Possession

A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 33

After the ambulance had taken John away, Sherlock sat on the steps outside the cottage's back door, staring off into the sparse garden beyond, now overrun with weeds.

Inside the house, Mycroft's people continued their work. The entire procedure had "top secret government operation" stamped all over it. Curious neighbors and onlookers who had been attracted by the brief but violent break-in had all been turned away. Mycroft's people had given reasons that may or may not convince them, but the reasons would have to suffice. There would be no witnesses to see the captured snipers herded away in black cars, no witnesses to see two body bags being transported out of the house.

Already, they were beginning clean-up operations, setting the scene up for some plausible crime that had been very quickly taken care of, to be filed away by the authorities as a closed case. The sounds inside the house were hushed, muted. Everything seemed far away as Sherlock sat on the stone steps and stared out at nothing.

He had expected to feel relief, exultation. He should have felt glad that he had bested Moriarty and saved John. Instead he felt empty, tired.

So very tired.

He would have wanted to close his eyes and sleep. And sleep.

He had indeed saved John, and John had, in turn, saved him. But a new set of problems had arisen right there— problems that Sherlock had wished fervently to be able to solve with John's help.

But it seemed there would be no adequate solution for them, except one.

Behind him, the back door opened and Mycroft stepped out.

"You can come inside now. They've carted off the bodies of Moriarty and Moran," said Mycroft.

Sherlock did not so much as acknowledge his brother's presence.

There was a pause as Mycroft continued to stand behind Sherlock, looking down at his brother's slumped shoulders. Then he said quietly, "Moran and his man left the kitchen upon Moriarty's go signal, but he turned back just when we were closing in on them outside the house. There was very little we could do to stop him. He was able to fire off two, three shots from the kitchen before we were able to take him down."

"I would have been dead if John had not transferred into my body," said Sherlock, but his voice was more tired than complaining.

"Yes." It was not an apology, but Mycroft, to his credit, did not bother to attempt an excuse over something that could not be justified.

There was a measure of quiet as the two brothers stared off into the distance, each lost in their own worlds of thoughts and memories.

Then, Sherlock asked, "Did Anthea ever have nosebleeds like that?"

"She did," replied Mycroft, "even though we never did engage in transference. We never had a sphygmomanometer to measure her blood pressure back then, but John's blood pressure now will give us a picture of what very likely transpired the entire time we were together."

Silence for a time. From somewhere in the quiet neighborhood, they could hear a baby's hungry wail.

"Do you hear that?" Sherlock said softly, nodding his head at the direction of the faint, shrill sound. "I've often wondered why human infants do that."

"What? Cry?"

"I've often wondered why they do so. Practically the first thing they ever do upon being born is to cry. I never realized I'd find the answer tonight: that somehow, these infants seem to know that they are entering a world filled with so much pain."

He turned to Mycroft. "I suppose you'd be pleased to find that your words from a century ago have come true," he said. "I'm finally awakening to what you have experienced with Anthea."

Mycroft closed his eyes at Sherlock's words. "That's an exercise in pain right there," he murmured. "But I suppose you're right. We are creatures adept in inflicting it, but we are woefully, inadequately prepared to suffer it when our turn comes."

When Sherlock did not say anything to that, Mycroft continued, "You know I never meant those words."

"Yes, you did." Sherlock's tone was even. Dull.

"I did, then," conceded Mycroft. "But they were all said in the heat of the moment. The moment has passed. Just as this will pass."

"I don't want to pass John up." The softly spoken words were laced with desperate hurt. "I don't want to lose him, Mycroft."

Mycroft shook his head. "You know what you have to do, then," he said. "There is no other way. If there is one, you would have thought about it. I would have thought about it with Anthea. In fact, it did occur to me, but she would have none of it, not when war was looming and England needed me. You won't have that problem, at least."

"There must be another way, Mycroft," snapped Sherlock. "A way for John and myself to survive each other and be together."

"You know there is," said Mycroft softly.

Sherlock stared at his brother for a long time.

Mycroft had arranged for John to be taken to a high-security military hospital just outside London. He was sleeping when Sherlock entered his room and sat down on the edge of the bed beside him.

