Sherlock Fanfiction: Haploid
Title: Haploid
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~2600 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Haploid follows Afire.
Excerpt: Scattered across the months, there had been dreams scented with half-heard words. They had left behind an odd cheer that would last for days, but they had been without form. It had surprised John, that the intense visuality of his nightmares had never lent his dreams a single pale curve. He had yearned to see, had suffered for not seeing. The lamp in the corner had a halo around it.
Haploid
John listened outside the door. It was silent within. Rest. What Sherlock had been doing for months had clearly allowed him little time for it. Pain was exhausting; John knew, of course, and he had an idea of how much a chemical burn hurt. Biochemical burn. John’s eyes dropped to his hands.
He had been afraid of skin to skin contact near the wounds, had managed to avoid it while debriding and disinfecting them.
John had wanted Mike or Molly to do it, but Sherlock had been adamant in his refusal. “I may harm you by accident,” John had said, his hands clenching at the idea of it, at the memories of Molly exclaiming and shaking her finger after he had kissed it, of his lips thrumming from touching the tiny pinprick.
“I’m tired, John,” Sherlock had replied as if that summed up everything.
He’d met John’s gaze then and held it. Whether it meant Sherlock didn’t have the energy to argue or something else, John hadn’t been sure, but he’d said, “All right,” and asked Molly for scissors to cut off the rest of the shirt. “May they assist?” Sherlock held his eyes shut an extra second or two when he blinked after that.
John’s brows stayed furrowed as he took the scissors from Molly and began cutting up the sleeve from the elbow. “Mike, could you set up a tray?” John asked. The request sent Mike and Molly to the other side of the room. As the scissors moved from the shoulder seam to the collar, John leaned closer to Sherlock’s ear. “When they have the implements ready, shall I ask them to leave?” Sherlock nodded once. John watched his shoulders relax.
John leaned against the doorframe, continuing to listen. If Sherlock rolled over in his sleep onto one of his hands, it would wake him. They were bandaged, but even slight pressure would be painful for at least a day or two.
It had been quiet in the quarantine room off the main morgue once Molly and Mike had gone, just the hum of the refrigeration units and the fluorescent lights, the occasional metallic clink or watery drip as John set down or took up an instrument or a sponge and the sound of his and Sherlock’s breathing. After they were done, shirt tatters incinerated, he had remembered to grab Sherlock by the shoulder when he wavered after sliding down from the examination table. John had been puzzled when Sherlock hadn’t turned towards the elevator, but towards the half-open door of one of the supply cupboards instead.
John looked to the painting behind the archivist’s desk and whispered, “I followed him, just like always.” Sherlock’s forebear maintained his expression of perpetual interest. “He showed me the other way up here. You never let on about that,” John accused the portrait, eyes lingering on the familiar lineaments.
Sherlock had pushed the cupboard door wide with his foot and nodded at the back shelves as he stepped inside, holding both hands up, like a freshly-scrubbed surgeon, like the press of blood in the veins of his hands hurt if he let them hang down by his side. “Have the fob for the office?” John had nodded in reply. “Close the door. Third shelf, left side. Like the library bookcases,” Sherlock had said, with a slight pause after every second or third word. He’d refused an analgesic, said he had something upstairs. John hadn’t asked what or where.
Feeling behind a jug of antiseptic hand wash so large it had a tap, John found the recessed latch for a small panel covering a keypad. “Last two digits on the third, fourth and eighth display,” Sherlock said and John held the fob up to the light to watch the first set of numbers give way to the next. “73,23,79,” Sherlock said in one breath.
“How?” John asked as he keyed them in.
“Override,” Sherlock said.
John heard the faint click, pulled the shelf towards them and pushed it to the left when it had rolled far enough forward. The cupboard light showed the first steps of a wrought-iron staircase in a narrow well.
