Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first thing that the man who called himself John Doe noticed when he woke up was that he could not see.

This did not initially cause him alarm, as he rationalized that there must be some sort of covering over his eyes. However, when he reached up to remove said covering, he found there was none. His eyes seemed to be unobstructed, at least judging from what he could feel.

“The fuck?” John stumbled to his feet, fumbling for the light switch on the wall. Maybe the lights had gotten knocked out, he told himself. He just needed to get them back on. Logically, he knew something was very wrong here, but he needed to run through the rational explanations first before he moved on to the less-than-rational ones.

As he got to his feet, feeling for a wall to steady himself, he realized something else.

He had no idea who or where he was.

He knew his name was John Doe, that fact was burned into his mind, but that was the extent of his knowledge. He had no idea where he was, how he’d gotten there, or what had happened before he’d woken up on the floor. A part of him knew that this fact should scare him. After all, his past was gone and he could potentially be in a dangerous situation.

But John wasn’t afraid. Instead, he felt… relieved. It was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. How strange…

“Are you alright?” A voice suddenly asked.

John let out a yell of surprise, almost falling to the ground again.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” the voice said, sounding the slightest bit apologetic. It was a man’s voice, pleasant and calm, the words tinged with a British accent. The voice also had a strange… echoey quality to it.

And it sounded as though it were coming from inside John’s head.

“Who are you?” John demanded, immediately on the defensive. “Why are you in my head?”

He couldn’t explain why, but the fact that he now had a voice in his mind that most certainly did not belong to him made him want to claw off his skin in an attempt to remove the foreign entity. His body was his. No one else should inhabit it.

He was no one’s vessel.

“I’m in your head because you listened to my music box,” the voice answered, its cadence gentle and soothing. “I promise, I mean you no harm.”

“Bullshit!” John snapped, slamming his fist against the wall.

“It is not bullshit,” the voice said, beginning to sound a bit testy. “All I wanted was to leave the music box. I’m not going to try to take over your body if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Of course that’s what I’m worried about!”

“Look, Mr. Doe-” The voice began, only for John to cut it off.

“How do you know my name?” His nails dug into the wallpaper. The fact that the entity knew his name seemed to him to be proof that this possession had been premeditated. It had been watching him, waiting for a chance to strike. He was sure of it.

“Well, it’s written on the door of the office,” the voice answered, as though this fact was obvious. “John Doe, Private Investigator.”

John stopped, his confusion at this response completely derailing the fear and anger he’d been feeling. “…You can see?” He asked.

“You can’t?” The voice replied before making a little ‘hm’ noise. “Interesting.”

“No! It’s not interesting!” John yelled, his anger and fear surging back to the forefront of his mind with the confirmation that the entity had access to his sight when he didn’t. “How can you see when I can’t?!”

“Well, my best guess would be that I have control of your eyes now.”

“So you are trying to take over my body!”

The voice sighed. “No, I’m not.”

“And how am I supposed to believe you?”

“Mr. Doe-” The voice began, only to pause and let out a vaguely frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, can I just call you John? I mean, I’m inside your head. I think that allows for some level of familiarity.”

John hesitated, his metaphorical hackles rising at the idea of allowing this stranger to refer to him in such a friendly manner. But then again, the voice had a point.

“Fine,” he conceded, somewhat begrudgingly.

“Splendid. Then you can call me Arthur.”

“…Arthur?” John asked incredulously.

“Is there something wrong with my name?” Arthur asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” John said. “It was just… unexpected.”

The entity, Arthur, let out a little laugh. “I guess it would be, wouldn’t it? Hardly anyone calls me Arthur anymore.”

“So why do you want me to call you Arthur if no one else calls you that?”

“Because I thought it would be nice to have someone call me by that name again,” Arthur answered, a sort of wistful melancholy in his voice. “Although, if you prefer, you could just call me what others do.”

“No, Arthur is fine,” John said quickly.

Somehow, the entity having an ordinary name like Arthur did make John feel a little less uncomfortable with the situation. Almost as if the voice speaking to him were just another person.

He couldn’t let his guard down, though, he reminded himself. After all, Arthur was not another person. Arthur was an otherwordly entity that merely sounded like a person, and John had no idea what his motives could be. He had to be careful.

“Alright then. John-” The sound of his name spoken by Arthur’s strange, unearthly voice sent chills up John’s spine, although he tried to ignore the feeling. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I promise, I have no intention of stealing your body. Like I said, all I wanted was to escape the music box.”

