The Devil Was Never Here

An Impossible Offer

Four Weeks Later: Sherlock was sitting on the steps, holding a blanket around his trembling body and trying to catch his breath. His teeth kept chattering dispute the warmth the blanket provided, and he still felt sick. He could hear Mary and Molly tending to John, trying to get him to sit up, trying to give him some water and a blanket as well. But John was delirious; he kept asking what was going on, what he had done, and why Sherlock wouldn't look at him. In all truth Sherlock wanted to look at him, maybe seeing John as he was would help with this coping process, but Sherlock couldn't look at him right now. He just saw yellow eyes, staring at him through the darkness, that deep, twisted voice. John couldn't possibly be that evil, how could someone so pure host something that crawled from the depths of Hell? Sherlock shook violently again, pulling the blanket over himself and closing his eyes.
"Sherlock dear, are you alright?" Molly wondered, walking over to the steps and looking at Sherlock with a very motherly expression. Sherlock nodded, but you'd have to be a complete idiot to believe that.
"It's cold." He admitted.
"Would you like to go upstairs? This basement air probably isn't helping anything." Molly suggested.
"Where is John?" Sherlock wondered, ignoring her question but not getting up to look around himself.
"He's over there, on the crates. He looks just about as good as you, maybe worse." Molly admitted.
"Did you hear him?" Sherlock wondered.
"Only a little bit, but I didn't know it was him. I thought it was a record playing something, an old scratchy one. That wasn't his voice." Molly admitted.
"No, it wasn't. There's definitely something inside him Molly, something that I don't like." Sherlock admitted.
"Irene Adler." Molly agreed. There was a tense silence, and Sherlock nodded, trembling at the very thought.
"She's the only one that makes sense. Irene or the Devil himself." Sherlock guessed.
"Let's not get carried away." Molly suggested. "Want to go upstairs?" Sherlock nodded weakly, and Molly helped him to his feet, leading him up the basement stairs and back into the bright kitchen. Sherlock walked over to the living room and collapsed onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling and letting Molly tuck the blanket over top of him.
"You just rest here Sherlock, I'm going to go down and make sure John is taken care of." Molly muttered, patting Sherlock on the head as if that would help in anyway.
"Be careful Molly, I don't know when that spirit will come back." Sherlock insisted.
"I'll be fine Sherlock; it's going to be fine." Molly assured, giving Sherlock an encouraging smile before walking back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone with his fears. He let his head sink into the pillow, taking slow, deep breaths and trying to regain his sanity. This wasn't natural, this wasn't good. If a spirit was that powerful, if it was able not only to possess a body but to take over whenever it wanted then they weren't safe at all. Maybe it preferred darkness, but still, Sherlock was sure that light wouldn't stop it at all. Ms. Irene Adler was proving to be a much bigger problem than he had previously assumed. Sherlock's thought process was interrupted by the shuffling of little feet on the hardwood floor, and Sherlock couldn't help but jump violently when he saw that he wasn't alone anymore. Rosie stood in the doorway in a little tutu, looking very timid and clutching a plastic first aid kit to her chest.
"Hello." Sherlock managed, feeling rather sick dispute his attempt at a smile.
"Daddy's yelling." Rosie muttered nervously, her little eyes looking over at the kitchen nervously.
"That's not your father." Sherlock assured. "He's alright, he's just resting."
"Are you sick?" Rosie wondered, inching ever closer as if scared Sherlock was going to attack her or something. But even if he wanted to, Sherlock doubted he could make it two steps off of this couch.
"I guess so. Just shocked, scared." Sherlock admitted.
"Did daddy scare you?" Rosie wondered. Sherlock sighed heavily, but shook his head reassuringly.
"Not your dad, but whatever was in your dad. You know not to go near him when he's like that, right?" Sherlock asked. Rosie nodded, walking up to Sherlock and setting her little first aid kit on his chest for somewhere to rest it. Sherlock just laughed a little bit, watching as she got out a little purple band aid.
