[Fic] Triune, chapter 6/??
Title: Triune
Rating: NC17 (PG this part)
Warnings: TGG spoilers, vampirism, bloodplay, wip
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Notes: Unbeta'd. This is an AU fusion with "Fledgling" by Octavia Butler, with some details modified. Also available on AO3.
All John wanted to know was how damn old Sherlock was. It had started out as an idle question, but Sherlock had somehow turned it into his usual passive-aggressive mind game, and now it was the principle of the thing. John was going to tear the answer out of him or die trying. He finally decided passive-aggression could work for him too, and stalked over to Sherlock's coat to root for his wallet.
"You'll never learn anything that way," Sherlock said. "You were invited to deduce, not go through my things." He obviously didn't care that much, however, as he made no move to get off the sofa.
"I'm gathering data," said John, extracting a driver's license. "This says you were born in 1980. That's obviously bollocks."
"That's just guessing," Sherlock said disapprovingly.
"Not guessing. Logic. You suggested that your species lives for hundreds of years. You're obviously sexually mature, which would mean you've spent something less than 10% of your lifespan as a juvenile. The longer a species' lifespan, the later it tends to mature sexually. The fact that the world isn't overrun with vampires suggests that you follow the pattern." John crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sherlock a triumphant look.
Sherlock opened his eyes. "Ina, not vampires. And at least part of your reasoning there is specious. But you are getting closer."
John paused for a few moments, trying to think his way around the problem the way Sherlock would. What was the question Sherlock wanted him to ask, the one he would actually answer? John couldn't imagine what he was supposed to have observed that he didn't. So he cheated. "I should just ask Mycroft," he said. "He'll tell me, especially if he thinks it will wind you up."
"Your manipulations are exceedingly transparent," Sherlock said, but he relented when John got out his phone. "Oh fine, be tedious then. I was born in 1918."
"You wear it well," John said, straight-faced.
"Thank you," Sherlock said sarcastically. "I've been sexually mature for about two decades, as it happens, and I should live for another four centuries or so."
"Huh." John sprawled in his armchair. "How long has your birth date been 1980, then?"
"Not long. Mycroft changes it now and again- as he'll do for you when it becomes necessary. At least until he grows tired of playing governments in Whitehall."
John sat up straighter. "What do you mean as he'll do for me?"
Sherlock turned his head to look at John with an indolent smile. "Well people are going to wonder when you continue to chase criminals over rooftops well past the age where you should be doddering."
"You said my lifespan would increase," John remembered. He had no idea why he remembered that, actually, but it was something Sherlock had mentioned in passing when he first explained what his venom would do to John. "By how much?"
Sherlock rolled over and faced the back of the sofa. "I caught you late. You'll probably live another hundred years, perhaps one hundred twenty at the outside. And I think we've had enough of this line of inquiry."
"Why?" John said. "It's interesting. Amazing, really." He'd thought about immortality and longevity before; everybody did, everybody wondered what it would be like. And John was a doctor, not to mention a soldier, so he'd probably spent more time thinking about mortality than most. He wasn't even the researching type, but even he was curious to know the methodology by which human life could be chemically prolonged, and Sherlock ought to find the whole thing fascinating. Why didn't he want to talk about it?
"I just gave you the data, John," Sherlock said, his voice slightly muffled by cushion. "Deduce it."
John thought for a moment. He was 35 and might live to be 155. Sherlock was 92 and- oh. "Good God," John said. "You'll outlive me. You'll outlive- everyone, really."
"Always last to realize the obvious," Sherlock said nastily. John immediately read it as defensiveness; that was how Sherlock always reacted to feeling emotionally vulnerable.
John had a sudden insight into something that had been nagging at him since Sherlock first revealed himself. "I don't think this is your first relationship. You can't have gone your whole life without having symbionts. Is that what happened to-"
"Stop," Sherlock growled, flipping over and sitting up to glare at John. His voice was strangely resonant. "Don't say another word about that. The topic is off limits."
John's jaw involuntarily snapped shut and he was forced to swallow the rest of his sentence. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had ever told him to do something, certainly, but it was the first time he felt physically compelled to obey. He tried again to speak the question, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out. He was gripped by terror at his voice's refusal to emerge, but when he framed a different question he found that he was able to speak again. "What the fuck was that?" he snapped.
"What was what?" said Sherlock. His innocent tone was a fake, and a bad one; he answered too quickly and his eyes flicked to his right before he answered, so he was lying. And since Sherlock was probably the best liar John had ever met, he was either deliberately not hiding his tells, or he was so agitated that he wasn't paying attention to what his face was doing. John's terror snapped over into cold fury.
"You know what! You told me to stop talking, and I didn't want to but I had to." John was practically snarling. "You said- people you bite become highly suggestible." Another factoid that John hadn't even realized he remembered. He could see from the look on Sherlock's face that he was on the right track. "You were trying to control me."
"I just-" Sherlock pulled his knees up and tucked his toes over the edge of the sofa. "I don't want to talk about that. Please, John," he said in a low voice.
