Possession

A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 34

Quiet Breathing

Thank you so much for your concerned reviews! Yes, most definitely we will not be ending in angst, hehehe. More author's notes can be found at the end of the chapter.

John did not know how long he slept. An eternity, it seemed. All he knew when he woke up was a sense of profound relief— intense, cleansing. The feeling of a fever finally breaking, lifting from a body made tired by illness but already on its way to mending.

And also complete and utter desolation.

Was this what it felt like to have one's heart taken away from oneself?

He was dead-tired, still. Yet, he had never been more clear-minded. Through the waves of fatigue coursing through him, he couldn't help but notice the bright sunlight drifting in from his hospital window. That, and Mycroft sitting beside his bed.

After the initial start, he turned to Mycroft eagerly, urgently, and the vital signs monitor nearby immediately picked up the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat. His blood pressure remained stable at 120/82.

"You've been out for well over twelve hours, John," said Mycroft with a slight smile as he glanced at his watch.

Fuck that.

"Sherlock," whispered John. Then, more loudly, "Sherlock—"

"—Is safe," replied Mycroft. "As are you. That's the most important thing right now."

No. No…

"He's gone, John," said Mycroft softly. "He has to be, for you to be safe."

John sagged back abruptly on the bed, his mind reeling. So last night had not been a nightmare, after all.

"Where is he?"

"It would be best if you do not know, at least for now," Mycroft said. Reverting to an impersonal tone, he continued, "You will be needing your phone back. Evidently you're not someone who can disappear as easily as Sherlock. There have been some missed calls, messages from your family and friends, and it's only been a day since you went away. It was a good thing you disappeared on a Friday night. Imagine the chaos if you were suddenly gone during a weekday."

Mycroft was never good at making impromptu jokes, and after a short, painful silence with a pointedly uncooperative John, he sighed and pressed on, "You can tell them anything you want. Your phone battery suddenly died, or an emergency has occurred that left you too busy to check your phone. It may not be a bad thing to tell them something closer to the truth— that you've checked yourself into hospital for fatigue. We do hope you can stay for a few hours longer here— we're still going through your apartment for bugs."

John looked at him sharply.

Mycroft shook his head. "Just one, so far," he said. "We found it in your living room, tucked away in your bookshelf facing the sofa. That's probably where he got his videos. I don't think you will need to worry; there has been no indication that Moriarty sent anyone a copy of those videos of you and Sherlock. There were only two very brief ones in his phone, totally decent, and the audio was not very…revealing."

John stared at him, his breathing suddenly fast.

Mycroft took out John's phone and handed it back to him. "I will take over from here, John," he said. "Cleaning up is what I do best. It will take at least a few months, but so far, the picture emerging is one of Moriarty desperately trying to save face and ruthlessly silencing members of his own coven who had taken to questioning his authority over the past few months. Sherlock's escape sent everything upside down and further weakened his already-precarious hold over his followers. He had thought getting Sherlock back would somehow set everything right, and more importantly, start the transformation he had been dreaming of his entire life.

"In the coming months, I expect to get to the bottom of things involving his coven. It will be disbanded, its members defused of any threat they might pose. You need not fear getting dragged into the investigation, John. As far as we are concerned, you are not even remotely connected to what happened in the cottage at Oxford. You were not there. There will be no formal investigation by the local police force as it has been labeled an incident of the highest national security. The snipers we captured are not a threat. They know nothing apart from the kill they were expected to make, and nothing whatsoever about the quarry. The two who know are now deceased."

Mycroft stared at John. "You do not know just how fortunate you are, John," he said softly. "You're the very first special person that Sherlock has ever spared, and you're very likely to remain the only one for a long, long time. We hope you will be able to live the rest of your life to the fullest with this special knowledge at the back of your mind. Needless to say, we trust that you will never mention the name Sherlock Holmes to anyone ever again."

John swallowed the lump that was suddenly in his throat, and managed a dry croak: "And Sherlock? What's going to happen to Sherlock?"

"Sherlock Holmes is dead, John," said Mycroft. "He was killed in that obscure incident that nobody knows about and which will be branded as a botched house burglary. A body will be released for burial, to lay to rest his fate once and for all. It's for your own protection and to thwart members of Moriarty's coven who would have ideas of carrying on searching for him. As for Moriarty himself, he has disappeared without a trace. Noises from certain sectors will be made over the disappearance of the 22nd Earl of Westwood, but I shall make sure it will not involve you or your connection to Sherlock Holmes, your one-time patient. If talk from your colleagues will invariably link you with the sudden disappearance of Dr. Holmes, you may cite Sherlock's confidences as privileged communication between a doctor and his patient and remain silent."

John licked his dry lips. "This can't be as easy as you're making it sound," he said.