"Where do you hurt?" she wondered. Sherlock could only a smile, a genuine smile actually, dispute his pain.
"Well I do have a bit of a headache." Sherlock admitted. It was the truth of course, his head was throbbing in his skull, but he doubted something as meager as a band aid could fix that. But that didn't stop Rosie of course; she marched right over and opened up the band aid, sticking it right in the middle of Sherlock's forehead as if that would fix his headache straight away.
"There we go, all better." Rosie said triumphantly, closing her first aid kit and holding it once more in her arms.
"Thank you Rosie, I feel better already." Sherlock said with a smile, although his stomach was started to ache as if he were going to throw up soon.
"Be careful with Daddy, I'm afraid he's going to hurt you." Rosie muttered.
"No, no your father would never hurt me. It's whatever is inside of him that's making him mean like this. Think of it as a sickness, when it takes over he's not himself. But it can be cured, alright? It just might take a little bit more than a purple band aid." Sherlock muttered, smiling softly at the little girl, who didn't seem to understand anything he just said. She just scampered away as quickly as she had come, her little tutu flopping around as she darted out of the room. And so Sherlock was left alone, letting his head fall back once more and taking more deep breaths, wishing for some sort of Advil or something to calm his pain. It was another fifteen minutes until they finally got john up the stairs. He was definitely in a worse state, he was clammy and white as a sheet, in fact he could hardly walk on his own. Sherlock caught the smallest glimpse of him before he was hauled up to his bedroom, he could hear John mumbling to himself, almost as if he had gone mad. Molly went into the kitchen to make tea for them all, and once more Sherlock was left alone. The night got worse and worse as it progressed. Although eventually Sherlock did fight off his nasty bout of the chills, he spent a good ten minutes hunched over the toilet, vomiting up everything he had eaten in the last twelve hours. That must have been what he needed, however, because as soon as he recovered and used about a half a bottle of mouthwash he seemed good to go. He was on his feet and helping Molly put together a little tray for John, a couple of pieces of toast, some yogurt, and a nice mug of tea. Mary was still up there, nursing him probably. But this possession really drained him, he couldn't walk, he could barely talk, and Sherlock was willing to bet he felt twenty times worse than Sherlock ever had in his life. It wasn't John's body that was drained but his soul, or at least the infection that was clinging to his soul. The amount of energy it took a spirit to take over so quickly and to talk, to scream and pull, it was probably enough to power an entire house's electricity. The poor man but be exhausted beyond belief. Molly carried the dinner tray up to John and Mary's room, Sherlock following behind like a timid child. He could hear them talking in soft voices, he could hear Mary trying to sooth him. Rosie's bedroom door was shut, she was presumably in there, probably told to hide.
"Knock knock." Molly said lightly, walking into the bedroom and setting the tray on the side of the bed.
"Oh Molly that's lovely, thank you so much." Mary said with a thankful smile. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, illuminated only by a single lamp, the curtains were drawn and the sun had long since sunk. John was propped up on multiple pillows, and his face was about as white as the pillow cases on which he lay. He looked terrible; he barely had the strength to keep his head up or even keep his eyes open. Sherlock seriously doubted he was in the mood for any food right now, but he was looking over at the tray curiously. His eyes were back to normal, even if they did lack that lively glow. They weren't yellow, which was good. The sight of him eased Sherlock's nerves just a little bit, he was happy to know that they had both come out of this relatively unharmed. John's weak state was all Sherlock's fault, as were most things. Once more he had done something reckless without weighting out the consequences, and they were all paying the price.
"Thank you Molly." John muttered in a weak voice, looking over at Sherlock with tired eyes.
"Are you feeling better?" Molly wondered, keeping her voice low so as not to assault his ear drums. John nodded, but Sherlock suspected that was a lie. He was just nodding to make Molly feel better, to settle her down just a little bit.
"Do you mind if I talked to Sherlock?" John wondered.
"Well certainly, he's here." Mary agreed, holding her husband's hand in her own carefully.