"Sherlock, there has to be a certain level of trust here," John said, running a hand through his hair and trying to calm himself. Fuck, he was angry. It was terrifying, knowing that Sherlock could give an order and he had no option but to follow it. "If you don't want to talk about something private, that's fine, just say so. I'll respect your boundaries. But I need to be able to trust you, and I can't if I know you're going to be giving me orders I can't disobey."
"I didn't mean to," Sherlock told his knees, quietly. "I was upset and I- pushed." That was surprisingly close to a direct apology, for Sherlock.
"You don't get to do that," John said, his voice hard. "Ever. Do you understand?" If Sherlock couldn't understand that, then it was going to have to end right now. The very idea of leaving Sherlock made him feel sick and lonely and a little afraid, but if they couldn't have a relationship built on trust, on equality- yes, John evaluated himself and found that he was capable of leaving.
"What if it's to save you?" Sherlock asked. Always, always pushing. John hissed out a breath and reminded himself that if Sherlock was the type to just do what was expected without question, John would not have fallen for him in the first place. He should probably be happy that Sherlock didn't just do what he would with 99% of people: tell them what they wanted to hear and then do what the hell he wanted to anyway. The fact that he was pushing meant that any guarantee he made John, he was going to take seriously.
"Then you tell me in your normal voice and I get to decide if I should listen," John said. "You know I do what you want anyway most of the time, God help me. But it's my choice. You don't own me."
"I know," Sherlock said.
"Can I trust you?" John demanded, locking eyes with him.
"Yes," Sherlock said at once, and John decided that he believed him.
"Good," John said. "Fine." He resisted the urge to flounce; he was still tense and angry. It was better not to have the sort of fight with shouting, really; far nicer to have a reasoned discussion like adults and come to an agreement. But sometimes being childish could be very cathartic, and John was left with all this vitriol and nothing to do with it.
"John-" Sherlock said hesitantly, and stopped for a moment. "Come here." The order, if it was one, was wholly different from Sherlock's previous barked command. That had been hard and forceful and irresistible. Now it was just- normal. Sherlock's normal voice, making a normal demand, with perhaps a bit more hesitance than usual, a bit less certainty that John would automatically comply.
John gave Sherlock a long, slow once-over as he paused, making it clear that he recognized the difference. Then, because he wanted to, he went and sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, instinctively leaning into his side. Sherlock reached an arm around his shoulder to pull him closer, then laid his cheek on John's head and snuffled at his hair. He could feel the tension dissipating. He felt like he should hate himself for how easily he let himself be soothed out of justified anger, but he enjoyed the feeling far too much. Sherlock was warm and comfortable, and it was just plain nice to sit with him this way. "Dare I ask why you're smelling my hair?" John asked after a moment.
"I like how you smell," Sherlock said.
John sighed contentedly, letting the muscles in his neck unknot. "Do I smell lonely?"
"Of course not," Sherlock said into his hair. "You still smell wonderful, though. Only now you smell like me. Like...mine."
"Don't own me, remember," John warned sharply.
"Not like that," Sherlock said, and ran his hand soothingly up and down John's arm. "My scent is mixed up in yours now. Any other Ina will know that you're with me. Off limits."
"My God, you're possessive," John muttered. Again, he ought to be annoyed, but he felt oddly pleased, instead. Wanted. Treasured.
"You like it," Sherlock said.
John chuckled. "It's unfair, you know, how you can always tell how I feel."
"I can't control my sense of smell," Sherlock said reasonably. He took a deep breath, then released it. "Ask me about my past symbionts, if you really want to," he said, with that strange, compelling resonance in his voice. Then he paused, and returned his voice to normal. "But I'd really prefer it if you didn't," he added.
John shrugged one shoulder, and said the only thing he could say to a request like that. "Okay."
***
Lestrade could force himself to stop speculating about the dynamics of John and Sherlock's relationship, but he couldn't stop seeing that there was one. Once he had opened his eyes to what was happening between them, and moreover had his suspicions confirmed (by both parties, no less), he couldn't close them again. He couldn't stop observing.
If this turned out to be an actual, diagnosable mental illness, it was probably called Sherlock's Curse.
They did a decent job hiding it, they never kissed or engaged in any obvious displays of affection where Lestrade or his people could see. They didn't speak to each other any differently; John still let Sherlock run roughshod over him, Sherlock still looked at John as if he had split the atom when he made an observation that proved correct, John still made an effort to rein Sherlock in when he got too nasty with witnesses or coppers. They didn't use pet names, or talk about their plans for outside of work. Lestrade suspected that he had only got any hint of the thing in the first place because he knew what Sherlock was and had been looking for the right tells: faint red ovals on John's neck or wrist, sneaky and apparently innocent touches, extra possessiveness.
