The Vampire's Aria



Author's Notes: Hello. This is a short interlude chapter that can be inserted somewhere between chapters 7 and 12 of my Vampire!Sherlock/John AU fic, Possession, but it can also stand on its own.

Overview: "Possession" is about the story of a vampire doing "therapy" with a psychiatrist in present-day London and ultimately forming an intense bond with the doctor, but whether the bond is beneficial for both parties remains to be seen. Like all the other interlude chapters in Possession, this one is told in Sherlock's POV.

This story is actually made up of details that I could not insert in "Possession", however much I've wanted, as we have gone such a long way into the story already. I hope you will enjoy reading this!

The vampire sat on the comfortable armchair from across the doctor, one dark-trousered leg crossed elegantly over the other, white hands linked in front of him. He had begun to enjoy these sessions of so-called psychotherapy with John Watson. He especially liked to unsettle the good doctor by revealing tidbits about himself— his true self, initially masked as a mental breakdown and manifesting as blood hunger in a man with delusions of being a vampire.

He watched in silent amusement as the doctor took in an unsteady breath, trying to appear calm and unaffected, when Sherlock knew by the tense set of his shoulders and his shallow respiration that John was riveted by the episode he had just described: a hunt, in the heart of London, as the clock struck midnight. The witching hour— when anything can happen even in the most crowded of London's bustling streets on a Saturday night and not everyone was who he appeared to be.

He had spotted the young man, or rather, the young man had chosen him in one of the countless, crowded bars in Soho. He usually did not frequent bars— too much alcohol or tobacco residues in the blood did not make for a satisfying meal— but he had decided not to go to his usual haunts around the universities, the evening galleries, the concerts, after he had spotted a face or two that had appeared familiar. Time to cool things down a bit in those places and not attract too much attention to himself.

So the young man had come over after a glance or two from Sherlock, and had sat himself down on the seat next to him at the bar. They had got to chatting. Sherlock had been sure that the man had mentioned his name, only it was so eminently forgettable that he had not even bothered with it. Judging from his language and turn of phrase, it had been obvious that the guy was an aspiring writer, sensitive and dreamy. He was shorter than Sherlock, stockier in build, with short blond hair and laughing blue eyes alight with interest. A great deal of interest. Good.

Sherlock had been careful to keep his tone light, so as not to frighten him away. It had been painfully obvious the guy was new to this game. A glance at the drink in his hand had been further encouragement to Sherlock: tonic water with a twist of lemon. Perhaps he would not have to endure the taste of soured blood tonight, after all.

After a few minutes more of light banter, with just the beginnings of flirtation edging its way in, Sherlock had signaled to the bartender and got out his wallet to pay for his untouched vodka. He had made the smallest jerk of his chin at the young man: Come on, then.

The bloke clearly had been flustered at the directness of Sherlock's approach, but he had readily obliged. They had walked through the crowded streets outside, the people and the lights gradually easing any discomfort the young man might have felt initially, and he had relaxed enough to make comfortable chatter as Sherlock trawled the streets with his eyes.

The hunger, ever-present, had become insistent. It could wait no longer.

While they had walked, their hands would occasionally touch, their fingers brushing together accidentally. Sherlock had then taken the opportunity to grasp the young man's hand more fully when it next came in contact with his.

He had heard a gasp as he pulled the man into a darkened alley and pinned him against the grimy wall. Not enough strength in his grip to feel menacing, just enough to send the proper signals to the man and they had worked, as always: already, Sherlock could feel the man's heartbeat accelerating, see the pupils dilating in those clear blue eyes, the breath rushing from his mouth, the pulse on his neck throbbing on that one delicious point…

I can't wait any longer, can you? He had whispered in the guy's ear before he could let out an awkward protest. Why don't we just take what we want here and get it over with?

He had not expected the man to turn him down. Not many could, not after hearing that voice, set in that particular timbre.

He had let the man kiss him, had pretended to apply his mouth on the man's skin, just to put him further at ease. But not on the lips; he had deliberately turned his head a fraction so that the kisses had landed on his jaw, his chin. He had let his hand pleasure the man through his clothes, all the better to speed things up to the moment that mattered most. If the man had other, more specific ideas on what he wanted from Sherlock, he had not said, which had been a relief. Sherlock had much rather not perform the act if he could help it.

Good, he had thought almost clinically, watching the man's face with an intensity that may have been mistaken for lust, when in plain fact it had been nothing more than pure physical hunger. The guy had tried to reciprocate at some point, his hands lifting to drift erratically on Sherlock's face, his neck, and chest, finally settling on gripping Sherlock's shoulders, but he had gotten too carried away in the end to even notice that Sherlock was no longer moving against him, though he had never let up as he shifted and smoothed his long fingers over the guy while keeping one arm pressed to the wall, shielding them from prying eyes. The alley had been dark but he would rather not let anyone surprise them, especially over the coming minutes.

He had seen the man getting close; it had all been there in his eyes— that faraway, unfocused look, so very much like the last moments of a person dying. And in the end, just at that point when he would have reached his peak, Sherlock had drawn up a hand to pinch at his neck lightly. The unconscious man's body had barely sagged into him when Sherlock had fastened his mouth onto that coveted junction where neck met shoulder, and feasted. Slowly he had allowed himself to sink to his knees, carrying the dead weight of the man down with him, his mouth never leaving that tender, voluptuous neck as he took his fill.

