The Omega Sutra: Chapter Twenty-Four: The Desires of the Undead

[ghislainem70]

The Omega Sutra: Chapter Twenty-Four: The Desires of the Undead

author: ghislainem70
rating: NC-17 word count:
10,000 this chapter/127,800 thus far
warnings: Omegaverse,mpreg, kink, angst
summary: Sherlock has a secret life, John shouldn't want to be part of it.
disclaimer:  I own nothing.


"We are to admit no more causes of natural things than such as are both true and sufficient to explain their appearances." -- Isaac Newton

LISTEN TO BELA LUGOSI'S DEAD Bauhaus, all rights reserved.

221b Baker Steet. 3 November, midnight.

At midnight, John rose. John had an internal clock drilled into him from Army days that accurately counted out the hours, whether he wanted it or not. He rubbed his eyes. Nobody had switched on the electric fire and the room was too cold.John carefully unwound himself from his sleeping mate, stopping to run a light fingertip along Sherlock’s palm to feel his hand curl around it in response. This was good, this was ordinary light sleep, not the strange semi-coma of the days after Hantswood Hall. He turned on the fire and pulled the covers over Sherlock.

He quietly found his robe and went down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. It was too cold here too, so he turned on the fire. The glowing light flickered over the skull’s empty sockets. John felt more than ever as though it had malevolent intent. He turned the skull to face the wall and promised himself that the thing would be gone from 221b before the baby came.

He sipped his tea, listening for any sound of Sherlock stirring. He was not really sure why he had awoken. He didn’t think it was another nightmare. He felt a bone-weariness that had probably been accumulating since the night on the Magnus and his body felt like he could sleep for a week. He stretched, wanting to climb back up the stairs and into his own bed with Sherlock, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come yet. Maybe he would read a little first.

Sherlock’s laptop lay on a stack of forensic journals, just where he had left it. John’s fingers twitched. Maybe he would just have a look. He settled down at the chair by the window and began to read.

"At this point it is no doubt necessary for some readers to be reminded of the purpose and function of the mitochondria before proceeding to enumerate the means by which this material can be extracted from mummified remains for DNA analysis. Some textbooks refer to it as "the energy power house of the cell," and while I find this to be a gross simplification, it may be a useful mental aid to readers with less scientific minds. The mitochondria are protected by a honeycomb structure comprised of microtubules, and it is this structure that enables it to survive where other forms of DNA degrade. . ."

There were links to other research papers. It felt good to stretch his brain, he would perhaps surprise Sherlock and discuss this new work. He smirked, recalling Sherlock’s arrogant query whether he needed John’s permission to undertake research, or to leave 221b. This paper seemed harmless in itself. Having thoroughly exercised his Alpha privileges tonight, he knew he needed to tame his more possessive Alpha impulses. Sherlock had lived alone for a very long time, and was not accustomed to accounting to anyone for what he did, or why he did it.

". . . ‘The phenomena of human consciousness has been theorised to be the result of quantum processes occurring the microtubules in brain cells. Microtubules are driven bioenergetically to be in a coherent state. When the blood supply and oxygen cease, things go bad and the coherence stops. If the patient is revived, the information gets picked back up again, and it is this simple but elegant fact that explains the so-called near-death experience.’ (fn 35)"

John raised an eyebrow at this. He could not imagine Sherlock taking this sort of metaphysical talk seriously.

But he had been told by more than a few soldiers who came back from the brink about the white light, about floating above the operating theatre -- only to be yanked back from the light into their own body. John could not help but think that this peculiar new work signaled that Sherlock felt what he had felt down in that evil chamber --maybe not everything, but enough. Sherlock had insisted that he could not forget, and tomorrow he would try to be calm and listen to Sherlock's reasons why.

John idly consulted the citation, footnote 35.

Jesperson, E. Molecular Automata: Microtubules and the Fibonacci Lattice as Biocomputer.

Jesperson.

John closed the laptop, thinking about what Sherlock had said tonight. Sherlock thought there were mummified remains at Hantswood Hall. John remembered the earth-moving equipment, the ancient-seeming stone chamber below the Hall.

These ideas made him feel very uneasy. He stood up, pacing nervously.

There was a flash in his peripheral vision, through the window. In Afghanistan, those sorts of fleeting impressions were the difference between life or death. He followed it, looking out into the dark. Baker Street was quiet, no cars or people stirring.

He waited and watched. The hackles slowly stood at the back of his neck. He pressed his forehead against the cold glass. He remembered the night of the Heatwave, the night he had thrashed a predatory Alpha in the street. This felt like that.