Sherlock had treated John as if he was private property almost from the beginning, but to Lestrade's surprise he seemed to become less protective of John, not more. Oh, he still kept John in view- except when he got over-excited and ran off after a lead without him- but he didn't flinch or even look askance when one of the newer forensics techs did her level best to talk John into a date. John, on the other hand, was clearly irritated whenever anyone expressed an interest in Sherlock. Which was often, because most people found him stunningly attractive until he opened his mouth and showed them what an utter ass he was. Sherlock ignored flirting entirely, as per usual. John had frequently responded to it in the past, before the Moriarty incident at any rate, but now he was all polite smiles and deflection and gentle let-downs.
Lestrade also observed that John had become more direct in his handling of Sherlock; he had always made attempts to talk him down when he started to become frustrated or angry, but now Lestrade frequently caught him putting a casual hand on Sherlock's shoulder, or tapping his arm to gain his attention, or physically dragging him back from verbal altercations. He was good at making it seem unobtrusive, but Lestrade noticed that Sherlock's tension and ill-temper almost immediately ratcheted down, every time. And Lestrade was hardly about to complain on that score. If it couldn't be him that had the magic touch, at least someone did.
It seemed so obvious to Lestrade, after a while, that it amazed him that no one else guessed. When bitching about Sherlock or bullshitting about a case, the team still occasionally meandered into speculation about whether Sherlock and John were shagging, but with no more certainty than before. No one seemed to notice that the unresolved sexual tension was now just...regular sexual tension. It was sometimes tempting to answer the question- something about hearing people debate about Sherlock's possible sex life made Lestrade grind his teeth- but even if he didn't give a fig for Sherlock, there was John to consider. And damn it, he did care about Sherlock, despite himself. Neither of them deserved to have their private life become gossip for the whole Yard, when they so clearly considered it nobody else's business.
Even stranger than being the only person who noticed the relationship was being the only person who noticed what it was doing to John. Sherlock hadn't been entirely forthcoming with Lestrade, back when- back when it happened. But he'd hinted that the bond he'd proposed would have other physical effects beyond addiction.
Clue the first came the night Sherlock had led them all to a vacant warehouse on a mission to corner a pair of serial bank robbers turned killers. Lestrade, reluctantly towed along in advance of his team, was not wearing street kit and had to call for backup with proper torches. Sherlock, of course, ran inside alone. John stomped up and down the curb muttering for about ninety seconds before snapping, "Right. Sod this," and darting after him. Lestrade, feeling bound to protect civilian lives even when the civilians in question were bleeding idiots, followed.
A warehouse with no electricity on a foggy London night turned out to be damn dark. The barest trace of light from the street lamps seeped in through the windows near the ceiling, but it didn't illuminate a damn thing as far as Lestrade could tell. He stopped two steps in and listened; there was a faint shushing of fabric off to his right, so he headed that way and promptly bashed his knee on something. He bit his lip to avoid cursing and shifted along with his hand on the edge of the object to prevent further incidents. It took him perhaps five minutes to navigate around and resume movement in his original direction. Just when he was deciding that this was really, really stupid and he was just going to back up the way he came and wait for backup, John muttered in his ear, "You shouldn't be in here."
"Fuck," Lestrade couldn't restrain at the sudden appearance of the man. "Neither should you." He at least managed to keep his voice low.
"Sometimes you're worse than Sherlock," John retorted.
"Me?" Lestrade demanded indignantly. He remembered that he had a tiny penlight in his pocket and fumbled for it as John started to move off again without any hesitation. "Hold on, wait." He managed to get the light out and flicked the tiny beam to life. It barely cut the gloom at all, but as he angled it forward he caught a glimpse of John's face in its feeble glow. Startled, he flipped the light up for a better look at what had caught his trained eye.
"Jesus, Watson," he said as John flinched and turned away from the light. "Are you on something?" He never would have expected it of John, of all people. But his pupils were blown so wide that he didn't appear to have any color to his irises at all.
"Thanks a lot, you bastard," John hissed, looking back at him. "That's my night vision gone." His pupils had constricted back to normal. Not drugs then. Just...weird.
Much later that night, Lestrade turned off the lights in his bathroom, let his eyes adjust to the dark, and then used the penlight to examine himself in the mirror. His pupils were nowhere near as dilated as John's had been.
Clue the second came a week later, when John was the one who ran headlong into a dangerous situation without backup- something the doctor was wont to do when he thought it would stop Sherlock doing the same- and caught a knife across his forearm for his trouble. Lestrade supervised the loading of John's assailant into an ambulance, then went looking for John and Sherlock. He found them together, naturally: John sitting with his back against the tire of one of the cruisers, and Sherlock crouched beside him, bent over his injured arm. The two were on the opposite side of the car from the coppers working the scene, and seemed to be sharing a private moment.
Still, Lestrade didn't quite realize what was happening until John jerked his head up with a wide-eyed and guilty look. Lestrade's lecture about taking stupid risks and waiting for backup flew entirely out of his head, to be replaced by a new topic. "What the fuck-" he began.
"He's cleaning the wound," John said quickly. "It'll help prevent infection." The emergency dressing the paramedic had given him was on the ground, and John was holding his arm steady on top of his knees while Sherlock laved it with his tongue.
