CHAPTER NINE
It started with the dreams. Dreams of the conversation going differently, of not ending after John refused the cigarettes but rather leading to laughter and John touching his hand and then, sometimes John is kissing him. Kissing him with hands framing his face and Sherlock pushes him against the counter and moans as he lowers his mouth to John's throat… only to have John push him away, his eyes angry and afraid and disgusted all at once. Other times it is simply a confusing jumble of blood and bodies and hands holing tea and smiles and green jumpers floating in space.
It makes it all the harder to look at John in the morning.
Sleeping becomes difficult after that.
Slowly his nights began to be plagued by insomnia, John breathing peacefully in the upstairs bedroom. When John awakens Sherlock feigns having slept, making comments about the paper that he is reading with half an eye and brushing off John's halfhearted complaints about the violin music that had floated up the stairs at one in the morning.
Soon a heavy weight creeps into his limbs, and eyes like lead that are stabbed by too bright a sun. John notices, of course. Eyes tracking him and hands shooting out to catch him when he stumbles over an nonexistent crack in the pavement (and once or twice Sherlock may have faked a stumble just to feel John's arm around his shoulders), suggesting naps on the sofa, insisting that this case or this lead can wait an hour. In order to appease John Sherlock fakes having napped, laying down and then popping back up again thirty minutes latter, sleep either evading him completely or stealing upon him in short, hazy increments. (Only once is his sleep genuine. When John is sitting next to him and he wakes with his head pillowed on his Mate's thighs, his nose pressed against his flat stomach as, even in sleep, his body sought out John's scent).
When he does manage to fall asleep properly during the night (once in a three week stretch), aside from a few flickers of a blonde hair and steaming red, it is the dreams that come again. He must have cried out (during the most recent one, at least) because John shakes him awake at 3 am, eyes worried and head mussed, offering tea or talking or just sitting there.
Sherlock refuses, sending John back to bed for he must be at the hospital early that day. What John doesn't know, as Sherlock utters a low groan and slips his hand beneath his waistband to grip himself, is not only that nightmare was the furthest context of the dream, but that as Sherlock bites a hole in his palm to stifle his cry as he comes (his release empty and unsatisfying), his face buried in John's oatmeal jumper, the last thing that Sherlock wanted was for John to leave.
(((((((((((
Food has become unappealing. He is simply not hungry, regardless of how he has not consumed a drop of blood in a month.
When Sherlock does make himself eat the liquid, which would normally have been flavorful and thirst quenching and so so good, goes down dry and tasteless. Like water would if it was red wine. He has to force himself to sallow.
He is loosing weight, not enough for John to comment on, but enough so that his clothes hang more loosely, enough that he can now pull his coat a few centimeters tighter across his frame. Enough for his scarf to allow a few drafts of air to hit his neck. Enough for Mycroft to tap his foot and Anthea to comment worriedly on the dryness of his skin.
The only blood that appeals to him is John's, but not in the manner of a man desperate for food. No. With increasing frequency Sherlock will find himself staring at John's pulse, at the steady beat of his neck and wrist. As he stares, the urge will rise sharply within him and his mind will cloud and he will rush from the flat. He will ignore John's shouts and the demand that he go back beating in his blood, continuing to walk faster as he fights to not press John against the wall and simply take.
(And how many times as he wanted that?
How often has he crept into John's room at night and watch him sleep, thinking about scenting that neck?
Of breathing in John's scent and licking, kissing that vein running thick with blood?
Of allowing his fangs to pierce the skin, ever so slightly for John cannot heal as can he, and drinking down the crimson liquid?
How often has he imagined John's reaction, of his Mate groaning in pleasure and arching his neck in invitation, of taking hold of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer, his body covering his?
He's lost count. He has truly, truly lost count.)
It is not new, that urge that is sometimes savage in its intensity.
Every day Sherlock feels it, the urge to Claim. To mark John as his.
It beats against his mind and invades his thoughts, causes his fangs to itch with the need to bury them within skin and his vision to cloud as his violin nearly shatters in his hand.
He ignores it.
John comes back from the hospital, from a date with Sarah, his smile easy and eyes warm and body no doubt satisfied and Sherlock feels the nonexistent bile rise in his throat at the thought of that and he…
Always ignores it.
(((((((((((
His concentration has started to wane. Not severely, just a little.
Enough for his mind to go off on a new deduction of passerby or a new member of the Forensic team when he should be focusing on the body in front of him.
Enough that Lestrade has looked at him oddly once or twice, for Anderson to snicker as he stumbles over a phrase.
Enough that when Mrs. Hudson finally bullies him over for tea and biscuits Sherlock, just for a moment, allows his hand to linger over sweet boxes, unsure if Mrs. Hudson asked for the chocolate digestives or the apple.
