Chapter Text
“I’m sorry, Holmes. I never wanted you to see me like this.”
He stood over me with his hunting crop raised. I knew I must look a dreadful sight. He had likely been expecting to find a burglar or some other lowlife sneaking around in the little yard behind the house where I had inadvisably rented rooms six months ago. Instead there was me, crouched in the shadows of a warm and humid summer night, my mouth covered with blood and the lifeless body of a stray cat cradled in my hands. Any ordinary man would have been horrified.
I have found, however, that Holmes is very far from an ordinary man. There was a gleam in his eyes I had come to recognise. It was the same gleam I had seen when he had examined a corpse in a dilapidated house at Lauriston Gardens, and I had held my breath and tried to think of anything but the stale blood that coated the floor.
He was curious.
“Like this,” he echoed, staring. “Like what? What is this, Watson?”
“I will tell you everything,” I promised, knowing he would not leave it alone if I didn’t, “but first, I would like to wash my face.”
He lowered the hunting crop and turned sharply back inside. I followed him in silence. Once I had cleaned myself up we sat in our respective armchairs before the fire, and I was soon subjected to the penetrating gaze of Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. I had seen him examine clients this way, and he often observed me closely, but never before had I been on the receiving end of quite such profound scrutiny. I shifted in my chair. Outside, there came a low rumble of thunder.
“It’s still very new to me,” I admitted. “I’m not entirely sure where to begin. You must have questions -”
“I will have questions, Watson, when you have told me the facts. Begin at the beginning. And do not lie, if you please.”
“I don’t think I could,” I said. I rubbed the back of my neck, sure I would have blushed if I’d been able. “You’d see right through me.”
“Don’t discredit yourself, doctor,” he said, smirking. “You’ve managed to keep this from me, haven’t you? Surely you can’t be as bad a liar as all that.”
I couldn’t say what it was, but something caught between us. We began to laugh. I felt my dead heart growing lighter with every minute that passed in which Holmes didn’t cower from me in fear.
“You deserve to know the truth,” I said once the giggling fit had passed. “Do you recall what I wrote at the beginning of my account of the Jefferson Hope case?”
He inclined his head. “A little autobiography of your time at study and abroad. Delightfully succinct compared to the rest of the tale.”
I chose to ignore the barb. “It is succinct, yes, as there are several crucial details I did not wish to impart. I lied, Holmes; I lie all the time now. It is necessary. My life is one of secrecy and concealment. I would ask you not to let a word of what I am about to tell you leave this room.”
My friend nodded. At least, I hoped he would still be my friend by the end of this conversation.
I was about to say something that I had never said aloud before. I took a deep breath, and though I could taste the air and feel it fill my lungs, it brought me no relief. “My name is John Watson,” I said slowly, “and I believe I am a vampire.”
Holmes leaned forward in his chair, long fingers pressed together, and regarded me very carefully. “You do not know for certain?”
“How can I? As I say, this life is all new to me, and I have no guidance. I suppose you might not even call it a life. More of an existence, and a lonely one at that.” I shook my head.
“I was born in 1852, and I suppose you could say I ‘died’ a few weeks shy of my twenty-eighth birthday. It’s true that I graduated from the University of London with a degree as a Doctor of Medicine in 1878. It’s true that I studied to become an army doctor, and that I joined the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers as Assistant Surgeon out in India. It’s true that once I arrived in Bombay, I followed my assigned regiment to Candahar and served with them before becoming attached to the Berkshires.”
I had been ticking the facts off on my fingers, but here I had to pause. Holmes continued to watch me silently, and though the memories were difficult, I found that his unceasing attention actually encouraged me to speak further instead of shying away. I was tired of hiding, I realised; I wanted someone to know. I wanted Holmes to know, even if it meant never being able to see him again.
“It’s true,” I murmured, “that I sustained a near-fatal wound from a Jezail bullet at the battle of Maiwand, and was brought back from the brink of death by my orderly. He was a man I knew by the name of Murray. He didn’t sling me over a horse at once and gallop me back behind British lines. He did something else first. I remember it all. I do not think I could ever forget.