Lestrade was pretty sure he meant to continue telling them off for this weirdness and for fucking around with a fresh, deep wound like that, but instead what came out was, "Doesn't that hurt?"
John hummed noncommittally and closed his eyes for a moment. "Feels quite nice, actually." Lestrade almost shivered. Okay, he had asked. Sherlock lifted his head and rolled his eyes at Lestrade. "Ah," John said, "You've got a little-" He gestured vaguely at his face, and Sherlock used the back of his hand to wipe smears of blood from the corner of his mouth. He licked his hand clean fastidiously.
"The second ambulance will be here in five," Lestrade said, glancing away. He was not quite sure how to process the queasy sensation in his stomach.
Sherlock said, "I really must re-register my objection to-"
"We discussed this," John said wearily. "I need sutures. I'm not doing them half-arsed with my off hand, and no I'm not letting you do it, so don't even ask. There are perfectly competent professionals available." Sherlock muttered something about competence but John chose to ignore it.
"You realize," Lestrade said, finally getting back to his original topic, "that you have been utterly reckless tonight, and that you are lucky that was the worst you got."
"I told him that," Sherlock said, sounding aggrieved.
"You're one to talk," Lestrade said. Sherlock being sensible was probably one of the harbingers of Armageddon, and he did not need that tonight in addition to everything else.
"Yeah," John said to Lestrade. "I also realize that when I jumped him, he was about two seconds from remembering the gun in his back pocket and causing some real damage." Lestrade frowned, because they had recovered a gun when they scraped the distinctly unhappy perp off the pavement where John had laid him out. "Give me some credit, Lestrade, I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been necessary. I don't enjoy being stabbed, believe it or not."
"You're an idiot," Sherlock told John.
"Takes one to know one," John said back. Lestrade walked off shaking his head.
When he went to the hospital to check on John after he finished processing the scene, Watson had received his sutures and checked out AMA without a tetanus shot or any medication. John didn't pick up his phone, and Sherlock replied to calls with a text that John was sleeping. By the time Lestrade crawled out from under his paperwork the next day, it was the middle of the evening and he just went directly to Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson let him in, and he found Sherlock lounging in the sitting room with a book and John typing one-handed on his laptop. He was wearing a t-shirt and his knife wound was no longer covered. Lestrade could see that the line of sutures now looked like a severe overreaction to what was clearly a shallow cut.
John caught him staring and smiled ruefully. "And that," he said, "is why I left the hospital. I'm not really interested in being a medical miracle."
By day three, when they came down to the station to give their reports, the sutures had been removed- by John himself, Lestrade was guessing- and the knife wound was nothing but a thin white line.
Lestrade stopped numbering the clues after that, but he couldn't stop seeing them. John and Sherlock trawled the edge of the Thames for a severed foot without protective gear; three of Lestrade's team- who had been wearing hip waders and gloves per regulations, thanks very much- came down with some sort of gastrointestinal death 'flu, but John and Sherlock were fine. John outpaced a 22-year-old detective constable- former track champ from the west country- in a foot chase. John developed an ability to recall and repeat bits of conversations with almost eidetic precision; he was especially accurate in remembering Sherlock's pronouncements. John was able to kick down a heavy reinforced door without breaking all the bones in his foot; Lestrade didn't witness that one, but the damage to the door was distinctive and Lestrade had enough experience to see that he would have needed a ram to get through it.
He took John aside and tried to warn him. "You're going to get caught," he said. "You're making yourself too bloody obvious by half."
John shrugged. "You only see it because you're looking for it. To everyone else, I'm just as normal as I've always been." He smiled brightly, falsely. He had a point, Lestrade thought. If he hadn't known what Sherlock was, he still would have thought the consulting detective peculiar. But would he really have suspected anything out of the ordinary about plain, unassuming John Watson? Probably not, he had to concede. Nor would he have suspected that the two were engaged in a relationship that involved sex, blood-drinking, and frankly impossible alterations to John's physical abilities.
Some days, Lestrade wished to hell that he was as unobservant as Sherlock often accused him of being.
Author's note: Canon says when you start a symbiont when he's around 20 or so, he can live 200 healthy years; a woman caught past her child-bearing years (probably early to mid 40s, no specific age was given) would only live to about 100. I'm probably being generous to John, here, but that's my privilege. Likewise improved night vision, resistance to disease, more efficient wound healing, and improved memory are all explicitly stated in the text as benefits symbionts derive from the relationship with their Ina. (The text suggests that symbionts may have particularly acute memories when it comes to things their Ina say.) I made up the increased speed and strength, although I think it's consistent that muscles could be made to operate more efficiently along with eyes and immune systems.
The text seems to state that Ina have no conscious control over the affect their commands have on people they bite, particularly symbionts. Shori is told that females (who have especially powerful venom) "learn very early to watch what they say." At several points she gives orders to her symbionts that they are definitely opposed to but are compelled to obey anyway. I think it goes without saying that John Watson would not be having with this shit. So in the interests of making things more believable and less non-conny, in this fusion Ina can force commands on people they bite, but it doesn't happen automatically.