“You first,” John said and Sherlock had opened his mouth, swayed slightly and closed it again. When Sherlock had climbed the first few steps, John closed the shelving behind them and followed, finding the railings in the dark, grasping them tightly enough to hold them both.
John rested his forehead on the cool wood of the door. All remained still within. He hoped he wouldn’t disturb Sherlock by entering, but he needed to be checked regularly. John glanced at the sofa, shook his head and switched off the lights. He eased the door open and stepped inside.
The bed into which Sherlock had allowed John to solicitously tuck him filled the far left corner of the room, its side towards the door. In the nearer left corner, a floor lamp, dimmed to its lowest setting, lit the curve of Sherlock's brow and cheek, silvered his bare chest and lower legs. The breath John drew in was sharp. Gently, he pushed back against the door, heard the click of the lock engaging behind him. Dramatic. Always. Not easy with bandaged hands either. Artifice notwithstanding, John’s eyes followed the play of light and shadow. The covers had been pushed down to the bottom of the bed, the black dressing gown John had helped Sherlock into with such care was still on, but the upper portion was open, one end of the undone sash trailing across the linen to dangle over the edge of the mattress. The dark lapels framed either side of the chest, the contrast making the skin seem even paler than it was. One arm was visible, bent up from the elbow, the dressing gown loose enough at the shoulders for the sleeve to completely cover the bandaged hand. Sherlock’s head was turned away displaying the long neck between the dark sheen of the collar and the damp curls drying on the white pillow.
Scattered across the months, there had been dreams scented with half-heard words. They had left behind an odd cheer that would last for days, but they had been without form. It had surprised John, that the intense visuality of his nightmares had never lent his dreams a single pale curve. He had yearned to see, had suffered for not seeing.
The lamp in the corner had a halo around it. John brushed a hand over his eyes. “You must be cold,” he murmured and took a few steps, leaned over the footboard and lifted the coverlet.
“I’m not cold,” Sherlock said, without opening his eyes. John released the sheet, ran his hands along it, smoothing out wrinkles. Sherlock sighed. “Quite the contrary.”
John had been expecting a fever, had administered an antipyretic. He walked around the bed; in the low light, no feverish flush was discernable. He raised a hand and paused.
“You aren’t going to hurt me, John,” Sherlock said, his head turning. “Not unless you have a flask of Moran’s blood you’re planning to pour on me.”
John exhaled. His hand pushed up Sherlock’s strange, fair hair and settled on his brow. Slightly warm, even with the medicine. “I’ll take your temperature,” John said, beginning to lift his hand.
“Don’t. It isn’t high.” John stopped. “Sit by me,” Sherlock said. “I missed your touch.”
“But you…” John began. His hand trailed down the side of Sherlock’s face before he took it away and perched on the edge of the bed.
Sherlock opened his eyes, held John with them. John’s weight settled more firmly into the mattress. “I touched you,” Sherlock said. “It’s more of a difference than one might expect.”
“Like not seeing,” John replied, and his gaze dropped from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth, to his neck.
“See me, then,” Sherlock said, shifting a leg, turning more towards John.
John’s eyes darted lower, where the leg showed now between the dark edges of the dressing gown, the other end of the sash angled across the pale thigh. Tentatively, John reached out, traced the silky path until it disappeared behind a knee. Sherlock shifted his limbs again.
***
“My body knew this,” John breathed. Sherlock’s ankles were locked behind John’s back. John’s head hung low. “But my mind didn’t,” he said. His hips pushed further forward. “To have this and not know.” John’s voice was mournful.
“I…” Sherlock said, heels pressing into John’s back.
One of John’s hands hooked behind Sherlock’s knee, moving the leg to the side and John hitched higher, silenced the mouth for a long moment with his own. Sherlock’s legs folded further.
John lifted his head slightly, kissed the side of Sherlock’s lips. “These, too?” he panted.
Sherlock’s head dipped. John thrust higher, harder. “I kept hoping, Sherlock.” John’s hand skimmed upwards, behind Sherlock’s neck and pulled him nearer. “It hurt to hope,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips. John’s hips and tongue thrust together until Sherlock arched like a bow before an arrow flew.