For a while, Sherlock occupied himself with studying his lover's face, intent on memorizing every line, every curve and every hollow of those features that had become so indescribably dear to him in the past few weeks.

Such a short time. They had such a short time to get to know each other and to realize just how good they were together, and how impossible it really all was in the end. It was most unfair. Unfair and horrid! Was this why the ancient Greeks invented tragedy? To explore why they were so fascinated by the way Man could not be turned from the paths already preordained him, no matter how heroic his struggles to veer away from what Fate had decreed should be his lot? There were so many things about human beings that Sherlock had never understood, and all these sudden, recent revelations into his prey's psyche were as much a source of fresh pain as wonder.

And certainly there was nothing as wonderful as the man lying fast asleep before him.

So Sherlock studied John, studied the way his golden hair was beginning to streak with silvery grey, the premature lines on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth evidence not just of a lifetime of care, but also of strength and the fierce will to overcome.

Sherlock had often wondered about that as well— that determination to fight and overcome. During those times before John when his prey knew too much about him and he had to kill, he had wondered why certain people would give up without a struggle and simply let him take them down, and why others would choose to fight. And continue fighting until their very last breath. He had often wondered why they would even bother doing it when it was so futile.

Then this man had to come along to show him that fighting back was anything but useless, that things need not fall into the usual, inevitable pattern, that Sherlock's appetite need not mean this man's destruction.

But this would not be enough for them to solve the final problem, because it seemed that nature had intended Sherlock's kind to be the ultimate apex predator. The perfect monster. Everything about vampires was designed by evolution as a means to kill their prey, no matter how the vampires themselves would feel about it. Resonance, Bonding, transference— all these processes so natural to vampires came at a great cost to human beings. No matter how determined they both were to overcome the obstacles set before them, Sherlock could no longer ignore the way John's body was betraying him, showing the strain it was under whenever they were together even as John continued to deny and ignore the signs.

And the signs were all there in the electronic monitor for Sherlock to see. The final proof that he needed to make up his mind about his situation with John.

That was how John found him when he woke up: preoccupied with studying his vital signs.

Sherlock felt John's quiet scrutiny behind him, and carefully locked away all unnecessary thoughts and feelings in his mind that might upset John further and interfere with the task at hand.

"I know you're awake, John," he said, his eyes not leaving the monitor's screen.

"Yeah well, given our mind link, it wouldn't take a genius to figure that out," replied John, the smile in his voice clearly evident.

John's playful banter carried with it such undertones of relief and joy that Sherlock felt a stab of intense pain upon hearing it.

What was wrong with this scene? Wasn't this supposed to be the part of the fairy tale where they got to live happily ever after? Here they were, having just vanquished the enemy and emerging bloodied but intact from the entire episode, only to find that they couldn't escape the limits of their own natures.

Resolutely, Sherlock pushed aside the pain before John could sense it and turned to look at him. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

More teasing from John. His wonderful John. This was what he wanted, what he had been looking forward to: the time when they could lay aside all their differences and troubles and just be together.

He knew now that it wouldn't be possible for them to do so, not unless certain sacrifices were made.

All the while, John could sense his sadness, the intense disappointment of finding all their potential for a future together in hapless disarray. John was beginning to wonder at the turbulent mix of feelings he was sensing, and to worry.

"So what happens now?" John asked.

For all it was worth, Sherlock tried to dodge John's question one last time. "Now you must rest and recover from this ordeal," he said. "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," interrupted John. "What's going to happen to us now?"

"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."

Sherlock willed himself not to look away as he felt the first stirrings of alarm and panic within John.

"What— what does that mean?" asked John, shaking his head, his voice a mere whisper. Then he finally understood. "No. Oh no. God, no…"

At this point, Sherlock could no longer trust himself to speak without his voice breaking. "John," he said in his mind as he held out a hand to restrain John from getting up. "Oh, John. I have to do it. Can't you see why? Can't you see what's going on?"

Clearly, John did not see. An anguished cry: Why?

"It's all here in your vital signs, John. When you transferred into me…when you transferred into me, you bled—"

It was just a fucking nosebleed! It happens. Don't inject too much meaning into it!

"You practically went into hypertensive crisis, John! Your blood pressure went right over the roof. I thought for a moment you might have blown a vessel or something."