Long minutes ticked by. He considered leaving the flat to take a walk up the street, do a little reconnaissance. But looking back up toward the stair, where Sherlock was sleeping peacefully in his bed, made him decide to let it go. Whatever it had been, it was gone. He finished his tea and thought that even if he could not sleep, he ought to go back.

He climbed the stair and very gingerly lay down with Sherlock, and listened to the sound of his steady breathing.

# # #

221b Baker Street. 4 November.

John wanted a normal, quiet morning at home before broaching the topic of the case, and their visit to this Jesperson fellow. Maybe he would make breakfast. He gingerly opened the refrigerator. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared. Bless Mrs. Hudson.

"We need milk," John observed.

"I’ll get it," Sherlock said. "I fancy a walk."

John reached for his coat. "Fine. Let’s go," he said, and held the door open for Sherlock. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"You aren’t seriously intending to walk with me every time I go to the market."

"Ask me again in a few weeks. Maybe a few years. Right now, the answer is - probably." He smiled while folding his arms over his chest to signal that he was not going to allow Sherlock to quibble with him any more about it. "I’ll just ask Mrs Hudson if she wants anything," He tried to be helpful, in return to that lady’s many kindnesses to him. He stopped to rap on her door.

"Oh, Doctor Watson, I thought you and Sherlock were away," Mrs Hudson said vaguely. She was wearing a lavender apron and brandishing a wooden spoon. "That's all right, though, I'm fine. Got eggs and butter this morning. I’m doing a lemon pound cake. But it’s turned damp, not good cake baking weather, you know. I find the damp just takes all the rise out of a cake. Still, pound cake is less temperamental, my mum always said. Next will be the Christmas pudding."

"That’s fine, then, cheers," John said, starting down the stair. Sherlock didn’t follow him.

"You said you thought we were away. Why did you think that, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Why, it was that man - I came down and there he was, hanging about the doorstep. Well, I’ve seen that look before. Anxious, he was. Hadn’t slept a wink in days, if you ask me. Man had some sort of business with Sherlock Holmes - and you too, Doctor Watson, no doubt of that."

"Where is he -- did he say anything?" Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, poised to charge down into Baker Street. John put a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I asked him right sharp what his business was. He said he had "business with Mr. Holmes, but that it would have to wait." I thought he had already knocked and found you were gone."

"But we’ve just got back yesterday, why should you think we had gone again?" Sherlock demanded.

"You do come and go at the oddest times, Sherlock, really," Mrs. Hudson said patiently.

"If he returns, make him wait, would you?" Sherlock said.

John felt the hackles on his neck rising again. The flash at the window. He bit back a curse at having failed to follow his instincts.

# # #

Upon returning from the shops, Sherlock refused John’s offer of cooked breakfast, rummaging in the kitchen and ultimately choosing tea and a single slice of dry toast. John tactfully refrained from mentioning morning sickness. Sherlock indeed disappeared for a while after a few bites of toast. There was a soft sound of retching from behind the toilet door.

John opened the door to find Sherlock gripping the edge of the toilet basin, looking pale and miserable. John simply helped him up and stayed with him quietly until he had washed his face and was steady on his feet. Sherlock frowned and put his hand to his stomach, but did not complain.

His mobile buzzed and Sherlock sighed, and took the call. John waited. A few muttered syllables between arrogance and annoyance told John who it was.

"Mycroft. He wants to talk to me. To both of us, actually. When I’m well enough, of course, he says. There really is still a case, you know. And I think it's time we talk about it, John."

Mycroft. John had been too dazed at Hantswood Hall to really process the fact that Mycroft Holmes was on the scene. Lestrade he had expected, of course, Donovan and other Yarders too; but Mycroft’s presence at Hantswood Hall that night had been an anomaly. During the long, anxious days in the secret hospital, John had never once thought to ask him about it. All that had mattered was Sherlock coming back to him.

"Well, tell Mycroft that you’re still not well enough." John said desperately. He was starting to understand that events outside 221b would sweep them back into the real world, there was no stopping it.

"I wish I could. Mycroft knows better, of course. Surely it’s no coincidence, John, that he is texting me the very minute we're back from the shops! He won't be put off much longer."

"I don’t understand why Mycroft’s involved at all - surely it’s the Yard’s case?"

