amaraal (amaraal) wrote,
amaraal
amaraal

But in Blood - part 7

Part 7


 photo vampireholmesredeyes_zps88d64076.jpg

Tracking my ‘maker’ was so much easier now. I needed no sleep, no food. Travelling over great distances was a thing of a… ha! …heartbeat. I always had been good in hunting down thieves and villains. But now, with my newfound strength I could climb up walls ten feet high in an instant.

My eyesight was brilliant even at night, I saw everything as I did in broad daylight. Speaking of daylight: first I went through it like any other man. But then… something changed.
How to describe what it ‘felt’ like? There wasn’t a thing like pain anymore. My body was a vessel now which was moved by sheer willpower; like water swirling in a stream, or a ray of sunlight shining brighter than the others.

Glass floating in glass. Every time I looked into daylight my eyes felt like parchment, a milky quality around the edges blurring my vision. My skin, white and flawless again, seemed to be drawn tight around my bones.

As a solution I avoided walking around at day and became what I was supposed to be: a creature of the night.

A longing, different from any human kind of longing, slowly crept to the surface: I wasn’t hungry – I was starving. There was no such thing as morality, disgust or sanity that ruled my new life.

My first victim died fast and without pain. It was the Roma girl I had been sent out to save.

I found my maker together with her, obscenely enough, in a church.


obscene photo bram-stokers-dracula1_zps4b6c6581.jpg
He seemed surprised to see me there. Maybe he had thought me merely dead.

It wasn’t fear that made him retreat into the night. Like a father taking care of his child he left me my first meal, a young woman, sixteen or seventeen years old, black hair, big eyes, dressed in silk and lace, obviously a present from her ‘lover’.

The scent of her blood already spilled made me shiver, weak. A longing in my breast I approached her, the combined sound of her tears falling and  of her fast beating heart too enticing not to obey.

It was a spell, a dark spell, that couldn’t be denied. I couldn’t stop when I bared her throat and sank my teeth into the white flesh.

Ah! Sweet sin, temptation! The coppery taste hit me like an orgasm! I curled around her, gripping her in a tight embrace, breaking several bones in her body and devouring the sweet essence I killed her without regret.

Lying on my back, my stomach filled with warmth, there on the dusty floor of an empty cathedral with her lifeless body halfway across my own, I started to laugh. An empty, hollow sound.

Tears running down my face; so I was still able to cry.

I fell into a stupor. Let them find me, sever my head or stake my heart, it didn’t matter anymore. I was in hell. I felt nothing. No remorse, no pity, no regret. Watson had been right: I wasn’t human anymore.

***

The door opened hitting the wall with a loud bang. Mycroft Holmes, as usual seated in his favourite armchair, looked up seemingly surprised.

Standing up he walked towards his uninvited guest, motioned him to come in. A servant closing the door quietly behind Watson disappeared as Mycroft signalled no more interruptions.

Looking up and down Watson’s lean figure he noticed with one glance that the poor man was filled with grief, and anger.

“Dr. Watson. How good to see you again. How are you? Please, sit down.”
“Where is he?”
“Where is who?”
“You know exactly of whom I speak, Holmes! Your brother! Where is he? He is not dead, is he? Tell me the truth!”

Mycroft Holmes took a deep breath and with gentle force pressed the doctor into a cushioned chair. He fetched a glass filled with the finest scotch for each of them and sighing sank back into his own chair.

“My dear doctor, let me assure you…”
“You can speak plain to me. No lame excuse! Yes, I saw him falling, yes, I know that there was no body found afterwards. That’s what makes it suspicious, don’t you think? They found Moriarty, but why not Sherlock too? He is still alive…” Pleading blue eyes regarded him questioningly, begging for a positive answer.

Mycroft sighed and like an old man he heaved himself out of his chair again, walked round the huge mahogany table: He seated himself opposite Watson and taking the doctor’s hands into his own flipper-like appendages looked him straight in the eyes.

“My dear Watson,” he felt Watson flinch, (curse you, Mycroft! Your brother used to call him that way!) he said: “No one can imagine what it means to you to have lost him, none of us can bear your burden. We searched a month for his body, but to no avail. And no, I assure you, he is no longer among the living.”

Watson sobbed at his words, holding Mycroft’s hands tightly in his own.

“But… why… can I still… feel him? It’s like a string attached to my heart… He is still there… somewhere… out there. Can you not feel it too? You – his brother…”

Mycroft shook his head, sadness in his tear filled eyes. He felt like one of the last stone lions guarding the house.