"Can't it?" asked Mycroft mildly. "I've swept incidents with far heftier consequences than this under the rug before. With a few centuries of experience along this line of work, trust me, John, I can get anything done."

John closed his eyes, exhaled a soft breath. This isn't happening.

"You get to live the rest of your life in peace, John. What more can you possibly want?" said Mycroft, his tone finally taking on an edge of impatience as he sensed John's dissatisfaction. "This is real life, not a soap opera in the telly where we can present you with endings wrapped in a bow. If you really love him, you will learn to let him go just as he has let you go. It's not easy for you, but think just how hard it is for him as well. Think of all the things that could happen if neither of you were willing to let go. It has happened to me. Believe me, I do not wish the same thing to happen to you or to my brother."

John opened his eyes and avoided Mycroft's gaze, staring fixedly at the window instead.

Mycroft continued after a moment's silence: "In the meantime I shall do everything in my power to protect you. I've sworn an oath to my brother that I shall keep you safe. You will not hear from me unless it is absolutely necessary, and I hope in due time you will stop looking over your shoulder to check if I'm watching. But I will continue to keep watch until I decide that you no longer need my surveillance."

Mycroft was already moving away. "Victoria, my assistant, will come by later to pick you up. She will leave you at your apartment. Tomorrow, you can get back to your usual routine. Have a nice life, John," he said as he let himself out of the door.

For a while, there was silence except for the steady beep of the vital signs monitor, where John's blood pressure remained at a steady 120/80.

Proof positive that Sherlock was indeed gone.

John closed his eyes tightly, turned his face towards the pillow as his shoulders shook silently.

It would be another six weeks before Mycroft would think to summon John.

By that time, John had recovered sufficiently to move on. A difficult task, made all the more difficult by the unanswered questions that teemed inside him. But he had slowly found himself moving on.

He had asked for some time off when he returned to Baker Street that very first Monday. Sarah and the other doctors had understood and had readily given him leave, effortlessly taking over his clinic schedule and his patients. Where he had taken himself off to next was irrelevant to John, as he had spent most of his time sleeping. Nowadays, sleeping was no longer a problem for him, as if his capacity for nightmares had been exhausted by the events of the past month.

He had survived Sherlock Holmes and everything that had been attached to him. No other nightmare could possibly compare to that.

Only, John could never bring himself to think of Sherlock as a nightmare. Far from it. He missed him, and could find no solace in his thoughts, so strangely alone now in his mind.

Sherlock was gone, and John could not find him in his dreams. Wherever he was, it seemed as though he was not interested in resonating with John. It seemed that he was done with him.

And yet life went on. Oddly enough, John had not sunk into a depression as he had feared he would. He recognized now that there was a place inside him that seemed determined to function and carry on, no matter the wounds inflicted on it. Something made of a substance hard and unbreakable. Something that John was surprised to find inside himself, something that had been present within him all along.

It had taken Sherlock to make him realize it.

He wished he had been able to ask Mycroft more specific questions about Sherlock. Mycroft had been deliberately obscure and had held back information that John desperately needed, if only to assuage the ghastly emptiness that he felt deep inside.

He would have his answers, a few days before Christmas.

Mycroft had arranged for them to meet at a private club called The Diogenes. It was snowing lightly when the sleek, black car deposited John outside the club's pristine, white colonnaded building. Inside, a cheerful, roaring fire blazed in the hearth of a reading room full of distinguished old men and absolute hush.

He was taken to a private room by a silent escort with booties on his feet. Mycroft sat in the armchair facing the fireplace. He stood up and extended his hand to John.

"So glad you can make it, John," said Mycroft as he waved him toward the chair opposite his. "People can get pretty busy at this time of year."

John bit back the first thought that came to mind— of how he could possibly stay away when Mycroft knew he was aching for a piece of information only he could give him— and silently sat down on the chair offered him. He shook his head at Mycroft's offer of refreshments.

With the initial pleasantries behind them, Mycroft briskly settled down to business by handing him a portfolio.

"The progress of things, so far," said Mycroft. "We've been successful at tracking down the leaders of the coven. Apparently, Moriarty had kept them in the dark regarding Sherlock. They knew nothing of Moriarty's entrapment plan. They knew nothing about you. They didn't know where Moriarty had gone, but they were looking. A restructuring of their internal hierarchy was already underway when we put a stop to their operations.

"As for that anesthesiologist-"

"You don't have to pursue her," said John quickly. "I'm not interested in seeing her dragged into this. It was clear that she was forced to do what she did. She did her best to make sure I was not harmed."

"Hmm," murmured Mycroft. "All right. If it is your wish, then I will drop my investigation concerning her. Anyway, that's the first part of our operations. For the second part, we've wiped out all the data that Moriarty had managed to collect regarding Sherlock. We've scoured over and secured all his communications. Most importantly, I was able to get this."

