Possession

A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 22

Special Thanks: This chapter is dedicated to Trenzas. Thank you so much, my dear, for our many stimulating conversations and for giving John the quote from Antoine Laurent Lavoisier, the father of modern chemistry— "Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed."

Thank you so much for your fantastic reviews! More author's notes can be found at the end of the chapter.

Mrs. Hudson never connected the curious incident of the deleted patients' files with Sherlock. He was, after all, only one of several whose files had disappeared. In fact, she was inclined to think that a glitch in the system had been the culprit. Besides, the actual charts were intact in her filing cabinets.

But John knew. After seeing Sherlock in the street outside Bart's, like an omen of things to come, he knew. Sherlock had deleted the files in the computer because these were transferrable data. The handwritten charts could be stolen, of course, and John had no doubt they would be very soon, but the computer files had to go first. The being he was in love with was not stupid— he would not invite attention to himself by doing away with both files at the same time. Afterwards, John himself would be taken care of. Then, after a period of time after the furor over his death had died down, Sherlock's chart would quietly disappear.

That was how John believed the chain of events would unfold. He knew enough of Sherlock by now to read volumes in his stance as he stood in the street, staring at John. That, in itself, was nothing less than a provocation. The cool, expressionless mask that was Sherlock's face did not fool John for a second.

He knew Sherlock was angry.

Angry at John for exposing a conceived weakness, a flaw in his person, by his inability to control himself around him. Angry at John for what he did to him in the dream. Angry at John for kissing him.

Well, fuck him. John was angry too. He had more cause to be angry than the bastard. It served Sherlock right that he was getting a dose of his own medicine at last. He didn't like it? Too bad. That was one of the points of the entire exercise.

Only, John wished he was not so emotionally invested in the whole thing. He wished he would not see Sherlock and feel that odd contraction of the heart, of equal parts pain and pleasure. It did not bode well for future events.

He considered his options.

He could go to the police. He could tell someone and plan some sort of contingency measure to make sure his death would not be mistaken for an accident, or worse, suicide. If he was going down, then he must bring Sherlock down with him.

Only, try as he would, he knew he wouldn't be able to do any of the above. Sherlock was his and nobody else's. Nobody could know about him, and he was willing to take this secret with him to the grave.

God, listen…just listen to himself! He wasn't making much sense. He just felt so tired. He had been fighting Sherlock for the past three weeks without fully realizing it, and he was just so tired. Perhaps it would be so much better for all concerned if he just gave in quietly and took whatever he could from Sherlock before he got killed. Sherlock's brother had correctly read that fatalistic streak in him.

Yet, he had never felt so alive, had never felt so much in possession of himself than in the past few days. The mixture of danger and high emotions had served to keep him on his toes, had revived him from the stupor that depression had placed him in for so long. He could not deny the change occurring within himself because Sarah had noticed it. He liked the feeling.

Welcome back, John.

John sighed. What to do then…

There wasn't much that could be done until Sherlock showed his hand.

Perhaps the only definite thing he could do was to sort out his will.

In the end, John was not able to do anything. There simply wasn't time.

Late that Friday night he had to admit a patient at Barts, an emergency case of a schizophrenic patient who had slashed his wrists, requiring surgery. He had arrived back at his apartment at one in the morning and crashed in his bed.

He woke up a few hours later, a part of him feeling vaguely amazed that he was still alive. So he had not had a visitation while he was asleep.

The insistent ring of his phone. That was what had awakened him. He felt his senses snap to attention as he reached out to take the call.

Barts. Again. He was needed by his residents.

He only had time to take a quick shower and a cup of coffee before he was on his way back to the hospital.

Two emergency admissions again in the course of the morning, three more toward lunchtime. He wondered if there was a full moon tonight. Of course, the residents could handle them, but he was the consultant on call until seven that night. All admitting orders and medications would have to go through him anyway, so there was very little point in staying away and waiting to be summoned back. Besides, he needed to make his rounds.

He was feeling slightly dizzy from hypoglycemia by early afternoon, and that was when Harry called.

"Jo-John."

John felt that horrible sinking of the heart, normally reserved for Sherlock's gravest transgressions. "Harry, are you okay?"

"No. I don't know. I-I don't feel well," she said.

"Tell me," said John, feeling a chill run down his spine.

"I'm sha-shaking. I can't help it, I feel s-so bad," Harry said, her teeth chattering.

"Harry, listen to me," John said, careful to keep his tone even. "I gave you valium. I gave you those pills yesterday. Did you take them?"