Sherlock rested an elbow against John’s shoulder, a bandaged forearm against John’s hair. John was dragging in lungfuls of air, ear pressed to Sherlock’s chest, following his heart’s tattoo.
“I asked you…” John said between beats and stopped to breath. “For a…miracle.”
“I know,” Sherlock said, his chest rising and falling beneath John’s head.
John inhaled sharply. “You were…?” John asked and Sherlock tried to hold John more tightly, wounded forearms at strange angles. “Of course, you were.” John let out a long sigh. “I’ve got questions,” he said, but he didn’t ask them, the throb and rush of blood and air beneath his ear reclaiming all his attention.
***
John set two cut-glass tumblers and a pitcher of water on the nightstand. Sherlock levered himself into a sitting position with his elbows instead of his hands. John poured the water and held it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock nudged the bottom of the glass with a fingertip until the glass was empty. John wiped a drop at the corner of Sherlock’s lips away and poured more water.
“You’re enjoying this,” Sherlock observed as John held out the second glass. Sherlock’s lips parted.
“Absolutely. I always enjoy burning the flesh off my loved ones to make them more dependent on me,” John replied, tilting the glass more expertly the second time. When it was empty, Sherlock leaned back against the headboard and watched John pour himself a glass.
“What are my white blood cells doing in your body? In Molly’s?”
“They’re in Molly’s blood?” Sherlock asked, the surprise clearer in the first words than the last. His brows drew together as he studied how John drank.
John noticed. It helped. He filled a second glass for himself and sat on the bed, turned towards Sherlock, one knee drawn up. “When they were dating, seems Moriarty kissed a cut on her finger. Once we figured out that I was involved in the roof melting…” John paused, took a sip of water. “You know about that?” Sherlock nodded. “Naturally. Anyway, we were trying to figure out how that could work, was it contagious and Molly mentioned the kissing bit and Mike wanted to test her blood.”
“I should have thought of that earlier,” Sherlock said.
“Earlier than what?” John asked, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock closed them. “No, never mind. Let me finish this part.” John took another drink. “We mixed it with some of mine and the result was impressive. Fierce,” John said.
Sherlock opened his eyes and considered John, who was drinking again. “It would be. The fever raged for days after he touched me on the roof,” Sherlock said.
“Because of what his cells were doing in your body?” John leaned forward. “They seemed to be quiescent in Molly’s blood and there weren’t very many of them.”
“No, because of what your cells were doing to his biological material in my system,” Sherlock said. “Only there was much more of both.”
“So what are my white blood cells doing in your body, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looked carefully at John. “Protecting me,” Sherlock said.
John’s brows furrowed, “Like a woman’s stronger immune system protects her foetus or her nursing child.”
“Closest analogy,” Sherlock said.
“But a mother’s immunity would have been built up through exposure. How’d…?” John began.
“You were sensitised,” Sherlock said.
“At the pool,” John finished.
Sherlock nodded. “He envied me you.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “I had what he wanted,” he said.
“We both did.”
John finished his water, raised the glass to Sherlock. He nodded. John stretched to reach the pitcher.
“He could do what you can. I saw them in Molly’s blood before my white cells destroyed them…cells that aren’t like any others,” John said, bringing the glass to Sherlock’s mouth. “Not like any blood cells,” John murmured as Sherlock drank. John put the glass down, his mind sifting through images irrelevant to his specialty and unrelated to his recent research. “Haploid,” John said, turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock inclined his head, waiting. “They were merging with other cells in my blood, but not in Molly’s or Mike’s or Mrs Hudson’s. Why?”
“We’ve a wealth of new evidence, so we’re making progress, but we don’t have the answer yet,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps the best we’ll be able to do is learn how.” Sherlock started to smile. “But if we can find out why, we’ll understand the whole experiment.”
