The Shadowman - fanfic
Title: The Shadowman
Summary: AU. Sherlock is a shadow, melting into the dark and consuming souls. Then John came along, human and so very bright. Sherlock/John
Rating: M
Warnings: implied non-con, creepy things
Notes: Originally written for a prompt - original incomplete version can be read here and here (spoiler-free prompt post).
The Shadowman
He is everywhere.
A cliche, he knows, but that is what he is. In sunlight he flits around, having to take a form that is far too fragile, far too dull, mere transport until the night comes. He likes it very much when night comes. Oh so much. Its delightful, fun. He wants the blackness and blanket of stars now because then he can soar. He can be so much more. In darkness he breathes. Breathes. Watches. He's in the corner of the little girl's bedroom, smiling sweetly as he watches her pretty soul burn bright. It's so pretty as she dreams of big things, bright things. And he's so very hungry.
He's there as the teenage boy fumbles with his dad's car keys late at night (stolen, praying his dad won't notice the scratch on the side door). He moves forward, gliding forward as the boy moves towards the house. The wind stirs, the boy's heart jolts. He turns around, wide-eye. He thinks he's just seeing things, laughs it off, heads to his room.
And he waits there and slowly devours the pulsing soul: so alive and fresh, full of potential. He takes his time. Making the live body squirm beneath him as he pulls at every spark and flame from his being - only just holding back at the end because this boy still has a long way to go and the tiny piece left will grow. And then he can return and feast. Souls are so lovely. So pretty. So yummy. But precious.
Brother says he should just take it all. That's what Brother does. He gluttons himself, leaving the people shadows of themselves. Ha ha shadows of themselves. He bares his teeth and tells Brother to 'piss off' because why would he ever want to do that to someone? People are dull enough but without a soul they are just ... nothing. Not worth it. They may never be anything brilliant but at least they won't be without motion. He doesn't and won't ever take a person's soul like Brother does. He just takes small pieces, bit by bit. Like his Yarders. He protects his Yarders even if they are dull and not that bright.
Then he meets his Soldier-Doctor. His pretty, blond haired, blue-eyed Soldier-Doctor who says his 'brilliant' and screams at night. He screams, dark things rushing through his head and he likes to watch. He likes happy souls but he likes seeing them scream even more. He likes watching them quiver and struggle, burning and tearing at themselves.
But the Soldier-Doctor's soul doesn't scream. It does burn but not out. No, just brighter. So very bright, blinding. He can't look away. It's so warm. So inviting. So strong. A soul like that could create a galaxy. Its so precious.
It must taste so lovely.
He can't touch it. He reaches forth, riding the dark shadows, reaching for the Soldier-Doctor, his long fingers coming down the Soldier-Doctor's chest, going under the sweat-fear-drenched t-shirt, running against the warm flesh but unable to get it. He reaches, reaches. Its so perfect, its gorgeous. He wants it, no needs it. Needs it like a dying man. He won't take it one go, he'll slowly savor it and truly bind this Soldier-Doctor to him.
Like a pet. Brother has a pet. She's pretty. He should have a pet too.
His fingernails dig in, pressing his mouth against his Soldier-Doctor's lips and pulls at it. The soul doesn't and won't move. He pulls again. Nothing. It won't come. But its so close, he can feel it. Right there. Why why why - blue sleep-filled eyes open. They don't focus fully on him because feeding always muddles the victims mind, and even if he isn't feeding as such (why won't that soul come to him?), his ability to seep in and confound still exists. But by the second those blue eyes are becoming more sharper more aware.
He flees.
Soldier-Doctor doesn't seem to notice as he makes tea the next morning. Or maybe he does. He looks over at Him, a flash of worry on his face before it settles down. He keeps trying though. Makes Soldier-Doctor more attune to him. He's nice and kind during the day, even gets milk. Brother scoffs at him. He tells Brother to go away. Brother looks at Soldier-Doctor and tells him he wants a go. He says no - he can still remember how weak his Silver-Inspector was after he let Brother have a small bite. And besides Soldier-Doctor is his. Completely his. His his, he hisses at Brother.