A pause. John already knew what she was going to say. "I didn't t-think I'd need them," she said after a moment, her voice miserable. "I'm s-sorry Johnny."

Fuck. Oh fucking hell. John closed his eyes, counted to ten.

"Okay. It's okay," he said, breathing out a heavy sigh. "You were right to call me. Just sit tight. I'm going to send an ambulance there right now, all right? I'll meet you here at Barts. That will save us time."

As soon as he hung up he placed the emergency call. "This is Dr. John Watson," he said into the phone. "I have a 45 year old female patient, a chronic alcoholic with symptoms of possible delirium tremens. I need a team over at this address right now…"

It really was beginning DT.

John had to admit Harry directly into the ICU after she was seen at the emergency room. He called his parents. He called Clara. Harry was being sedated and he did not think it would be good for her to have visitors for now, so they did not need to come until tomorrow. Everything was a right royal mess and although he knew nothing could have been done to alter the course of events, he somehow felt responsible.

He should have explained it more clearly to Harry yesterday why he needed her to take the valium. He thought he had but it seemed she had not properly understood what he had been trying to tell her regarding the possibility of developing the shakes when a chronic alcoholic suddenly stopped drinking. Or maybe it was because she was family and it was always so difficult to treat family members precisely because they just never listened to you. He was too tired and shaken to feel angry. Deep down, he knew that Harry had been trying to prove she could kick her habit by sheer will power alone. At least that was a step in the right direction, though it very nearly ended in disaster.

"Doc, you really need to eat something," said one of his on-duty residents. "We can hold the front for a while. Get some dinner."

"Okay, thanks."

Dinner was a tasteless affair of pork in brown gravy and bland mashed potato at the hospital canteen. Nevertheless, he felt a little better after having taken in some food.

Before he knew it, it was already after seven in the evening and he was endorsing to his successor for the night. He visited Harry one last time in the ICU. She was awake, still trembling, although the benzodiazepines they had given her were starting to take effect.

"Hey," he said, smiling.

"H-hi."

"I'm off for tonight. I've got to leave soon," said John. "I just want to tell you…"

He looked down. "I love you, Harry," he said softly, "you know that, don't you?"

She gave him an unsteady smile. "I know," she whispered. "I l-love you too, kid. Thank you, Johnny."

He gave her a tight smile. "Get some sleep," he said, giving her hand a brief squeeze. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

If I'm still alive tomorrow, he silently added.

He did not want to go home just yet. Somehow, after the horrid day, he knew this was the night he was going to have a visitor. The Visitor. Doctors were superstitious that way. Once it rained, it poured. And it would continue to pour until the day was finally finished.

He ended up in the parish chapel of St. Bartholomew-the-Less, the church within Barts. He sat on one of the pews at the back and gazed at the altar of the small chapel blankly. Tiredly.

John was not a religious man. He did not really have any strong beliefs one way or the other regarding the afterlife, although he did believe in doing good in this life and giving it as good as one got. That was the main belief that sustained him, but he did not think it was going to help him now.

Please God, let me live…let me survive Sherlock…but how?

No answer was forthcoming.

His phone chimed. An incoming text message.

He held the phone up and looked at the screen. An unidentified caller ID.

And his last summons for the day: Come home, John.

John was strangely calm on the ride home. Was this how condemned men felt as they bowed to the inevitable? Everyone had to go through it, at some point in life. Everyone had to die.

It was journey's end.

He alighted from his car and walked into his apartment building. Inserting his key and typing his code into the security system at the apartment lobby, he wondered how Sherlock had managed to get past the sophisticated equipment. He must make a point to ask about that, at least.

The elevator ride up was at its usual sedate pace, yet it very quickly became a thing of the recent past as John arrived on his floor. In no time at all, he was outside his apartment door. There would be no more use for his key. This was the last time he was entering his rooms, and he knew it would be unlocked for him. He turned the knob and swung the door open.

Hushed darkness inside, like a tomb.

But not empty.

Never that. Not when he was there.

No use lingering outside. John walked in and let the darkness swallow him up as he closed the door firmly behind him. He made his way in the dark to the living room with the sure, smooth movements of a blind man in complete familiarity with his surroundings. He turned on a tableside lamp. Warm, mellow light flooded the intimate living space that he had moved around in for years.

"Evening," he said to the still, black figure seated at the far end of the sofa.

"You took your time," said Sherlock.

"Can't be helped," said John with a tired shrug. "Had an emergency. My sister's at the ICU in Barts."