John scowled at the word. “You…”
“Not my experiment, John. Well, that, too. No, I mean the experiment, the original one. What caused it? Was it intentional?” Sherlock’s words were flowing faster and his bound hands were waving, the bandages bright. John pictured the slender fingers whose eloquent movements would normally have accompanied the flight of ideas. “What exactly Mycroft and I and the others are.”
The last sentence snapped John’s attention back to the import of Sherlock’s words. “The others? Moriarty?”
“It would seem.” Sherlock stopped, his look the one he bestowed on John when he conducted light.
“And Irene,” John said, thinking of how she and Sherlock had regarded one another, the palpable fascination.
“We have no proof, but I would guess, yes,” Sherlock said, his look becoming even more focussed.
“Others?”
“Not certain, but I would think perhaps a few,” Sherlock said. “The records are minimal. Your research hadn’t reached them yet.”
“But you were leading me to them,” John said, taking a deep breath. His shoulders relaxed.
“I thought I would be gone longer,” Sherlock said. “I should have been, I’m not done, but I couldn’t stay away for very long.” His hands had settled across his lap. “I hadn’t predicted that.”
John found himself fixated on the tips of Sherlock’s fingers peeping from the top of the bandages. He wanted to touch his lips to them. “You literally couldn’t stay away from me?” John said, bending closer.
“It made me unwell,” Sherlock stated, his disapproval of the fact, audible. He watched John’s head dip. Sherlock moved his hands further along his thighs. John listed accordingly.
“I never got to that point, but I noticed changes in energy and mood,” John said.
Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his fingertips. “Separation seems to affect me more strongly than it does you,” he admitted. The tip of John’s tongue touched the top of one finger. Sherlock closed his eyes. “Which gives rise to another question.” John’s tongue glided along the three exposed fingertips. “What exactly are you?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: R (this section), NC-17 (overall)
Length: ~2600 words
Warning: AU, post The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a continuation of the Other Experiments Series which forms an AU frame for the Experiments Series. Haploid follows Afire.
Excerpt: Scattered across the months, there had been dreams scented with half-heard words. They had left behind an odd cheer that would last for days, but they had been without form. It had surprised John, that the intense visuality of his nightmares had never lent his dreams a single pale curve. He had yearned to see, had suffered for not seeing. The lamp in the corner had a halo around it.
Haploid
John listened outside the door. It was silent within. Rest. What Sherlock had been doing for months had clearly allowed him little time for it. Pain was exhausting; John knew, of course, and he had an idea of how much a chemical burn hurt. Biochemical burn. John’s eyes dropped to his hands.
He had been afraid of skin to skin contact near the wounds, had managed to avoid it while debriding and disinfecting them.
John had wanted Mike or Molly to do it, but Sherlock had been adamant in his refusal. “I may harm you by accident,” John had said, his hands clenching at the idea of it, at the memories of Molly exclaiming and shaking her finger after he had kissed it, of his lips thrumming from touching the tiny pinprick.
“I’m tired, John,” Sherlock had replied as if that summed up everything.
He’d met John’s gaze then and held it. Whether it meant Sherlock didn’t have the energy to argue or something else, John hadn’t been sure, but he’d said, “All right,” and asked Molly for scissors to cut off the rest of the shirt. “May they assist?” Sherlock held his eyes shut an extra second or two when he blinked after that.
John’s brows stayed furrowed as he took the scissors from Molly and began cutting up the sleeve from the elbow. “Mike, could you set up a tray?” John asked. The request sent Mike and Molly to the other side of the room. As the scissors moved from the shoulder seam to the collar, John leaned closer to Sherlock’s ear. “When they have the implements ready, shall I ask them to leave?” Sherlock nodded once. John watched his shoulders relax.
John leaned against the doorframe, continuing to listen. If Sherlock rolled over in his sleep onto one of his hands, it would wake him. They were bandaged, but even slight pressure would be painful for at least a day or two.