Just a few minutes, nothing to get alarmed about. He had stopped the moment the man began to stir back to life, lapping at the skin of the man's neck one last time to remove any traces of blood. He had drawn his head away just enough to look into the man's eyes as they had opened groggily while still keeping a hand lightly on his throat to stop the bleeding pinpoint where Sherlock had pierced the skin.

He had smiled as he dropped his hand from the man's neck to his chest, his touch lightly caressing. I suppose I should feel honored, he had said. Are you always like this during orgasm, or was it just with me?

Whereupon the man had blushed, stammering a bit incoherently. He had cast one look down his pants and had uttered an embarrassed groan, too aghast to start asking questions. Sherlock had helped him to his feet, hailed a taxi cab for him, and walked away from his adventure to sleep in his hotel room.

Beats of silence as he waited for Dr. Watson to digest his story. He could hear the clock, perched on the doctor's table just behind them, ticking away.

He watched John carefully, noting how the doctor was admirably pulling himself together after hearing such an account.

John was an interesting sketch. Sherlock had not thought so, initially. In fact, he was here very much against his will. He had no choice in the matter. He had just gotten out of a bad scrape and he had needed to get back to his life and the scientific work that he was married to, and in order for him to do so he had to go through Dr. Watson's therapy sessions and obtain a bill of health from the doctor that he was mentally fit to go back to work.

He had made the mistake of underestimating John when they had first met, sizing him up and dismissing him as an earnest, do-good shrink who was himself damaged beyond repair. How could a doctor heal others when he could not even heal himself?

Of course, that had been before John had caught him with his initial prefabricated story, so early into their sessions. That had been before John had given him a dressing down so displeasing that he had lashed out at the psychiatrist and endangered his chance of getting that bill of health.

Only, John had taken things in a different way. An entirely interesting and refreshing way: he was prepared to set aside any bruised feelings and just listen to what he had to say. And listen some more. For as long as it was necessary.

Sherlock had never spoken of himself to anyone before, and to have even just one man listening to him was a wildly cathartic experience. He found that he could not get enough of John just sitting there, not uttering a word, just listening. And despite strong reservations, John was evidently moved by his accounts— his very own private audience, tuned in to the songs only he could sing. No matter how brutal his arias, John had somehow found them fascinating, even beautiful.

Although, of course, at this point, he doubted whether the doctor really believed that he was telling the truth. John was slowly getting there, but Sherlock could see that he was fighting it with everything he had. Right now he knew that it was so much easier for John to regard these accounts as the thoughts and fantasies of a delusional patient. He knew that John was being sustained by a fundamental disbelief at what he was hearing from Sherlock. Even now, he might come face to face with the truth and still be able to say that even if it were the truth, one should not believe it to be possible.

It was this deliberate unknowingness, this determination to retain a measure of his innocence, that Sherlock found strangely appealing in John. It was something that he meant to take from him, something of John that he meant to own.

Sitting across from him and blessedly unaware of the things going through Sherlock's mind, John cleared his throat and looked down at his patient's chart. Anywhere but on Sherlock's face and those watchful pale eyes— those icy, light blue eyes widening just a fraction as another thought suddenly occurred to their owner.

He had not realized it before, but that young man with the blond hair and blue eyes whose clean, delicious blood had surged into Sherlock's mouth just as he was about to come—

That man could very well have been a younger John Watson.

Sherlock stared at John as he scribbled down some notes into his chart.

What would John taste like?

Sherlock found that he had to stop himself from licking his mouth at the sudden, interesting prospect.

Here they were, essentially alone in John's office for an hour each session, three sessions a week. John was never more than a few feet away from him. And even if John were to make a fuss, the only one who would come rushing in was Mrs. Hudson, John's receptionist. How difficult could it be?

But of course he was not foolish enough to try anything here, not after everything he had been through.

Sherlock thought back to that scene in the darkened alley, crushing the body of— not the young man, but John— against that damp, grimy wall. He'd let John have his way with him, let him come almost to the point where he'd get off

(How would he look then, in those few, evanescent moments?)

And then…

(The feel and taste of him on my lips, my tongue—)

Just then John looked up from his writings, and the look in those clear blue eyes piercing his was enough to make Sherlock stop his musings.

Those eyes, like the blue flame at the center of a Bunsen burner fire— the hottest point of that fire, and the purest.

John had kind eyes, but there was that element of the fierce blue flame inside them that meant that anyone stupid enough to think that John Watson was soft or gullible did so at their own peril. Flustered and uncomfortable he might be at Sherlock's accounts, and a thousand things more, but Sherlock could not see fear in John's eyes as they looked steadily into his.

A most interesting man.

Sherlock wondered what the doctor thought of his little story, and whether John would think to substitute himself in place of that young man in his fantasies, just as Sherlock had just done in his mind. Would John be interested?

What could John possibly say to him after he had just finished telling him such a story?

Sherlock waited as the doctor finally opened his mouth.

"Well, time's up," he said.

It was enough to break the sudden, intimate atmosphere of Sherlock's thoughts. He almost laughed at the incongruity of the situation.

John had asked him once to define "special". He remembered saying it was different for different people. Right now, if someone were to ask him what made John special, he probably would not know what it was exactly. Only, it was clear that John was special, and special people met with a special fate when it came to Sherlock's kind. He was going to make sure of it, in John's case.