"No, the Yard's out altogether, John. My meddling brother has somehow contrived to be appointed some sort of-- what did he call it -- a 'czar', yes. For MI5. I believe the Americans coined the term. Vulgar. I'm sure Mycroft will invent another title for himself-- "

"--Wait, Sherlock -- 'Czar'?? Czar of what, exactly?"

"Paranormal espionage, he says. The Sleeping Beauties case is his, now."

John covered his face with his hands.

Paranormal espionage.

Whatever that was.

In a way, he was relieved. If Mycroft Holmes, the very embodiment of British pragmatism, was prepared to treat this case as involving something paranormal, something supernatural, at least it meant he wasn't completely off his nut.

# # #

"All right," John said, steeling himself. It was too early for a drink and it wouldn't be fair to Sherlock anyway, in his newly-pregnant condition. May as well get used to it. Even in the face of what they were about to talk about, just this thought made him grin, and he pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace and planted a warm and sloppy kiss on his lips before settling them both down by the fire.

"It's time," he said. "Tell me why you -- and Mycroft -- even think there is still a case at all. Maxim's dead. You thought he was the Sleeping Beauty murderer; Lestrade-- and I guess Mycroft-- thought so too. Isn't it true? Case closed."

Sherlock paused. You killed the Omegas, Sherlock. The part of you that is with me is a klller, Maxim/Talbott had declared.

This was his fear. This is what he had to know. Was it true?

If it was true, what did it mean?

No more secrets, John had said. Bonded mates didn't keep secrets. And he knew down to his bones that they were bonded. John was right. Maxim had lied, to try weaken him so that he would have been a dead Omega, one of the Omega sacrifices Maxim had carefully planned for All Hallows Eve.

"Yes and no. First, I have to tell you a little about the history of Hantswood Hall, and about a man called Squire Jonathan Talbott who died in a fire there, four hundred years ago. Talbott was supposed to have made a pact with the devil. And we all know how the devil takes his payment."

John blanched.

"In souls," he said. "Sherlock...at the end, down in that stone room. Something happened to you. To us. Do you remember anything, anything at all, after you stabbed Maxim with that knife?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, remembering. "I do remember-- stabbing him. With the knife." And how astonished those eyes had been -- still Maxim's eyes, underneath-- after initiating Sherlock into the Mysteries, to feel Sherlock pierce his body at last with the most brutal penetration of all. "But after that -- just the dark. And cold, something cold on my face."

"Nothing else?"

"Not until I woke up and you were with me, in the hospital. In my bed." He wanted to smile at this memory, but that felt wrong.

"Sherlock. I thought it might have been a dream, I thought maybe . . . . I had somehow lost my mind, god knows you put me through enough to do it," he said. "But in the end, I saw a-- white mist . . . it was coming from Maxim's mouth. He was down, I thought he might be dead already. This mist, it went to your face, it was -- it was going into your mouth. And I -- I" he wasn't sure he could say it. He shook his head. Sherlock looked ill. He gripped John's hand very tight.

"I have to know, John. Please."

"I told it to leave you, that it couldn't have you. I told it to take me instead. But it wouldn't, not at first."

"John." Sherlock was climbing across the sofa to get to him. John held him back.

"Just don't - Sherlock, don't -- I never wanted to talk about this."

"Keep going, you have to," Sherlock whispered. "You said no more secrets, John. If Maxim was out -- it was Talbott that was in control. I'll explain. Go on."

"All right. Talbott -- right. It was just a voice. It was-- so loud. It was in the wind, if anyone could explain to me how there was a windstorm down there. But there was. Or maybe it was my own head. I know I heard it. And I know it heard me too, because it did leave you. And then it came to me. It was going to take me instead. Then Lestrade shot his -- it's-- head off. And everything stopped."

This time Sherlock would not be prevented. He climbed over, pinned John's arms to the sofa and straddled him. He had had quite enough of playing at Alpha-Omega. Few things could stir him to anger but John was disappearing into himself, crawling back down deep, the way he had been when they had first met, when John had just returned from the war. He wasn't ever letting John go back to that place.

"You never should have done that, John. I've never been careful with my life -- I never much cared. Not about mine, not about anyone's. I know it's different now. But you -- you -- " he couldn't express it, but he could make John feel it, and so he kissed him, taking his face between his hands and kissing him hard and deep, as if even now he could bring John back, all the way back from that evil. John kissed him back just as hard, but in the end when they broke away, they both could sense the coldness all around them.

Sherlock didn't move his hands. He made John look, really look, so he could understand. Usually everything he really needed to know was in John's eyes.

"Why was he willing to trade? You, for me? John -- what did you do?"