So we won't do transference ever again, argued John quickly. I don't see why this should be a problem—

Sherlock shook his head. "It's not just that. I've been studying your BP for quite some time before you woke up. With all those IV antihypertensive meds inside you, your resting BP was 135/85. The moment you woke up to find me here it went up to 143/89. Now it's around 150/93—"

"That's because you're being such an enormous prat and pissing me off royally!" said John aloud.

"Yes, I am," agreed Sherlock, resignedly. "I am the cause of your hypertension, John. Our Bond is the culprit."

No—

"It was never meant for human beings. You just can't deal with the strain of me inside your head. No matter how much we would want it, no matter how much we would want to be together, it's just not meant to be."

No!

John was clutching at Sherlock's hand now, clutching it in a tight grip as though Sherlock might choose to get up and leave at any moment.

Tell me why you Bonded with me in the first place, demanded John, his tone fierce.

"Because I needed to protect you from Mycroft, from what was coming. Moriarty—"

John stared at Sherlock with a crestfallen expression. Only that?

"You know why." A low mutter.

John shook his head sadly. I'm not sure I do.

The answer was torn from Sherlock: "Because I want you, John! I've never wanted anything or anyone the way I do you. I love you."

That unfamiliar sensation of moisture gathering in his eyes, sliding down his face to land softly on John's cheek below him. Sherlock watched as John's eyes widened at his words. It should have been a happy moment of revelation, but Sherlock had never felt so wretched in his entire life as he did at that one moment.

"I love you, John," he repeated defiantly. "I love you so much. That's the reason why I have to do this. If I love you any less then perhaps I might give in, let us go on and risk whatever chance Fate has in store for us. But I can't. I can't when I know it will be to your detriment. And I don't think I can survive it if something were to happen to you because of me, because of our Bond. Just like what happened to Mycroft and Anthea—"

No. No! Listen to me. John's tone was desperate. We don't know what really happened to her. Mycroft didn't know the full story, so you shouldn't be jumping to conclusions—

"I didn't base my conclusions on what happened to Anthea. I based it on your vital signs right here. We can't ignore such concrete data, John. It's all there. The final proof."

No!

"And even if we were to go on, what sort of life would it be for you, strapped to a vampire for a lover?"

And what the hell is wrong with that?

"Everything, John, as you will realize if only you would decide to be objective about the situation for a change."

Sherlock stroked John's trembling cheek gently. "You'd be stuck with me and my blood hunger. We might be able to pull it off for a couple of months perhaps, with you valiantly fending off the strangest speculations from your friends and colleagues and family about your new lover who, by human standards, is possibly a psychopath; most definitely a high functioning sociopath. Without a doubt, they will be shocked at the sudden turnaround that your sexual orientation has taken. But these would be the least of our problems. For how long can we hold out before the moth burns its wings as it comes too close to the flame? All it will take is a single, unguarded moment. You've experienced my hunger firsthand, and I came to that house after having fed. Imagine how it would be for me to be there on an empty stomach. How it would be for you to deal with me during those times in our relationship."

Yeah, but that time in the house, that was me. That was me inside you then, Sherlock, not you. You can—

"Nobody can retain control over that kind of hunger all the time. Not even me."

You can. I know you can. Throughout your entire courtship, you've been able to hold it off. That time when you weren't able to feed—

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't manage that level of control all the time," he said simply. "Not when you've become my ultimate addiction. Besides that, there is the more urgent matter of the backlash to be expected from Moriarty's…disappearance. He may be dead but the repercussions of my actions are very much alive. Mycroft will need time to contain and defuse the threat of his cult— it may take months, maybe even years— and while we are together you shall never be safe. I can't be seen with you, John. I can't do this to you— expose you to further danger."

Anger now, rolling off John in waves. And bitter frustration.

Back in that house, you told Moriarty that I am your heart. Well, guess what. You don't do these things to your heart— tearing it out from your chest and casting it aside. You just can't do that!

"I've lived this long without a heart. And now that I have one, I must see to it that I keep it safe, even if it must be removed from me. Isn't that what you would do for me if you were in my place?" Sherlock's tone was implacable.

