Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter 1

It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. If one does not feel fear then how does one survive? The body’s natural reaction when it senses its impending doom is to cause the heart rate to accelerate, the blood pressure to rise, and respirations to increase. All of this is to prepare the body for fight or flight. It is all normal and nothing to be ashamed of.

Perhaps that is why it took Sherlock by surprise when he sensed none on the man he had just swept off the street. He had been stalking him silently since the first day he had laid eyes upon the unsuspecting doctor just two weeks prior. Little did Sherlock know that fateful night would change his life forever. When he first caught eye of the doctor Sherlock had been leaving the morgue late one bitter frigid May night. At first the man looked like any other doctor leaving St. Bart’s Hospital. The doctor’s face was sullen and marked evidence of a long and weary shift. He was young, no more than mid-thirties and looked as if he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. His hair shown in a bright golden hue under the street lights that revealed secrets of silver hiding underneath. He tugged his coat tighter around him as the brisk wind of the unusual cold spring plowed through the city. It was enough to show the hidden tan line that was beginning to fade that went no higher than his wrist.

“Afghanistan.” A ghostly voice brewed from the farthest reaches of Sherlock’s mind. Or was it the howl of the wind that was making him hear things? But why? Why indeed. Now his mind was curious.

In quick strides Sherlock drew near him in an instant, like a moth to a seductive flame. What was it about this man that called forth long forgotten memories as if they were just spoken yesterday? Sherlock watched the doctor as he walked down the pavement seemingly unaware that danger lurked right behind him. He often used this small talent to make easy observations and deductions while going unseen by others. Simply a shadow in the wake of the living.

From what he could gather at glance this strange man in some sense was familiar, yet different. A duplicate, yet not exactly the real McCoy. He was the same height, same build, even favoring his right hand to carry his briefcase rather than his left which was clearly the more dominant. He even had the same name which he read off the dangling I.D. badge clipped to the outside of his bag: Dr. John Watson. Sure it was a fairly common name. No doubt to be reused several times throughout history. But what were the odds? Here Sherlock believed the only thing that never changed was he himself. How wrong he was! Either way Sherlock had decided that this man was to eventually be his guest. Whether he wanted to or not. Now, after much waiting, it had finally come to chance that tonight was this night after careful preparation.

It didn’t take long for John to arouse himself. After all Sherlock did very little harm in order to bring him to the small flat in which he resided. The steel eyes of the doctor drew from the depths of their clouded slumber as they took in the new surroundings he was in. No longer was he fighting the chill, but now was enveloped in warmth from the heat of a fireplace from the far end of the room. Looking around he realized he wasn’t even in his own home but another’s. Two chairs were nestled in front of the hearth, behind them bookcases filled with volumes of various subjects from floor to ceiling, and by the window a large desk littered with papers and manila folders.

“How did I get here?” John wondered as his hand brushed against his head trying to sooth the mild pain radiating there. “I knew I was tired but I would certainly remember if I went to my own flat. Let alone someone else’s. Wait…no. I didn’t I was on the street and..”

John immediately jumped from the reclined position he had taken on a sofa to a stock straight pose, clutching onto the furniture within an inch of its life. His vision now fixed on, what he assumed was, his captor. Though he didn’t exactly look the part. John’s version of a kidnapper was a burly man, which was no description of this one, as he looked too lean. He certainly had doubts he could’ve hauled him off the street. Perhaps he had help. He appeared tall in the small chair he sat in and had his legs draped one over the other in a relaxed manner. He was posh yet dressed darkly in a suit and a button up shirt to match. He had long pale boney fingers that he had intertwined together across his lap and a face was so still and angular John thought for a second he was a statue. In contrast to his pale features, ebony curls decorated his head with a gloss like sheen. However, what unnerved John the most about the man was his pale eyes. They seemed to penetrate right into one’s soul.

John’s heart roared to life than as he struggled to compose himself. Not through fear as one would normally do in a situation like this, but readying himself to put up a fight.

“You will have to forgive me,” The deep velvet baritone voice of his captor resonated through the room as he began his introduction. “This is not the usual way I receive people into my home. Though I think if you are of open, conscious and sound mind then you may be comfortable in what I have to propose to you.”

“Who the bloody hell are you and what do you want?! Where am I?!” John said through gritted teeth. He eyed his briefcase on the coffee table beside him and made a move to reach for it.

“Don’t bother doctor. Your gun has been confiscated. No need for either of us to have a nasty accident.” The man’s word’s had made John halt in his actions.

“You kidnapped me off the street!,” He huffed. “Forgive me for wanting to arm myself against a possible psychopath that may intend to kill me!”

“Apology accepted. Besides if I really wanted to kill you I would’ve done so already. Lord, there would be a body to clean up and that in itself is tedious work. In all honesty I mean you no harm.” He said calmly as his hands raised up together to steeple themselves under his chin as though contemplating something only he knew. “All I want is a moment of your time to ask some questions.”

John’s heart began to settle down and the white knuckle bearing he had, had on the sofa eased up.

“Questions?,” John scoffed and an eyebrow lifted in skepticism. “You kidnapped me to ask me questions? Why didn’t you just ask me before all of this? Like a normal person.”

“Well I can assure you the kind of questions I want to ask are not suitable ones to be asking so freely in public. One must learn to be discreet and my questions are in no way shape or form ‘normal’ in the sense.”

John’s features softened, but there was still a storm of confusion that swirled around him.

“I have some questions myself if you don't mind. If you didn’t kidnap me to harm me then what do you want? I know nothing about you, who you are or where I am. And I’m not answering anything until you tell me.”

“Of course, where are my manners? My name is Sherlock Holmes and you are currently at 221B Baker St. And as for what I want that is simple. I am in need of a flatmate and you will do perfectly.”

Both of John’s eyebrows rose at his confession and a nervous grin crept onto his face.

“A flatmate? You brought me all the way here because you needed a flatmate? Personally I don't see what is so abnormal about asking someone about a flat share. On the street. In public. Though I will say I do cross the line at being kidnapped by a potential flatmate. Any way I already have a flat so I hate to burst your bubble. Now, if I can have my gun back, I think I will be going. I’ve been here longer than I care to.”

Sherlock’s head tilted slightly to the side as he gave off an eerie smile of his own. John thought it looked too unnatural on his face as though the man didn’t smile too often.

“Is that why you have been researching more affordable flats in the central London area despite your hospital job and army pension? Can you really live there even knowing you scrap by, living paycheck to paycheck? Please, stay awhile, talk. I know you are not scheduled for work tomorrow and there is no need for you to rush off. Trust me Dr. Watson. I will make this worth your while.”

This time John’s body stilled and the wavering perfume of fear was beginning to make itself known in sweat and perspiration. John was afraid.

“Have you been spying on me? Did you follow me home? God are you a spy?!”

“Oh no, much more than that. I know quite a bit about you. I know you are a military man invalid from war. You haven’t been home long. I would say only a couple of months from the way your tan has barely faded and your hair recently started to grow out. The phone I inspected in your coat pocket is no cheap gadget. The man sitting here before me would not waste money on an expensive item if he is strapped for cash. It must be borrowed. So a doctor would lives in the costliest places in London, short on finances, surviving barely on an army pension turns down a flatmate? No offense, but if I was in your shoes I would take the help where I could get it.”

Sherlock watched as John’s face turned from borderline paranoid panic to pure awe. He was amused himself of his expression. Often, more than often, the people he encountered were put off by his bold statements. Leaning toward more the irritated side to the point where they could easily tell him to ‘fuck off’ in this day in age. However, John’s face held the truth to his inner most thoughts like an open book.

“Bloody hell that was…amazing. You sure you’re not a spy or something?” John breathed out.

“No. I’m a consulting detective with a touch of extra qualities so to speak.”

This time a smile of anxious curiosity spread across John’s lips.

“Like what?”

Sherlock rested his hands on the arms of the chair and looked down at the now interesting floor below him. To John he seemed nervous as if he was trying to ready himself to divulge a horrible secret. Sherlock took a steady breath and willed his eyes to look at John once more. Now with more will power and determination.

“Well, you see, this is part of the conversation that isn’t suitable for public ears and may put you off. I…am a vampire.”

The detective had said it with such a calm demeanor and with such purpose that John latched onto his every word. Until he repeated what the man had just said in his mind. A…vampire? John’s brows furrowed and could see that this man meant every word he said. There was no lingering joke held over him that he was going to suddenly start laughing or cut up and say he was teasing.

“Right. Last I remember vampires don’t exist,” John treaded his words carefully. “I could recommend a psych consult if you need help. Don’t get me wrong that was brilliant what you just did, but if you are having issues…” He trailed off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“No, Dr. Watson, I am not having psychological issues, or a crisis or whatever people are calling it these days. Been there and done that a long time ago. You are a medical man. Examine me yourself if you like. In fact I encourage it.” He extended his arms out in hopes to clear up any perceived notion John was now cooking up in his head to try and normalize the current state of affairs.

Skepticism was now radiating off the doctor. He was torn on wanting to be cautious of a potential dangerous delusional man yet almost itching to prove him wrong. That this way of thinking and admitting he was some dangerous fictional creature was all in his head. John reached over to his briefcase and retrieved his stethoscope and with only slight hesitancy he approached his captor. He set about his examination as he would with any other patient. Placing the diaphragm of the stethoscope over the fifth intercostal space of the man’s chest he listened through the eartips.

There should’ve been a thrum of a heartbeat. The lull of lub and dubs of the organ. The swishing of blood that was the driving force of life. But no matter how many times he adjusted his instrument or listened to a different section of the man’s body, it was silent. There was no airy intake of drawn breath to fill the lungs or and an exhale escaping them. In fact he was so engrossed in his concentration he had failed to notice that there was no rise or fall of the man’s chest cavity. The only indication that he truly wasn’t breathing at all.

John’s eyes widened in realization and flicked up to the man’s face who in return was observing him in interest, watching his every move. John took his stethoscope out of his ears and draped the device around his neck. Determined he wasn’t completely losing his mind this night, he grasped the man’s right wrist. It had an unnatural coldness to it that he noted mentally and pressed two fingers into the inner portion; glancing down at his own watch. It wasn’t the absence of the radial pulse that made John loose his grip, but in fact it was the time he read.

11:35pm.

He distinctly remembered leaving work at 11:20pm. How long was he out before he awoke here? He had been talking with this man, to him, it felt like no more than ten minutes. If that was indeed the case, how had his captor get him from St. Bart’s to Baker St in no less than five minutes?

“What are your findings doctor? Am I in perfect gleaming health or do you need a second opinion?” Sherlock’s voice jostled John from his thoughts which made him jump slightly and take a step back.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. However, I think with your absence of pulse, lack of oxygen intake, and no findings of normal sinus rhythm I would say you are, without a doubt, quite dead.”

Sherlock smiled up into John’s disturbed face and let out a light laugh.

“Glad to see you still have a sense of humor left after your diagnosis. And I am quite glad nothing has changed for me since my demise.”

John swallowed thick and ran a hand over his forehead nervously.

“Speaking to one who feels like they are suddenly about to become this evenings dinner.”

Sherlock waived a hand of indifference at John’s comment and adjusted his suit jacket.

“Rest assured I know exactly what that feels like. To feel concreted to the earth in paralyzing fear, unable to move, unable to think of what to do next because you don’t know which breath will be your last. I did not bring you here to do that to you. I brought you here to ask you to be my flatmate. Ease the burden of your everyday life. All I ask is an exchange.”

John’s thoughts screeched to a blinding halt and pupils widened a fraction. An exchange? Of what? In any other normal circumstance the exchange for rent would be money. But this wasn’t any normal situation. He was dealing with a man, a very dead man. A dead man that was a vampire. Of course how stupid could he be!

“You mean live here and…in exchange I…” His voice faltered as his hand drifted over his wrist.

He most likely didn’t want money. Why would he need it if he was wanting to ‘relieve’ John of finance burden? He must want blood instead. His blood in leu of rent. Why else would he want to ‘relieve’ him of any financial burden? Why hunt for your food if you could have a live in snack? God, he would have to conceal bite marks, treat himself for blood loss, not to mention it would literally drain him.

It was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised at the misinterpreted offer. His eyes flicked from the doctor’s gesture to his face.

“Heaven’s no! Even as a vampire I do have morals. I mean for you to supply me with blood from the hospital as rent payment.”

“Oh.” John let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding in. His shoulders eased up from the tension he had built up for himself. Another thought occurred to him. If he was a detective and a vampire, why not hunt the criminals? Then again did he really want to ask? Let alone how…no. A snorted laugh came from him unexpectedly.

“What?” asked Sherlock.

“It just seems like an oxymoron to me. You being a vampire and a detective. How do you handle crime scenes with the blood and all?”

“Years of patience and practice. Now what have you to say on my offer?”

John was dumbfounded for a moment. It would be risking his career stealing blood from the hospital. Though the prospect of living rent free would be easier on his wallet. But what would happen if he got caught? More or less what would happen if he didn’t bring anything home?

“I can tell you are thinking too loudly. A moral crisis no doubt. Either you are accepting or refusing? Which is it?” Sherlock interjected again.

“What would you do? If I did refuse?”

“Considering the weight of your words I see you are concerned for your well being. And rightly so. Any man would be an idiot if he did not think of his well being before considering my offer. If you were to refuse you are free to go home and live out the rest of your days without any interference from me.”

John nodded and mulled over his words.

“And if I do agree…blood is your only requirement for rent?”

“Depending on what market you sell blood it can run the average cost of today’s rent with two or three pints. I say its a fair trade.”

John brushed a hand through his hair in contemplation.

“How often do you need it?”

“Usually once a week or a week and a half. A fortnight is the absolute longest I can go without.”

John was nearly convinced that this whole conversation was taking place in his mind in a dream like fashion. This was insane. Absolutely insane, but it was reality. Here this corpse of a man was promising something only people would only think up in macabre stories. A vampire taking on a mortal to live with them in hopes of giving them the world. Deep down though John knew not only his job, but his life, would be at constant stake. Years of practice and patience against bloodlust or whatever he called it could easily go down the toilet. In the darkness of John’s mind he couldn’t help but wonder what would finally set him off, make him crack in order to break his abstinence.