Although he had been expecting him, seeing Sherlock here, now, in his personal space, was a bit overwhelming for John. The sudden, frantic beat of his heart was so loud in his ears that he was sure Sherlock could hear it from across the room.

"So," he said in an attempt to drown out the roar of his blood in his ears. "How did you get past the security system downstairs? Unless you can change yourself into a bat and flap in via an open window, I can't imagine how you could have done it."

He could see Sherlock's lip curl upwards in a small smile. "Elementary, John," he drawled. "I simply waited for one of your neighbors to come home and slipped in with him."

"Ah," said John, smiling despite himself.

Silence for a few heartbeats. Then he said, "I read the news, about the Earl of Westwood. I thought that might be connected with you, somehow. So you're packing up, seeing to loose ends before you leave London?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "You know why I've come."

"I don't suppose it's because you wanted to say your farewells to me personally."

"Two things I must have from you," said Sherlock. "The bill of health for Manchester, although I have already informed Mike Stamford that I will not be continuing my work with his team. Still, he will need it for my file, and for any possible ventures that I might care to undertake in the future."

"Okay," said John, "and the second?"

"Your personal notes about my case," said Sherlock. "I've seen my chart at Baker Street and know those are not the only notes that you've made. I've searched this apartment and your computer while waiting for you. You didn't keep them in the computer so they must be hidden in your locked study table drawer."

"Why didn't you just force the lock open then?"

"I want you to give the papers to me personally. And I've inspected the lock and know it will not be easy prying it open. There's no need to leave scratch marks on that beautiful antique mahogany table for the police to find tomorrow."

John forced himself to remain calm as he heard the last words, spoken without so much as an inflection out of place.

"Right," he said, nodding. "My computer and printer as well as some stationery with my letterhead are in the study…"

John moved towards the direction of that room, Sherlock trailing a few paces behind him.

He took out the key to his table and opened the drawer. He drew out the leather bound journal where he had been scribbling his thoughts during the fevered days and nights of the past three weeks and silently handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock flipped the book open and John watched as his pale eyes ran along some lines on the first page. After a moment, Sherlock lifted those expressionless eyes back to him and said, "The letter, John."

"Right." John turned on his computer, clicked on the word program and started typing.

"I told Mike I was attacked by a mugger. You might want to use that, for the sake of consistency," Sherlock murmured as he moved with slow grace around the room, his eyes back on the journal that he held open in his hand.

John typed steadily. "…temporarily displaced by severe shock following an episode of armed robbery and personal assault…exhibits a strong personal drive to overcome his emotional obstacles…"

"I didn't know you read poetry," remarked Sherlock some minutes later. He must have come across the William Blake poems.

"I do, on occasion," replied John. "When the mood calls for it."

"And did our association invoke such a mood?" asked Sherlock.

John stopped typing enough to meet his gaze from across the table. "Yes," he said simply. After all we've been through, how could you even ask…?

"Poetry is quite useless, to be truthful," Sherlock said. "To trap emotion in metered words— while I do appreciate the exactness of the metered phrase, one does wonder what is it really all for?"

"That's rich, coming from you," muttered John. "Music is but emotion trapped in metered sound, yet I don't see you shirking away from it."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, and John was sure he was recalling the night they had come across each other at that candlelit concert at St. Martin-in-the-fields. So very long ago, it seemed.

"Clearly it is an anomaly on my part. One of the many defects I have somehow imbibed in my dealings with you people," said Sherlock, the sneer evident in his tone of voice. "What ultimate purpose does it serve, after all?"

"Maybe none at all," said John with a shrug, "although there is a saying that 'Music has charms to soothe a savage breast', and very likely tame a savage beast, as well."

Beats of silence. John returned Sherlock's cool stare, unflinching and unapologetic.

"Continue your letter, John," Sherlock said finally.

John glanced back down on the keyboard.

"You're wrong, you know," continued Sherlock, "to liken yourself to the lamb. You're no lamb, John."

"Am I not?"

"Definitely not. There's nothing soft or weak about you. During our time together, the fear is there, most certainly, but not enough of it. I can't imagine you quivering."

John felt the first stirrings of annoyance. "Do you want me on my hands and knees, begging for mercy, just to show you how terrified I really am?" he asked.

If the sarcasm registered with Sherlock, he ignored it. "No," he said thoughtfully. "I can't imagine you doing that either."

John felt that familiar, tight squeeze around his heart and shuddered out a breath. "It's done," he said. "Do you want to read it before I print it out?"