“I was bleeding into the sand. Murray crouched over me. His face was in silhouette, but even in my agony I could make out the way his eyes shone as if he were in the throes of a fever. ‘Doctor’, he said to me, ‘doctor, you’re a good one, aren’t you?’ I didn’t know what he meant. He seemed desperate to get some answer out of me, but I was in such pain that I could not shape any of the sounds that left my mouth into words.
“He continued to ramble. I thought he must have been feverish somehow after all, for he was speaking utter nonsense,” I said. “‘I promised,’ he said, ‘I promised I wouldn’t. I swore I’d only feed on those who could not be saved!’ He called it an act of mercy. I had no idea what he was talking about. I remember I wanted to tell him to shut up and help me.” I chuckled and shook my head.
“He held my head in his hands. His fingers were so very cold, even in that desert heat. He told me he didn’t want me to die, that he had seen me try to save people. That people needed me. I could do nothing but cling to him with my one good hand - my left arm had been rendered useless by the bullet.”
Holmes’s gaze flicked to my wounded shoulder. I suddenly felt very aware of everything that made me different from the man sitting opposite me. I contemplated lighting a cigarette to dull my senses with smoke. I could hear more thunder, hear people talking on the street below, hear the ticking of the clock, hear Holmes’s steady breathing, his heartbeat. I could hear the absence of mine.
I could smell the storm in the air. I could smell the remnants of Holmes’s supper, left to go cold on the table, and the cologne he had applied that morning. I could smell him, his blood. That poor cat had taken the edge off of my appetite, but I hungered still. I curled my fingers until my nails bit into my palms. Holmes was my friend. I would not hurt him. It was why I had gone for the cat in the first place.
“Murray told me it would be alright,” I said quickly, thinking that returning to my story would be a reasonable distraction. “He leaned over me until I could no longer see his face. I barely felt his teeth at my throat, and I had already lost a lot of blood; truly, I did not understand what was happening until he raised his head and I saw his mouth was stained scarlet. I tried to get away - I failed. He was able to hold me in place with no effort at all.
“He raised his wrist to his mouth and slashed the skin open with his teeth. ‘It’s alright,’ he said again, but I felt sick to my stomach, from pain and fear. I could not move. I was soon pinned between his hand at the back of my head and his bloodied flesh against my mouth. He urged me to - to drink. He said it would help.”
“Did it?” Holmes whispered.
“I struggled at first, as much as I could. It was only when I caught the scent of his blood in my nose that I realised it actually smelled pleasant to me. There was a sweetness to it that reminded me of rotting flowers, yet I wanted it so terribly. I was struck by a thirst that had nothing to do with being in the desert beneath a merciless sun. Everything paled in comparison to the sustenance offered in that moment. So, I - I clamped Murray’s wrist to my mouth, and I drank. And he encouraged me, he spoke to me like a mother coaxes her baby to suckle at her breast. I quite forgot about the grotesque nature of what I was doing, it felt no more unnatural to me than swigging water from a flask.”
I trailed off. It had started to rain at last, the summer storm breaking; I noted the gentle hissing sound of the falling water outside.
Holmes cleared his throat. “What happened next?”
“That is where my clearest memories of the event end,” I admitted. “I drank from Murray. We drank each other’s blood. Then the burning began - it was a fever, I suppose, but no fever that I had ever known before. The weeks following are hazy at best. I remember feeling that my thirst would never be sated; the nurses would give me water, and it would turn to ash in my mouth. None of the drugs they gave me would work. I was in constant pain.”
I found that suddenly I could not look Holmes in the eye. He had a strong stomach, but I couldn’t stand the idea that he might think less of me. I stared into the fire instead.