“I’m…I’m sorry. The offer is tempting, truly. A very nice gesture and I can see you thought it all out, but maybe someone else could help you.” John backed away and grabbed his briefcase off the coffee table in a hurry. His mind forgetting about his confiscated weapon.

If Sherlock’s heart could still beat he would’ve felt something akin to panic that his plan was going south. He hadn’t anticipated this outcome. He thought his plan had been flawless to the ’T’, but once again there had been an element of surprise from his guest. And he should’ve known better. He watched as the doctor made his hasty retreat towards the door and he scanned him quickly to think of something, anything to make him stay.

“I know by your left hand you don’t want to go.” Sherlock blurted out.

John came to an abrupt stop as he neared the landing of the stairs and turned to face him again. This time his face was tense. A secret nerve had been struck.

“My what?” John asked in a authoritative voice. This was no longer the kind meek doctor. The solider had come out to play.

In a swift motion Sherlock was in front of him in an instant. The fluid movement made John flinch at the fact he hadn’t seen the man move from his chair to stand before him. Just more proof that this man was supernatural indeed.

“Your left hand. Show me.” Sherlock commanded as he held out his own, waiting for John to submit to his request.

With caution he put his hand in the vampire’s. The shock of contact between warm and cold was instantaneous. Sherlock carefully turned the doctor’s hand this way and that way in keen interest as if he was looking for something.

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its stress. Fire her. She has it the wrong way around. You are under stress right now and your hand is perfectly still. You’re not haunted by the war. You miss it. It’s the A&E that gives you the coverage you need. Its the thrill.”

John quickly withdrew his hand.

“How? How the hell did you know that? I have never talked to my therapist not once about the war let alone…this.” He gestured to his hand.

“I noticed it after your shift tonight,” Sherlock admitted. “The adrenaline high of the A&E was wearing off and when you left it started acting up again. Along with a suppressed psychosomatic limp. You often flex your hand either out of habit or there is underlying nerve damage at your shoulder. You are trying to regain feeling. Certain medications could help with sensation and reduce pain flare ups yet you forego to use them. Perhaps due to their side effects which would cause you to fall out of practice in your line of work. The limp is a simple fix. Working in a trauma unit you are constantly on your feet and can work it out by consistency. So the A&E has been both your cover up and your medication in a sense.”

John stood in awe again at the deduction this man had brought forth from the deepest darkest crevice he had buried.

“Damn,” John blinked back his stupor. “Maybe I should fire her. God this is crazy. Absolutely ridiculous! You are right though, this offer I mean, it would be stupid to refuse but you have to know I would be taking a giant risk. Seriously if anyone found out..”

“No one will find out. I promise.”

John sighed and dropped his gaze.

“If I say yes…I have one condition.”

“Yes?” Sherlock probed.

“If you ever catch yourself failing to stay away from or to try and…drink…from me, will you let me know?”

“Of course,” Sherlock could hear this uneasiness in John’s voice. “You don’t even have to interact with me if you so choose. All I require is blood. Nothing more.”

John nodded.

“Alright then. Maybe not as crazy as invading Afghanistan, but whatever. Hell we already know the worsts about each other.”

“As potential flatmates should.”

“Afghanistan.” The ghostly whisper played in Sherlock’s mind once again. He knew then that this wasn’t chance. That the universe indeed was not lazy. That this was not coincidence. Or maybe he was just being too hopeful.

“Very well. Then welcome home Dr. Watson.”

Chapter Text

John knew soldiers that were once prisoners of war. He had heard of their nightmares when he treated them for malnutrition and the torture they endured. Things they dared not even speak of even though the evidence was written upon their bodies like a book to be freely read. Some would go on to recover while other’s had their spirits permanently broken to forever relive the horrors for the rest of their lives. He now wished to God he had never heard their stories now. Though he had consented to move in, he felt a large heaviness in his gut, a feeling of sudden helplessness.

“You look exhausted,” said Sherlock. “Why don’t you stay the night here.”

John did not want to tip him off that he felt uneasy at his request, but all of a sudden he had the urge to get away. However, the way the man loomed over him on the landing, he knew it would not be a good idea. The quickness of his movements was proof well enough that Sherlock could easily overtake him. Besides, if he did leave, who was to say the vampire would follow him home to make sure he would come back? As much as he wanted to believe that this arrangement was all a simple solution; John had no inkling that what he said was true and he would turn and harm him. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock was persisting to make good on his word or get him to stay so John wouldn’t change his mind.

“That’s great and all, but I have no clothes here or anything else for that matter. It’s all at my flat.”

Sherlock’s head nodded to the stairway to the floor above.

“There is a room upstairs already furnished and fully stocked in whatever you need.”

John was taken aback by the offer and made a wary eye to the steps leading up to the extra room. So, he was prepared for him. Better yet what was it in the room that was ‘furnished and stocked’? He tried pushing back images of gruesome devices and bondage that leapt forward in his mind, but he couldn’t help it. That was a vampire’s thing wasn’t it? Blood and sex? At least it was in cheesy films. But what if he simply just had a spare room? A guest room like any other house if one were to expect company.

“Are you sure you weren’t doing more than just…watching me for the past two weeks? Did you ever go into my flat?”

“What flat?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “I had the liberty of moving in your things while you was at work today and your lease terminated.”

John’s eyes widened and his briefcase slipped from his grasp onto the floor.

“Wait…What? How did you manage that?! They need notice and…”

“They did. Two weeks ago.” Sherlock said frankly.

“You mean you did it…two weeks ago? Two weeks?!”

“Yes.”

John ran his hands roughly down his face at the dawning of this new living situation. Not only had he prepared to have him stay, he bloody well planned it all out and brilliantly at that. The mere audacity! The fact he had made such a decision before discussing it with him first! He peered back at the vampire who, in all of this, was as calm as a dormant tide while the heat of the desert was beginning to boil under John’s skin.

“Just last week I decided to look at a new flat. Yesterday I had it narrowed down to three. And you knew all of this because you decided I was going to be your new flat mate, today? Because you knew I would say yes to your arrangement? Decided all of this two weeks ago? How the hell did you know this?!”

“I believe I have already shown you my skills before not a half hour ago. Or has the haze of your ‘kidnapping’, as you so eloquently put it, still have a hold on you?”

Sherlock had a point. His excellent deduction methods had laid out his life before him, rooting down to his deepest secrets. John had to give him that. He was a master of his profession, one he carried with the highest regard and one could see the pride gleaming in his eyes as he performed his work. He had no idea how in depth his skills were, but if John had to guess he had it down to a craft. This man didn’t merely play a guessing game to see if John would become his flat mate. He knew he would. He strategized it the moment he laid eyes on him to probably even down to the very conversation they were having now.

“I’m not even sure if I want to know.” John dropped the subject.

“Good. Makes for unnecessary chit chat.” He picked up John’s briefcase and put it back in the doctor’s hands. “Now, come in.” Sherlock re-entered the flat, leaving John to stand there.

There was no force or beckoning call to pull John back into the flat. Sherlock had left it up to him to choose to come back in. Neither had he physically manipulated him. He was giving him an ultimatum. Either John could come in and take advantage of his now new room or he could freely make a run for it even if he had nowhere to go. With a sigh, John chose the latter of the two options and went back in.

Sherlock seemed to have busied himself resuming whatever work on the computer he had been doing prior to his meeting with John. For a brief moment he didn’t look like a demon who couldn’t be trusted, but like any other human doing regular human things. Sherlock gave him a quick glance before returning his gaze back to the screen.

“Before you settle in there is a few conditions I would like to discuss with you.”

John had barely shrugged off his coat when he had heard Sherlock’s newest announcement.

“There’s more? I thought we laid out all the terms and conditions.”

“That is for our own private affairs. I am purely speaking within the flat itself.”

“Oh?”

“I am a particular man. A man set in his ways and have been for quite some time and I am not fond of repeating myself.” This time Sherlock’s eyes flashed back to John, the computer lighting making his pale features luminous. “So please, heed my words with care and take them to heart. If you do it will make both of us living here much easier.”

John’s feet felt planted to the floor with his stare as he bore into him. He felt urges to look away but try as he might, he couldn’t leave his face. He had been taught to be still and at attention when the time needed in the military and this felt like one of those moments.

“I do not care how you live your life or who you choose to spend your time with, but for all intense and purposes, me being a vampire should be kept silent as the grave. And any carousing of the fairer sex should probably be kept at their place of residence.”

“No dates back to the flat and don’t tell anyone your a vampire. Actually those aren’t too hard to think of.”

“That may be so. But my next one may strike you as odd or strain your curiosity too much, but nevertheless it is my most important rule. You should, under no circumstance, enter my bedroom, for whatever reason. If you need me simply knock on my door and I will come out, but do not enter.”

John couldn’t help but snigger and before he could control his mouth and realize who and what he was speaking to; let out the first thing that popped into his mind.

“What? Got a coffin in there?”

In that instance the staring spell was broken as Sherlock’s frame pulled back at John’s words. His face was no longer cold or indifferent, but something akin to remembering a memory one wants to readily forget because it brings them sorrow. His gaze turned away from John and back to his computer.

“There is a washroom down the hall from the kitchen, on your left. I laid out some towels and a change of clothes for you if you would like to freshen up before bed. The tub in there is deep. A hot bath would help your tired muscles.”

Guilt crept up in John and thought perhaps he approached on a sensitive topic. After all, how does one joke and talk to one who is already dead without offending them? What exactly was the social etiquette? Deciding that it was best to keep his mouth shut instead of inserting his foot again he muttered a quick gratitude and made his way to the bathroom. He found it with ease, though noticed at the end of the hallway was another door. The dark wooden structure hung on its hinges in a sinister manner the way no light played upon its frame. Shadows clung to it like cobwebs and the door itself was closed tightly as if it was a jail cell.

“Must be his,” John thought “And I have absolutely no desire to go in. He can rest assured of that.”

He entered the bathroom and just like Sherlock had said there was a deep white porcelain tub that looked every bit inviting. Perhaps he was right. A hot bath would do to let him soak out his stress. John closed the door and locked it. He wasn’t sure what defense it would have for him, but at the moment he chose not to dwell on it. He set his briefcase down by a lone chair by the tub that had the towels and, to his surprise, his own night clothes resting upon it. He shook his head and turned on the faucet of the tub, letting it fill of steaming hot water as he stripped down. And again Sherlock was right. The water was divine on his aching body as he sank down into the tub and little by little the feeling that was once heavy in his gut was soothing away. Although he made a careful choice to sit facing the door, just as a precautionary. He didn’t want to let his guard down at such a vulnerable time.

In all of less than an hour John had been pulled off the street and rendered unconscious, brought to a stranger’s home, performed a medical exam on a vampire, and now was moving in. All to find out he had been prepping up for him, waiting for the right time to take action, even moving him out of his own flat.

The steam of the water brought him out of his thoughts as his eyes drifted over to the niche in the wall to the side of the tub and found a familiar bar of soap and shampoo. The scents couldn’t be mistaken. They were his own necessities. Now that he was aware of this new fact his eyes darted up to the sink and sure enough nestled in a cup was his toothbrush and toothpaste.

“The bastard thought of everything.” John thought to himself bitterly. “He’s gone ahead and already put my things away.”

In some twisted point of view he could tell Sherlock was giving him his own space. He was trying to put forth a sense of normalcy, show him that this too was his home and he lived here now. To put on an air that everything was okay. But was any of it really okay?

There was no point in arguing with Sherlock about how he had just packed up his life and brought his things here. He agreed to this and now here he was. Suddenly the warmth of the bath no longer felt inviting but more of just another psychological motive on Sherlock’s part. Take a warm bath, relax, and welcome to your new home. That’s all this screamed. Calm your victim. Make them more compliant.

He pulled the plug of the drain and got out of the delicious embrace of the water. He dried off quickly, put on his pajamas, gathered up his belongings and made his way out of the bathroom. Sherlock was still where he had left him and John had no intentions of disturbing him and made right for the stair case.

“Sleep well.” Sherlock called.

John looked over his shoulder to the attention he was now receiving from him.

“I hope.” John said softly.

“I won’t bother you if that’s what you are worried about. I’m quite busy tonight and I promise you won’t hear a peep out of me.”

John rigidly nodded.

“If you say so.”

He proceeded his way up the stairs to his new room, securing the door once more with the lock of the doorknob. In some strange sense he felt like he was safe as he backed away from the door with uncertainty. He quickly scanned the room and found it quite spacious. Once again, true to the vampire’s word it was already set up and furnished with all of his belongings. A dresser and the closet were filled with his clothes, a floor mirror sat in a corner, and his old army trunk was at the foot of the bed. By the window, draped in moonlight was his bed neatly made and ready to be slept in. In quick mental thought he went and checked the window finding it locked.

He wasn’t taking any chances tonight. If this was to be his room then he damn well wanted the necessary protection. He couldn’t help but curse himself mentally for not taking more interest in religion. He owned no Bible or cross for that matter. He highly doubted a vampire was stocked up on garlic of any kind. No point of going back downstairs to the kitchen and snooping. Sitting on his bed he felt a lump rise in his throat and forced it back down. Never had he felt so defenseless, helpless, clueless even. At least not since Afghanistan. All he had to go on to ensure he slept peacefully was the vampire’s word and he wasn’t sure how much weight his words actually held. So far he hadn’t lied to him, he had been up front and honest, but he had also kept his own secrets from John.

Panic raced through him like a bucket of cold ice water as it dawned on him.

“He still has my gun. He never gave it back.”

John’s eyes darted to and fro. Now he truly was defenseless. With no way out, no home to return to, no weapon and a vampire lurking downstairs, what was he to do? His eyes drifted over to the end table by his bed and noticed a small note. Picking it up, on it was fine scrawled out cursive that had to have been made by delicate hand. The strokes of the handwriting looked so out of date he knew it could only have to belonged to Sherlock.

In the drawer

John’s brows furrowed in confusion at the vague message. Carefully opening up the drawer of the table laid his gun. Relief flooded him as he picked it up and finding it loaded, ready and armed. It surprised him in some ways to find it just how it was and not loaded so Sherlock would have the upper hand. But as the vampire had said, even he had morals and even he would think someone an idiot if they did not think of their well being first while with him. He had to have taken his gun for something more than the excuse of John’s safety. Perhaps his own. Was there something about John’s gun that could possibly harm Sherlock or even the bullets? Bullets contain no silver, so that was out of his theory. Whatever the matter was he left it with John, armed, and even let him know its location. That in itself gave John enough motion to hide it under his pillow just for good measure.