Sherlock moved to stand behind John, leaning in to look at the computer screen, his face only inches from John's right ear. John closed his eyes briefly, feeling his blood singing through his veins at the proximity.

"Good," said Sherlock at length, 'print out two copies, please."

John did as he was told, signing the letters before folding them neatly and placing them in envelopes. Sherlock took the letters from him and placed them inside John's journal.

He gestured with a slight jerk of his head. "Outside, John," he said, his voice a low murmur.

John got up from his chair slowly, his legs betraying just the slightest tremor, and followed Sherlock back to the living room.

"What now, then?" he said softly. "A well-coordinated suicide to make sure I don't talk?"

Sherlock was by the tall windows, looking out. John watched him, watched how the soft lamplight illuminated his profile, casting shadows under his brow and cheekbone. Beautiful. Then he saw Sherlock reach out to open the window, large enough to accommodate a man. John felt the cold November air drifting in. There were safety railings out there, of course, but John doubted they would help much if he was about to be thrown over.

"Do you know, John, that the suicide rate among psychiatrists is the highest in the medical profession?" said Sherlock conversationally as he turned to look at him. "I looked it up, to be sure. I will not feed from you. I've hunted earlier, and had dinner before coming over. It looks like you won't be paying me back with a meal, but a fall will even things up nicely."

John stared at Sherlock and felt something kicking in deep inside him, fueled by the adrenaline rush of the day. He felt reckless. After all, he had nothing else to lose at this point.

"I'm sure I don't owe you anything," he found himself murmuring. "Certainly not a fall from my window, no."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. "I hardly think you'd have any say in the matter, John," he said.

"I can't die. Not just yet," returned John evenly. "Far too many people need me— my patients, my family—"

Sherlock laughed softly. "For someone who had been depressed enough to have entertained the idea of terminating one's existence, you seem to have acquired a sudden zeal for life," he said. "Don't tell me this is new to you. Surely you've known there can only be one outcome to our association. You must have realized you've been dancing on the edge of the precipice with me when you encouraged me to talk about myself. You cannot possibly think you can survive my confidences."

"No," said John with a shake of his head. "I've always known that I cannot make myself safe from you. Anymore than I can protect myself or my loved ones from life's many other dangers. But that concept doesn't have to apply in your case. You need not consider me a threat to your existence. You don't need to make yourself safe from me by getting rid of me."

"You can't be allowed to continue, John," said Sherlock. "You know far too much about me, about my life—"

"Yes," said John, "a long life to be lived still, and not mine to jeopardize."

"You've already jeopardized it to a great degree. I was a fool to have let you in and destroy whatever distance was necessary to keep my objectivity intact."

"No," said John, shaking his head.

Sherlock scoffed, frowning. "No?"

"Nothing is created. Nothing is destroyed. Everything is just transformed into something else," said John. "Some people believe that's how life works. What we went through together was nothing more than a life process. You don't need to be afraid of it, in the same way you need not fear me."

"I'm not afraid of you, John." The words were a soft growl.

"Yes, you are," said John in the same even tones. "Hence your need to get rid of me."

Sherlock stared at him for long minutes. "You tempt me to it," he admitted, his voice edged with a kind of roughness that John could not quite define. "To leave you alive behind me, the threads of my existence and our time together woven into your memory for the remainder of your little life. I'd like to be able sometimes to think of you thinking of me, but the risk is too great."

"Sometimes it's good to take a risk, let it run its course and see where it may lead," said John.

"And where do you suppose this may all lead to?"

"Bed," John heard himself say distinctly, feeling that finely tuned instinct inside taking over him, releasing him from all the hampering inhibitions and fear and making him say what he had wanted— needed— to say all along. "Sherlock, come to bed with me."

Author's Notes: Delirium tremens (DT), or "the shakes" in layman's terms, is an acute episode of delirium following the abrupt cessation of alcohol intake among chronic alcoholics. I took some liberties with Harry's episode, as DT is not very usual, and is found among cases with alcohol intake of more than ten years.

John's quote, "Music has charms to sooth a savage breast" (which gave rise to the famous misquote "Music has/hath charms to sooth/tame a savage beast"), was originally coined by William Congreve, in The Mourning Bride, 1697:

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!
'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

July 18, 2012 mini update: Am currently doing chapter 23, and no more teases- this is definitely an M chapter. Please look for it in that section when the chapter comes out, maybe in a few days. Will update also in my author's page. Until then!