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Rating: NC17 (PG this part)
Warnings: TGG spoilers, vampirism, bloodplay, wip
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Notes: Unbeta'd. This is an AU fusion with "Fledgling" by Octavia Butler, with some details modified. Also available on AO3.
All John wanted to know was how damn old Sherlock was. It had started out as an idle question, but Sherlock had somehow turned it into his usual passive-aggressive mind game, and now it was the principle of the thing. John was going to tear the answer out of him or die trying. He finally decided passive-aggression could work for him too, and stalked over to Sherlock's coat to root for his wallet.
"You'll never learn anything that way," Sherlock said. "You were invited to deduce, not go through my things." He obviously didn't care that much, however, as he made no move to get off the sofa.
"I'm gathering data," said John, extracting a driver's license. "This says you were born in 1980. That's obviously bollocks."
"That's just guessing," Sherlock said disapprovingly.
"Not guessing. Logic. You suggested that your species lives for hundreds of years. You're obviously sexually mature, which would mean you've spent something less than 10% of your lifespan as a juvenile. The longer a species' lifespan, the later it tends to mature sexually. The fact that the world isn't overrun with vampires suggests that you follow the pattern." John crossed his arms over his chest and gave Sherlock a triumphant look.
Sherlock opened his eyes. "Ina, not vampires. And at least part of your reasoning there is specious. But you are getting closer."
John paused for a few moments, trying to think his way around the problem the way Sherlock would. What was the question Sherlock wanted him to ask, the one he would actually answer? John couldn't imagine what he was supposed to have observed that he didn't. So he cheated. "I should just ask Mycroft," he said. "He'll tell me, especially if he thinks it will wind you up."
"Your manipulations are exceedingly transparent," Sherlock said, but he relented when John got out his phone. "Oh fine, be tedious then. I was born in 1918."
"You wear it well," John said, straight-faced.
"Thank you," Sherlock said sarcastically. "I've been sexually mature for about two decades, as it happens, and I should live for another four centuries or so."
"Huh." John sprawled in his armchair. "How long has your birth date been 1980, then?"
"Not long. Mycroft changes it now and again- as he'll do for you when it becomes necessary. At least until he grows tired of playing governments in Whitehall."
John sat up straighter. "What do you mean as he'll do for me?"
Sherlock turned his head to look at John with an indolent smile. "Well people are going to wonder when you continue to chase criminals over rooftops well past the age where you should be doddering."
"You said my lifespan would increase," John remembered. He had no idea why he remembered that, actually, but it was something Sherlock had mentioned in passing when he first explained what his venom would do to John. "By how much?"
Sherlock rolled over and faced the back of the sofa. "I caught you late. You'll probably live another hundred years, perhaps one hundred twenty at the outside. And I think we've had enough of this line of inquiry."
"Why?" John said. "It's interesting. Amazing, really." He'd thought about immortality and longevity before; everybody did, everybody wondered what it would be like. And John was a doctor, not to mention a soldier, so he'd probably spent more time thinking about mortality than most. He wasn't even the researching type, but even he was curious to know the methodology by which human life could be chemically prolonged, and Sherlock ought to find the whole thing fascinating. Why didn't he want to talk about it?
"I just gave you the data, John," Sherlock said, his voice slightly muffled by cushion. "Deduce it."
John thought for a moment. He was 35 and might live to be 155. Sherlock was 92 and- oh. "Good God," John said. "You'll outlive me. You'll outlive- everyone, really."
"Always last to realize the obvious," Sherlock said nastily. John immediately read it as defensiveness; that was how Sherlock always reacted to feeling emotionally vulnerable.
John had a sudden insight into something that had been nagging at him since Sherlock first revealed himself. "I don't think this is your first relationship. You can't have gone your whole life without having symbionts. Is that what happened to-"
"Stop," Sherlock growled, flipping over and sitting up to glare at John. His voice was strangely resonant. "Don't say another word about that. The topic is off limits."
John's jaw involuntarily snapped shut and he was forced to swallow the rest of his sentence. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had ever told him to do something, certainly, but it was the first time he felt physically compelled to obey. He tried again to speak the question, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out. He was gripped by terror at his voice's refusal to emerge, but when he framed a different question he found that he was able to speak again. "What the fuck was that?" he snapped.
"What was what?" said Sherlock. His innocent tone was a fake, and a bad one; he answered too quickly and his eyes flicked to his right before he answered, so he was lying. And since Sherlock was probably the best liar John had ever met, he was either deliberately not hiding his tells, or he was so agitated that he wasn't paying attention to what his face was doing. John's terror snapped over into cold fury.
"You know what! You told me to stop talking, and I didn't want to but I had to." John was practically snarling. "You said- people you bite become highly suggestible." Another factoid that John hadn't even realized he remembered. He could see from the look on Sherlock's face that he was on the right track. "You were trying to control me."
"I just-" Sherlock pulled his knees up and tucked his toes over the edge of the sofa. "I don't want to talk about that. Please, John," he said in a low voice.