Enough that, when he speaks the poem aloud in an effort to calm himself, and right in the middle of the sentence he forgets what he is saying John easily picks up the slack for him, effortlessly reciting the words of demon lovers back to him.
It is enough.
(((((((((((
When he buys them…
When he buys them from the elderly Werefox down in Manchester…
He feels sick.
When he hides them in his inner coat pocket, the cherry wood of the box hard against his chest, the heavy glass inside adding an extra weight…
He feels elated.
As he carries the box about the flat, hearing the liquid swish inside the vial, searching for a place to hide them….
He is afraid.
When he sets the box on his bed and his fingers hover over the clasp, thinking of opening it just to look, nothing more…
He feels compelled.
When his feet carry him to John's room without his heed, picturing the look on his face should John know, and just for a single instant not giving a danm…
He is empty.
When he carves a small space in the wall next to John's window, just large enough to slip the box inside, and carefully plasters it back up so no trace can be found..
He feels regret.
When John comes home an hour latter, complaining about his day and offering him tea and yelling about the hand inside the freezer and not finding him like that …
He is relieved.
Two nights latter, when John goes to a movie with Sarah…
He wants to dig them out.
As he stands in front of the space where they hide, where he put them so he could not get at them so that his resolve would not falter..
He wants to say
stop it
I love you
stop her
I need you
stop them
why don't you
have me
not enough
let me
take me
want me
help me
He does not.
(((((((((((
Sherlock collapsed today.
His heart stuttered (again, once again, twice again, nineteen, thirty, fifty times again).
His vision swirled ( twelve time, fourteenth time, sixtieth, ninetieth, two hundredth time).
He dropped the alegi sample due to shaking hands ( tremor, constant, drop the skull and the cereal and the swirled snail shell, apply pressure to hold the cup down see there's nothing, hold it up and watch the skin flinch and muscles jitter before your eyes).
When he woke up he cleaned up the blood, making sure to get the corner of the counter where his head struck, the wound already healed.
John was not home and Mrs. Hudson was asleep.
Sherlock does not tell anyone, for he already knows the cause.
Knows the implications.
(((((((((((
Next is the case, or rather the refusal of a case.
The explosion happens across the street and Mycroft arrives less then an hour after the windows break, mouth tight and eyes worried even though his concern is unwarranted and unwanted (and surly there is more important things for Mycroft to be doing) Sherlock knows that his brother is here to stay. Mycroft picks up a book and sits in the chair, alternating between reading and conversing with Anthea and various governments.
(At some point Sherlock falls asleep, so he does not know that Mycroft leaves his chair. That he takes his brother's head in his hands and tilts it gently from side to side, cataloguing the hue of his skin. That he takes his pulse and lightly pinches his skin, frowning when he understands the results. That he moves silently about the flat, looking and pausing and sniffing the air and the clothes and the drainage pipe, trying to find it, trying to find them).
Sherlock wakes at dawn and Mycroft is still there, remaining so when John comes rushing home from a night with her (and for once Sherlock was glad that John was out of the flat). Mycroft takes in his brother's Mate and revels that John slept on the sofa instead of having sex with Sarah – it's a relief and Mycroft knows it as he eyes him, pity and anger for him swirling in his eyes - just tell him Sherlock, honestly, it's only going to get worse if you don't . How's the diet, Mycroft? Fine. Laying off the fat people, you know their blood is the sweetest after all.– before trying to make him take a case involving one of his careless M16 employees.
(((((((((((
Then there is the case. The case that is really a game wrapped up in a ribbon of smoke and death and yes it's marvelous and brilliant even though human morals all around him scream that it should not be so. A game involving bombers, hostages, and messages of five pips. A pair of trainers belonging to a dead child – how is Carl Powers involved, how? - , a mortal running from his life and a TV host with too much plastic in her vines. Next is the old woman whom died because she was foolish enough to speak of the one whom is toying with him, to speak of the creature that is hidden amongst the shadows. This death, this woman… yes Sherlock regrets it. He is aware that he should not, that he should keep a clear head and his emotions locked away, but as the woman speaks the faces of all the elderly woman that have ever been kind to him flash through his minds' eye (Emma, Nancy, and Parvati. The old beggar woman, Carla, and Miss Rodeguez. The shopkeeper, Clamandy Jane, the hobbled slave woman, and the whore that used to walk Baker Street. Mrs. Turner, Miss Jacobs and Mrs. Hudson and Harriet Tubman) - and Sherlock cannot help but regret it.