"Alone? If possible?" John suggested in a weak voice. Mary's smile faded just a bit, but she nodded.
"Yes of course." Mary agreed, getting to her feet and letting John's hand fall back on the blankets. She walked around the bed and led Molly out of the room, closing the door softly and leaving Sherlock and John alone once more, illuminated only by the weak lamp light.
"Come here." John muttered, gesturing for Sherlock to come closer so that he didn't have to talk very loudly.
"Yes, of course." Sherlock agreed, feeling as though he had to do anything to keep this man happy. It was his fault he was here in the first place. Sherlock walked around the edge of the bed and sat very gently on the edge, looking down on John worriedly.
"It's not as bad as it looks." John assured, as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was thinking.
"I'm sorry John, I'm sorry I talked you into this, I should've been more careful." Sherlock muttered, hanging his head low in shame.
"It's not your fault Sherlock; you were doing what you had to. It's Irene's fault, it's whatever is inside me's fault." John assured. Sherlock just shrugged, trying to convince himself that he was innocent.
"What did I say?" John wondered. "I mean, what did it say?"
"He is mine." Sherlock muttered quickly, the words stuck to his brain as if they had been branded there.
"What do you think that means?" John wondered in a hoarse voice. Sherlock shook his head helplessly; he had no idea what it was talking about.
"Well it could be a lot of things; she was convinced of seducing a man, that could be it. It could also be about you, about your body, about your soul. She's claiming you as her own, that you're not John Watson, you're simply her property." Sherlock suggested. John nodded, obviously very uncomfortable with this, especially if he couldn't remember it.
"And what about her actions, what was she doing?" John wondered. Sherlock sighed heavily, looking down almost in shame.
"She was pulling me closer, she was pulling my arms." Sherlock admitted.
"Is that defensive or possessive? Do you think you're the one she's claiming?" John wondered. Sherlock looked at him curiously, that was actually a really good idea, something he never would've guessed on his own.
"Why would she want me?" Sherlock wondered curiously. John just shrugged, as if he had a couple of reasons in mind.
"Well, you're the only one that can see her, maybe she thought that was attractive." John suggested with a little laugh. Sherlock just laughed, shaking his head doubtfully.
"I'm pretty sure seeing ghosts isn't attractive." Sherlock guessed.
"Oh I don't know, some of the ladies might like it. Your powers make you mysterious." John pointed out.
"Well then, that's not really my problem is it?" Sherlock wondered, raising a telling eyebrow.
"What, you don't date?" John wondered curiously. Sherlock shook his head with a little laugh; the idea of him not dating was almost like a dog not eating. It was physically impossible.
"I date, certainly. But most of the people I hook up with don't find my ghost talking skills to be very attractive, if I even tell them." Sherlock admitted with a smile. John just shrugged, a little smile peeking through on his weak lips.
"It might be enough for the ghost." John guessed. Sherlock nodded in agreement, a very sickening feeling in his stomach once more.
"I'm sorry about all of this John, I'm sorry you have to be going through this. You don't deserve it." Sherlock muttered, feeling as though this had to be said before they ran out of words.
"Well no one deserves something like this, of course not. But it's not all bad." John assured.
"You're bed ridden, miserable and immobile because a ghost possessed your body. How is this not all bad?" Sherlock asked curiously, wondering how John could possibly put an optimistic spin on this.
"Well, I met you, for one." John muttered, as if he were too scared to say such a thing.
"Oh you flirt." Sherlock said with a laugh, and John could only laugh as well, shaking his head defensively.
"No, not like...not like that...just I'm glad to have met you. You're an interesting person Sherlock, and I think that if I hadn't gotten possessed you never would've sauntered into my life." John insisted.
"Well, thank you John, that's strangely flattering." Sherlock admitted, blushing a little bit in the lamp light.