"Sherlock, there has to be a certain level of trust here," John said, running a hand through his hair and trying to calm himself. Fuck, he was angry. It was terrifying, knowing that Sherlock could give an order and he had no option but to follow it. "If you don't want to talk about something private, that's fine, just say so. I'll respect your boundaries. But I need to be able to trust you, and I can't if I know you're going to be giving me orders I can't disobey."
"I didn't mean to," Sherlock told his knees, quietly. "I was upset and I- pushed." That was surprisingly close to a direct apology, for Sherlock.
"You don't get to do that," John said, his voice hard. "Ever. Do you understand?" If Sherlock couldn't understand that, then it was going to have to end right now. The very idea of leaving Sherlock made him feel sick and lonely and a little afraid, but if they couldn't have a relationship built on trust, on equality- yes, John evaluated himself and found that he was capable of leaving.
"What if it's to save you?" Sherlock asked. Always, always pushing. John hissed out a breath and reminded himself that if Sherlock was the type to just do what was expected without question, John would not have fallen for him in the first place. He should probably be happy that Sherlock didn't just do what he would with 99% of people: tell them what they wanted to hear and then do what the hell he wanted to anyway. The fact that he was pushing meant that any guarantee he made John, he was going to take seriously.
"Then you tell me in your normal voice and I get to decide if I should listen," John said. "You know I do what you want anyway most of the time, God help me. But it's my choice. You don't own me."
"I know," Sherlock said.
"Can I trust you?" John demanded, locking eyes with him.
"Yes," Sherlock said at once, and John decided that he believed him.
"Good," John said. "Fine." He resisted the urge to flounce; he was still tense and angry. It was better not to have the sort of fight with shouting, really; far nicer to have a reasoned discussion like adults and come to an agreement. But sometimes being childish could be very cathartic, and John was left with all this vitriol and nothing to do with it.
"John-" Sherlock said hesitantly, and stopped for a moment. "Come here." The order, if it was one, was wholly different from Sherlock's previous barked command. That had been hard and forceful and irresistible. Now it was just- normal. Sherlock's normal voice, making a normal demand, with perhaps a bit more hesitance than usual, a bit less certainty that John would automatically comply.
John gave Sherlock a long, slow once-over as he paused, making it clear that he recognized the difference. Then, because he wanted to, he went and sat on the sofa next to Sherlock, instinctively leaning into his side. Sherlock reached an arm around his shoulder to pull him closer, then laid his cheek on John's head and snuffled at his hair. He could feel the tension dissipating. He felt like he should hate himself for how easily he let himself be soothed out of justified anger, but he enjoyed the feeling far too much. Sherlock was warm and comfortable, and it was just plain nice to sit with him this way. "Dare I ask why you're smelling my hair?" John asked after a moment.
"I like how you smell," Sherlock said.
John sighed contentedly, letting the muscles in his neck unknot. "Do I smell lonely?"
"Of course not," Sherlock said into his hair. "You still smell wonderful, though. Only now you smell like me. Like...mine."
"Don't own me, remember," John warned sharply.
"Not like that," Sherlock said, and ran his hand soothingly up and down John's arm. "My scent is mixed up in yours now. Any other Ina will know that you're with me. Off limits."
"My God, you're possessive," John muttered. Again, he ought to be annoyed, but he felt oddly pleased, instead. Wanted. Treasured.
"You like it," Sherlock said.
John chuckled. "It's unfair, you know, how you can always tell how I feel."
"I can't control my sense of smell," Sherlock said reasonably. He took a deep breath, then released it. "Ask me about my past symbionts, if you really want to," he said, with that strange, compelling resonance in his voice. Then he paused, and returned his voice to normal. "But I'd really prefer it if you didn't," he added.
John shrugged one shoulder, and said the only thing he could say to a request like that. "Okay."
***
Lestrade could force himself to stop speculating about the dynamics of John and Sherlock's relationship, but he couldn't stop seeing that there was one. Once he had opened his eyes to what was happening between them, and moreover had his suspicions confirmed (by both parties, no less), he couldn't close them again. He couldn't stop observing.
If this turned out to be an actual, diagnosable mental illness, it was probably called Sherlock's Curse.
They did a decent job hiding it, they never kissed or engaged in any obvious displays of affection where Lestrade or his people could see. They didn't speak to each other any differently; John still let Sherlock run roughshod over him, Sherlock still looked at John as if he had split the atom when he made an observation that proved correct, John still made an effort to rein Sherlock in when he got too nasty with witnesses or coppers. They didn't use pet names, or talk about their plans for outside of work. Lestrade suspected that he had only got any hint of the thing in the first place because he knew what Sherlock was and had been looking for the right tells: faint red ovals on John's neck or wrist, sneaky and apparently innocent touches, extra possessiveness.
Sherlock had treated John as if he was private property almost from the beginning, but to Lestrade's surprise he seemed to become less protective of John, not more. Oh, he still kept John in view- except when he got over-excited and ran off after a lead without him- but he didn't flinch or even look askance when one of the newer forensics techs did her level best to talk John into a date. John, on the other hand, was clearly irritated whenever anyone expressed an interest in Sherlock. Which was often, because most people found him stunningly attractive until he opened his mouth and showed them what an utter ass he was. Sherlock ignored flirting entirely, as per usual. John had frequently responded to it in the past, before the Moriarty incident at any rate, but now he was all polite smiles and deflection and gentle let-downs.
