Possession

A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 32

In the end, John had Jeanette— or whatever her real name was— to thank that the amount of ketamine she had administered was not enough to incapacitate him for long. She had also very bravely argued against putting him in a ketamine drip to prolong the effects, as Moriarty had first intended, citing that his body wouldn't be able to handle it. While the effects of the drug lasted, though, John felt like he was living a nightmare.

A nightmare where he was locked fully awake and conscious inside his sleeping body. It was very much like the time Sherlock had first visited him in his dreams, but this time around there was definitely nothing sexy or arousing in the situation.

He was not able to feel his body at all, let alone move an inch of it. He felt like a disembodied spirit, just floating, hovering over the edge of things without a physical body to anchor him down to the world. His eyes were open the entire time, and he could see what was going on within his range of vision. His mind was also fully awake, able to think, to panic, to shout deep inside him. He had been shouting for a full hour, to no avail.

The worst part of it all was that he could hear Sherlock calling him inside his head and he couldn't send a word out to warn him what had happened.

John…John?...John!

John, where are you?

Over and over, John could hear him, and yet Sherlock could not seem to hear his replies. He could feel Sherlock's anxiety rising each time he called and there seemed to be no response from him.

He had not realized that his link with Sherlock could be affected by the administration of drugs, and that alone was enough to tell John that the Bond he shared with Sherlock had something in it that was not just psychic. Something organic or chemical rooted in some hidden locus of the brain that could be shut off with the proper medication.

But there was no time to ponder that concept as he was carried bodily into the little house in Oxford and dumped unceremoniously on the floor. He could see them pushing the furniture away, clearing the space around him.

"Check the entire house," he heard the man called Sebastian Moran giving orders. "Then, I want the two shooters positioned outside in the trees. That would give them the vantage point necessary to see into the windows. I will be in the kitchen along with the third."

Hurried sounds, voices, more last-minute orders.

Then Moriarty came bounding in.

"Everything all set?" his voice was pitched high, almost manic with excitement. "Oh wait! Our most important showpiece! We haven't arranged Johnny-boy yet!"

Faintly, he felt fingers gripping his jaw, setting his face down to a certain angle, and all of a sudden, Jim Moriarty's face flooded his view. "Nice view, huh, Doc?" he asked, smiling. "I need to set you up just so our unicorn will be able to see you as soon as he enters that door."

He felt his head and body being arranged so that he lay there, facing the door. Looking dead.

"He won't be able to miss you like this. We're aiming for maximum effect here," said Moriarty as he made his last adjustments on John and stood up. "Everything all right at your end, Seb?"

John heard a grunt from somewhere a few feet away from him.

"And now, we wait," said Moriarty, clapping his hands together once in delight.

They must have waited for half an hour, though it felt like an eternity to John, before the door knob turned.

John felt Sherlock even before that. Felt his approach outside the house and heard his one last, despairing plea.

John. Just…please, just don't be dead.

Oh, Sherlock…

John did not know how Sherlock was going to take it, seeing him there on the floor, but the last thing he expected was the kind of shock that he felt Sherlock feeling as he took in the tableau that Moriarty had arranged for him. And the pain.

There was so much pain in Sherlock just then that John felt it slice at his own heart. Was this how Sherlock felt human feelings— magnified a hundred, a thousand-fold compared to how John would feel them? If this was how John had felt at the news of Henry Knight's death, he would have committed suicide a long time ago.

Was this the reason why Sherlock had not wanted to feel anything at all? Why he had been desperate to preserve the solitary ways of the perfect predator that he had known all his life, why he had wanted to maintain his distance from John until their shared passion had made the entire point moot?

If tigers and lambs were made to feel pain differently, how much more a unicorn?

And by inducing the unicorn to lay its head down on his lap, had John made Sherlock vulnerable? By achieving an empathy with Sherlock and rousing a side of him that had never been awakened before, had John unwittingly opened an avenue for Moriarty to succeed in his plans? Had he provided Moriarty the means to slay the unicorn?

No, thought John fiercely. I am not the tempter whose touch defiles the unblemished, magical being. If I have unleashed a modicum of humanity in Sherlock, then it must have been there within him in the first place. Conceived weaknesses can be turned into strengths depending on how one sees them, and I am not Sherlock's weakness. Never have been, never will be. Just as he's never mine. That is Moriarty's biggest mistake. The Achilles heel of his plans.

It was a wonder that Sherlock showed none of the turmoil he was feeling inside. From John's lopsided view of the living room as seen from the floor upward, Sherlock continued to stand still and straight, the pose of his head haughty, voice and face aloof and cold, as Moriarty made his move.

"Which part of my instructions regarding my servant were you not clear about?" Sherlock's ability to maintain his act under such distressing circumstances was truly amazing, given John's unique insight into his true feelings deep inside.