Pulling back the covers he buried himself down into the sheets. A strange thought then came to him. He had about six hours till sunrise. That legend had to be true. If that was the case Sherlock would have no choice but find a dark place and stay till it was night once more. He wouldn’t have to deal with him in the morning. He would be free to go and do as he pleased.

Though first things first. He would have to make it through the night.

The morning came stead fast for John. The rays of sunlight brought mind a realization of hope to him. He had made it through the night. In a sense of urgency he bounded out of his bed and made towards the full length mirror by his closet door. He checked his neck, arms, wrists, and the plains of his body. Every inch of skin he inspected for any sign of a bite. None was found. He breathed out a sigh of relief and went to the window to find it still locked. Even his door. All was as Sherlock had said. He hadn’t bothered him. At least he was going to think that way. He hoped that the vampire didn’t have some key to his room where he could come and go as he pleased. Or was that superstition now null and void since now John was the one who occupied and lived in the room? Would Sherlock be forced to be an uninvited guest in a part of his own home until John gave the word to let him in?

Now that it was morning it meant Sherlock had to be asleep, stove away somewhere hiding in the darkness. John could move about freely in his new flat. He unlocked his door and carefully made his way down the stairs, trying to be easy on the creaking boards. He reached the bottom of the landing and saw that the door of the sitting room was open. Just like he suspected this level of the flat was quiet with no hints of life bustling about. Suspicions so far proving to be correct.

The sitting room had a wave of renewed life within it now. Darkness no longer bathed in every corner and crevice. Strange commodities of dead things framed behind glass would’ve gave the cold chill of dread to any if it were still night. However, in the lit room they no longer held such power. Now they were scientific fascinations decorating the mantle of the fireplace and shelves for all to see. Beetles, bats, botany of mushrooms and other fauna. They were life and death together in harmony. Glass jars and chemistry materials lined shelves in a display cabinet along with other knickknacks that even piqued John’s interest as he looked at them all. This no longer felt like the den of a vampire, but a flat of a detective who had an interest in the mechanics of life and science. He was about to go into the kitchen when he heard the shuffle of feet and turned to meet the figure of his new flatmate.

“Good morning.” The vampire popped out of the kitchen to greet John who was startled out of his skin, not expecting him to still be awake. His appearance seemingly had transformed over night. No longer did he look like walking corpse with ivory skin and tired eyes. The sun caressed his skin and gave it a youthful glow. Pale dusk lips were now rosy. Dark hallow eyes now shown in radiance. He had also changed his clothes to a more brighter display of a lilac button up dress shirt and black trousers. Even a silk maroon robe adorned him. The only theory John could come up with to Sherlock looking more alive was that he had to have done something recently. A meal. He did say he was going to be ‘busy’ last night.

“Oh…uh, good morning.” John’s eyes flitted to the open drapes that was letting in full scales of light into the room and back to Sherlock. Apart from his shocking metamorphosis John was wondering how he wasn’t bursting into flames. Obviously he had a lot to learn about what was fiction and what was real regarding the detective’s unique lifestyle.

A kind smile graced Sherlock’s lips that looked more natural today instead of the strained one from last night.

“I trust you slept well?” he asked as he turned away from John and back into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle on the counter.

“Yeah…yeah I did. Not too bad.”

“Splendid. I have a good English breakfast for you here on the table. Eggs, beans, toast, sausage. You know, the works. I know you must be hungry.”

Making a glance towards the table there sat a singular setting of the steaming hot breakfast and condiments to compliment it. The act struck a chord in John’s heart and once again he was feeling guilt. Here he had been thinking the worst of him and the vampire had actually put forth the effort to make some sort of peace offering. He stepped in and took a seat at the table, watching as Sherlock bustled around the tiny kitchen in preparation for the morning tea.

“How?” John asked.

“Hmm?” Sherlock turned to meet his confused expression.

“You cook? Don’t take this the wrong way it just kinda of surprises me. I wouldn’t think you need much use or need for cooking when you are…well,” John cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is I wouldn’t think you would need the skill if you don’t ever have any company.”

“Au contraire. Quite the opposite. As a detective I get all kinds of company. There are plenty of people in need of my services.”

“So you do cook?” He picked up his fork, taking the first bite of food.

“Oh no, I don’t cook. Set too many fires to this damnable place that I have been banned from even touching an oven. Mrs. Hudson cooked your breakfast.” He said as matter of fact as though it was given knowledge.

John swallowed.

“Mrs. Hudson? Who’s Mrs. Hudson? Is she a one too?”

“No, she is no vampire. In our respective roles she is playing as my landlady. When in truth she is my housekeeper. She lives on the floor below.”

“And she knows you’re..” John trailed off.

“Yes.”

“And she’s ok with it?”

“I believe so. She seems content.”

John thought this was interesting. He wasn’t the only human living in the building. Why didn’t Sherlock tell him this last night? It certainly would’ve put his mind more at ease if he knew he wasn’t alone. Or perhaps it was more of a matter of Sherlock wanting John to trust him with his life that he had so maliciously set out to change.

“So what is your deal with her?” He continued on with his breakfast.

“No rent if she could be my housekeeper,” Sherlock paused as he poured tea into a RAMC mug he had plucked out of the cabinet. Another thing of John’s that he had settled in under his nose. “Now I may not know how to cook, but I do know how to make a proper cup of tea.”

John watched him with interest. He had saw his skills last night and was curious to put them to the test again. There would be no way Sherlock could narrow down how someone took their tea and wondered if he could stump him.

“And I’m supposing you know how I take it too?”

“Of course, Watson. Earl Grey, no sugar, and a splash of milk to taste.” The answer rolling off his tongue as if he knew it all along. John’s mouth gaped at him slightly as he set the mug down beside his plate and seated himself across the table.

“How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.” he shrugged.

The subtle clack of heels came from the stairs and soon a elderly woman entered the kitchen. She was dressed in a floral blouse and skirt and tucked in her hand was a newspaper.

“The paper for you dear.” She handed it over to Sherlock and he took it graciously.

“Ah, thank you. Mrs Hudson this is Dr. John Watson. Doctor, Mrs. Hudson.” He introduced them both as he set about unfolding his newspaper to his desired page.

John reached out a hand and shook hers briefly.

“Nice to meet you. Breakfast is lovely by the way.”

“Oh, thank you!,” Her face lit up at the mentioning of her cooking. “But just this once. I’m not your housekeeper.”

“She takes her acting role very seriously.” Sherlock piped in not bothering to look at either one of them.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and dropped her bubbly face.

“Someone has to with all the sorts you get to the flat and your strange experiments.” She remarked giving him a sideways glare before returning back to John. “I’m going to the market. Is there anything I can pick up for you?”

Her kind disposition made her demeanor seem more like a mother hen looking after him. And she seemed not to be put off or pay no mind that Sherlock was a vampire and talked to him as she saw fit. Fussing about the lifestyle, more namely the profession, he led. John instantly took a liking to her. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from her about this mysterious man.

“I trust whatever you get. Anything would be great.”

“Very well. I’ll be back in a few. Nice meeting you dear.” She left out the kitchen door and made down the stairs. “But like I said, just this once!”

“Not the housekeeper.” John smiled as he mumbled her little saying under his breath and continued with his breakfast. “How long has she lived here?” He asked Sherlock.

“A few decades now since she has returned to England from Florida. Helped her with her husband’s death penalty.”

John blinked up in surprise.

“You helped her husband get off?”

“Definitely not. I ensured it.”

John took a quick drink of his tea so he wouldn’t choke on the information he had just received. Ensuring death. Sounded like a very vampire thing to say. Hopefully there had to be more to the story than what Sherlock let on. Did Mrs. Hudson, knowing what Sherlock was, have her husband off’d? Maybe she was now living here at Baker Street because she was indebted to him?

“Please John don’t be dull. I can practically hear the grinding gears of your thoughts. No, I didn’t kill him. He was abusing and exploiting her. She said she would give me all the information on her husband’s drug cartel if she could live out the rest of her life peacefully. And now she does under my employment.” He folded back up his newspaper to its original state and set it on the table.

“Good God.” The words escaped from John’s lips.

He was protecting her. She lived here with no debts, no obligations to him if all she did was a little cleaning. And she lived, however she wished, downstairs in her little flat and he let her fuss over him. It was almost endearing. So what did he see in him? What was so special about him that he uprooted him in just two weeks and moved him right here into his flat.

Sherlock arose from his chair and slid off his robe, opting for his suit jacket that was draped over his desk chair.

“I must be off as well. The Yard wants me to take a look at a frozen waiter. Make yourself at home and don’t wait up on me. And remember John, under no circumstances should you enter my room. I will know if you have even touched the door.”

Sherlock reappeared by the kitchen entrance again. This time in a long black coat and blue scarf draped around his neck.

“What…what happens if I do?” John treaded cautiously, all cheerfulness from their previous conversations had completely vanished.

“Let’s not dwell on darker thoughts shall we? It will give us both a peace of mind.” With that Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way down the stairs.

“Fuck. He’s always fucking right. Now I want to know.” He thought as he looked down the hall to the siren calling door. Sure he had no notion of wanting to go in. That was invading privacy. But the fact he was warning him, heavily warning him, had to mean something. What skeletons was he keeping in his room? Especially if John was threatened with pain of death.

Chapter Text

The first weekend with Sherlock had flew by and went without a hitch. John saw very little of him during the day as he was out procuring evidence for one of his cases and when he returned home he kept to himself, engrossed in his work. He paid John no mind whatsoever and John stayed within his own parameters. As Sherlock had said he was under no obligation to interact with him if he so chose. When the weekend came to a close and the new work week crept up, John really felt no different than if he was living at his previous flat. He was surprised in himself that he transitioned and was taking this as well as he was, but so far the vampire had done nothing to harm him and actually paid him little attention. Maybe he was being paranoid for nothing.

Though it didn’t stop John from being curious about his new flat mate. He defied certain vampire myths which now nagged in the back of his mind wondering what was true and what was not. Were there more vampires like him roaming around the city completely unnoticed and unaware by everyday people? Or was he a rare commodity? From what he could gather in his own observations the sunlight seemingly had no effect on him. He could move silently and swiftly if he wanted to, but only did so on occasions about the flat. Blood was what gave him his renewed youthful appearance but not once had John seen him consume it. In ways he was grateful, but secretly he was finding himself fascinated in seeing Sherlock’s true dark being. He mulled over all these things his entire shift.

When he returned home later that evening he had found Sherlock perched at the kitchen table over a microscope. His full focus was absorbed into studying the slide that was clipped underneath the lens. He passed around him and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. The cold spring air still hadn’t shifted to warmer weather just yet and was causing his shoulder to ache tonight with a vengeance. He knew if he didn’t take something for it now he was going to have a terrible nights sleep.

“Your adrenaline is wearing down.” stated Sherlock as he switched out his slides. “Hmm, barely ten minutes since arriving home. You sure you don’t need more than the trauma unit to keep you up?”

“The paracetamol will kick in soon. I might even have a hot shower.” John leaned back against the counter, glass in hand as he watched the detective turn the knobs of his microscope ever so slowly.

“Of course, of course. Don’t let me get in the way of your health. I just thought…” Sherlock’s eyes drifted away in thought for the briefest of seconds. However, before he could finish his sentence they returned back to the eye piece of his microscope to the task at hand. “…oh never mind.”

Him? Concerned about his health? The thought of a vampire concerned about his health made him somewhat perturbed. John had figured the only reason Sherlock would only care about his well being was that he essentially was playing the part as his blood mule.

“What?” John asked, his interest now piqued.

“Oh it’s nothing.” Sherlock gave a mere shrug of his shoulders.

“Tell me.”

Sherlock drew back from the microscope and let out a sigh.

“If you insist. I have been called by Lestrade to a crime scene. You being a medical man I could use your assistance.”

“Really?,” John mused. “Me assist you? I doubt you would need me.”

Sherlock turned in his chair to face him fully, brows bunched together.

“How so?”

“What, you’re probably hundreds of years old. You must have more medical knowledge than all of Bart’s Hospital put together and then some.”

“That would be where you are wrong. I have knowledge, yes, but I can only put so much knowledge into my mind palace before it is overflowing and about to burst at the seams. I have to clean it out every once and awhile. It’s easier if I already have someone who is with the current times on hand and I can easily pick their brain. You would be most useful.”

John’s eyebrows rose.

“Pick my brain? So I’m going to be your walking talking medical Wikipedia, is that it?”

“Putting it in that light sounds quite impersonal and depressing. I could say you will be my colleague.”

A colleague? He had went from stranger, to flatmate and now a colleague in just three days. How did this happen? As far as John knew they were going to lead separate lives, he would pay his way in the blood that the vampire required and that would be that. This unexpected shift caught him off guard. He had a hard time believing that he would actually need his help, but his excuse seemed genuine. He supposed as long as he was helping and not getting in the way or possibly any confrontation, he could go.

“Alright, I suppose.”

A smile lit up on Sherlock’s face and he all but jumped out of his chair to go get his long dark coat.

“Good! Your hat and boots. We have about an hour’s drive outside the city.”

“Hat and boots? Did I miss something?”

Sherlock paused in his movements before he could tie his scarf and turned back to John with a face of subtle panic.

“Am I going to war?” John added as his lip curled into a grin.

Sherlock blinked once. The panic washed away from his features and he let out a sigh.

“I…no. I didn’t mean to sound so…You’re fine the way you are dressed. Come on.”

He finished with his scarf and made his way down the stairs. This was the first time John had seen the vampire so flustered over words. In the short time he had known him he knew he was sharp witted and knew exactly what he wanted to say. All he could think of was maybe it was an old saying from his day, a way to get ready, to go out. Not unless he thought he took it the wrong way and thought it had a more military feel to the words.

“He must’ve thought he was triggering my PTSD and relieved when I didn’t have a reaction.” John mulled as he slid his jacket back on and went after the detective who was waiting for him by the kerb. With simple ease Sherlock raised his hand and hailed down a cab and soon they were off.

Settled in the cab Sherlock withdrew his phone from his coat and busied himself. John peered over at him and the wall Sherlock had made for himself; his expressionless face decorated him like a mask. A hard and subtle way of saying he did not want to be talked to or noticed. But John had other plans. He wasn’t going to let one misunderstanding ruin a possible interesting evening.