After, when they are watching the telly and discussing the bomber and John catches the whisper of yes, oh yes amazing within his voice John becomes angry with him, for he thinks that Sherlock is enjoying these mortal's deaths, that he admires the game that is being played. It is true and yet is not, for Sherlock admires the mind behind the execution but to necessarily not the game itself, for it is a rare thing indeed, to encounter a mind that can match his own. As for the deaths? There are thousands of human deaths every day, and these people have not met a fate that is any different than all the rest. It is pointless to care about the lives of strangers, of ones that you've never seen and therefore had no chance of saving. You can't care about everyone, for you will go mad if you do. Sherlock does not like that John is disappointed with him but he cannot change his view, and anyway it is ridiculous that John is trying to dig up heroes, for heroes do not exist and even if they did he, Sherlock, is the last individual anyone would call a hero.
There is no time to dwell on this because a body is found and there is another pip, this time along with a false painting and a child hostage and the reappearance of name that was spoken by a cabbie.
(((((((((((
After they have located the flashdrive, he and John, that is when things shift. Not shift in any direction that could be detected by mortal eyes, by mortal ears. In fact it is just the slightest change in the air, like when a shooting star rains down its light. Sherlock feels it the second the sends the message to this Mastermind, informing them that he wishes to meet at the pool where Carl Powers died.
When Sherlock arrives there is nothing but the typical scent of poisoned water and old sweat lingering in the air… and then that scent hits him. Oranges and earth and wool all swirling around the sun and then John comes into sight (his John) and Sherlock feels his world stop.
Feels it stop and then spin and tilt on its axis and Nononono not John using me not cleaver enough and he will get John help, will get Mycroft's professionals and make Molly use rat bones and clover along with dust and granite to determine the cause and if this web of smoke and mirrors and gore make the puzzles and watch me dance and screams is truly what his Mate needs then Sherlock will try to provide it because he can do it he can and –
John is speaking, Evening Sherlock. Didn't expect this did you? Quite the turn out isn't it? the words taunting but his voice… his voice is steady and robotic with fear lying just under the surface. And then John opens the parka and this time Sherlock's world does not stop. It grinds to a halt and implodes even as the Pooka's laugh their death laugh and it flies off like an arrow from a bow as a growl rumbles in his chest because strapped to John's chest is a bomb.
It is one thing to threaten him, to riddle with him and mock him and make him into a puppet, but his Mate is another matter. John is off limits and John is his but he can't do anything because he's fast but he's not faster then a goddam bomb or a snipers rifle but he will still rip out those throats with his teeth and shove spears into their stomachs and John is still being made to speak I can stop John Watson too, stop his heart – Stop it! Stop it!
Stop it does.
"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."
The voice echoes from the back of the pool, odd and high and sing-song.
A man steps out, pale skin with dark hair slicked back and dressed in an expensive Westwood suit, only he is not a man. It is Jim, Molly's gay boyfriend (high underwear and gel in his hair and Sherlock is instantly on edge because even though his scent of ash and metal and fog is not exactly threatening there is something that Sherlock cannot put his finger on, something that causes a shiver runs through him). Only it appears that he is not gay at all, that he is this mastermind behind the game and that he is wicked and insane… and he is a vampire.
He is a vampire that used hemlock to disguise his scent (that's what it was, back in the lab. that thing that made his hair stand on end). Nor is he just any Vampire. He is an elder. Sherlock feels his muscles grow even tighter as his fangs began to itch for although he longs to attack this man he cannot, because if he did he would rip the heart out of his chest. He cannot for killing an elder is one of their most ancient laws, one that is woven into their bones and flowing through their blood and tingling in the back of their minds and it can no more be violated then can gravity fail to keep them anchored to the earth.
No. Sherlock cannot kill him, but he can threaten. So he pulls out his British Browning – the one that is loaded with dissolvable bullets that contain a silver core, pointless now – and aims it. Despite his rage and fear and the need to shove John from the building and feel his pulse beating against his fingers Sherlock's' hands are steady, his aim unwavering and eyes slabs of ice. Just as they were when he held the the Bagh nakh, the Bullwhip, and the Madu. The Falchion, the slingshot and Ulfberht and thousands more.
"Jim Moriatry. Hiii."
Moriatry walks slowly towards him and John, taunting him with his failed deductions and not the least bit afraid. For the snipers are under his control. For there is a bomb strapped to John's chest. For he has lured, him, Sherlock, here and quite possibly beaten him. For the law is protecting him.
Moriatry is the one with the power here, and he knows it well.