“Alright.” John closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tried to take stock of the situation. “Alright. Do you know where we are?”

“We’re in your office,” Arthur answered. “Or, at least, I assume it’s your office, given your name is on the door.”

“And what does the office look like?”

“Well, it’s honestly a bit of a mess,” Arthur said. “You have piles of papers and books everywhere,. There’s hardly any clear space. Do you really bring clients in here, John?”

“I assume so,” John murmured, feeling where the wall was before turning around. “Is there a desk?”

“It’s in front of you,” Arthur said. “What do you mean, 'you assume so’? Do you not remember?” There was a keen interest in his voice, and John could almost imagine a gleam entering Arthur’s eyes.

“How far in front of me?” John asked, reaching out to feel for the desk.

“Just a few steps. You didn’t answer my question, John.”

“I know. That was on purpose.” John took a few steps forward, hands still out.

As Arthur had said, the desk was there. And it seemed just as covered in books and papers as Arthur had described, at least from what John could feel. Hopefully, it had some files on it that could tell him who he was and what he did. Could he trust what Arthur would tell him about those files, though?

“Why didn’t you answer my question?” Arthur asked. He sounded vaguely miffed, which John supposed was better than angry.

“Because I don’t want to.” John began to feel his way around the desk, trying to get to the area where he would normally sit.

“Why don’t you want to?” Arthur probed.

“Because I don’t want to,” John repeated, a bit more pointedly. “I don’t owe you any information.” His leg bumped into a chair at this point, causing him to curse quietly. Well, he’d found the seating area.

“That’s true,” Arthur conceded. “But I would like to help you if I can.”

John did his best not to snort in incredulity. He may have been stuck with Arthur for the moment, but that didn’t mean he had to trust him. However, it would be unwise to poke this particular bear. So, instead of expressing his distrust, he asked, “What do you see on the desk?”

Arthur sighed but did give a reply. “There are a few open files, with notes and photographs spread out across the desk.” He paused. “Does the name Emily MacFarland mean anything to you?”

An image appeared unbidden in John’s mind. A young woman lying on her back in a field, her face frozen in an expression of pure terror, her mouth gaping open and her eyes wide. Or, at least, her eyes would have been wide if there had been any left. They’d been clawed out, presumably by her own hand judging from the dried blood on her fingers and crusted under her nails. There was dried blood around her ears too, along with scratch marks that likely came from her own nails.

The image was so clear, as though he were looking at a photograph. It made him feel sick. His grip on the edge of the desk tightened as he tried to fight back the wave of nausea and guilt rising up in his chest.

He didn’t know how he knew this woman, but he was sure he did, somehow.

Your fault, an internal voice kept repeating. You didn’t save her.

“…No,” he managed to choke out. “…I don’t recognize the name.”

“Really?” It was Arthur who sounded incredulous this time.

“Yes, really,” John snapped. “Now is there anything else on the desk?”

“There’s the music box,” Arthur said. “My music box.”

It was hard to determine quite what the emotion in Arthur’s voice was when he spoke about the music box. He sounded somehow both fond and disgusted. John supposed the disgust made sense to a certain extent if Arthur had been trapped inside the box. But the fondness confused him.

“You dropped it when the music started playing,” Arthur continued. “But it’s still intact, thankfully. Just a bit scuffed.”

“What does it look like?” John asked, reaching tentatively out to find and pick up the music box.

It felt smooth and heavy in his hands, the wood worn with age and chipped in some places.

“It’s rather small as music boxes go,” Arthur said. The fondness was more prevalent now as he described the object. “It’s made of a dark brown wood, chipped in some places. There are flowing filigree designs carved into the sides that look like leaves.”

“…Do you remember what it looks like inside?” John wasn’t about to open the music box and risk hearing the song again, as he had a feeling the song was dangerous. After all, the song had put Arthur into his head. Still, he wanted to know what was inside.

Arthur was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “The inside is lined with red velvet, although the velvet has worn away in some place,” he said. “There is a photograph set into the lid. A photograph of a smiling girl, not more than four or five years old. Below it is written…” Arthur paused, his voice hitching. “Below it is written, 'For my darling Faroe’.”

John was tempted to turn Arthur’s earlier question back at him and ask if the name “Faroe” meant anything to Arthur. But he thought better of it. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that “Faroe” meant something to Arthur. And, judging from the way he’d become emotional upon mentioning Faroe, this was also not a bear that would be wise to poke.

