperate, urgent— burning hot and so achingly sweet. John felt his back hitting the wall as Sherlock leaned his full weight into him. Their kiss deepened, the touch of Sherlock's mouth and tongue finally hard and rough with abandon against John's. It was thrilling beyond words. John found that he could not get enough, and he plundered Sherlock's mouth like a man dying of thirst. And always, the faint, underlying taste of blood served to accentuate the intensity of it all.

More, thought John mindlessly. Oh God, I need more!

John loosened his tight grip on the back of Sherlock's nape, let his hands stray down his chest, feeling the heat of Sherlock's body through his open coat and his silk shirt, settling to clasp at his narrow hips. They were practically straining against each other; they were so close together that John could feel every slide and shift of Sherlock's body against his, could feel the evidence of Sherlock's arousal and knew that this passion was undeniably something that they shared.

The realization was a heady one, sending the blood surging through John's head, making it pound viciously. He must have given voice to the discomfort, for he dimly saw Sherlock's eyes flare wide open in sudden alarm. And then Sherlock was breaking the kiss, pulling away forcefully from John, holding him off with strong but unsteady hands.

"Don't," he said sharply as John made to move toward him. His grip was like steel, holding John away at arm's length. And then quite suddenly the feel of his hands was gone as Sherlock released him.

"Sherlock…" John fell back weakly to lean on the wall, feeling his strength suddenly drain away from him.

"Don't, John," Sherlock repeated, his voice dull this time. Dead. "Just…don't."

John stared at Sherlock, both of them breathing hard, as Sherlock raised a hand to wipe at his mouth. "This has been a mistake," he rasped.

John merely shook his head, his mind curiously empty of words.

"Don't come looking for me again," warned Sherlock, backing away a step or two before turning to disappear into the wall of mist.

John let him go, knowing he wouldn't be able to track him down this time around.

John woke up slowly, his vision spinning, swimming, his heart thundering away in his chest. He closed his eyes and waited for the vertigo to pass before he slowly opened them again to find himself alone on his bed. For some strange reason he felt like weeping. Lifting a hand to pinch at the junction of his brows, he was astonished to feel tears spilling from the sides of his eyes.

He brushed them away even as his heart gave a broken lurch deep in his chest.

God…oh God…

He supposed it was only fitting for a man to weep upon discovering that he was possessed. Not just by a vampire, but a demon as well. The most terrible one of all.

He had tried to deny its existence, but the dream had only served to drive the point home to him— the one that he could not bring himself to admit for the longest time: he did not just want Sherlock. He was in love with him.

End of Part II

Author's Notes: John's term for Sherlock's technique to induce unconsciousness on his prey (the Vulcan nerve pinch) is from Star Trek.