“I’m fine by the way.” John attempted to break the ice between them.

Sherlock remained silent. Not even a grunt in acknowledgement or a change in his stony exterior to hint that he had heard him. Time for a different approach.

“What’s a mind palace?”

This caught Sherlock’s attention as he looked up from his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

“A memory technique. It helps me remember and bring forth information and images that I have stored throughout the years. A skill essential to my work.”

John nodded.

“Like people who have a photographic memory?”

“In some sense of the fashion.”

John sat back in keen interest now. No wonder Sherlock was able to come to the conclusions he did the first night they met despite his skill. If John was correct in thinking and given the fact that his new flatmate was a vampire; he must have vast amounts of information right at his fingertips. Able to solve crimes at a mere glance without even touching a body. All he would have to do is go to the right location in his mind to get whatever he needed.

“Your mind palace must be Buckingham.” John admitted.

“Why do you say that? Because I am not what I am supposed to be? As much as I would love for it to be that vast I’m afraid not.” He gave the cab driver a quick glance and lowered his voice so to keep the conversation more private.

“Living as long as I have things become too outdated that it no longer pertains to this day in age. And as time moves on things are changing more at a rapid pace. I hate to admit it but there are times where I have trouble keeping up. So in order to do so I have swept away old knowledge, deleted useless material, and tossed out antiques I doubt I will ever use again. Though there are certain memories I have preserved for the sake of sentiment alone. They are my tethered shadows to the past.”

The detective’s face had softened and eyes were deep with emotion. John could see now what he had meant before at the flat. Of course there were going to be times the vampire would slip back into old habits and sayings that held no value to him, how could he not. And Sherlock, being what he was, held great value to his past. His once human life. Times he was no doubt more familiar with. And the moments he did slip, it would be a constant reminder to him that he no longer lived in his time. He was simply moving through history getting farther and farther away from a life that didn’t exist anymore.

The rest of the cab ride was in silence from Sherlock’s own personal confession. In some ways John could understand how Sherlock felt. He had felt those same feelings while he was deployed. Away from family, living in a land different than your own, and not even sure if you would see home again. Sure it was a culture shock and one got used to it after awhile, but to constantly do it for years even decades sounded unfathomable. He was 37 and the younger generation now seemed strange to him. What would he feel like once he was 60? 70? Only time could tell.

The cab took them outside the city where it pulled up to a large institutional building. There waiting for them was several police cars and a crew of the Scotland Yard. A middle aged man came up to them as they exited out of the cab. The wind blew back his salt and pepper hair to reveal his stressed worry-lined features, but his face instantly found relief once his eyes set on Sherlock.

“Thank God you’re here. Is this him?” asked Lestrade as he pointed towards John, his voice gruff in the cold night air.

John’s ears perked at the question. Sherlock had already mentioned him to this Inspector? Of course he did. Not only would he have to approve a civilian coming to a crime scene, but this seemed as though it was just Sherlock’s nature to anticipate the future.

“Yes. This is Dr. John Watson. He is assisting me tonight. John this is Lestrade.” Sherlock introduced him to the Inspector and they shook hands.

“Well I’m not going to lie it’s a fucking nightmare here,” Lestrade started. “Katherine Carmichael, a patient only 17, was found in a field about a kilometer down the road. In pieces, mind you. Definitely not for the faint of heart. She was getting treatment here at Brightwell Hospital. It’s a mental institution. She was reported missing last week and then found earlier this evening by a jogger. We have a doctor in custody right now. He has a hobby of collecting old surgical tools and one of his was missing from his office.”

“Did anyone see her leave?” asked Sherlock.

“No. Power outage with a storm took down the cameras and none of the staff saw her leave the night she was reported missing. But here’s the thing. A search party was sent out to look for her and didn’t find anything all week. No signs, no nothing. Yet this evening she turns up butchered like she’s been to the slaughter house.”

“Show me her room.”

Led like a man of importance on parade, Sherlock was escorted to the patient’s room. To say it was a room of residence for a patient seemed rather bleak when they entered. No curtains draped the window, neither were there any sort of bed sheets or pillows of any kind. Windows were locked, a TV screwed into the wall itself, the door to the bathroom was sloped at an odd angle on its hinges. Nothing looked right in the room, but this didn’t seem to deter Sherlock as he glided around the room checking every crevice known to man.

“What was she being treated for exactly?” John questioned the Inspector.

“She had a history of schizophrenia and hallucinations.” Lestrade confined to John. “Her parents had her committed when she stopped eating and sleeping. Wouldn’t take her medications anymore. Began seeing figures in her room telling her to kill her mum and dad. She was on suicide precautions. Made it known to her doctors that she didn’t want to live. Kid didn’t last more than a couple days here until she went missing.”

“Anything in her therapy notes saying if she saw these figures here?” Sherlock asked.

“No, nothing. Only thing they have listed is that she tried to commit suicide twice already. Hence why the drapes, blankets and pillows are missing. She tried to cut off her airway with them.”

“Custodial staff cleans rooms on a regular basis I presume?” Sherlock whisked around heading for the door and stopped to inspect it, turning the handle from the inside and out. His brows scrunched together as he gave a sideways glance to John. John immediately picked up on the look the detective gave.

“Doors are never necessarily locked. A psych ward mechanism. Especially if the patient is suicidal. No need to fumble around for keys if the patient is trying to off themselves. The staff would need to get in at a moments notice.”

Satisfied with the answer Sherlock continued on to the main hallway. He instantly spied a cleaning cart and quickly approached it.

“How tall was she?”

“Small thing, only five foot.” said Lestrade.

Sherlock took the clipboard hanging from the cart and flipped through its pages.

“What time did the cameras go out?”

“About six o’clock in the evening.”

A grin donned Sherlock’s lips and he handed Lestrade the clipboard.

“Her room was scheduled to be cleaned at 6:15. And the last one on the list before they began cleaning the doctor’s offices. If I’m correct the patient made her escape on the cleaning cart hiding underneath in the lower compartment. Due to her small size and stature she could easily fit. She left on her own accord. The next question is why did she leave an institution if she did not feel safe. One would assume it was because she either didn’t feel safe with staff or the other patients.”

Lestrade briefly glanced over the clipboard and back to Sherlock.

“Why do I have a feeling there’s more?”

“If you look carefully there are scratches on the outside of her window on the pane itself. Though there are no signs of forced entry. They are barely visible in the light, but at just the right angle you can make out five lines. Her murderer came here to get her and she was trying to save herself from them.”

John swerved his head back into the room. This he had to see for himself. There could’ve been no way that there were scratches. The room itself was on the second floor and there was no direct contact to the window. No trees were near to have someone climb in nor a good foundation below to place a ladder due to large loose rocks that hugged the building’s base. As John looked closer at the glass, squinting his eyes into a strain. The sound of the air unit below him kicked in causing him to jump slightly and heart to race at the sudden noise. How the detective could see scratch marks in the dead of night was beyond him. He would have take Sherlock’s word for it.

Just as he was about to leave he glanced at the window once more and this time saw something quite different. The heat of the unit played on the window its warm air bringing a fog upon the glass. As the cloudiness crept farther up it began to reveal its own hidden secrets.

“John. Come along. We’re going out to view the body.” Sherlock’s voice came from the doorway.

Before John could report his findings Sherlock and Lestrade were already making their way out. John had to make a quick pace to catch up as they went to the ground floor and proceeded out the back of the building. Sherlock made stop to look around, his ever vigilant eye inspecting the area.

“She would’ve made it out the back door here while the rubbish was being thrown out in the skip. Plenty of places to hide behind cars till staff returned inside. And since the cameras were out no one saw her leave. But why would she go outside where the murderer is? Inside she would have been safe. Reported it to staff…not unless she knew her murderer.” Sherlock talked to himself.

“What if she was being threatened?” John questioned. “If she did know her murderer and if she was being threatened, maybe she was coerced out? It may have tied in with her hallucinations and schizophrenia. She probably didn’t know what was real.”

Sherlock turned quick and met John’s face with a impish grin.

“Good, Watson! Lost in her own reality. But now the reason why the murderer wanted her dead. That is one motive we have yet to establish. Where is she, Lestrade?”

“There,” Lestrade pointed out to the set up lights in the field. “Help yourself. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen her more than I care too in one sitting. I’m sure you boys don’t need me to take you down there.”

“Don’t mind if we do.”

John had to practically run after Sherlock who had longer strides and moved faster than he did. He approached the body first, circling around it as he put on latex gloves. Probably picked from the cleaning cart, the doctor figured. John couldn’t help but make note of the deep sniff Sherlock gave off as he crouched down beside the deceased girl and produced a small magnifying glass from his pocket. Blood soaked the ground everywhere and on the girl herself. John wondered if Sherlock was ever tempted despite his declaration of celibacy towards drinking from a body. To him it must have looked like a buffet table the way her body was cut showing off every available artery and vein.

“Your gift of silence speaks volumes, Watson. What are your thoughts? Or are you feeling the same as Lestrade?” John peered over at Sherlock who was now looking at him with interest.

He crouched down beside him and made a quick once over of the girl.

“Well it’s certainly very Jack the Ripper. She’s been hacked to death. There’s two puncture marks on her inner elbow she may have been drugged and taken. Every joint has been dismembered but all the cuts have been made in locations for easy amputation. Could be someone with medical knowledge of that sort of thing, but they are all jagged. Probably done with a saw. Done in a hurry. She looks extremely emaciated.”

“A hurry, yes. She was alive when she was being dismembered.”

John’s eyes jumped to Sherlock’s.

“Death wants you to be terrified, but the scariest thing is wanting death. They made her suffer before she met her end.”

“But why bring her back here and butcher her?”

“It’s the killer’s note. A calling card, if you will, to show us what they can do. They want it for the recognition, the applause. They want to be known. The thrill of the chase to them is that eventually they want to be caught.”

John shook his head in disgust.

“What have we here?” Sherlock produced a penlight and shined it into the woman’s mouth. His gloved fingers prodded the inside and carefully withdrew a rock.

“What the hell?” He breathed out.

This would be the second time in one evening that John had witnessed fear lace the detective’s eyes. What could a rock do to put him in such a state of vulnerability? As soon as fear came it had dissipated. He looked up to see the Inspector heading in their direction along with a gangly man who was wearing a blue zipped up plastic suit.

“What have you got Sherlock?” Lestrade piped in as he approached the two.

“It wasn’t the doctor. Nor the regular staff. I believe her hallucinations of the people she saw were real. Falling prey to a serial killer. You are looking for someone who has ties to the occult. No doubt she was their latest victim and sacrifice.”

“You mean like Devil worshipers or something?” The gangly man sneered down at Sherlock.

“Perhaps, but definitely occult related. She may have certain looks or features they found appealing and targeted her. Look through the janitorial and maintenance staff, ones that were hired from an outside agency. The cameras weren’t faulty by the storm they were taken offline just long enough for them to drug the girl and carry her out unnoticed in the cleaning cart. By that time she had already been hauled off in a vehicle waiting by the back door. Also they would have master keys to every room in that building. They could’ve easily swiped the missing surgical instrument.”

“Damn.” Cursed Lestrade.

“There’s more. Given her state of malnutrition she didn’t put up much of a fight. No skin or blood is evidence under her nails either. The way her body has been dismembered and the stone lodged back in her throat I would definitely say it is a Eastern European association you are looking for.” Sherlock handed him the rock and swiped off his gloves

Lestrade nodded turning away from the pair as he radioed on his walkie talkie and giving instructions to the gangly man that John now learned was named Anderson.

“That was amazing.” John stood following Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John a small smile and continued his trek towards the road. John had been right. Sherlock’s skills were no magic trick, but the real deal. The fact he could piece together this gruesome scene in just a an hour had been a remarkable feat. But there was something in Sherlock’s reasoning that didn’t add up.

“You changed your story. You said she left on her own, but then switched it to where someone drugged her and she was taken? Why?”

Sherlock sighed.

“Ever the observant one, John. You need facts before you make theories, instead of twisting theories to suit facts. That is why I changed it.”

John could see his reasoning. What kind of detective would he be if he didn’t have all the pieces of a puzzle so he could see the full picture?

“Before, when you asked if you were going into war, I should’ve explained myself better. With me you always be on the invisible battlefield. There is a constant danger lurking in every corner waiting to strike. Like a snake hiding in the grass. But I know you have your own battles to fight and I would not want to bring you into a war that you are not prepared for or even wanting to be in for that matter.”

“Why do I get the feeling that won’t make a difference? Mrs. Hudson says you get all sorts. Besides this has to be the craziest thing I’ve done in a while.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” Sherlock chuckled.

For the first time John felt comfortably at ease with the vampire and cracked a smile of his own. He didn’t feel like he was being drug around simply for Sherlock’s sheer will or entertainment, but as a companion. Sherlock was the detective and he was his flatmate assisting in his medical expertise, nothing more, nothing less.

The pair walked away from the crime scene and made their way back home.

****

“So how is the shoulder?” Sherlock asked as he hung up his coat on a peg and started up the stairs.

“Good it’s…wait.” John hurriedly followed suit and hung his jacket as well and went after him. “You didn’t need my help you were being a prat! You got me out to fix my shoulder!”

Sherlock stopped at the landing of the sitting room and turned back at John.

“And? You no longer are in any pain for the moment and it’s late so you’ll be off to bed soon.”

“So basically you used me and made me do laps,” John huffed as he caught up to him. “Brilliant.” He went to stairs to go to his own room. After all he had work in the morning and running around with an undead twat had made him exhausted.

“Oh please, I didn’t use you. You provided great insight and we set the Yard in the right direction. I would say this night has been most productive to the point that you will be extremely valuable next time.”

John paused in his motion towards the staircase and turned back to the detective. John hated to admit it but he had enjoyed his evening out with Sherlock. Despite the fact the victim had ended up dead. In their time together John had seen a glimpse of Sherlock’s world. He had moved through the crime scene snatching clues as if the had hovered in the air right before his eyes. Connecting dot to dot following a line only he could see amongst the chaos.