Lestrade also observed that John had become more direct in his handling of Sherlock; he had always made attempts to talk him down when he started to become frustrated or angry, but now Lestrade frequently caught him putting a casual hand on Sherlock's shoulder, or tapping his arm to gain his attention, or physically dragging him back from verbal altercations. He was good at making it seem unobtrusive, but Lestrade noticed that Sherlock's tension and ill-temper almost immediately ratcheted down, every time. And Lestrade was hardly about to complain on that score. If it couldn't be him that had the magic touch, at least someone did.
It seemed so obvious to Lestrade, after a while, that it amazed him that no one else guessed. When bitching about Sherlock or bullshitting about a case, the team still occasionally meandered into speculation about whether Sherlock and John were shagging, but with no more certainty than before. No one seemed to notice that the unresolved sexual tension was now just...regular sexual tension. It was sometimes tempting to answer the question- something about hearing people debate about Sherlock's possible sex life made Lestrade grind his teeth- but even if he didn't give a fig for Sherlock, there was John to consider. And damn it, he did care about Sherlock, despite himself. Neither of them deserved to have their private life become gossip for the whole Yard, when they so clearly considered it nobody else's business.
Even stranger than being the only person who noticed the relationship was being the only person who noticed what it was doing to John. Sherlock hadn't been entirely forthcoming with Lestrade, back when- back when it happened. But he'd hinted that the bond he'd proposed would have other physical effects beyond addiction.
Clue the first came the night Sherlock had led them all to a vacant warehouse on a mission to corner a pair of serial bank robbers turned killers. Lestrade, reluctantly towed along in advance of his team, was not wearing street kit and had to call for backup with proper torches. Sherlock, of course, ran inside alone. John stomped up and down the curb muttering for about ninety seconds before snapping, "Right. Sod this," and darting after him. Lestrade, feeling bound to protect civilian lives even when the civilians in question were bleeding idiots, followed.
A warehouse with no electricity on a foggy London night turned out to be damn dark. The barest trace of light from the street lamps seeped in through the windows near the ceiling, but it didn't illuminate a damn thing as far as Lestrade could tell. He stopped two steps in and listened; there was a faint shushing of fabric off to his right, so he headed that way and promptly bashed his knee on something. He bit his lip to avoid cursing and shifted along with his hand on the edge of the object to prevent further incidents. It took him perhaps five minutes to navigate around and resume movement in his original direction. Just when he was deciding that this was really, really stupid and he was just going to back up the way he came and wait for backup, John muttered in his ear, "You shouldn't be in here."
"Fuck," Lestrade couldn't restrain at the sudden appearance of the man. "Neither should you." He at least managed to keep his voice low.
"Sometimes you're worse than Sherlock," John retorted.
"Me?" Lestrade demanded indignantly. He remembered that he had a tiny penlight in his pocket and fumbled for it as John started to move off again without any hesitation. "Hold on, wait." He managed to get the light out and flicked the tiny beam to life. It barely cut the gloom at all, but as he angled it forward he caught a glimpse of John's face in its feeble glow. Startled, he flipped the light up for a better look at what had caught his trained eye.
"Jesus, Watson," he said as John flinched and turned away from the light. "Are you on something?" He never would have expected it of John, of all people. But his pupils were blown so wide that he didn't appear to have any color to his irises at all.
"Thanks a lot, you bastard," John hissed, looking back at him. "That's my night vision gone." His pupils had constricted back to normal. Not drugs then. Just...weird.
Much later that night, Lestrade turned off the lights in his bathroom, let his eyes adjust to the dark, and then used the penlight to examine himself in the mirror. His pupils were nowhere near as dilated as John's had been.
Clue the second came a week later, when John was the one who ran headlong into a dangerous situation without backup- something the doctor was wont to do when he thought it would stop Sherlock doing the same- and caught a knife across his forearm for his trouble. Lestrade supervised the loading of John's assailant into an ambulance, then went looking for John and Sherlock. He found them together, naturally: John sitting with his back against the tire of one of the cruisers, and Sherlock crouched beside him, bent over his injured arm. The two were on the opposite side of the car from the coppers working the scene, and seemed to be sharing a private moment.
Still, Lestrade didn't quite realize what was happening until John jerked his head up with a wide-eyed and guilty look. Lestrade's lecture about taking stupid risks and waiting for backup flew entirely out of his head, to be replaced by a new topic. "What the fuck-" he began.
"He's cleaning the wound," John said quickly. "It'll help prevent infection." The emergency dressing the paramedic had given him was on the ground, and John was holding his arm steady on top of his knees while Sherlock laved it with his tongue.
Lestrade was pretty sure he meant to continue telling them off for this weirdness and for fucking around with a fresh, deep wound like that, but instead what came out was, "Doesn't that hurt?"