“There was a younger fellow in the room next to mine. He'd lost his leg. He cried in the night. They were hopeful for treatments and rehabilitation, but then one morning they found him dead. He had popped some of his stitches, and bled out. The bedsheets were soaked. And I…” I swallowed. My voice was hoarse, and my hands were shaking. I still did not understand how a body like mine continued to respond to distress in such human ways. “I felt better than I had in weeks. I was no longer thirsty; I could speak in full sentences, I could think. I heard everything the staff said about the poor boy. I heard them carry his body away. And I knew, I knew -”
“Watson.” Holmes's long, delicate fingers closed around my wrist. He would not feel a pulse there. “Watson,” he said again.
“You've worked it out, eh? Of course you have.” I let out a dry chuckle and dared to look up at his face. His features were a blank canvas. “I killed him, Holmes. I do not remember doing it, but I know the truth. I am a danger to you, to this household, to everyone.”
He stared at me for a very long time. His hold on my wrist did not falter. “If you are a danger to me,” he said, “why am I not dead?”
“Because I do not want to hurt you,” I replied, “but Holmes -”
“If you are a danger to everyone,” he said, disregarding my protests entirely, “why did you come back to London? You could have travelled, isolated yourself, found more unfortunate cats to sate your thirst - or if you are so disgusted by your own diet, not fed at all.”
“It is more dangerous to go without, I believe. As my hunger worsens, so my principles crumble; options which previously disgusted me begin to look more and more appealing. Feeding on stray cats and such is not ideal, but it is preferable to the alternative.”
“That being human blood?”
“Indeed. And London is - my time as a soldier is now tainted by my transformation. This city was my home before all that. And,” I chuckled sadly, “it’s about as human as it gets.”
Holmes looked thoughtful for a moment, then he suddenly released me and sprung to his feet. I waited nervously, clutching the arms of my chair. I felt sure that he was about to pass judgement on me, and banish me from my new home whether he could afford the rent alone or not. It was alright, I reasoned; it made sense that he would not want to live under the same roof as me any longer, and I had only ever meant to live there for a few months anyway. Enough to save some money, and then find somewhere else.
“I do not know how this works,” he said suddenly. “First I think I must apologise for spilling my blood in front of you not five minutes after we met. That cannot have been pleasant.”
“I - thank you.” I was dumbfounded.
He waved an elegantly dismissive hand. “You pay half the rent for these rooms, therefore in my book you are entitled to stay in them. I will not send you away.”
My mouth fell open. “Holmes. I just confessed to being a murderer. Aren’t you a detective? You ought to turn me in!”
“And what court would convict you?” he challenged. “There is no proof. The apparent murder occurred thousands of miles away in a military hospital where men like your poor ward-mate were dropping like flies. If you were to confess to anyone but me you would be locked up in Bedlam for your delusions, and that is before we confront the philosophical conundrum of whether a man can be convicted for a crime he does not remember committing.”
“I am not -”
“A man? Perhaps not by the conventional definition, no.” He smirked slyly. “But we are neither of us conventional, are we?”
It could not have been more than an hour since Holmes had discovered me outside and learned the truth of me, and yet I felt as though I’d lived an entire lifetime. My voice caught in my throat. “You - you want me to stay?”
He wandered over to the mantlepiece and began to pack his pipe. “I do.”
“I could kill you, Holmes.”
“Likewise, Watson. We both know that humans are capable of murder.” His lips twitched in amusement. “If nothing else, I generally prefer to go by what I know of a man, rather than what I have been told. That we are having this conversation at all is a significant point in your favour. You could have drained my life’s blood and dumped my corpse in the Thames at any point within the last six months.”
“Holmes!” I cried. “I would never do that.”
He jabbed the stem of his pipe towards me. “And there is the proof we’re looking for. Half a year without even daring to consider hurting me, Mrs Hudson, or anyone else. Six months of feeding off animals. That, my dear fellow, is what will form my conclusions about you, never mind what you are.”
I stared at him, unblinking - I did not particularly need to blink, truth be told - and felt a strange warmth in my chest. My heart did not beat any longer, but it was full. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I do.” Holmes lit his pipe with a flourish and tossed the spent match into the grate. “I have several more questions, if you’ll permit me a short interview.”