Moriarty was talking, yet Sherlock did not seem to have heard him at all, so intent was he to approach John, to lay a hand on him. Yet the manner of his approach was slow, unhurried. Very well done. John watched as Sherlock advanced toward him, watched as he knelt down and felt his pulse.

John, can you hear me?

Sherlock, don't play into his hands and let me get in your way…

Sherlock still couldn't hear him, although John was slowly gaining his senses back. He could feel the touch of Sherlock's fingers on his neck as he took his pulse.

The ketamine was wearing off much faster than expected. Evidently Jeanette had managed to give him only enough to fool Moriarty for an hour or so.

John continued to lie still as he slowly felt sensation coming back to his limbs, careful not to intrude on Sherlock's concentration as he faced off with the enemy.

The speed of Sherlock's thoughts was astounding, the manner of his own entrapment operation a flawlessly executed thing. Through it all, John could feel his desperation, his overwhelming anxiety, his fear. He could also feel Sherlock's fury, kept severely in check. And his single-mindedness in matching Moriarty's wits, the way he would check and swerve and deftly switch tactics as he adjusted to the thrust and parry of Moriarty's agile mind.

John listened in awe as Sherlock gradually seduced Moriarty with his words, spoken with the perfect blend of icy authority and smooth certainty to render his fictions not just plausible concepts, but virtually unassailable truths. John felt his fingers twitch involuntarily as the ketamine gradually made its way out of his system, to be replaced by the first of several motor reflexes that signaled the resumption of normal operations in his muscles.

And felt the sweetest relief course through him, cleansing away the anxiety and fear. Sherlock's feelings. He must have seen the movement of his fingers. John could not help but smile deep inside. Such a sweet, silly git, his Sherlock, to be so worried about him.

John was immensely moved when his mind went through the final analysis just as it simultaneously went through Sherlock's head, quick as a flash— the work of less than a second— yet clear as crystal, that had Sherlock using his— John's— point of view to deconstruct the monster as a child. It was just as he would analyze it, only it was much quicker and more lucid when Sherlock thought it.

"For the blood is the life," he heard Sherlock whisper, his outstretched wrist dripping red, his eyes alight with ecstasy and hunger, and John knew Moriarty had lost.

John watched as the man-child advanced, the fight gone from him, to drink from Sherlock's wrist. He watched as Sherlock reached up a soothing hand to caress the back of Moriarty's head. Watched as the expression on his lover's beautiful face suddenly fracture to finally show his true feelings as he seized the enemy by the face and hurled him down to the ground. Sherlock's cry was a terrible sound to behold— triumph and rage, relief and gloating victory all mixed in one; a growl combined with a bark of derisive laughter.

John had never seen him more demonic looking than at that one point in time, though his words sounded like heaven in John's ears: "You wonder how John did it? How he managed to survive me? It's because he was prepared to give me everything of himself without asking for anything in return. I don't expect you to understand. And John is not a sacrificial lamb. He's my heart…"

He's my heart.

John had never heard himself referred to in words as sweet as those before.

He could not really see what was happening to Jim Moriarty from his position, which was a blessing. However, he could feel the impact of Moriarty's fragile head against the floor as Sherlock slammed it down repeatedly for emphasis as he spoke. Sherlock's voice was filled with cold fury as he finally said, "As of now. You. Are. Dead."

And with a final twist of Sherlock's powerful hands, Moriarty was.

Dead.

The sudden silence after all that muffled screaming was truly unnerving. Almost instantly though, Sherlock was beside John, lifting him with hands suddenly gone gentle— as tender as they had been murderous one moment before.

"John," cried Sherlock, voice breaking. "John, are you alright?"

John still couldn't move his mouth, though he was able to blink his eyes. Sherlock saw it and gave an unsteady smile before he folded John into his arms.

"Oh God, John. I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead," murmured Sherlock as he pressed his lips to John's skin, on his temple, his eyelids, his mouth.

But John wasn't paying attention. He was too busy looking past Sherlock, at the darkened doorway that led to the kitchen, where a single point of red flickered its way onto Sherlock's back…

Sherlock…!

What happened next occurred so fast that John could not really remember how he managed it. The only thing that mattered was that he was suddenly inside Sherlock's body, pressing him down flat on the ground with his own body pinned underneath as the shots meant for Sherlock missed and took out bits of the wall across them where the bullets landed.

Almost at the same time, there was a crash and loud yells as men stormed inside the house from all sides, through the doors and windows. A smattering of gunfire, confusion and mayhem all around. All the while, John-in-Sherlock kept still as he shielded himself and his lover.

Then the chaos ended as suddenly as it began, and Mycroft was there beside them.