“There’s, ah, there’s also a box on top of a pile of papers,” Arthur continued, seemingly trying to reign in his emotions. “I think it’s what my music box came to you in.”

“Is there a return address on it?” John set the music box down, feeling around for a moment or two before locating the other box. It felt like it was made of thin cardboard and he could hear paper rustling inside.

“Aah… Could you close the flaps?”

John felt for the flaps and did as he was asked.

“Mm…” Arthur let out a hum as he read. “Yes. There is a return address.”

“And what is it?” John prompted, somewhat irritated.

“Junior Dewitt Ackerman. Rare Books. Arkham, Massachusetts,” Arthur said. “Is that where we are? Arkham?”

That sounded right, so John nodded. “Why would a bookstore send me a music box?” He murmured, turning the box in his hands.

“Why don’t we find out?” Arthur suggested.

“What?”

“You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?” Arthur said. “This certainly sounds like something that needs investigating.”

John stiffened, quickly putting the box down. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Why?” Arthur asked.

“Because in my experience, bad things happen when people go sticking their noses where they don’t belong,” John growled.

Although no specific instances came to mind, he could feel this fact in his bones. Bad things happen when you stick your nose into supernatural situations. Bad things like this.

“Isn’t that your job?” Arthur laughed. “A private investigator is supposed to go sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“My job is to stick my nose into mundane situations,” John snapped. “I don’t go looking for trouble when it comes to things like this.”

“Things like this?” Arthur echoed, still sounding somewhat amused.

“The supernatural.” John leaned on the desk.

“Well, if you want to remove me from your mind, you’ll probably have to go poking around,” Arthur pointed out. “I won’t go away if you sit here and do nothing.”

John let out a frustrated groan, his hands curling into fists as he continued to lean on the desk. He knew Arthur was right and he hated it.

“…Fine,” he ground out through gritted teeth after a moment or two of wrestling with himself. “Fine. We’ll go to the store to ask about it.”

“Excellent! I don’t know about you, but I’m quite excited to see how this turns out.”

“Well, at least one of us is having fun,” John muttered. “Guide me to the door, will you?”

“Of course. The door is to your right. Just turn and take a few steps and you’ll be there.”

John let out a long exhale, turning and stepping in the direction Arthur had indicated. He had a bad feeling about where this journey was going to lead him.

Chapter Text

Getting down the stairs proved more difficult than John had anticipated. Not being able to see nagged at him as he made his way to the ground floor. Arthur offered assistance, but John still didn’t know if he trusted the voice. He ended up nearly falling down the stairs more than once because he didn’t believe Arthur when he told him there was an obstacle. Loath as he was to admit it, it did seem he needed to trust Arthur’s direction.

“See?” Arthur said as they finally reached the ground floor. “It’s not so hard when you listen.”

The smug satisfaction in his tone made John’s blood boil.

“Shut up,” he growled. His cheeks burned with the mortification of the ordeal. This was humiliating. The sooner he could get Arthur out of his head, the better. He didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate this.

“Where’s the door?”

“Right ahead of you.”

John gave a little nod, instinctively putting his arm out as he approached to push the door open.

The air was cool as he stepped out onto the street, a breeze blowing through his hair.

“Oh…” Arthur let out a small, reverent gasp.

“What?”

“The leaves. They’re…beautiful,” Arthur whispered.

Another image appeared in John’s mind. Himself, staring out a train window, face pressed to the glass as he beheld a sea of trees painted in vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds. It looked as though the forest was ablaze.

“They are, aren’t they?” John’s voice softened a tad. “I… remember being dazzled when I saw them for the first time. I thought the forest was on fire.” He allowed himself a small laugh.

“What a lovely image,” Arthur laughed as well. His laugh was… nice. Charming.

John quickly shook his head, feeling strands of hair shaking loose from an already rather undone ponytail. Instinctively, he reached up, untying the ribbon he’d been using to keep his hair back and tying it back once more with practiced ease.  

“You have quite long hair for a man,” Arthur remarked.

“I’m aware. I like it this way,” John instinctively replied. He could feel his metaphorical hackles rising once more. This was a conversation he’d had before, he was sure of it.

Arthur made a noise like he was clicking his tongue. “Touchy, aren’t we?” He sounded somewhere between amused and annoyed. 