He does not hesitate to use it either, this consulting criminal. He walks closer and closer to John, egging Sherlock on and smiling when his voice wavers, shaking despite himself. (Despite himself Sherlock cannot prevent himself from glancing at John alive alright is he alright and his Mate appears calm even though his eyes are watchful and heart is pounding against his ribs and his muscles are tighter then a bowstring for his soldier's training has no doubt come back with a vengeance)…. and Moriatry is smug and gleeful as he allows his fangs to be seen, the challenge crystal clear, for he knows that Sherlock's nerves are shaken and that he has taken what does not belong to him.
Taken what, and whom, their kind will kill for. Taken a Vampire's life, which he now holds in the palm of his hands.
He is insane.
And when John lunges at this elder, when his body is pressed against his back and Run Sherlock! Sherlock heart nearly stops and his body turns to ice, for he is expecting Moriatry to turn faster then John eyes can track. Expects him to turn and yank, leaving John to fall, gasping and chocking and still alive even as blood spurts through the gapping hole in his throat. Back off, John! Back off! But he does not turn and Sherlock does not leave will not, cannot, even though John is begging him as Moriatry laughs, calling his Mate a pet and when John freezes and looks at him with poorly concealed fear Sherlock knows that the snipers light is pointed at his head.
Thankfully John releases Moriatry, whom it appears, no longer enjoys Sherlock interfering with his games.
"I want you to leave me alone. Do you know what happens if you don't?" Moriatry says, suddenly serious and with all trace of mirth gone from his voice.
"Oh let me guess. I get killed." Sherlock knows that is not all that Moriatry will do, all that he can do, but he hopes that if he gives him that option, if he offers him this and keeps his voice cold and uninterested (if he denies him a reaction, for reaction is what this man craves) Moriatry will take his life instead of John's.
The bait is not taken.
"If you don't stop prying I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"Well we both know that's not quite true." His voice is quite. Deadly in a way that it has not been before. And John can hear this, John is here with the bomb so surly he must know that it is because he is Sherlock's heart… but he does not know that he is his heart and therefore what his abduction truly means.
That rage? The fire burning rage inside of his chest, the same rage that causes nations to fall to their knees? It has become ice. And ice is more deadly then fire by far.
"I will stop you." He will stop him before Moriatry touches another hair on his Mate's head, before he threatens another beat of John Watson's heart. It is a promise, and he never makes promises lightly.
"What if I were to shoot you now? Right now?" he steps forward, the ice propelling him and as he tries to pull the trigger, mentally cursing and swallowing a hiss when the law prevents it. Prevents him from ending this creature's life.
"Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. And I would be surprised Sherlock, really I would" – surprised that you could overcome something woven into the very fabric of our being which is impossible, don't you know that my dear – "and also the tiniest bit disappointed." This is still a game sweetheart, and I can make you dace the waltz or the twirl the Nutcracker or spin around and around on your head, so you'd better keep me entertained and stay out of my way or your Mate, your little pet, will go up in flames.
It happens quickly after that.
Moriatry leaves and then he is there in front of John, his hands fumbling and stomach clenching as John gasps and shakes above him
"Are right? Are you alright!?" Sherlock knows that his voice is frantic and that his fangs are still out, that John almost certainly has had enough of fangs, but he's too busy smelling for blood and working off the death trap while listening for Moriatry to pay any concern to what John wants right now.
And what's more, as he slings the coat away and dashes into the locker room for a split second before dashing back to his Mate's side can't leave him alone, mustn't leave him he begins to feel an odd feeling in his body along with a… pressure in his mind.
He looks so perfect, his Mate does, lying there on the floor. Perfect and complaint and trusting…
"That thing that you tried to do – that was-uh-good." Good but stupid. So utterly, utterly stupid of you, John.
So utterly trusting…
"Well, I'm glad no one saw that." John gasps from his place on the floor. "You tearing off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."
What is wrong with that, John?
Sherlock tries to smile but it feels fixed, frozen and painted on.
"People do little else."
Let them talk.
So utterly his… and yet not his
All of a sudden there begins a faint twitching of his muscles and an itching in his throat as his thoughts began to spin and the urge to Claim is raising within him, stronger then it has ever been before, demanding that he sink his teeth into John's neck and drink down his blood and take him right there upon the floor because John is his - not Sarahs' or some worthless mortal male on the street and most certainly never James Moriatry's – and someone tried to take him and never again and so he need to make it clear to all others that John is not to be Claimed by them for he is Sherlock's –
Moriatry comes back. The threat and the interloper has returned – You can't be allowed to continue, you simply can't – juggle the balls and drop the pins and laugh the Boggart's laugh and scream the Banshee's scream – I'm sure my answer's crossed yours – destroy and burn and crimson flowing over Westwood and silver death transforming the red – and there's a phone call and Say that again! and the danger to his Mate is walking away and his Mate is safe now, safe and hishishishis
The world goes black.