Though there was one look that had cracked the sleuth’s lens in his search. What was it about the rock that had casted such fear in his eyes? Sherlock may have been a master at keeping himself controlled in high strung cases and learning to foresee the suspect’s next move, but how many times had he been caught off guard? If John had to guess it had to be slim to none. And Sherlock’s mentioning of the occult made him wonder if the rock had a deeper meaning.

Though there was one thing John had failed to mention to Sherlock and that was the mysterious invisible note upon the window. He wondered now if it was important or not since Sherlock had set the Yard straight. But the heavy singular word of “YOU” had made his blood go cold. Not because he thought the girl had wrote it, but because it was wrote on the outside and in a direction where anyone could read it. Even her. It was why John had questioned Sherlock’s change in story. He shook off his wavering feelings and returned his attention back to Sherlock.

“Well, my therapist did say I should get a hobby. Get out of the house more,’’ He nodded in agreement. “Alright. Next time.”

“Goodnight John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched as the doctor retreated up the stairs to his room. This had been an odd night indeed. One where it had pulled on the lingering lines to his past. The case had been brief but it had brought a dark foreboding feeling of dread. Something he could not readily place. Like a word one has forgotten but hides at the end of ones tongue beckoning to be spoken into existence.Sherlock laid on the sofa and closed his eyes, resting his hands under his chin. There was only one solution to this prickling sensation in his mind and that was to go and seek answers.

His mind palace was no Buckingham as John had spoke of before. Certainly no lavish library or expansive university. No if anything it was a mirrored image of the world he was already in. An altered dimension of the confinements of the simple flat. Sure he could open doors to rooms to mazes, hallways and other realities of his own choosing and design. However, the place he was looking for was beyond anything he imagined or kept stored within the palace’s epicenter itself. He was going to have to go deep.

As he had explained to John, he was old. Memories that could have once been summoned at a mere thought were becoming harder to do so. Especially if one was trying to remember the events that led to their ultimate demise. If he was going to have to find them he was going to have to travel.

Down flights of stairs, into the depths of his deepest basement, one door led to out to the strange unknown. He opened it and was met with the salty breeze of the ocean shore. This gray landscape held no color of life, its sky was devoid of emotion, and waters as dark as midnight. He remembered visiting this beach in a distant memory under different circumstances making plans for the future that never came to be.

He shook his head of these thoughts. No need to get caught up on things he could no longer change. Where the water lapped the shore line sat a boat. This would be his mode of travel to search for what needed. Sherlock cast the boat off into the water and climbed in, letting it take him into the foggy blanket on the horizon.

As the boat sailed further and further the fog was becoming denser. These memories had become misguided, corrupt, buried at sea. Jagged rocks littered the shores of an island that threatened to steer the boat to certain doom. Monsters lurked in the darkened waters of the waves. As much as he longed not to visit here he knew he must. No matter how much it disturbed his mind. From the island, papers drifted away from it, carried by the tide. He reached down into the water and retrieved one hoping it may give some sort of relief to his curiosity.

On the soaked page was a solitary note. A date which brought him to a time of more simplicity and once joy. But this is where it all began. The beginning of the end.

December 19th, 1895

Chapter Text

December 20th, 1895

Change was on the air that winter. Not one of passing seasons, but revision in life itself. It was a strange premonition that weighed on Holmes’s mind as he observed the snowflakes flittering outside the cab window in their air like dance. He took another inhale of his pipe and smoke filled the compartment in its dense haze. Their latest case had took them to the countryside and by unfortunate accounts remained unsolved, leaving him dissatisfied with the outcome. The murderer had the liberty of being butchered and quartered himself thus ending the investigation all together. Though that didn’t stop Holmes from bringing home a trinket of their escapades. One that was settled nicely in a fishing basket.

He could almost see Baker Street up ahead when the cab abruptly stopped in its journey. There was no outside traffic. So what was the problem? A gust of chilled wind nipped at his face and he caught eye of his companion jabbing away at a newspaper vendor.

“Lord, always worried about that damnable magazine.” Holmes’s thoughts chided as he rolled his eyes. He longed to get warm by the fire, settle in for the evening and look back through his notes. And, if timing was just right, perhaps engage in forbidden pleasures. And the doctor was wasting precious time.

The detective shifted his hand further up the doctor’s thigh, getting dangerously close to…

“Oh!” Watson swatted his hand away and finished up his conversation. “No, no, no, not at all. Good day to you.”

The doctor settled back into his seat and gave Holmes a murderous look.

“Was that necessary?” He asked as he shoved up the window.

“How else was I to get you to stop gossiping in the street like some rouged up woman.”

“Is that an offer I detect on your words? Or just your way of saying you want to start on some experiment that you have yet to tell me about? What is the secret in that basket?”

Holmes took another draw from his pipe. He truly wanted to say, both. If he didn’t get home soon and put the basket in an ice chest it was going to have a foul odor to it. 

“Christ, Holmes, what is in the basket?” He warily eyed it sitting on the floorboard by their feet.

“Seeing that you are a medical professional and sometimes my experiments can run along the more morbid side I hope you will be open minded. Especially given the fact I spend most of my time in the morgue…”

“What’s in the basket?” Watson cut him off in his explanation. He knew him too well and knew when he was just throwing out words to beat around the bush. It was one habit that always confused him about his dear friend. Was he to be sensitive and spare feelings or blunt and to the point?

“His head.” The detective admitted finally.

Watson’s eyes widened at him in shock.

“You mean…the Squire?! What the devil for?!”

“Thought my other skull needed a friend.”

Their cab finally rounded the corner and arrived at 221B. It was his place of solitude and comfort. And with his time with the doctor it had become to be known as his sanctuary. Behind closed curtains and locked doors he was allowed to silently worship the only body he himself had died for. Both in metaphor and literal language. At least on paper. The only gospel he knew was in silent recognition they gave to each other. The hymns they had sung had been for their ears only. And such music it made. The times they dined together was their holy communion and the only prayers said was when they hoped to see each other again.

The detective was met at the door by his less than pleased looking land lady as he got out of the cab. One thing that he was grateful for was that the elderly woman’s hearing was starting to go. Making her a heavy sleeper. She never knew what praises were being sung in the quarters above her head. Or how they were extensionally much louder when she trotted off to church every Sunday morning.

“Mr. Holmes, I do wish you’d let me know when you’re planning to come home.” 

“I hardly knew myself, Mrs Hudson,” said Holmes as he took out his pipe. “That’s the trouble with dismembered country squires; they’re notoriously difficult to schedule.”

At that he clamped his pipe back in his mouth and paid the driver.

“What’s in there?” asked Billy as he came out to help them with the luggage, peering at the basket in the doctor’s hand.

“Never mind.” Watson brushed off the boy’s curious wonderings.

“Did you catch a murderer, Mr. Holmes?” asked Billy over his shoulder as he took their luggage inside.

“Caught the murderer; still looking for the legs. Think we’ll call it a draw.”

Once inside he took off his hat and coat putting them in their proper lodgings on the hook by the door. Further inside laying on the mantle piece of the fireplace was new posts for him. Crime, it seemed, never ceased while he was called away. Then again, he could always use the excuse that he and Watson would be busy for an hour or so considering their next case. At least it would give them some privacy.

“I never enjoy them.” Mrs. Hudson admitted as she came in followed by the doctor. No doubt complaining about the stories in the papers again and getting him riled up.

“Why not?”

“Well, I never say anything, do I? According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfasts.”

“Well, within the narrative, that is – broadly speaking – your function.” Watson said as he hung his hat and coat.

“My what?!” Mrs. Hudson flustered.

“Don’t feel singled out, Mrs Hudson. I’m hardly in the dog one.” Holmes replied as he shifted through the post.

“The ‘dog one’?!” 

“I’m your landlady, not a plot device.” She scuttled off to her own rooms in a huff, leaving the pair in the hallway.

“Do you mean ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles’?!” Watson called out as he went after the detective who had made for the stairs.

He couldn't help but smirk to himself. He would never admit he liked Watson’s stories of their adventures together. Dashing about London, hunting criminals, the thrill of the chase at their feet. His companion had chronicled their lives at Baker Street like any romance author and even though he fussed to Watson about getting too carried away with it, it secretly warmed his heart. And on nights where they were separated in mind and body he would read those stories and relive those moments under the gaslight of his lamp safely in his bedroom.

Holmes reached the sitting room and suddenly his giddy gait became cautious. Hanging in the darkness was a wavering floral note. A scent that puzzled his mind for a moment, but yet one he knew. And one, he for sure knew, Mrs. Hudson did not normally wear. He threw open the first set of curtains and then the next. The late afternoon light flooded in and revealed a figure in a dress, all black as one does in mourning, including the veil that hid her face.

“Good Lord!” Watson exclaimed as he entered the sitting room and made a once over of their new uninvited guest.

“Mrs Hudson!” Holmes yelled from the doorway. “There is a woman in my sitting room! Is it intentional?”

“She’s a client! Said you were out; insisted on waiting.” Said the landlady as she called from downstairs.

“Didn’t you ask her what she wanted?”

“You ask her!”

“Well, why didn’t you ask her?”

This did not sit well with the older woman and her tone became feisty.

“How could I, what with me not talking and everything?”

Holmes rolled his eyes and returned to the sitting room.

“Oh, for God’s sake. Give her some lines. She’s perfectly capable of starving us.” He whispered into Watson’s ear before addressing the woman that occupied the room.

“Good afternoon. I’m Sherlock Holmes. This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson. You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word.”

“Holmes.”

“However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations.” Holmes walked closer to her, the floral perfume ever evident than before. He knew the scent. It was always present on Watson’s clothing whenever he decided to bless his appearance at his doorstep. No doubt it was the one he had been earnestly trying to beat time in order to get home. That he may have some taste of the Garden of Eden before he was forcefully banished to the outside and made to look inside in torment.

“You have an impish sense of humor which currently you’re deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish,” He continued as he circled around her and came back to Watson’s side.

“You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavory companion of dubious morals. You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible.”

“Good Lord, Holmes!” the doctor scoffed.

“All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume.”

“Her perfume?”

“Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to me and disaster to you.”

“How so?”

There were times when Watson was his beacon of light and other times when the doctor’s light was so dim Holmes wondered how he could even see. Surely he would know the very scent of the woman he had chosen to spend his life with, the one he had taken oath at the alter, the one that seemed to be catching on to their habits together. He stepped forward and unveiled the shrouded woman, leaving her face for display. 

“Because I recognized it and you did not.”

“Mary!” Watson’s eyes widened as the veil fell away.

“John.” His wife answered.

“Why, in God’s name, are you pretending to be a client?”

“Because I could think of no other way to see my husband, Husband.”

It seemed as though the desires of the flesh would have to wait for another time. Holmes had noted the increased vigilance of the doctor’s wife as of late and it was starting to become more pronounced. Surely by now she would have picked up on her husband’s long excursions on cases. Being gone for weeks at a time. Or simply observing how the doctor abandoned their residential home for the comforts of the detective’s. Watson was no stranger to Holmes if he showed up unannounced and stayed the night. Those were the times he longed for the most and he had hoped to engage on such actions if it weren’t the ill timed arrival of the doctor’s significant other.

The couple’s banter from the fire place could be heard as he tried to drown out his own misery in the comforting arms of his Stradivarius. But no swaying tune of Mendelssohn or Wagner would console him. Nor would it woo his beloved companion to him in the heat of a triangular lover’s quarrel. He could take it no more.

“Enough!” Holmes commanded and the room fell silent. “The stage is set, and the curtain rises. We are ready to begin.”

“Begin what?” asked Mrs. Watson.

“Sometimes, to solve a case, one must first solve another.”

“Oh, you have a case, then, a new one?”

The detectives heart swelled at the doctor’s enthusiasm. One case finished and already so willing to start another. At least for now it would be the waving white flag calling for truce. A subtle distraction for the time being as he revealed their new visitor.

“Lestrade!” Holmes beckoned over his shoulder. “Do stop loitering by the door and come in.”

As on cue the door of the sitting room burst open to a disgruntled looking Inspector. His heavy breathing and anxious expression was of near fright. Whatever could the Inspector want at this hour to come charging to his door like a dog with its tail between its legs?  He gave a once over of the room and his eyes caught onto the table by the window for the briefest of seconds. It held no doubt in the detective’s mind that what had happened to the Inspector it definitely warranted a hard drink.

“How did you know it was me?” Lestrade focused on the detective as Holmes sat in his chair.

“The regulation tread is unmistakeable; lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson.”

“I-I-I just came up. Mrs Hudson didn’t seem to be talking.”

“I fear she’s branched into literary criticism by means of satire.” He explained as he filled his pipe with tobacco from the Persian slipper on the table beside him. “It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady. What brings you here in your off-duty hours?” 

Lestrade took a brief glance to his right, then looked back at Holmes.

“How’d you know I’m off-duty?”

“Well, since your arrival you’ve addressed over forty percent of your remarks to my decanter.” He pointed to the table by the window on which laid a silver tray that held various bottles and glasses, including a whisky decanter. “Watson, give the Inspector what he so clearly wants.”

At his request Watson walked to the table across the room and poured a drink for their new guest.

“So, Lestrade, what can we do for you?”

“Oh, I’m not here on business. I just thought I’d ... drop by.”

“A social call?” Watson asked as he handed him the drink. 

“Yeah, of course, just to wish you the compliments of the season.”

Holmes took his pipe from his mouth and stared pointedly at the Inspector. This was yet another trial upon his patience. True, he would admit that Watson’s softer refineries of manners had rubbed off onto him on the art of conversation. However, even he had his own preference to certain people where he was more lenient to his friend than to the Yard. Making him more impatient for his clients to simply get on with it and stop blabbering at the mouth. He could tell he was making the Inspector even more nervous from his silent regard as Lestrade held his gaze and then raised his glass.

“Merry Christmas?” said Lestrade.

The trio exchanged their holiday salutations to the anxious man.

“Thank God that’s over.” Quipped Holmes. “Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door but embarrasses you to relate?”

Lestrade took a long drink from his glass and closed his eyes before shaking his head. Possibly trying to rid his mind of ill thoughts before he beheld the world again with open eyes.

“Who said anything happened?” Lestrade defended.

“You did, by every means short of actual speech.”

The Inspector took another deep drink of the liquor draining the glass dry.

“Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah, Holmes?,” Watson held up a finger to pause Holmes’s deductions. “You have misdiagnosed.”