John's lips thinned, but he found he could not refute Sherlock's argument. Not when he said it like that. Finally: How can someone of flesh and blood live without a heart? Maybe you can but I can't! I don't think I want to go on without…without—

"Hush, John! Don't say it!" Sherlock's tone was sharp, wounded. "Do not say such nonsense. You can and you will live on. You're practically indestructible. The only one who can destroy you, John, is yourself. Always remember that. You are so reckless with yourself when it comes to the people you care about. You'd gladly invite eternal damnation upon your head so long as you can find someone to be damned with, and I can't allow you to destroy yourself like that. Not even for me."

John was crying now. All points of his argument exhausted, he resorted to a final plea: What am I going to do without you?

"I'm giving you your life back, don't you see." Sherlock shook his head a bit helplessly. "Do what other people do. Find someone worthy to marry, have children—"

John's look and tone were incredulous: Seriously, do you realize how you're sounding just now?

Sherlock sighed. "I just want you to be happy, John."

Then don't leave me, Sherlock. Please.

"I'm not going to let go, John. I'm in here." Sherlock touched the tip of his finger to John's head.

"And here." He placed the palm of his hand flat on John's chest, on top of his racing heart.

That's not what I meant, you idiot!

Sherlock sighed again, not bothering to misunderstand. He made to pull away, only to find John's hand tightening over his. Not letting go.

Kiss me.

"John—"

I said kiss me, you great, stupid git.

It was a command that allowed no opposition.

Wordlessly, Sherlock leaned down to touch John's lips with his own. He felt John deepen the kiss immediately, stabbing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock gave a soft moan as John effortlessly took over the kiss, caressing his tongue roughly with his own.

From the monitor came a steady beeping sound of warning. John's blood pressure had just exceeded 160/90.

Tell me now that you'd want to leave me, John challenged. Leave this behind.

"John…"

Don't. John's thoughts broke apart as a fresh wave of pain welled up inside him. Just don't, Sherlock…

"I won't let you go. I love you, John."

I love you, too…I love you so damned much…

John never saw Sherlock raise his hand to pinch at his neck.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt a brief spasm go through John. He continued to kiss John long after he fell unconscious. Kissed the short strands of hair on his forehead. Gently licked away the salty tears gathering on his closed eyelids. Lightly kissed his parted mouth, his chin. Felt the light stubble of beard on his unshaven cheeks. Inhaled his scent from his neck. Felt the strong, steady pulse on the junction of his neck and shoulder.

Sherlock stayed that way for a long time, his face pressed to his lover's neck as he let his senses be filled with John. All of John, to live on in his heart and to be kept safe there.

And so the fairy tale ends, thought Sherlock, finally moving to rest his forehead against John's, with the fabled monster vanishing from the light of your waking existence to the seclusion and darkness of your nighttime dreams. I am a creature more suited to the fantastical realms that sleep takes you to, never in your daily life when you move around and are part of the real world.

The life that we've wanted together is a fantasy— the concept as fragile as a dream. It will not stand the light of morning. Though I would like to stay, day has got tired of me. And so I will go and wait for you in all the places where your sleeping mind will take you in its nocturnal wanderings. If that is the only way to make you safe from me, then it is a sacrifice I will very gladly make.

Never let me go.

My love.

With those words, he finally withdrew from John's sleeping form, his hands trailing down John's body, maintaining contact for as long as they could. Until they finally couldn't.

Sherlock did not risk another backward glance as he made for the door. He wiped away the tears before he opened the door to face Mycroft, to face whatever else lay in store for him as he began to make plans for his own disappearance.

He found Mycroft patiently sitting just outside the room, a few feet away from the armed guards stationed outside John's door.

He felt Mycroft's gaze on him as he slowly approached his brother. Felt his sympathy and understanding, genuine and devoid of any condescension, for once.

Mycroft rose as Sherlock stopped in front of him.

"I'm ready," said Sherlock.

Thank you so much for your reviews. Patience, my dears! Once again, I'm asking for your indulgence.

A part of Sherlock's thoughts is lifted from Emily Dickinson's poem, "Good Morning, Midnight":

Good morning, Midnight!
I'm coming home,
Day got tired of me –
How could I of him?

Sunshine was a sweet place,
I liked to stay –
But Morn didn't want me – now –
So good night, Day!