"Sherlock," he said, urgently, as he bent down to kneel beside them. "It's all right now. He slipped past us but we finally got Moran. Sherlock…oh, bloody hell…"

John saw Mycroft flinch away as though burned, saw him whisk out a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth, his expression one of appalled horror. John looked down and beheld the strange sight of himself bleeding, the blood gushing out of his body's nose in bright red streams. He felt a surge of savage hunger rise in Sherlock's body at the sight and smell of that sweet, delicious blood.

John had never realized just how savory blood was to Sherlock. He did now. Before he knew what he was doing, John felt the irresistible pull of Sherlock's body toward his own. He needed that blood, he needed it inside his mouth, down into his belly. He—

"Sherlock!" Tight, painful hands on his shoulders, hurling him roughly up and away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Mycroft turned him around sharply and looked into his brother's eyes before he finally said, "Wait a minute. Who is this?"

John managed to gasp out a breath. "Not Sherlock," he answered in his lover's voice. "Definitely not Sherlock."

The ambulance and paramedics came and took him away not long afterward. The doors slammed shut on the ambulance and John, now rightfully back in his own body and strapped to a stretcher, could feel the paramedic hovering over him, administering the first of many drugs to stabilize him.

"Sir, just relax, your blood pressure is above 180/90 right now," said the man looming over him, adjusting the dose of his IV drip.

John felt his remaining strength leave him and he sagged back onto the stretcher. His head felt so heavy that he thought it just might burst.

Sherlock. Wait…where's Sherlock?

It was his last thought before he lost consciousness.

John woke up several hours later to find himself lying on a hospital bed with his nostrils stuffed with nasal packing and Sherlock seated on the edge of the bed beside him. He had his back to John, and had not bothered to take off his coat. He sat and stared at the vital signs monitor before him, thoroughly absorbed in the readings as the machine kept minute track of John's blood pressure, the rate and rhythms of his heart.

Just as John was thoroughly absorbed watching him in silence.

"I know you're awake, John," Sherlock finally said, not bothering to turn around.

John smiled. "Yeah, well. Given our mind link, it wouldn't take a genius to figure that out," he said. Given the nasal packing clogging his nostrils, he sounded odd, like he was coming down with a cold. For some absurd reason, he felt like laughing.

Gladness and relief suffused John as he thought back on what had just happened.

What a rollercoaster ride! It was incredible. Sherlock won. Sherlock actually won over Moriarty and they had gotten away with their lives.

Sherlock's gaze was indescribably tender when he turned to look at John.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

As if you don't know…

"Nothing I wouldn't be able to handle," John replied more diplomatically.

Sherlock smiled at both John's thoughts and his spoken words. "That's my John," he said quietly. "My brave, beloved John."

Slowly he reached up a hand to caress John's cheek, the touch of his fingers mere ghosts of sensation as they trailed down the side of John's face. "What you did back there," said Sherlock. "That bit of transference. That was…that was very good."

John smiled.

"You don't seem particularly distressed at what just happened," observed Sherlock.

"You won, Sherlock." John's voice was exultant. "You won over Moriarty."

"You saw me kill a man."

"Yeah, well, he wasn't a very nice man," replied John readily, unable to bring himself to feel a single ounce of regret over Moriarty's demise. "I think you just did mankind a service by getting rid of him."

Sherlock gave a soft laugh. "No, he wasn't a nice man," he agreed.

Something was wrong. Sherlock was laughing, and yet John was feeling a very different current running deep inside him. A deep sadness. An extinguished quality about his emotions.

What could it all mean?

"So, what happens now?" John wanted to know.

"Now you must rest and recover from this ordeal. You've been through so much in the past month, the last twenty-four hours alone—"

"That's not what I meant and you know it. What's going to happen to us now?"

John gazed at Sherlock, felt something very much like alarm brush at him as he heard his lover say, "Right now I must do what I have to do. What I ought to have done in the first place, had it not been for Jim Moriarty's interference."

John started to shake his head. "What— what does that mean?" he said, his voice faltering, dropping to a whisper.

The look Sherlock gave him said it all. That, and his feelings.

"No," said John as he felt his heart sink down, down inside his chest. Shocked dismay and disbelief mingled in his thoughts and his voice as he realized what Sherlock's intentions were. "Oh no. God, no…"

Author's Notes: Before you guys decide to kill me, let me just promise that this story is not going to end in unmitigated angst. My sister would kill me before anyone else. Hehehe. I hope you will give my view a chance.

And for those of you who would like a break from this cliffhanger (sorry about this!), I have posted a new one-shot story called "Bargain Sale". It's not related to Possession, but I hope you will like it.

Personal Note: JayyBee, dear, thank you so much for your wonderful reviews. I do not know how to reach you, so I'm posting this response here. I just want all of you to know how much I appreciate your comments. They always make my day, and they never fail to make me smile after a long and difficult day at work. You're the reason why Possession is being updated so frequently, and why it is going to have an ending very soon. Keep your messages coming, and please don't kill me because of this chapter! Everything will be resolved in due time. Until then!