It had been quiet in the quarantine room off the main morgue once Molly and Mike had gone, just the hum of the refrigeration units and the fluorescent lights, the occasional metallic clink or watery drip as John set down or took up an instrument or a sponge and the sound of his and Sherlock’s breathing. After they were done, shirt tatters incinerated, he had remembered to grab Sherlock by the shoulder when he wavered after sliding down from the examination table. John had been puzzled when Sherlock hadn’t turned towards the elevator, but towards the half-open door of one of the supply cupboards instead.
John looked to the painting behind the archivist’s desk and whispered, “I followed him, just like always.” Sherlock’s forebear maintained his expression of perpetual interest. “He showed me the other way up here. You never let on about that,” John accused the portrait, eyes lingering on the familiar lineaments.
Sherlock had pushed the cupboard door wide with his foot and nodded at the back shelves as he stepped inside, holding both hands up, like a freshly-scrubbed surgeon, like the press of blood in the veins of his hands hurt if he let them hang down by his side. “Have the fob for the office?” John had nodded in reply. “Close the door. Third shelf, left side. Like the library bookcases,” Sherlock had said, with a slight pause after every second or third word. He’d refused an analgesic, said he had something upstairs. John hadn’t asked what or where.
Feeling behind a jug of antiseptic hand wash so large it had a tap, John found the recessed latch for a small panel covering a keypad. “Last two digits on the third, fourth and eighth display,” Sherlock said and John held the fob up to the light to watch the first set of numbers give way to the next. “73,23,79,” Sherlock said in one breath.
“How?” John asked as he keyed them in.
“Override,” Sherlock said.
John heard the faint click, pulled the shelf towards them and pushed it to the left when it had rolled far enough forward. The cupboard light showed the first steps of a wrought-iron staircase in a narrow well.
“You first,” John said and Sherlock had opened his mouth, swayed slightly and closed it again. When Sherlock had climbed the first few steps, John closed the shelving behind them and followed, finding the railings in the dark, grasping them tightly enough to hold them both.
John rested his forehead on the cool wood of the door. All remained still within. He hoped he wouldn’t disturb Sherlock by entering, but he needed to be checked regularly. John glanced at the sofa, shook his head and switched off the lights. He eased the door open and stepped inside.
The bed into which Sherlock had allowed John to solicitously tuck him filled the far left corner of the room, its side towards the door. In the nearer left corner, a floor lamp, dimmed to its lowest setting, lit the curve of Sherlock's brow and cheek, silvered his bare chest and lower legs. The breath John drew in was sharp. Gently, he pushed back against the door, heard the click of the lock engaging behind him. Dramatic. Always. Not easy with bandaged hands either. Artifice notwithstanding, John’s eyes followed the play of light and shadow. The covers had been pushed down to the bottom of the bed, the black dressing gown John had helped Sherlock into with such care was still on, but the upper portion was open, one end of the undone sash trailing across the linen to dangle over the edge of the mattress. The dark lapels framed either side of the chest, the contrast making the skin seem even paler than it was. One arm was visible, bent up from the elbow, the dressing gown loose enough at the shoulders for the sleeve to completely cover the bandaged hand. Sherlock’s head was turned away displaying the long neck between the dark sheen of the collar and the damp curls drying on the white pillow.
Scattered across the months, there had been dreams scented with half-heard words. They had left behind an odd cheer that would last for days, but they had been without form. It had surprised John, that the intense visuality of his nightmares had never lent his dreams a single pale curve. He had yearned to see, had suffered for not seeing.
The lamp in the corner had a halo around it. John brushed a hand over his eyes. “You must be cold,” he murmured and took a few steps, leaned over the footboard and lifted the coverlet.
“I’m not cold,” Sherlock said, without opening his eyes. John released the sheet, ran his hands along it, smoothing out wrinkles. Sherlock sighed. “Quite the contrary.”