But John's eyes were fathomless. "How does the devil take his payment, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shook his head. This couldn't be true. Just as Maxim's accusation - I've got a little piece of your soul -- couldn't be true.

"No, no, John. No."

"I did. I promised him my soul."

# # #

In Baker Street, a figure shifted in the shadows of the stair to a basement flat. A man, pale with dark shadows under his eyes. He looked as if he had not slept in a long while.

The pale man stared up at the window to 221b, unblinking. Then he sat down on his rucksack to wait.

His iPod was running low on battery. He swore softly under his breath. There was nowhere to charge it of course, but it was very important that he keep listening.

He had spent many clandestine hours using equipment for which he definitely did not have clearance, to enhance these precious recordings. These were the recordings from Mycroft Holmes’ wire feed from Hantswood Hall. Finally, he had with painstaking effort assembled it into a coherent whole.

I’ve come into possession of a certain book. A book no one has seen.

You came here to find out the truth about the Sleeping Beauties. And that’s all right. Once you know the truth, you will want to be with me.

On a molecular level the human brain is a superconductor of energy. But it has a limitation. The easiest way to explain is to think about the power of mechanical engines. More horses, more power. I thought that binding Sherlock to me would give me this increase in power.

Why did you choose my brother?

Not for the reasons you might think, even though he is definitely within my preferred type. No, for his powers, of course. I have done some researches into the Holmes bloodline.

He had the entire restored tape on endless loop. He could listen to this voice pretty much forever. But he hadn’t slept in three days. As his mind finally gave way to a shallow, fitful sleep, the voice began to tell him something entirely new.

He wanted to wake up so he could listen more carefully, but the voice was telling him that he wanted him to stay as he was.

There was something only he could do, that he had been chosen to do.

"And then, you’ll show me the truth?" He asked eagerly.

You will know the truth, the voice replied.

# # #

Sherlock wrapped himself around John, and they were still, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.

"He can't have it. Nor mine," Sherlock said. No more secrets. "John, Maxim said he'd taken part of me, part of my -- soul. That because he had part of me, that I was the Sleeping Beauties killer too."

John was perfectly still. "Is this what you've been hiding? Is this what your mysterious project is about?"

"Yes. Because isn’t true, it can't be true, John - not the way it seems - demons and sacrifices on Halloween. There has to be an explanation that makes rational sense in the physical world. There has to."

"But you always say, eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth? What is impossible, Sherlock, is that what happened at Hantswood Hall was caused by an ordinary man. Or anything natural. I know what I saw and I know what I felt. Unless -- it was some sort of hallucination, a gas-- maybe I might believe that. But I really don’t think so, Sherlock. It felt too real for that. It still feels like that. I’d give anything if it didn’t. And what I felt and saw made absolutely no rational sense in the physical world."

Sherlock sat up, fixed John with his most intent stare. "What if there was a way for someone dead to take over, no, not take over exactly, but to -- merge, with a living person."

"Someone dead -- do you mean, like a, a zombie? I can’t believe we’re talking about this. This is why I said I never wanted to speak of it. This is insane. It’s evil."

"And that is exactly why I can’t leave it alone. Not zombies. Vampires."

"Vampires --" His brain was on the brink of complete rebellion. Utter meltdown. He wasn’t having this conversation with the surpemely logical, rational scientific genius Sherlock Holmes. "But vampires -- they’re supposed to drink blood, right? Did Maxim ever - wait, don’t tell me-- "

"No, never, John."

"-- but I didn’t see anything like that. . . There were a lot of Alphas down there, they’d cut each other to ribbons. But nothing that looked like something had -- drunk their blood."

Sherlock reached for his laptop. "Not the kind of vampire you’re thinking of. Something altogether different. And worse."

"Worse?" John actually laughed. He put his head in his hands. For a moment he had actually felt hopeful. If a vampire was what they were dealing with, all they had to do was go back to Hantswood Hall. If a knife, a bullet and fire hadn’t put the bloody thing down, he had seen all the old movies.

A stake through the heart would do the job. He was ready to go. Right now.

"Worse. A psychic vampire. An entity that feeds upon the psyche of others. Or their souls, if you will. Look at this."

Sherlock showed John a photograph. It was an irregular oval with bright rays of light around it, like pictures of an eclipse. Next to it, another irregular oval. There were rays around it too, but very faint.