"But I hate to say you've got to get this thing out. It may have brought us together, but you need to free me, somehow. I know that you said it takes death to cure me, and if that's what you need to do then you do it. Sherlock if I ever attack Mary, or Rosie, or you or Molly or anyone, you need to end me. I don't care how you do it, shoot me, snap my neck, push me from the top of a waterfall, I don't care. Just Sherlock, kill me." John pleaded.
"There's a better way John, of course there is. We won't let it get to that." Sherlock assured.
"But if it does!" John insisted, grabbing for his arm pleadingly.
"It won't!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping off of the bed and pushing John's arm away. He wasn't going to talk about this; he wasn't going to plot out John's murder for the sake of reassurance. John wasn't going to die, no one was, that's not how this was going to end. There had to be a happy ending, dispute the downhill path they were taking.
"You're the only one that could do it Sherlock; you're the only one who understands what it's like to have a family, to have responsibilities." John insisted.
"You don't know anything about me, or my family. I abandoned them years ago John, I know nothing of family." Sherlock snapped.
"Well then someone you love, you need to have someone like that. Imagine if you were attacking Molly, you'd want to protect her, right?" John asked. Sherlock scowled, shaking his head defensively.
"John I'm not going to have this conversation." Sherlock insisted, starting for the door.
"Sherlock don't leave me!" John yelled, looking as though he were about to get out of bed and hobble towards the door as well. Sherlock grabbed for the door handle furiously, opening it and storming out into the hallway. But he could still hear John yelling, yelling for him to come back.
"You coward!" John exclaimed, and Sherlock could only lean against the wooden door, wishing that he could go back in. He wished that he could hold John's frail body in his arms and assure him that everything was going to be okay. That it would all be okay. No one needed to die.
"What's going on in there?" Molly wondered, rushing into the hallway as soon as she heard yelling. Mary was right behind her, looking very worried and almost accusing, as if she was sure Sherlock had started this.
"Nothing, it's fine." Sherlock muttered in a very unconvincing voice. Anyone with eyes and ears could tell that it most certainly was not fine. Sherlock moved away from the door, smoothing out his shirt and staring proud. John finally quieted, as if he knew this was a lost cause.
"What did he say to you?" Mary asked, looking at the door as if asking permission to go inside. Sherlock didn't say anything, however, so she made no move to go in.
"He didn't say anything important." Sherlock lied. Neither of the women looked like they believed him, but they knew enough not to challenge him. Sherlock would tell them what they needed to know, and obviously they didn't need to know about John's death wish. He was calling Sherlock a coward when he used death as an escape from anything inconvenient in his life, what a hypocrite.

    "I would like to stay over tonight, just to make sure everything runs smoothly." Sherlock decided, looking at Mary for permission.
"Aren't you more of a catalyst, aren't you provoking the spirit just by being here?" Mary asked, looking at Molly for support. Molly just raised her hands in surrender, obviously not wanting to get caught up in an argument between two very stubborn people.
"Well, yes, but I need to know what is going on, I need to know how to stop it. And isn't my presence good? If I'm here this spirit won't have a care for the two of you." Sherlock pointed out. Mary sighed heavily, looking back at Rosie's bedroom door, as if wondering how this might affect her child.
"Well alright, tonight will be fine." Mary agreed. "Molly, you're welcome to stay as well."
"oh no, um...I'm sure I'm needed at home. Got to feed the cat." Molly said very quickly, looking a bit pale as she even thought about staying overnight with the ghost of Irene Adler.
"Molly's scared." Sherlock said simply, and Mary couldn't help but crack a smile.
"Molly is scared." Molly agreed, talking in the third person as if that would somehow prove her point.
"Well no one's holding you here, go on then." Sherlock assured, waving his hand dismissively.
"Are you sure you'll be alright, do you have a tooth brush?" Molly wondered nervously.
"Molly, I'm fine. You're not my mother." Sherlock insisted. Molly sighed, obviously not wanting to be so invaluable to this investigation. But obviously her fear was overtaking her self-consciousness, and she gave Sherlock a very small hug goodbye before walking down the steps, thanking Mary for her time. Now it was just Sherlock and Mary, standing in the hallway.