John had been expecting a fever, had administered an antipyretic. He walked around the bed; in the low light, no feverish flush was discernable. He raised a hand and paused.
“You aren’t going to hurt me, John,” Sherlock said, his head turning. “Not unless you have a flask of Moran’s blood you’re planning to pour on me.”
John exhaled. His hand pushed up Sherlock’s strange, fair hair and settled on his brow. Slightly warm, even with the medicine. “I’ll take your temperature,” John said, beginning to lift his hand.
“Don’t. It isn’t high.” John stopped. “Sit by me,” Sherlock said. “I missed your touch.”
“But you…” John began. His hand trailed down the side of Sherlock’s face before he took it away and perched on the edge of the bed.
Sherlock opened his eyes, held John with them. John’s weight settled more firmly into the mattress. “I touched you,” Sherlock said. “It’s more of a difference than one might expect.”
“Like not seeing,” John replied, and his gaze dropped from Sherlock’s eyes to his mouth, to his neck.
“See me, then,” Sherlock said, shifting a leg, turning more towards John.
John’s eyes darted lower, where the leg showed now between the dark edges of the dressing gown, the other end of the sash angled across the pale thigh. Tentatively, John reached out, traced the silky path until it disappeared behind a knee. Sherlock shifted his limbs again.
***
“My body knew this,” John breathed. Sherlock’s ankles were locked behind John’s back. John’s head hung low. “But my mind didn’t,” he said. His hips pushed further forward. “To have this and not know.” John’s voice was mournful.
“I…” Sherlock said, heels pressing into John’s back.
One of John’s hands hooked behind Sherlock’s knee, moving the leg to the side and John hitched higher, silenced the mouth for a long moment with his own. Sherlock’s legs folded further.
John lifted his head slightly, kissed the side of Sherlock’s lips. “These, too?” he panted.
Sherlock’s head dipped. John thrust higher, harder. “I kept hoping, Sherlock.” John’s hand skimmed upwards, behind Sherlock’s neck and pulled him nearer. “It hurt to hope,” he whispered against Sherlock’s lips. John’s hips and tongue thrust together until Sherlock arched like a bow before an arrow flew.
Sherlock rested an elbow against John’s shoulder, a bandaged forearm against John’s hair. John was dragging in lungfuls of air, ear pressed to Sherlock’s chest, following his heart’s tattoo.
“I asked you…” John said between beats and stopped to breath. “For a…miracle.”
“I know,” Sherlock said, his chest rising and falling beneath John’s head.
John inhaled sharply. “You were…?” John asked and Sherlock tried to hold John more tightly, wounded forearms at strange angles. “Of course, you were.” John let out a long sigh. “I’ve got questions,” he said, but he didn’t ask them, the throb and rush of blood and air beneath his ear reclaiming all his attention.
***
John set two cut-glass tumblers and a pitcher of water on the nightstand. Sherlock levered himself into a sitting position with his elbows instead of his hands. John poured the water and held it to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock nudged the bottom of the glass with a fingertip until the glass was empty. John wiped a drop at the corner of Sherlock’s lips away and poured more water.
“You’re enjoying this,” Sherlock observed as John held out the second glass. Sherlock’s lips parted.
“Absolutely. I always enjoy burning the flesh off my loved ones to make them more dependent on me,” John replied, tilting the glass more expertly the second time. When it was empty, Sherlock leaned back against the headboard and watched John pour himself a glass.
“What are my white blood cells doing in your body? In Molly’s?”
“They’re in Molly’s blood?” Sherlock asked, the surprise clearer in the first words than the last. His brows drew together as he studied how John drank.
John noticed. It helped. He filled a second glass for himself and sat on the bed, turned towards Sherlock, one knee drawn up. “When they were dating, seems Moriarty kissed a cut on her finger. Once we figured out that I was involved in the roof melting…” John paused, took a sip of water. “You know about that?” Sherlock nodded. “Naturally. Anyway, we were trying to figure out how that could work, was it contagious and Molly mentioned the kissing bit and Mike wanted to test her blood.”