"This purports to be a photograph of a psychic vampire, immediately after having fed upon the psyche of another person. It grew stronger, the victim grew weaker. I don’t know if the photo is genuine - I’ve analysed, Jesperson may know more. . . "

"Did this happen to you? Is that why all of the Omegas went into that strange sleep state? So this is what Maxim was trying to do -- taking souls? He meant it literally -- like some sort of food?"

"It wasn’t Maxim, John, not entirely. Something much more fascinating." Sherlock ignored John’s furious look. "It was Jonathan Talbott. Dead four hundred years, but he was with Maxim. There is something that they desire. All conscious things desire something, John. The most basic desire is hunger. You’re right when you say food, very interesting -- but I think it’s more basic. Food provides us calories, calories are energy. I think that what Talbott and Maxim were trying to do on All Hallows Eve was to accrue more energy. Now you understand why we need to see Dr. Edgar Jesperson."

"No I bloody don’t, and no we bloody aren’t. Maybe your brain was affected by what happened, and mine was too. As in, we’re both going mad. Nothing you’ve said makes me want to do anything other than forget, just shut the door on it and forget. For your sake, for my sake, for the baby’s sake. Like I said."

"But we’ve been over all that. John -- don’t you feel it? They want us to be afraid. When you are afraid, you are weak and when you are weak, that is one way they can take from you."

"One way? What are the other ways?" For some reason, his mind went back to the night before, standing at the window at midnight, the hackles on his neck raised. Something had been out there, something that was waiting for them.

"John, you asked why I was consulting Doctor Jesperson. I don’t know very much -- yet -- about quantum neurophysics. I’m trying to get up on it. I’ve been rather distracted from my researches, since we came back to 221b. But it is always advisable to seek the highest source of data in any subject. In quantum neurophysics, that is Jesperson. His work is very controversial."

"Do you mean-- he’s a quack?" John was baffled. "Why would you want to listen to someone like that?"

"In all fields associated with what is called "the paranormal," researchers are considered to be quacks. I quite agree; I’ve never yet been proven wrong. But Jesperson. . . he has some ideas that are grounded in real physics. I want to talk to him about the case."

John tried to remember what he had read last night in Sherlock’s blog. "But you said you were writing about mummified remains. And DNA testing. And -- microtubules."

"You’ve been peeking, John. Well, that’s good. Jesperson has some ideas about the persistence of human consciousness outside the physical body. That consciousness ultimately resides during life in the brain cells called microtubules. In the case of mummified remains, John, the microtubule is a structure that survives for longer and in more intact condition than almost any other tissue in the human body."

"And you’re thinking about mummified remains. . . because of this Squire Jonathan Talbott."

"Good, John. How can it be that Talbott, not his body but his consciousness, or his soul, if you will -- was been present with us that night? Because he was, it was him. We simply haven’t enough data. The villagers burned down the Hall when he was accused of consorting with the devil. But what if his body wasn’t burned in the original fire? My hypothesis is, Talbott’s remains were preserved somewhere, in a mummified state. "

Now John understood. He had been operating under an assumption. Sherlock had always cautioned him against making assumptions: It is a mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence, John.

"You don’t think Talbott - or Maxim - was burned in the fire this time either, do you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "After what you told me just now, John -- that white mist --" John shuddered.

"The more we know, the more power we will have, John. We can’t turn away. That white mist, it may have been a phenomenon known in paranormal studies as ‘ectoplasm.’ Another area that has been plagued with nothing but sheer quackery. Well, there are a few puzzling cases. But if what you say you saw was actually happening --"

"It was."

"-- then when El Brujo burned Maxim’s body, whatever spirit was animating it was already gone."

"The house burned too, Sherlock. Everything is gone. Maxim is dead."

"Not dead. There is a word that I dislike, a gross simplification -- "undead." It implies the animation of organic matter after natural death, but it could also describe the persistence of spiritual matter, after death. Yes. That mist, the mist that you so bravely drove from me - where did it go? Not back to Maxim’s body -- that really is burnt to ash."

"Where could it have gone?"

"If I’m right, Talbott -- Maxim -- whatever they have become -- is still out there somewhere, undead. Seeking what it desires - what it didn’t get on All Hallows Eve."

"Well, we aren’t giving it. I’ll see it in hell first," John said, and then caught his breath. The sheer stupidity of saying that aloud. Because he was certain that he had come very close to seeing hell firsthand.

Sherlock’s face was pale and stricken, and all the excitement of trying to piece together this uncanny mystery fell away. He took John’s hand.

"John. I must -- we must take this to the very end. You made a bargain with your soul. You’ve already given it to them."

To be continued. . . .