Brother smiles and drowns him in light. So much light. He can't move. He howls, howls until Brother returns, lets him go, rubs him with gentle hands and soft kisses. He forgives because ... he has no one else on this plane of shadows. Brother says he won't touch the Soldier-Doctor again. He smiles, yes. Yes. All his. It doesn't even matter that Brother is still watching.
Every night he comes to his Soldier-Doctor's room. Every night without fail. He tries desperately to wrap himself in that Bright Soul. Consume it. Have it pulsing through his body. Every night. He tries so many different ways. Ways he's never thought of before. Ways that are icky. He leads Soldier-Doctor to his room, ties him up for three days, the windows shut so he can be undisputed. He even draws tears from Soldier-Doctor's eyes but he doesn't like doing that even to get such a lovely soul.
It doesn't work. And its a 'bit not good' as Soldier-Doctor would put it with that look in his baby blue eyes.
He makes sure he's the only one to remember.
He gets angry. He gets mad. He leaves his Soldier-Doctor be. Then tries again. This time with soft words and just skin against skin. He holds Soldier-Doctor's hand as he screams at night, rubs small circles on the skin.
Brother says he needs to feed. But nothing can compare to this soul. And he doesn't want to. Soldier-Doctor wouldn't like it. So he won't. He won't do it. He screams at Brother, telling him to 'fuck off now'. He won't hurt people, not even his Yarders, because if his blue-eyed Soldier-Doctor knew ...
No. No. No. He'll be good. And it isn't nice to steal souls.
He's finding it harder to move between shadows though. It hurts a bit. Like squeezing through a tight tube with nails raking his skin. Salt burning in open flesh. Those days when the sun is so bright and no shadows fall. Its starting to hurt. It shouldn't hurt. How can his home hurt him? How can it? He's confused unsure why the shadows are now slowly turning against him. He can't function. He wants to just shut down.
Soldier-Doctor seems to notice, sighs, gives him vitamin pills to take and forces him to eat three meals a day. He looks down at his physical body wondering how it became so thin. It wasn't like this before. Then again before he didn't like Chinese so much or roast potatoes.
Brother seems sad about something and he doesn't care because its suddenly nice to go outside in just a t-shirt and pants. Why didn't he do this before? He should've. This is so nice.
That night when he tries to move into the shadows, just melt from this mortal frame, he can't. He's scared. Why can't he? He stares at the long shadows in his room, stares at them and wills himself to sink. He can't. He calls for Brother, who comes, kisses his forehead, runs his fingers through his curly hair, whispers soothing words. Holds him tight as if trying to squeeze something from him. Its nice bizarrely, he feels a bit light headed but thats okay, his eyes fluttering open and close as he becomes lost in ...
Brother stops, swears, kisses goodbye, tells him to be very very very careful. And goes.
The only thought that comes to his mind as he sits on his empty bed, eyes wide is: why is brother so cold?
He gets up, moves to the mirror. Stares at the pale reflection which seems remarkably solid. His dark locks aren't melting into darkness. His skin is flushed even: a light sheen of red. His skin has never been like that. It isn't possible. And his heart - heart? - beats strongly, pumping blood furiously. His mouth goes dry, he steps back. He can't be, can't be. He wants to scream, wants to yell. He closes his eyes shut. This can't be happening. How has this happened. He hasn't done anything different except ... every night going up to Soldier-Doctor -no its John- room and trying to touch that lovely soul.
Could it be ...
He moves out of his room, leaping up stairs and slowly opening the other bedroom door. He stands there, trying to get the air into his lungs. John-Soldier-Doctor stirs awake. He still looks as kind as ever. Hair is still blond. Eyes still blue. But he can't see the brightness. He knows its there but now he can only sense it instead of see it.
Is this what its like for everyone else?
"Sherlock, you alright?"
He's Sherlock isn't he? That's his name right?
"Sherlock."
Its an order. Its barked. But he, Sherlock, can't see a Soldier-Doctor.
"Just had a bad dream," he says lamely.
He is a bad dream really.
"Join the club," a hand pats down on the bed, a warm smile with it. He moves forward, unsure, a nice foreign feeling spreading through flesh, blood and bones as he gets under the duvet.
They fall asleep holding hands, and its nicer this time because he knows. John allowed it. This is how it should always be.
"Thank you, John," he whispers.
Sherlock swears John smiles in response.
Fin