“I should have thought of that earlier,” Sherlock said.
“Earlier than what?” John asked, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock closed them. “No, never mind. Let me finish this part.” John took another drink. “We mixed it with some of mine and the result was impressive. Fierce,” John said.
Sherlock opened his eyes and considered John, who was drinking again. “It would be. The fever raged for days after he touched me on the roof,” Sherlock said.
“Because of what his cells were doing in your body?” John leaned forward. “They seemed to be quiescent in Molly’s blood and there weren’t very many of them.”
“No, because of what your cells were doing to his biological material in my system,” Sherlock said. “Only there was much more of both.”
“So what are my white blood cells doing in your body, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looked carefully at John. “Protecting me,” Sherlock said.
John’s brows furrowed, “Like a woman’s stronger immune system protects her foetus or her nursing child.”
“Closest analogy,” Sherlock said.
“But a mother’s immunity would have been built up through exposure. How’d…?” John began.
“You were sensitised,” Sherlock said.
“At the pool,” John finished.
Sherlock nodded. “He envied me you.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “I had what he wanted,” he said.
“We both did.”
John finished his water, raised the glass to Sherlock. He nodded. John stretched to reach the pitcher.
“He could do what you can. I saw them in Molly’s blood before my white cells destroyed them…cells that aren’t like any others,” John said, bringing the glass to Sherlock’s mouth. “Not like any blood cells,” John murmured as Sherlock drank. John put the glass down, his mind sifting through images irrelevant to his specialty and unrelated to his recent research. “Haploid,” John said, turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock inclined his head, waiting. “They were merging with other cells in my blood, but not in Molly’s or Mike’s or Mrs Hudson’s. Why?”
“We’ve a wealth of new evidence, so we’re making progress, but we don’t have the answer yet,” Sherlock said. “Perhaps the best we’ll be able to do is learn how.” Sherlock started to smile. “But if we can find out why, we’ll understand the whole experiment.”
John scowled at the word. “You…”
“Not my experiment, John. Well, that, too. No, I mean the experiment, the original one. What caused it? Was it intentional?” Sherlock’s words were flowing faster and his bound hands were waving, the bandages bright. John pictured the slender fingers whose eloquent movements would normally have accompanied the flight of ideas. “What exactly Mycroft and I and the others are.”
The last sentence snapped John’s attention back to the import of Sherlock’s words. “The others? Moriarty?”
“It would seem.” Sherlock stopped, his look the one he bestowed on John when he conducted light.
“And Irene,” John said, thinking of how she and Sherlock had regarded one another, the palpable fascination.
“We have no proof, but I would guess, yes,” Sherlock said, his look becoming even more focussed.
“Others?”
“Not certain, but I would think perhaps a few,” Sherlock said. “The records are minimal. Your research hadn’t reached them yet.”
“But you were leading me to them,” John said, taking a deep breath. His shoulders relaxed.
“I thought I would be gone longer,” Sherlock said. “I should have been, I’m not done, but I couldn’t stay away for very long.” His hands had settled across his lap. “I hadn’t predicted that.”
John found himself fixated on the tips of Sherlock’s fingers peeping from the top of the bandages. He wanted to touch his lips to them. “You literally couldn’t stay away from me?” John said, bending closer.
“It made me unwell,” Sherlock stated, his disapproval of the fact, audible. He watched John’s head dip. Sherlock moved his hands further along his thighs. John listed accordingly.
“I never got to that point, but I noticed changes in energy and mood,” John said.
Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his fingertips. “Separation seems to affect me more strongly than it does you,” he admitted. The tip of John’s tongue touched the top of one finger. Sherlock closed his eyes. “Which gives rise to another question.” John’s tongue glided along the three exposed fingertips. “What exactly are you?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next part, There Are Times When the Stars Are Too Close, may be read here.