Mycroft held aloft an antique volume bound in leather. "The journal by the first Earl of Westwood that started it all," he said, perusing the book with distaste. "The ravings of a lunatic that made sense only to a fellow lunatic."

"Which also happened to be the truth," finished John before he could stop himself.

"Yes," said Mycroft rather sadly. "This was all partly my fault, John. I will not hesitate to admit it. Consider this my remedy."

He threw the book into the crackling fire, and for a time they watched as it flared and burned in the grate.

"This, on the other hand, I shall keep for future reference," said Mycroft, taking out a smaller antique book from the inner pocket of his coat. "It has served its purpose, and may very likely be useful in catching future vampire aspirants."

"The grimoire," said John, taking the book from Mycroft and rifling through the pages. "Wait, this is where you placed your doodles—"

"All that nonsense about how to turn oneself into a vampire, yes," said Mycroft complacently. "I was lucky to have been able to acquire it shortly after its original owner was burned at the stake. The ink I used was identical to his. I've always had a talent for forging another's handwriting, and happily, I was familiar with the dialect of the region, so…"

"So you wrote all that fiction down and returned the book to its proper place," finished John.

"And five hundred years later, it managed to ensnare a certain dangerous devil worshipper," said Mycroft. "It came pretty late, but what counts is the fact that my efforts bore fruit after all these years."

John gave him a tight smile as he returned the book to Mycroft.

"There is one last book," said Mycroft, his voice thoughtful.

"Oh?"

"I would have done away with it, except that its owner is still very much alive. And Sherlock would have wanted him to make the final decision over the fate of the volume, not me."

John watched, astonished, as Mycroft handed over his own journal.

"I can assure you that your notes were well-thumbed by Sherlock," said Mycroft softly. "It afforded him a great deal of…comfort, to have known your thoughts."

"He's always known my thoughts," said John.

Mycroft tilted his head in silent acknowledgement. "What are you going to do with it?"

Without another word, John tossed his journal into the fire to join Thomas Moriarty's book. "Now that Sherlock's read it, this book has no more purpose," said John. "I don't wish to pass Sherlock on to posterity. I'm selfish this way."

Mycroft nodded. "Then I am sure you will approve of the method he has taken to remove himself from us," he said.

John glowered at Mycroft. "Where is he?" he asked.

Mycroft frowned. "What do you mean, John?"

"Don't," warned John, suddenly furious. "Don't pull this stunt on me and pretend you know nothing about his whereabouts. You're right when you think I will go after him, my health and sanity be damned. So it's useless to withhold the information from me. I need to know where he is."

Mycroft was staring at John as though he had gone mad. "You mean to say you don't…oh, for God's sake."

John watched in increasing bewilderment as Mycroft shook his head, bemused. "You mean to say that all this time you didn't know?" Mycroft asked, pityingly.

"You never said anything. Sherlock never said anything. The bastard never even bothered saying goodbye—"

"Why would he say goodbye to you, John," cut in Mycroft, "when he is only sleeping?"

John realized that he was gaping, and he shut his mouth hurriedly. "How…how does that work?" he asked cautiously.

"Sherlock never told you about the way we sleep for certain intervals of time?"

"He did mention something like that," conceded John. "About your need to hibernate periodically."

Mycroft smiled. "Hibernation would be one way to describe it," he said. "We do it during periods of extreme physical and emotional stress. We simply cut off all ties to the present and disappear. Quite literally, we go to the ground— find a place where we will not be disturbed, a place with moisture or running water, and shed off our consciousness. It used to be a relatively simple affair: find a cave, or an underground tunnel inaccessible to humans and foraging animals, or the harsher elements, make a comfortable pallet of straw and our discarded clothes, and lie down and wait for sleep to overcome us. Water is an essential element that we cannot do without. In our sleep state, it is the only thing that will sustain our bodies.

"At this present day and age though, there are always complications. One simply cannot burrow deep enough into the ground and expect to be left undisturbed. You need not ask where I have kept Sherlock as I have no intention of telling anyone, not even you. It can be someplace uphill or down dale, somewhere in the moors or in the crags of a cliff, more likely in a hidden suite of rooms in a secluded country estate somewhere, equipped with the latest machinery to see to my brother's reduced metabolic needs.

"You need not scowl at me like that. As I have said, Sherlock is only sleeping. It's not as if he has severed your Bond. As I have mentioned previously, it cannot be broken easily, although its deleterious effects can be dampened if Sherlock is in deep sleep. Think of it as a kind of screen to shield you from Sherlock's radiant glare. This is the solution I would have wanted for myself and my wife, if only circumstances would have allowed me back in 1914.

"Resonance will not be affected," said Mycroft. "You will be able to see each other in your dreams as you have done beforehand. If you are to contemplate that we spend a third of each day sleeping, think of the possibilities that you have in store with Sherlock. I almost envy you, John."