Holmes grinned.

“Then correct me, Doctor.”

He loved to see how Watson’s brain worked. Whereas the doctor was the more sentimental of the two of them and Holmes the more logical, he regarded his way of thinking with the highest esteem. Rarely did people tolerate his company and even more rare to understand his methods in ways of deduction. It amazed him, from time to time, to see his Watson do both. 

“He didn’t want a drink …” Watson took the Inspector’s glass to reveal the emptiness of the crystal. “... he needed one. He’s not embarrassed; he’s afraid.”

With a quick glance at the evidence the doctor set before the detective from the drained glass to the frightened wear upon Lestrade’s face, he knew he was right. Employed in his company he knew this was more valuable information than anything Watson could learn from married life.

“My Boswell is learning. They do grow up so fast.” He threw a proud smile towards the doctor’s wife who returned it. 

“Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard. Inspector, do sit down.” He gestured to the chair with his pipe.

“I’m-I’m not afraid, exactly.” Lestrade took the offered seat.

“Fear is wisdom in the face of danger. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Watson brought over the refilled glass and gave it to the Inspector.

“Thank you.” Lestrade said graciously.

“From the beginning, then.”

And with a stroke of Holmes’s match the flames engulfed the memory.

It was the ticking of his wristwatch that brought Sherlock from his trance back into the darkened room of the present. All was still throughout the flat and the grayish hue of the dawn barely brought color to the morning. Checking the time it was only a quarter after five. It was at times like these, searching his mind palace, that time became relative. He could stay succumbed for hours, even days if he so chose. However, again just like the premonition long ago, he felt as though time was not on his side. Like an irritable itch on ones back that won’t be rid of. No matter how much you scratch at it. 

Sherlock rose up from the sofa and made his way towards his room. Locking the door from the outside world to his small refuge.

Chapter Text

The sounds of heavy artillery and the shouts of his men from his nightmares is what usually threw John back into the land of the living. He was no stranger to the curse of stressed induced dreams that wanted him to relive his every moment from the war like some personal circle of Hell. Every night he felt like it was a game of roulette of whether he would sleep peacefully or enter the battle once again. Though the night terrors is not what had awoken John this morning.

Grunts, groans and yelling. Crashes, bangs and booms. A literal war zone within the flat itself beneath John’s bed from the sitting room below. He immediately threw off his covers and made for the stairs, not bothering to change out of his night clothes. The detective had been irritable lately and he wasn’t exactly sure if it was from the lack of cases to keep him occupied or the fact John knew he had no blood supply in the fridge to fend off his hunger.

“This is it. He’s snapped and he’s trying to kill a client…” John reached the bottom of the stairs to the landing to see the sitting room in total chaos. Furniture had been toppled over, papers strewn about and two men fighting to the death. Sherlock, a fencing sword in hand and the other man, countering back his attacks, with his umbrella.

“What the hell is going on?!” John’s sounded at the display.

Sherlock, never breaking his stance, greeted him as if there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on at the moment.

“Ah, morning John! Good to see you alive and well,” He stressed the two words with emphasis. “As I have been trying to explain that to my overly annoying relation.”

John stared at Sherlock as if he had just said ‘the sky was falling’. A relation? As in…family? John’s head was having a hard time wrapping itself around the construct.

“What?” John asked in disbelief.

“Someone had to come and look in on you Dr. Watson. Or recover you. Whichever came first.” The man that was speaking was older, well dressed in a crisp suit and barely looked like anything resembling Sherlock. His frame was not as lean, his nose protruded over like a beak and he did not have the luscious locks, but more likely losing it. 

“Sorry, what?” 

However, the man lost the match right at that second. In movements faster than John could see Sherlock plucked the umbrella out of the man’s grasp with his sword. It flew like a spear towards Sherlock as he caught it with ease and kicked back the man onto the sofa, his sword leveled at his throat. John all but gaped at the scene before him.

“Bested you in less than eight minutes. You’re getting old Mycroft.”

“Some sooner than others, uncle of mine.”

Sherlock drew back his sword and tossed the umbrella back to him.

“Wh...uncle? Uncle? He’s your uncle?!” John exclaimed as he pointed to Sherlock.

“More along the lines of great-great uncle per say. It is by some miraculous chance that we share the same bloodline.” The man explained as he stood and readjusted his suit.

“Consequently.” Sherlock gritted out was he thrust his sword into the fireplace stand and it hit the floor with forceful thud.

“Right. Too early in the morning for this.” John made his way to the kitchen and flipped on the kettle. There was nothing a dose of tea couldn’t help.

“You’ve seen him. Now you can go.” Sherlock’s tone was aggravated as he leered at Mycroft.

“I will decide when to take my leave. How is he treating you Dr. Watson? Hellish to live with I imagine.” 

John turned and rested back on the counter, arms crossed.

“It’s been interesting to say the least.” 

“I’m sure. Are you here...because you live here or against your will? He hasn’t bothered you has he?”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock plopped in his chair, resting his head on the balled up fist of his hand. If looks could kill Sherlock’s menacing eyes could’ve easily killed an army by the way he looked at Mycroft. 

“If you mean that he closed out my flat two weeks before snatching me off the street because this flat was better I guess I could say…both."

“He hasn’t taken advantage of you?”

 Sherlock slammed his hand down on the arm rest of his chair. The audible pound had made John jump and look at him while Mycroft barely seemed fazed by the action.

“I haven’t bit him!”

“Yet he has been living here for a week for some reason? A considerable detail on both mine and Dr. Watson’s part. What other reason would he be here?”

A low rumble of a growl came from the vampire. 

It finally donned on John what this was. It was a welfare check. This relation of Sherlock’s wasn’t just coming in to see who now occupied the vampire’s house but to see if he was being used as a food source. At least it made John feel a little better that he wasn’t the only one that thought he was going to be playing the part of a live in three-squares-a-day meal.

“Alright, children,” John interceded. “No, I live here. Mind you he had a bit of a dickhead way of asking for a flat mate but in all honesty he was just there helping me out. Being discharged from the army has been a rough change for me. Rougher still given my newer circumstances but...all in all I am grateful.” 

“And I’m sure you know the consequences if such information about Sherlock should be released?”

“Fantasizing about being the next meal isn’t as cool as it really seems,” John said nonchalantly, but the two men looked back at him with confused expressions. “Never mind. I would assume I would end up missing and or dead.”

“Is he always this morbid?” Mycroft addressed Sherlock.

“Immensely. His imagination of death never seems to cease.” 

Mycroft nodded in affirmation seemingly content upon the answer.

“I will increase security. As precaution. Good day.”

John watched the man leave and Sherlock strode to the door all but giving it a firm slam shut.

“Thank God that’s over with.” Sherlock sighed in relief.

“Security? Is he..”

“The British government. Practically is the British government. He has eyes all over the country and henchmen to watch the entirety of the nation.”

The kettle ended its cycle and John began to make himself a cup along with breakfast. True to Mrs. Hudson’s word it had only been one time since he had moved in that she had graced the table with her cooking. He didn’t mind though and soon set himself up a serving of cereal and sat at the table. But one thing she could be counted on was bringing Sherlock’s daily newspaper. It was her everyday religious duty. John glanced at the stories on the front page and frowned went he read over the article concerning the patient, Katherine Carmichael, and the story surrounding her murder. One thing he noticed it left out any mention of the detective.

“This is ridiculous. Not one mention that you helped. Lestrade takes all the credit and you are practically swept under a rug.” He passed the newspaper across the table to Sherlock as he took a seat.

“Still bothers you?” The smallest hints of a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth.

“Does it not you?”

Sherlock shrugged as he flipped open the paper.

“It makes little difference to me. All I care about is the work. Problems, puzzles, cyphers they are what interest me. Not making a name for myself.”

“Why?”

“Seeing as a fact that I don’t age it would cause some problems. Must I spell it out for you. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. The public eye would constantly be at my doorstep and now in a time when more advanced media would archive my image I can’t afford to be recognized.”

John gazed at him as he read the headlines. It was still hard to grasp at times that this man was a vampire. So far everything he had expected of the typical stereotype had been the opposite. Even though Sherlock had a striking appearance that would be considered handsome by anyone he just didn’t fit the idea of the vampire look. Though he knew movies overhyped that persona with actors and theatrical makeup.

As Sherlock shifted his paper John’s eyes noticed a mark on the crook of his neck, shining silver embedded in his flesh in the morning light. It was a scar, several of them actually, barely visible if one wasn’t intentionally looking for them. Some were long and jagged, parallel to one another as if someone took a two pronged fork and ran it down the side of his neck where it disappeared under his shirt collar. Others were half moon shaped resembling teeth marks.

“Good God is that…it has to be. Bites from where he was changed.”

Just observing it gave John a cold chill down his spine. Something didn’t look right about it. Every other movie or TV show he had seen the vampire simply bite their victims. Two punctures and that was it. Why did Sherlock’s look like he was mauled and assaulted? Bit multiple times in such a violent manner, uneven and not straight made John’s mind jump to one conclusion.

Not only was Sherlock technically murdered and turned into a dark being, he had struggled against his assailant, tried to fight back and get away.

What event had warranted him such a horrible death? What had happened so long ago to fall not as the hero detective solving crimes, but as the victim? John thought for a moment but his fantasized thoughts came up extremely broad. A number of things could have happened. He could have been randomly attacked or, given his line of work, turned by someone he was pursuing. 

“If I may ask, how old are you?”

Sherlock’s eyes sharply lifted to John and as if by physical force became darker.

“Older than you, obviously.” He clipped and returned his attention back to the newspaper.

“Well I gathered that from day one, but what is your real age?”

“32.”

“And…how long have you been…”

“A long time.”

“How did it happen?”

Sherlock unglued his gaze from the paper, his full focus now on his flatmate.

“You really want to know?” He quirked an eyebrow in an almost challenging way that only dared John to confirm his answer. When John nodded, Sherlock suddenly shut down his paper and tossed it onto the table haphazardly, clasping his fingers under his chin. The features that were once controlled turned menacing as quick as a stroke of lightening. 

“Very well quid pro quo.”

“What?”

“If you want to know what happened, how I was turned into this, then tell me about  Afghanistan. What happened the day that stray bullet marred your shoulder? How you stitched back together your brothers in arms as they screamed in terror against the blasts of cannons in the desert plains,” He tilted his head to the side as if his scrutiny gave him a better angle to read John from across the table. “If my deduction serves me right, from what I have seen of how you hold your shoulder, I would say the bullet shattered the collar bone and severed the subclavian artery. You must have lost quite a bit of blood. You had not one but two surgeries to set it right. Must have left a sizable scar. The end result was that it riddled your health to the point you were discharged and sent home.”

Tension filled the air so thick it had made John pause in his breakfast and stare at the man before him. How was it that Sherlock could pry into his inner most nightmares and tease at demons to reveal themselves. As quickly as the onslaught came, just like a passing storm, the clouds lifted off Sherlock’s face; straightening back in his chair letting his presence soften.

“Now you see. There are even ghosts in your past that define your every sunny day. When mine is more literal in the sense. Besides my story is not one that can be easily told over the breakfast table just like yours isn’t.”

His words struck a chord within John. Perhaps he was right. How was he to expect a traumatizing tale of the detective’s own death when he couldn’t even be truthful about his own plagues with his therapist. John’s eyes pulled away from Sherlock’s and suddenly found his cereal more interesting.

“Right. Sorry I...sorry.”

“One thing you must understand John, I have lived many years and am far older than you. I have felt loss, grief, and anger longer and more deeply than most. Sure my transition into the being that I am happened a long time ago, but there are times it haunts my dreams as though it just happened yesterday,” Sherlock stood and produced a lunch box that had been nestled on top of the fridge and set it on the table. “You need to hurry if you are going to be on time for work. Take the lunch box with you. I’m sure it will be…discrete…if you follow my meaning.”

Ah, first day on the hunt. So this is how his day would go. John hurried with his breakfast and finished the rest of his morning rituals. By the time he was ready to head out the door he snatched up the lunchbox and found it oddly heavy. He unzipped and found the contents of a sandwich, apple and a bottle of water. A lunch he didn’t remember making in preparation the night before for the work day ahead. Sherlock must have made it.

“A meal for a meal?” John thought as he re-zipped it and headed out the flat, catching a bus before it left for its destination.

As Baker Street disappeared out of sight he could see the pale figure of Sherlock looking out the window watching his bus. Another thought occurred to him. Mycroft had come to the conclusion John was being fed off of and held against his own will. On top of it all Sherlock had made no defense on his part as to why John was living there. Something told John that Sherlock hadn’t exactly been truthful to Mycroft. What story had Sherlock told him? The only expressive reaction Mycroft had got out of Sherlock was that he had swore he hadn’t bit John. Though it left John to wonder. Where exactly did Sherlock get his blood source before him if not directly biting a victim? John had a theory it may have been from Mycroft if he indeed held a higher power office in the British government. God only knows how it was acquired or who it came from.

When John’s shift ended later that night he a made trip to he lower levels of the hospital. One thing he was grateful for, now that most of the day shift was on their way home, there was very few people around during the night. If he planned this all right he could easily slip in and slip out without anyone really paying attention or noticing him. Though one other thing he didn’t expect was getting lost. He had only acquired his job about two months ago and he still had yet to visit the laboratories the inhabited the basement. In some ways it gave him an eerie feeling. With no people around the lifeless hallways were numerous and vast. As though he was entering a maze and he wasn’t exactly sure where the exit was. And adding to the creepiness of it abandoned beds and gurneys were parked along the walls with unused medical equipment as their bedside furniture.

“Hello?” 

A small voice came from behind him and John head whipped around to meet the sudden intruder: a petite woman. Her lab coat draped her small frame practically swallowing her whole making her look much smaller and younger than what she seemed. It didn’t really help matters none when John took note of her odd mismatched outfit that looked more like something a teenager would wear at university. Even her hair was swept up in a ponytail with a scrunchy that could easily date back to the 80’s or 90’s. John tried to read her name tag but it was covered by the lapels of her coat. The only words he could make out was that she was a pathologist assistant.

“Eh, hi.” John fumbled out.

“Can I help you with something? Are you lost?” 

“Well, um…yeah, I’m looking for the uh labs. I ordered blood about half an hour ago and it still hasn’t turned up yet. So I came down myself. To get it.”