“I don’t want to have this conversation,” John grumbled. “Now, where’s the curb? I’m going to hail us a cab.”

Arthur directed him to the curb, and John raised his arm in a practiced motion. He heard a car come to a stop in front of him. With Arthur’s help, because John was begrudgingly taking it, he got in, relaying the address to the cabbie and sitting back as the cab began to move once more. He could hear faint sounds outside the car, people walking about and talking, other cars passing by.

Despite himself, he asked under his breath, “What do you see?”

Arthur hummed in thought for a moment before answering. “I see men, women, and children walking about as though they haven’t a care in the world. Other cars are passing us, some other taxis and some ordinary cars with more people in them. The city is… alive.” The quiet reverence that his voice had possessed when he’d spoken of the leaves had returned. “I’d forgotten how beautiful the music of life can be.”

“You’d forgotten?” John echoed with a frown.

“When I was in the music box, everything was dark. Cold,” Arthur said, his voice suddenly going flat. “The world I was confined to was… a prison. A dark mirror. It is a shadow of all that is and all that will. The music there is… twisted, nothing but a mockery of the music that true life has. They cannot create their own music there. They can only copy what they’ve already heard. And that quickly grows stale.” There was a coldness to his tone that sent shivers down John’s spine. A cool detachment that reminded him that although Arthur sounded human, he most certainly was not.

“You keep talking about music. What on Earth does that mean?” He asked, desperate to escape the uncomfortable conversation topic he’d inadvertently stumbled upon.

Thankfully, this did seem to improve Arthur’s mood, as warmth quickly returned to his voice. “Everything in the universe has a song to sing,” he said wistfully. “I wish you could hear it, John. It’s beautiful.”

The music of the universe, huh? A part of John couldn’t help but be jealous. He didn’t think he was a particularly musical person, but the way Arthur spoke about this supposed song made his heart yearn to hear it.

This train of thought was quickly derailed, though, as the car came to a stop.

“Ah, we’re here,” Arthur reported.

“How much is the fare?” John began to dig his wallet out of his pocket.

“It says $2.33.”

John counted out the coins by feel before handing the fare over to the cabbie with a gruff “thanks” and exiting the car.

“So, here we are,” Arthur said. “The light is on.”

“Then hopefully Ackerman’s around.” John felt for the doorknob and pulled the door open.

The air that rushed out of the shop smelled stale, like old paper and dust. The tinny music of a radio drifted to his ears from deeper inside the store. There was also the sound of someone rustling papers. John assumed the person was Ackerman, but… something didn’t feel right.

“Is there someone here?” He asked, taking a step inside.

“There’s a man behind the counter to your right,” Arthur said. “He’s dressed in a suit, like yours, although his is considerably shabbier. And he has-”  

But John didn’t hear the rest of what Arthur said as the man had spoken, and that single word became all he could hear.

“Vessel?”

That single word made John’s blood run cold, and before he was even aware of it, he was pulling out his gun.

“Where is he?” He growled.

Arthur paused in his description. “What?”

“Where is he?!” John demanded. “Tell me where he is so I can shoot him!”

“Ah.” Arthur’s surprise gave way to an eerie calm. “He’s right in front of you, just behind the counter.”

John raised his gun, pointing it roughly where he thought the man would be. “Is my shot lined up?”

“Move a bit to the right, and then you’ll have his head in your sights.”

John could practically feel Arthur behind him, breath tickling John’s ear as he draped one arm over John’s, guiding his hand to the correct position, his fingers curling around John’s so that they were both ready to pull the trigger. John’s arm had been shaking terribly before, but with the image of Arthur at his back… Suddenly, he wasn’t shaking so much.

“Vessel, we’ve been searching for you,” the man said.

“Don’t call me that,” John growled.

“He’s moved closer to the counter. It’ll be hard to miss at this range,” Arthur whispered.

“Come back with me, Vessel,” the man said. “You can still fulfill your destiny. You can still-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as John pulled the trigger. There was a bang as the gun fired and a thud as the body hit the ground.

“You got him right between the eyes,” Arthur said. John could feel the warmth of Arthur’s pride radiating in his chest. “Well done.”

“…Thank you…” John nodded slightly, leaning on the counter a bit to steady himself.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked.

“I just need a minute…” John mumbled, taking a deep breath. It didn’t particularly bother him that he’d taken a life, but it was still… an intense experience.

“Don’t take too long,” Arthur said. “At least one person had to have heard that shot. Our time here is limited.”