John swallowed and released a trembling breath. "I haven't seen or felt him in my dreams yet," he said. "From the way my mind felt, I really thought he had gone."

"Give him time. Give yourself time. Forgive him," said Mycroft.

"He doesn't need my forgiveness," said John. He stared at Mycroft in puzzlement. "There is one thing I don't understand. When you came into the picture, you could have just stopped everything, stopped me. Save Sherlock from all this trouble. Sherlock said you've done it before. Why did you allow me to continue?"

"I believe I told you once that I do not do anything without an ulterior motive," said Mycroft.

"And your ulterior motive here being—?"

"Through you, I saw an excellent opportunity for Sherlock," said Mycroft. "A chance for him to learn some valuable lessons through a very good man. I thought it was time that he grew up."

John flushed at Mycroft's words, delivered matter-of-factly— generous, coming from him, even if lacking in warmth.

"Wouldn't my human influence be dangerous to him in the long run?" murmured John, voicing his worry at long last. "Wouldn't it compromise his perfect state, make him unbalanced enough to affect his hunting and the way he sees people?"

"My dear John, my brother and I are two members of a race on its way to extinction," said Mycroft. "That does not mean we are incapable of adapting just to live out the rest of our lives among our prey, even if it would ultimately mean that we will end up getting adopted by your kind."

"You won't mind…evolving to become one of us?"

"I don't see how we have any choice in the matter, once the rules of evolution are set," said Mycroft. "Of course, Sherlock may not agree to my view, but as I have said, he has a lot of growing up to do. But you do understand why Sherlock had to distance himself from you, John? This pattern of evolution, this process of becoming human, takes time. And a month of such intense change with you is simply too much. No organism can withstand that kind of accelerated metamorphosis.

"At any rate, you have a lifetime to see to my brother's…education. Of all the people he's ever come across, I'm glad he chose you."

Mycroft stood up and extended his hand to John, a sign that their interview was ending. "I am keeping you from your holiday duties," he said. "Good luck, John, and I will be in touch with further developments."

They shook hands. John was about to leave, but then he turned back to Mycroft one last time. "You know, you can get some therapy to help you get over your wife's death," he said. "You don't need to hang on to it for so long and let it scar you like that."

Mycroft's brows shot up in amazement. "Are you offering your services then, Dr. Watson?" he asked.

Startled, John quickly backtracked. "No," he said.

Mycroft smiled, nodding. "Very wise of you," he said. "As it is, I am rather fond of this particular scar, so I see very little point in altering or removing it. Happy Christmas, John."

It was, all in all, a very strange ending, thought John inside the hushed, comfortable confines of the car that would take him back to Central London, back to his life. And yet it was the only ending that fit, the only one possible for his and Sherlock's impossible situation.

All was not lost, after all.

With that knowledge came the final release he had longed for, as if John had been holding his breath for the past two months. He shuddered out a breath, took in a new one even as he felt the last of the heavy load roll off his shoulders.

John settled back into his seat, and closed his eyes.

Of course, life would go on. There would always be problems to solve and overcome, responsibilities mundane and special that John would have to see to for the rest of his life. There would be things he would not be able to help with (Harry's divorce would be finalized in the coming year). And many others where he hoped he could help and make a difference.

Through it all, John would carry within him a special secret that nobody else had access to. A certain person he would be glad to keep safely in his heart. If there was a dark underbelly to John's desires, it would be the fact that he was a deeply possessive and jealous man. Never one to flaunt his assets, he would rather not let anyone else come across Sherlock. Short of being able to turn him invisible, this was a very satisfactory solution indeed. John had to admit that it was a very selfish thing to do, but a man was entitled to a bit of selfishness in one aspect of life or another. In this realm, his desires were absolute: Sherlock was his, and his alone.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Just like what Sherlock must be doing now, somewhere out there. Safe in his quiet bower, safely in a state of deep sleep, full of sweet dreams, and good health, and quiet breathing.

I shall continue to live on then, love. As you would want me to do. To live and work and care for the people in my charge. And at the end of the day, I shall look forward to the time when I will meet you on that ethereal plane where time ceases to have all meaning and stops, only to begin again.

Our time.

Our time and our place and our many dreams together.

Dream of me, Sherlock, dreaming of you.

Author's Notes: The last line is borrowed from one of The Unicorn Tapestry's most poignant lines: "Think of me sometimes, Weyland, thinking of you."

A passage from John's thoughts is lifted from the poem, A Thing of Beauty (Endymion), by John Keats:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

I have removed an earlier passage involving Mycroft's wife. It was too confusing. I hope its deletion will help make the story more streamlined.

Thank you so much for your kind patience. An epilogue (and quite possibly a special chapter) will follow, and we are done! Reviews are welcome, as always. Do tell me what you think!