“Oh my. Then you need to get down to the bank. Its down the hall. I’ll take you.”

Bizarre clothes aside, the woman’s expressive eyes and soft features held no distain that he was a wondering bumbling doctor in lands of the unknown that was more her area. 

“Thanks.”

He made sure to catalog exactly where they were going and which hallways they maneuvered so he wouldn’t have to ask a second time. Let alone get caught or bump into unwanted company along the way. They entered a laboratory that was thankfully vacant at the moment and she guided him to where the blood was stored.

“Here. What type do they need?” She asked.

Dear God, the thought had never came to his mind to ask. Or should he have asked? Was one type better than the other? As if asking was somehow learning one’s preference to Chinese than to pasta. How the hell was he supposed to know what Sherlock’s preferred blood type was. Then again Sherlock said he needed blood. He never mentioned a type. He had a feeling that if he needed to know he would’ve said something by now.

“O neg. I need about three pints.”

“Three? They must be bad off.” She handed him the bags.

“Yeah you should see the guy. Bad hemoglobin levels, anemic, pale as a damn ghost. Not healthy I tell you. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m Molly by the way.”

“John.”

“Don’t let me keep you. Maybe you can tell me later how its going with Mr. Anemic. Over coffee?”

John couldn’t help but laugh mentally. Mr. Anemic? He wasn’t going to let that one go.

“Sure, coffee. Coffee sounds lovely.”

He wasted no time leaving the lab. For once it would be nice to talk to someone normal. Even though if it was under the strong circumstance of getting blood for a vampire. But she would never know that. In his short time home he hadn’t made any fast friends and had gone straight to work. Sure he had coworkers he saw on a day to day basis but no one he could say he saw after the day was done.

He swiftly made it to the staffing room where he kept his personal items and put the bags into the lunch box. Throwing on his coat and with a determined route to get out of the hospital, John made it outside without being stopped. Safe at last. At least so he thought. 

By the kerb was a parked black car. The vehicle itself did not appear threatening, but the person who sat inside it with the door open, waiting for him to draw closer.

“Evening Dr. Watson. Why don’t you come along for the ride?” Mycroft beckoned.

“I don’t remember calling for a ride.”

“A friendly chat never hurt anyone. I assure you will arrive at Baker Street unharmed.”

“Is that how people in your family usually make friends? They just pick them off the street like vultures terrifying them half to death?”

Mycroft’s expression quickly changed to a stony mask. A common feature that secured his thoughts on doubting if he and Sherlock were indeed related. 

“The resting bitch face must be hereditary.” John thought to himself as he got in the car reluctantly.

“When Sherlock called me up and said he was going to need certain security cameras within Barts Hospital temporarily shut down tonight I became….concerned.” Mycroft stated as they drove off. “I’ve been too lax on him lately, I’m afraid. And when I saw on the CCTV footage of Baker Street that you were entering and exiting the premises the past week, well, forgive me in saying I was worried he had fallen off the wagon. Terms I don’t put lightly.”

John’s eyebrows rose. 

“Security cameras? So that’s why he wasn’t concerned about me getting caught.” His mind wandered back to the night he first met Sherlock.

“He’s…done this before has he?”

“Not for a very long time. That’s why under careful supervision and a controlled diet, so to speak, I have supplied him what he needs given his circumstances. Now why he has decided to change this arrangement is beyond me. I was hoping you would have provided more insight, but from your statement this morning I am back at the drawing board.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

John was slightly confused. How was it the relative of Sherlock’s not know what was going on with him? Every family has their own secrets, that was no shocker, but it wasn’t everyday a family would have a vampire relative just for fun. He figured it would be something that would have to be heavily guarded. But he had assumed that said family would know all there was to know on their unique relative.

“Know this, Sherlock does everything for a reason, in some form or another. Whether we understand why he does it makes little difference to him. It is easier for him know something than to explain why he knows it. He has had a set schedule of living for as long as he has lived. And when he suddenly does something out of the ordinary it is like a rock being dropped into water. It splashes. Makes a mess. And its ripples are what follows in its wake. The thing is, is the rock as already splashed. It is the mess that I am waiting for.”

“What kind of mess are you waiting for?” John asked not really sure if he wanted to know the answer. If it was the type of mess he was thinking of, who in London would be able to stop Sherlock in a hunger filled blood bath as he drained his victims throughout the city? But his thoughts paused. No, it wasn’t who would stop him but who would even try to help him?

“If I knew I would tell you. But I have no answers.” The car came to a stop and John peered out the window and saw the door of 221B waiting for him.

“A word of advice, if it will help.” Mycroft opened the car door for him. “When he begins to get hungry he tends to brood. That is when he will often retreat into himself. Forgets to nourish himself. Be careful of him then. It is when he is most uncontrolled.”

John stepped out of the car and the door shut. 

“If you should find yourself in a compromising situation.” His hand rested out the window, a business card nestled in-between his index and middle finger. John took the card. He understood what Mycroft was doing. Not only did he act as a protector of the government, but the protector of Sherlock and now for John. 

“You mean if he needs to have a leash put on him?”

“If it ensures your safety, then yes.”

“I think I’ll be alright. Surely it can’t be that hard to get a vampire to eat?”

“Oh I think you will be regretting those words. Evening.” The window rolled up and the car drove off.

As he went inside, John was possessed by the harmony of a violin coming from the upstairs flat. It was something of beauty. Notes swelled on the crescendo and then tremble of vibrato with a skillful hand. He quietly made his way up and entered through the kitchen door, admiring the music from afar. John couldn’t help but think back to their encounter earlier that morning and how he noticed the detective’s gruesome marks on his neck. Despite being changed, essentially murdered, and made into this blood drinking being, he was still able to create balance within the chaos.

“Just like he was able to do for me.” John thought as he put the bags of blood in the fridge.

If anyone had told him before he was sent back home that he would be living with a vampire who was probably a century old detective, going after criminals and providing him blood so he wouldn’t starve himself, he would’ve asked them what drugs they had been taking. Even if they told him that there was a man that was going to be providing him a home, friendship, and the most craziest way to relieve him of his pains from war, he still would’ve been skeptical. Sherlock had brought balance to his once chaotic life and he had to say it wasn’t so bad after all. 

“Bags in the fridge, Mr. Anemic.” 

A squawk of a misplaced note interrupted the delicate melody and John grinned that he was able to disrupt the peace.

Chapter Text

What had once been a one time occurrence began to take form as a new routine for John. It wasn’t too long after the case of the murdered psychiatric patient that they were swept away again on another adventure. He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock had asked him to come along to join him and he was eager to go. This time however, it was a stake out. 

Heavy mist was trying to turn into rain, but luckily they had been spared the weather’s change by the cover of the roof of an empty parking garage. The top most part gave them the surveillance they needed to keep a clever eye on the street below; watching and waiting for their  suspect. As a trained military man John was accustomed to waiting out the enemy in more harsher climates of the desert. London’s weather appeared to be no different. They were going on their third hour of their watch and so far there was no word from Sherlock to indicate he had seen them.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to be lacking in patience. In the time they had spent waiting he had managed to easily burn through half a pack of cigarettes. His continuous pacing and smoking did nothing to quell his anxiousness and frankly it was beginning to make John nervous himself.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” said John trying to defuse the tension.

The detective broke his repetitive walk, turning on his heel to give the doctor a confused expression. His hand that had a cigarette nestled between his fingers dropped from his face and he let out a plume of smoke from his lips before he spoke.

“Well, I don’t think it will kill me anytime soon. I have already checked that box off of my list of things to do in life. Even if I was alive my lungs would be as black as coal by now.”

“Did you take up smoking before or after your change?” John internally cringed at how the question escaped his mouth with no blatant regard for the detective. After all the last time he had asked anything about Sherlock’s personal life, dead or undead, he had given him a cold defensive answer.

“Before. I started smoking after I left home for university. I was a connoisseur of tobacco back then. I do believe I have smoked just about anything and everything ranging from pipe tobacco, cigars, and cigarettes. Hard habit to discontinue after awhile.”

“I bet.” 

John was surprised for once that Sherlock had given any response, especially about his past. And curiosity struck him again to see how far he would get before the vampire brushed him off.

Sherlock took another peek to the streets down below and his features upturned into a scowl. 

“For heaven’s sake how long is it going to take for them to show up?” He huffed.

“Still hasn’t come by yet?”

“No. At this rate hell will freeze over.” Sherlock returned back to his rigorous pacing.

John wondered how on earth he fared in his past life with his type of work. In some ways it amused him to see the normally calm and collected man be completely agitated over the fact he had to wait for his suspect. It seemed like patience was not a virtue of his. Though the more he observed him, the more his amusement died off and his skill for diagnosing came out. A empty half a pack of cigarettes, the pacing, the constant vigilance of the surrounding area, the way Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him subconsciously. This wasn't a display of Sherlock’s lack of patience, this was anxiety. How could he be so blind? He was a PTSD sufferer himself he knew the signs.

But the question now was what was triggering it? Was it the location? The fact they were waiting on a suspect? The possibilities were endless. The main thing right now though was to distract Sherlock of his plagued thoughts.

“I was wondering…”

“You are always wondering, Watson.” Clipped the detective.

“That may be so, but I have a question that you may either answer or take the wrong way.”

Sherlock dropped the butt of the cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe.

“Oh let’s hear it. Might as well since we’re waiting.”

“I don’t see how you can’t just, I don’t know, smell down a suspect if they have the victim’s blood on them.” John knew he was pressing his luck by asking such a question, but in all honesty he was truly interested. Though the last thing he wanted to do was make Sherlock feel like he was asking him because he was fascinated by his infliction. 

`

Sherlock gave the doctor a hard look before reaching into his coat pocket and retrieved another cigarette. As he brought it to his lips he studied the shorter man in front of him. Usually people romanticized vampirism in their own strange way, but as far as he saw it, it was a parasitic disease. And not one he talked openly about. Though the more he regarded John his mind had changed. He truly was a man like no other and had put up with his unique living condition with relative ease. Also he could see his interest in him from a medical and academic perspective. 

“I am not a hound, John.” Sherlock said as he lit his cigarette and exhaled the fumes from his mouth. “In theory and thinking I see your reasoning, but it is not all that simple. A suspect may leave their scent at the crime scene, but if left to the elements it can die out. And the suspect can easily wash off the victim’s blood off their person. You see to me the scent of a person and the scent of blood are two distinct smells. One is created by the natural hormones of the body that can be sweat or odor. And depending on the body the smell can range based on their lifestyle and health. The other, made by blood, is a scent all on its own. Since blood contains Iron atoms there is a metallic note to it. Some have it stronger than others. Even right now I could probably pinpoint here on the street who has a wound and who does not simply by following the smell of blood.”

“How can you do that?” Asked John.

“I can not smell blood unless it has been spilt. Thank goodness the years of conditioning myself to this lifestyle has made me keep myself in check. If I hadn’t I would be a raving mad lunatic at the sight of a minor scrape.”

“Is that why you use the bagged blood? To constantly keep yourself fed so you don’t have to go a week or so without it on purpose?”

Sherlock took another draw from the cigarette. 

“Just because I can’t smell blood unless it has been spilt doesn’t mean I don’t crave it constantly. How long can you go without eating before you become truly hungry to the point of starvation? A couple days? So what do you do? You eat to stave off the pains of hunger. That is one of my many reasons for the bagged blood.”

“Then what is keeping you from not going haywire?” It was a question that constantly nagged at the back of John’s mind. How much would be too much for the vampire? His limitations? How much danger would John truly be in if Sherlock did go off the rails?

“Sheer will more or less. Have you ever been addicted to something or craved something you just had to have? Let’s say your craving is a beer at the pub you enjoy. Say one night you go for a drink and that drink is so satisfying you have to have another. So the next night you go again. Then again and again and again and so on. Its not because you are thirsty. Its because you crave the taste. John, it wont matter to me whether I'm hungry or not. If I smell and taste blood that is appealing to me I will want more. Do you understand now?”

John nodded.

“I believe so. Kind of like how a drug addict gets high. One taste and they’re addicted.”

“Precisely.”

“Have you ever…done that?”

“No. I will admit I have had some blood taste better than others. The blood that is used by medical professionals to treat patients lacks certain things but it is enough to satisfy me. And for that we are all grateful.” Sherlock’s eyebrow quirked as if agreeing internally with himself.

“How long did it take for you to get used to being like you are? Blood craving and all of that?”

“A couple of years. There for a while I did not accept any cases involving bloodshed for fear I would give myself away. The chief detective of Scotland Yard at the time thought I was doing it because it brought back memories of a case. One I was working on before I was turned. I never said anything and let him believe that was the truth. Leaving it up to sensitivities.”

“So it was a case. It had to be! Pursuing a criminal only to become the victim.” John’s thoughts felt pleased it had come to the conclusion he had wondered all along.

“What was the case you were working on. Must have been something if he thought it shook you up a bit.”

“It did more than shake me up. It cost a life.”

Now this answer seemed vague. Did he mean his life or the life of another? If his death was truly as traumatizing as John was led to believe he would have to say it was the detective’s. After all how would one feel if they were suddenly murdered only to be brought back to life and realize they would never die. Continue living while the ones you loved passed on. It had to be a hell within itself.

“We might as well call this stake out a draw. I do believe our endeavors will be fruitless tonight. Why don’t you go on and seek out the comforts of home. I shall be along momentarily.” Said Sherlock.

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock waved a hand at him to shoo John along. “And for your company I’ll even bring back that Chinese dish you are fond of.”

“Alright. I’ll see you back home.”

The doctor left the detective by the wall of the garage to finish his cigarette and started for the stairs by the side of building. He was glad that the vampire was finally starting to open up a little even if it was small minuscule information about himself. It was starting to make him seem more real, more human. This man once had a life, ambitions, dreams, a career. He had to say he was even interested in what he was like in his past life. But those would be conversations for another time. 

The next few seconds caught John off guard. Instead of reaching the stairs he was suddenly being grabbed by the arm in a vice like grip and spun around. He made full contact that was the body of Sherlock as they were both shoved in a darkened corner and the taller detective hid the both of them. John dared not make a sound as he watched the face of the vampire turn lethal and eyes narrowed, looking off to the side. He followed his gaze and saw, not too far away, was a man. 

“Stay put, stay quiet.” The detective said in a firm voice.