“Of course.” John leaned on the counter, trying to steel himself. “Do you see anything that might be useful?”

“There’s a small wooden desk further back with an oil lamp on it. That seems like a good place to start.”

John nodded. Following Arthur’s directions, he made his way to the desk. As they went, Arthur described the scenery around them; stacks of books piled high, everything crowded together to the point that it almost felt claustrophobic. There also seemed to be a rather big mess of discarded books and ransacked file cabinets, presumably from the man John had shot rifling through the place. John tried very hard not to think of the man. He didn’t want to think of what the man had called him. That title… Why did he know that title? And why did it fill him with such dread?

“Here we are,” Arthur suddenly said, pulling John back to the present. “It looks like a writing desk. Likely the owner’s. There’s a rather large number of papers on it, as well as some pens, various objects, and knick-knacks.” He sounded a bit bored as he described the contents of the desk. “Nothing terribly interesting.”

“Is there a receipt book?” John leaned on the desk, beginning to feel around. If the owner had sent the music box to them, then there would no doubt be proof of the sale. The owner would want to keep track of everything he sold and where he might have sent certain items.

“There’s a book to the left of where your hand is resting that’s labeled “receipts”.”

John felt around until he located the book, opening it and beginning to flip through it.

“Do you see anything about the music box?” He asked.

“Mmm… No,” Arthur replied.

John growled in frustration, resisting the urge to throw the receipt book across the room. “There’s nothing there? Nothing at all?”

“There’s no record of sale for anything but books here,” Arthur confirmed.

“Dammit!” John slammed the book closed and banged the surface of the desk. He could hear some papers dislodge and fall to the floor as he did.

“Relax,” Arthur said gently. “You getting heated isn’t going to make evidence suddenly appear.”

“What else am I supposed to do?!” John snapped. He felt like he wanted to vomit. The unknown man’s words kept echoing in his mind over and over. He wanted Arthur out of him. He wanted him out right now, and he wanted to go back to whatever life he’d had before.

“Calm down and think,” Arthur said. “Something isn’t adding up here. Why would someone send you a music box from here and not have any record of it existing?”

John closed his eyes and forced his breath to slow. He hated it, but Arthur was right. Again. He needed to think about this.

“If there’s no record of it…” He said slowly, the gears in his mind turning. “Then that means the owner probably wasn’t asked to send it by a third party. And if he’s not around and his store is being ransacked… Maybe the owner didn’t want the box to be found.”

“Wrapping it up so it looks like any other package would be the best way to hide it,” Arthur agreed.

“Maybe.” John chewed on his lip. But how would a rare books dealer get their hands on a music box? And why send it to him of all people?

“There’s a rolodex on his desk,” Arthur remarked. “And it’s already open.”

“It is?” John fumbled about on the desk. “Where is it?”

Vaguely, he wondered how Arthur knew what a rolodex was. An inhuman creature logically shouldn’t know about a modern thing like a rolodex. But that thought was pushed away in favor of whatever answers the rolodex might be able to provide.

“The back right,” Arthur said.

John’s fingers closed on the metal of the case, and he pulled it toward him. “Alright.” He felt around to make sure the cards were facing them. “Tell me if you see my name or my address.”

“What is your address again?”

“13 Mosby Avenue,” John answered instinctively. He internally breathed a sigh of relief at this. It would have been incredibly embarrassing if he hadn’t been able to answer that question.  “Now, are you ready?”

“It’s already on your address, John.”

John froze. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. “…What?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“The rolodex has been left on 13 Mosby Avenue. But the name says Roland Cummings.”

“Roland Cummings…” The name sounded so painfully familiar.

“Do you know him?” Arthur asked.

“He… had the office before I did,” John replied. “I think he was a private investigator too.”

“You think?” Arthur probed.

“I don’t know much about him,” John said. “Just that he had to leave the city very suddenly and… I took over his lease.”

There was something else… Something nagging at the back of his mind. Something had happened to Roland Cummings. Something John had been privy to. He was sure of it. But what was it?

“Why would someone send my music box to him?” Arthur murmured.

“I have no idea,” John said. He had an awful feeling about this, though. An awful feeling that this was a piece in a puzzle that led to something he’d been avoiding. “I think his mail is still in the basement.”

“Maybe we’ll find a clue there.”

“Maybe.” John maneuvered his way out of the shop. Someone would find the man, he imagined. And he didn’t want to be there when it happened.