“Then why do you still pay the rent for 221B Baker Street?”

“I cannot bear the thought of someone else living in the place where my brother once roomed.”
“Baker Street is his final resting place then?”
“His disappearance from this world begrudging me of a grave, yes. I set everything into motion to make sure he isn’t dead, that he is still living somewhere out there. I miss him, Watson. I miss him every day. Now, that he is gone…” Mycroft swallowed heavily, taking a sip of his Scotch.

Watson saw the broad shoulders trembling. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Then Mycroft looked at Watson again and asked:

“What exactly do you feel? When you say you can still feel him? I know you have loved him like a brother yourself. Maybe even more… How does it feel?”

Watson laughed nervously. He too took a large gulp from his glass, wiped his eyes and said:

“You know your brother, he wasn’t a superstitious man, he believed in God, he believed people to be honest, kind and good by nature. Everything unnatural, spiritual was suspect to him.
You remember the case of Colonel Warburton’s madness, when in the end everything turned out to have been planned from the beginning? The toying with human feelings and exceptions and in the same way betraying their faith. Do you know what he said to me, back then? 'Watson, he said, there are no such things as ghosts, werewolves or vampires. Every thing descends from just but this one universe. Everything is in everything, what is made will be unmade one day, what is born has to die. But everything is a flow of energy, so everything is always connected with everything. It’s just transformation, never extinguished completely…' He thought God to be the ‘Mover of all Things’ in the first place… Does this sound strange?”
“Not at all. It sounds like Sherlock. Pray continue.”

“As for the soul, he said, some of them he believed to be very old and been in connection for an eternity before they even meet in ‘carnal’ form. I’m not a philosopher, Mycroft, I’m a doctor. But yet… feeling what I felt after his death… It feels so real… I know it, I simply know that he is still alive…”

Tears fell into the doctor’s lap, hiding his eyes with one hand he cried silently. Mycroft stood still by his side, quietly, waiting for Watson to regain his composure.

“…he must be… for I can no longer live without him…”
“You must, Watson. If not for yourself, you must live for him.”
Watson sobbed freely now, he said:

“Mary is dying… My heart is already broken… When she is dead… and Sherlock is dead… what reason to live is there left for me?”

He could speak no more. Mycroft remained silent. With great care he gently pressed a second glass into Watson’s hand, setting the empty one on a silver tray sitting on a small table nearby.

Standing and moving behind Watson, he placed both hands  on the doctor’s shoulders.

“You know, I still talk to him too. In my mind. His answers to my questions are so…,” Mycroft chuckled, “…so very much him that I too have the feeling he is still alive. But we have to accept that we all are frail creatures, made to be blown out like a candle in the wind. If we all are souls swirling around each other in the immense space of the universe, and if it’s true what Sherlock thought it to be like, I am sure we will see him again one day and be re-united with him and all people we held dear and loved and still love… What did he say about love, Watson?”

“That there is no such thing. ‘Nothing lasts forever’, he’d said. He’d lived for the moment. Nothing about ‘eternal love’. He didn’t believe in ‘love’, Mycroft!”
“O yes, he did. He loved you, Watson. To everyone with eyes to see it was evident. Everyone.”
“No…” Watson’s startled expression made Mycroft smile. ‘Better not tell him you know of Brighton,’ he thought smirking. 

“Believe me, dear doctor – I’m an old man compared to you and my younger sibling. I’ve seen and heard much. Such love is not unheard of or uncommon. In fact… But let’s talk no more of such things. Your wife,” Mycroft hesitated, “…if there is anything I can do, please, feel free to ask. My brother’s best friend can always rely on my help.”

Watson, staring in awe up to him, took a deep breath, stood up and smiled a feeble smile. Tracing the outline of an ornament on the lush Persian carpet Mycroft could only wait, looking up again he noticed how handsome Dr. Watson was. Golden flecks in his hair, blue eyes shining with unshed tears, the full bottom lip…

“You’re too kind, Mr Holmes. But you are right I must go on. If not for myself, then for my patients, for my wife. As long as she dwells among us, I will be there for her. Thank you, thank you for your kind offer, thank you for everything.”

They shook hands and reluctantly Watson went back to Cavendish Place while Mycroft returned to his work. Another deep sigh escaped his broad chest.

‘Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,’ he thought, ‘What have you done to him, what the hell have you done to me and to yourself?’ When Carruthers brought him a big cup with steaming hot cocoa he was almost his usual self again.

Almost.

***
Tags: fic, holmes/watson, long fic, slash, vampire
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