John hummed noncommittally and closed his eyes for a moment. "Feels quite nice, actually." Lestrade almost shivered. Okay, he had asked. Sherlock lifted his head and rolled his eyes at Lestrade. "Ah," John said, "You've got a little-" He gestured vaguely at his face, and Sherlock used the back of his hand to wipe smears of blood from the corner of his mouth. He licked his hand clean fastidiously.
"The second ambulance will be here in five," Lestrade said, glancing away. He was not quite sure how to process the queasy sensation in his stomach.
Sherlock said, "I really must re-register my objection to-"
"We discussed this," John said wearily. "I need sutures. I'm not doing them half-arsed with my off hand, and no I'm not letting you do it, so don't even ask. There are perfectly competent professionals available." Sherlock muttered something about competence but John chose to ignore it.
"You realize," Lestrade said, finally getting back to his original topic, "that you have been utterly reckless tonight, and that you are lucky that was the worst you got."
"I told him that," Sherlock said, sounding aggrieved.
"You're one to talk," Lestrade said. Sherlock being sensible was probably one of the harbingers of Armageddon, and he did not need that tonight in addition to everything else.
"Yeah," John said to Lestrade. "I also realize that when I jumped him, he was about two seconds from remembering the gun in his back pocket and causing some real damage." Lestrade frowned, because they had recovered a gun when they scraped the distinctly unhappy perp off the pavement where John had laid him out. "Give me some credit, Lestrade, I wouldn't have done it if it hadn't been necessary. I don't enjoy being stabbed, believe it or not."
"You're an idiot," Sherlock told John.
"Takes one to know one," John said back. Lestrade walked off shaking his head.
When he went to the hospital to check on John after he finished processing the scene, Watson had received his sutures and checked out AMA without a tetanus shot or any medication. John didn't pick up his phone, and Sherlock replied to calls with a text that John was sleeping. By the time Lestrade crawled out from under his paperwork the next day, it was the middle of the evening and he just went directly to Baker Street.
Mrs. Hudson let him in, and he found Sherlock lounging in the sitting room with a book and John typing one-handed on his laptop. He was wearing a t-shirt and his knife wound was no longer covered. Lestrade could see that the line of sutures now looked like a severe overreaction to what was clearly a shallow cut.
John caught him staring and smiled ruefully. "And that," he said, "is why I left the hospital. I'm not really interested in being a medical miracle."
By day three, when they came down to the station to give their reports, the sutures had been removed- by John himself, Lestrade was guessing- and the knife wound was nothing but a thin white line.
Lestrade stopped numbering the clues after that, but he couldn't stop seeing them. John and Sherlock trawled the edge of the Thames for a severed foot without protective gear; three of Lestrade's team- who had been wearing hip waders and gloves per regulations, thanks very much- came down with some sort of gastrointestinal death 'flu, but John and Sherlock were fine. John outpaced a 22-year-old detective constable- former track champ from the west country- in a foot chase. John developed an ability to recall and repeat bits of conversations with almost eidetic precision; he was especially accurate in remembering Sherlock's pronouncements. John was able to kick down a heavy reinforced door without breaking all the bones in his foot; Lestrade didn't witness that one, but the damage to the door was distinctive and Lestrade had enough experience to see that he would have needed a ram to get through it.
He took John aside and tried to warn him. "You're going to get caught," he said. "You're making yourself too bloody obvious by half."
John shrugged. "You only see it because you're looking for it. To everyone else, I'm just as normal as I've always been." He smiled brightly, falsely. He had a point, Lestrade thought. If he hadn't known what Sherlock was, he still would have thought the consulting detective peculiar. But would he really have suspected anything out of the ordinary about plain, unassuming John Watson? Probably not, he had to concede. Nor would he have suspected that the two were engaged in a relationship that involved sex, blood-drinking, and frankly impossible alterations to John's physical abilities.
Some days, Lestrade wished to hell that he was as unobservant as Sherlock often accused him of being.
Author's note: Canon says when you start a symbiont when he's around 20 or so, he can live 200 healthy years; a woman caught past her child-bearing years (probably early to mid 40s, no specific age was given) would only live to about 100. I'm probably being generous to John, here, but that's my privilege. Likewise improved night vision, resistance to disease, more efficient wound healing, and improved memory are all explicitly stated in the text as benefits symbionts derive from the relationship with their Ina. (The text suggests that symbionts may have particularly acute memories when it comes to things their Ina say.) I made up the increased speed and strength, although I think it's consistent that muscles could be made to operate more efficiently along with eyes and immune systems.
The text seems to state that Ina have no conscious control over the affect their commands have on people they bite, particularly symbionts. Shori is told that females (who have especially powerful venom) "learn very early to watch what they say." At several points she gives orders to her symbionts that they are definitely opposed to but are compelled to obey anyway. I think it goes without saying that John Watson would not be having with this shit. So in the interests of making things more believable and less non-conny, in this fusion Ina can force commands on people they bite, but it doesn't happen automatically.
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