The fresh air felt good after the stagnant air of the bookshop. John breathed a sigh of relief as he hurried away down the street. He hoped he wouldn’t have to think of that strange man again, but he had a feeling that wasn’t going to happen…

One more taxi ride later, and they were back at John’s building, with Arthur guiding John down to the basement. Like the bookshop, the air in the basement felt stale and stagnant. There was also a cool dankness to the air of the basement that made it feel less stuffy than the bookshop, thankfully.

“There are cages on the walls,” Arthur reported.

“They should have numbers on them,” John said, running his fingers over the doors of the cages. “My office number is 76. Do you see it?”

“Ah…There!”

John stopped his hand, gripping the cage bars in preparation to open it. “This one?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

John dug into his pocket again, retrieving a small ring of keys. He fumbled a bit, trying a few different keys before he found the right one. He got the feeling he didn’t come down here all that often. Dammit! This was so embarrassing. It was even worse that he couldn’t even see the keys to figure out which one might fit the lock.

“You seem to be having some trouble there,” Arthur remarked, sounding rather amused.

“Shut up,” John muttered, pulling the door open. “What do you see?”

“So, you don’t want me to shut up?”

John made a noise of frustration, trying to tamp down the desire to punch one of the cages. That would only end up hurting him.

“Please, tell me what you see,” he said through gritted teeth.

Thankfully, Arthur didn’t rub this in John’s face, instead choosing to describe what he and John were seeing. “There are a number of boxes, all of them labeled.”

“Is one of them labeled ‘Cummings’?”

“At the very back, yes.”

John reached for the back, feeling around the files until he found what felt like envelopes. He gathered up a few envelopes and pulled them out. “This feels like mail. Is it?”

“It is,” Arthur confirmed. “It says ‘Delphine Cummings’.”

“His wife, I assume,” John murmured. “Is there an address on it?”

“86 Townline.”

“That’s a start.” John placed the envelopes back roughly where he thought he’d gotten them and closed the cage, locking it and tucking the key back into his pocket.

As he turned to leave the basement, though, Arthur’s voice stopped him.

“There’s someone else here.”

“What?” John began, only to be interrupted by a new voice.

“Vessel.” It was a man’s voice, low and gruff but clearly excited.

Immediately, John reached for his gun, but the man was on him before he could pull it out, grabbing his wrists and pushing him against a wall.

“We’ve been looking for you for so long, Vessel,” the man whispered. He sounded positively giddy. “And to think, all this time you’ve been here. Right under our noses.”

“John, you need to do something,” Arthur said. There was a sense of urgency to his voice that John hadn’t heard from him before. But, to John’s frustration and horror, he couldn’t force his body to move.

His breath came in quick gasps as the strange man ran a finger down John’s jaw. “It’s time for you to come home, Vessel. You’re finally going to do what you were meant to do.”

“John!”

Why couldn’t he move? Why wouldn’t his body move?! He needed to move. He needed to do something! But no matter how hard he tried, his body just wouldn’t cooperate.

“JOHN!”

Suddenly, John’s left hand broke free of the man’s grip, wrapping around the man’s throat.

But John wasn’t the one moving it.

John couldn’t feel his hand anymore.

He could hear the sounds of the man gasping for breath, could feel the man’s hands clawing desperately at John’s forearm.

But he couldn’t feel his hand.

Eventually, the gasping ceased, the clawing stopped, and there was a thud as the man’s body dropped to the ground. John stood there, breathing heavily, trying to process what had just happened.

“What was that?” He finally asked.

“He needed to be taken care of,” Arthur replied. “You couldn’t do it, so I had to.” Once more, his voice was cold and dispassionate.

“I can’t feel my hand anymore. Why can’t I feel my hand?!” John demanded. “You said you weren’t going to take over my body!”

“I’m not.” He was so calm that it made John want to scream.  

“THEN WHY DO YOU HAVE CONTROL OF MY FUCKING HAND, ARTHUR?!”

“Stop yelling,” Arthur said, sounding very much like a disappointed parent. “The last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself when you have a dead body in front of you.”

John gritted his teeth. Why did Arthur keep having to be right?

“Now, we have what we came for,” Arthur continued. “We need to get out of here before someone comes to investigate the commotion.”

“Fine,” John said. “Show me the way out.”

And so, with Arthur’s help, he left the basement, heading back out into the night and toward the home of Roland Cummings.