Before John could fully comprehend what was happening Sherlock was gone in a fell flash. All he could hear next was the gurgling choked out groan that echoed within the concrete walls. Then silence. Focusing more at where the intruder had once been, stood Sherlock. His hand, that could bring out the pleasant tunes of any ethereal instrument, was bringing out the sounds of death. He grasped the neck of the man so tightly his fingers dug into the skin that was quickly turning red from the lack of oxygen. The man was far from being scared of the detective before him, he was down right petrified of the demon that held his life from the brink of existence. 

It wasn’t the awe of strength that kept John watching the scene from afar, but pure unbridled shock of the display. He wanted to call out for Sherlock to stop, though no matter how much his mind screamed the word, his tongue caught in his throat. It too paralyzed. His legs twitched at the urge to run over and defuse the situation however, they too was anchored to the ground. All military instinct had flown out the window.

The sickening crunch of the man’s esophagus that came next made John’s hair stand on end. Sherlock’s fingers pressed in deeper taking a firmer hold and with a sudden jerk, ripped out the man’s throat with his bare hand. Blood poured and flew out of the man’s neck as though a bomb had exploded from inside, splattering whatever laid in its wake. Sherlock released his grasp on the man’s body and, like a finality of a theatrical performance, it fell to its closed curtain. 

With baited breath the doctor dared not move or even speak with the cold act of murder still hanging fresh in the air. He had feeling if he did he would set off the vampire and he would strike again. The next target being him. His eyes were glued on Sherlock’s form as the vampire tossed aside the man’s flesh he had clutched in his hand. Slowly, he turned to face John, the full horror of his actions painted on him in splash work on his clothes and across his face. 

They held each others eye contact for the briefest of seconds though it seemed like hours until Sherlock blinked and came to. He was the first to break their stare. Glancing down at his ruined clothes he brought his blooded hand up to his field of vision. At first he looked confused then his features changed to intrigued. Though it didn’t last long. It must have been the smell of blood that had his mind scrambling in panic to fight off his body’s natural function and that was to feed upon his victim. His eyes shot back to John.

“Go home John.” 

John had heard his command but his body simply refused to obey. He knew he needed to leave. 

“John. Listen to me! Move! Go home!” Sherlock urged more strongly.

This time his stone like legs finally gave way and began to function again. He made a sprint for the staircase and didn’t bother looking back. All he knew was that he had to get away from Sherlock. Far as possible. 

John all but ran up the stairs, taking two in stride if he could. What he had just witnessed was beyond anything his dreams could muster up. The gore, the brutality, the fact it had even happened was throwing him for a loop. He had long since accepted that Sherlock meant him no harm his mind even dismissing the possibility that he would. Sometimes even forgetting he was a vampire at all. He just didn’t express it often. Sure he moved with uncanny swiftness now and again, never touched a bite of real food, or seemed to never go to bed, but John had over looked it. Been naive in his ways of thinking. Let his guard slip.

He reached the flat and all but fell into his chair. He was out of breath and the muscles in his thighs and calves were burning. He had ran. Ran away from a murder. One that he didn’t anticipate at all. 

The air shifted in the room and became heavier and a sudden feeling that he was not alone came like a tickle to the back of his mind. Black dress shoes caught his attention. Following the blood soaked trails upon trousers and dress shirt, John was met with the presence of Sherlock. He hadn’t heard him come in at all. His face no longer held any ill intent as it did before, but a more of a somber expression. At least he looked more aware and in control. 

“Are you alright?” 

Sherlock’s brows bunched together at the absurdity of John’s words.

“Am I alright? It is I who should be asking you that question.”

“I’ve seen worse.” John admitted. “What happened? Why did you attack that man?”

Sherlock shook his head in disbelief.

“Has your short time out of the army dulled your senses or did you not observe? He was planning to attack you! There was a knife in his coat pocket. And if I hadn’t been following behind, you would be the one dead, not him.”

It didn’t occur to him that Sherlock’s attack had been deliberate and not an act of crazed violence. Or even blood lust for that matter. He had came in to rescue him.

“Wait…he was the suspect wasn’t he?” John’s brows shot up. “The one you were waiting for?” 

The detective remained quiet. His silence speaking volumes.

“Jesus.” John said under his breath.

“What did you expect?!”

“I wasn’t expecting you to kill the suspect that was wanted for arrest! What on earth are you going to tell the Yard?”

“There will be nothing to tell. It will be a dead end case. Unsolved. Surprisingly, Lestrade will be very easy to convince.”

“Convince? Convince him of what?!” 

“It doesn’t matter anymore. The upmost priority at this time is that you are safe.”

Sherlock left the sitting room and headed straight towards the bathroom, trudging off his soiled clothes as he went. John was left wondering what cryptic answer the detective had meant this time. It was obvious to him that apparently Sherlock was going to cook up some story about how their suspect was now dead, of course dropping off the fact he was the one who had killed him. But what was he going to tell them? That he was murdered in cold blood? Let the Yard run around in circles after some imaginary killer that lead to nowhere except in the minds of both Sherlock and John? 

This had to be what Mycroft had mentioned. The mess. He knew Sherlock had saved his life, but things had gotten messy and he exposed his true self in front of another mere mortal. And for all actions come consequences. As such, a life was extinguished to let another’s burn.

“Sherlock?” John rose from his chair and followed him. “When you said the case would be unsolved you mean that you got rid of him, right? What did you do with the body?”

“Its in a undisclosed location. The less you know the better. You may have bared witness to my protruding evilness in an act of violence, but I will not have you be an accomplice to me by helping me be rid of the evidence.”

John heeded Sherlock’s words. Not only had he rescued him, but he had taken the liberty to clean up afterwards so neither of them would be linked to the crime. A practice, John was sure, he had perfected since his change. Constantly covering his tracks to make sure he was never found.

“Thank you.” John’s words came out solemnly.

Sherlock’s demeanor changed again. Despite looking like something out of a horror movie with blood all over him his face held a softer expression. Not out of weariness for his earlier actions, but something akin to compassion.

“Be more careful next time. Others have not been as fortunate as you. If…something had happened…I do not think I could have forgiven myself.”

The vampire closed the door of the bathroom softly, ending unspoken words and meanings.

John viewed back on what Sherlock had said. The case leading up to his change had cost a life. If he could bet any amount of money he would change his theory and say that it wasn’t Sherlock’s own life, but another’s. One that was close to him. One he couldn’t save. One he would kill for to avenge their death. The question now was, who?

Chapter Text

A quiet night in was something John definitely needed. From the failed stake out attempt days prior the dust had yet to settle between him and the detective. Whether it was the fact that the suspect was now disposed of in a nameless grave or that Sherlock had caused said death; he didn’t know what disturbed him more. He understood the vampire’s reasoning, truly he did, and for that he was grateful, but he never expected the situation to blow up so quickly. Since then he felt cautious around Sherlock when he knew he didn’t need to.

Sherlock seemed to sense this conflict within John. He had not taken on any more cases for the time being. Opting as well to stay in and work on more menial tasks. But in their quiet day to day interactions he had taken the doctor’s well being into factor. He made sure not to startle him while he was around or move too fast for his eye to see. Anything and every action he did was carefully calculated so he did not bring John stress or ill feeling. He simply had to give him time. 

He felt no remorse or regret in what he had done. It was as he had told John in truth, if anything had happened…no. He didn’t want to give the thought life. He had been too late once before and he vowed to never be again. 

Sherlock shook the dark thoughts out if his mind and peered from the kitchen over to John who had taken refuge in his chair and “vegging out”, as he had put it, in front of the television. He never before understood the metaphor until he studied him now. John’s eyes appeared glossed over, unfocused, staring into an unknown void that only he could see. His form was slouched to the side taking no resemblance of actual sitting. And here he thought he was doing “lifeless” in all literal sense and John was doing it better than he was.

“What’s buzzing around in your mind tonight? I know you are only half interested in the television as its been on that preposterous show with the doctor that flies around in the box. Also seventy percent of your focus has been on my book shelf and not even engrossed in that electronic contraption.” Sherlock’s voice brought John out of his own thoughts.

His attention now settled on Sherlock who met his eye with reciprocation. No particular emotion projected from his features as he waited for him to answer his question.

“Just wondering about some things. About you.” John said as he shifted in his chair sitting up straighter. 

“They must be at the very fore front of your brain. What is it?”

John’s mind pondered for a moment. He had been keeping a mental list of what he had seen with his own two eyes regarding the vampire’s powers, so to speak. This is what he knew: Sherlock was remarkably fast, exceedingly strong, could stand sunlight, and from what he could assume never slept. But he was always wondering what otherworldly mannerisms he possessed.

“Your abilities. What exactly can you do? I know there are hundreds of myths and legends about vampires, but what exactly is the truth? At least for you.”

Sherlock weighed the words he had spoken and listened to them again in his mind like a tape recording. He knew this conversation would happen at some point. He gave a brief look down to the scorched sheep’s stomach in the basin. His project would have to wait another time. He wasn’t really getting anywhere anyway.

“I see. No doubt your curiosity comes from recent events. And rightly so. Perhaps I should have disclosed certain qualities of mine when you first moved in.” Sherlock turned off his blow torch.

“It would’ve helped.”

“An error on my part.” Next came the detective’s goggles as he tossed them on the table. “But there is not much to tell. Most of what you have seen is the extent of my…problem.” 

John was slightly taken aback. First off that this talk was really going to happen and secondly that Sherlock’s vampirism was so…dull. In some ways he was relieved, yet in an odd sense, disappointed. Maybe his thoughts about it all had been too big and too broad. Overshadowing the real picture which that was that, he was ordinary. But his mind still didn't comprehend it all. He needed details.

“But how does it all work? How do you walk around in broad daylight?” John asked as he switched off the television now fully invested in the conversation.

“First off my being able to walk in sunlight is limited to be honest. The more sated in blood I am I can be fully functional and can move freely in it. However, the longer I go without, the more susceptible I am to sunburn. In those instances I have to go out by the cover of night. I am not sure if there is a physical reason for this or even supernatural. The rest you have observed for your own eyes.”

“Do you ever sleep?” The doctor prompted on.

“Sleep is not such a trivial thing when one does not need it so often. A practice I often did even when I was alive. It is not a priority of mine.”

“What else?”

Sherlock’s gaze drifted off as he thought for a moment.

“My sight is better in the dark than when I was living. As well as my hearing. That’s about it.”

“It?”

John was dumfounded. So, he was just an undead man that barely slept and drank blood for his daily diet.

“Yes.”

“You mean no mind controlling? Powers of seduction to lure victims to their impending doom? Climb up walls, aversions to crosses, allergic to garlic, sleep in a coffin or…change into a bat?” John spouted off.

Sherlock’s face twisted in disgust at John. He knew the doctor had a morbid interest deep down in his physical aspects of being a vampire. Though there were times he wondered if he dwelled too much on the topic. 

“Dear God, what ludicrous notions! No, I have none of those traits. At least none that I have ever exhibited.”

“Never exhibited or never tried? Or won’t say?”

“It is bad enough that I am the way that I am. I would like to appear as normal as possible.”

John’s face cracked into a smile.

“Normal? I think you killed that idea on the night you brought me here.”

“Good Lord.” Sherlock sighed “Are you going to continue to hold that above my head?”

“You picked me up off the street to be your flatmate. How is any of that normal?”

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side this time not in scrutiny, but in consideration. As John had put it he did, technically, kidnap him. He could see how that may come across as a bit not good when trying to persuade someone in becoming their flatmate. Especially since he was now living with a vampire. But John continued to solider on. Taking each new day with him in tow and now even eager to go on cases with him. He would get through this. They both would.

“Are you having any objections?” Sherlock questioned.

“No.”

“Good.” He smirked. “Tea?”

John agreed to his offer and Sherlock started preparing the kettle. The miasmic air that had once been ghosting between them was starting to clear. It was a break through. Communication. If they wanted this arrangement to work, wanted living together to work, they were both going to have to come to a mutual understanding of one another.

“You know I don’t even remember seeing you. On the street that night. I don’t remember you bringing me here either. How did you do it?”

Even turned away from him, John could see Sherlock’s back instantly stiffen and he set down the mug with a little more force than what he meant to. As though the question itself had brought  a horrible thought to him.

“You were tired after your shift. Of course you don’t remember.” Sherlock hurried with a response barely making a glance over his shoulder.

John had learned by now, very quickly in fact, when Sherlock made these short biting statements he was trying to hide something. 

“Sherlock what are you not telling me?” John pressed.

“There’s nothing to tell. Its all irrelevant.” Sherlock began to busy himself again. Anything to occupy, even deter John off the course in the new strain of conversation.

“It’s relevant to me.” John leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at the detective. “Are…are you embarrassed?”

“I am not embarrassed.” Sherlock flustered.

“Yes you are. You’re practically blushing!”

“I highly doubt that since I am incapable of doing such a thing!”

“Then how did you do it?”

The detective only answered in silence.

“Did you knock me out?”

Silence once more.

“You sure you can’t brainwash people?”

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in exasperation.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, I kissed you! Does that satisfy you?!”

John blinked. Then blinked again. Had he heard him right? Surely not. He must’ve been imagining the words that had just come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

“You…kissed me?” John said slowly.

“I’m not repeating myself.” Sherlock shook his head and prepared John’s cup of tea.

“Wait, then how do I not remember that either?”

“Its…my breath.”

“Your breath?”

Sherlock handed John the mug and sat in his own grey chair. He had hoped that this subject would never come up. That John would continue on to believe that he had simply snatched him up, blacked out, whatever story he had told himself. John was smarter than that though. Smarter than he gave him credit for. He saw it in his eyes that night when he had brought him home. All the gears turning and falling into place as he tried to take his pulse. The way he looked at his watch and his brows creased together in confusion, not from the lack of Sherlock’s physical norms, but from realizing what time it was. John’s eyes had ever so slightly looked away as he thought about it, ignoring the task at hand. Sherlock had thought he had derailed John’s way of thinking then. Obviously not.

“There are chemical properties in my breath that, when in close proximity to me, releases a soporific stupor.” Sherlock began. “One that I have researched myself and the only thing I can compare it too is the drug scopolamine. Commonly known as ‘The Devil’s Breath’. Within mere minutes the victim is under its effect with their free will eliminated and memory wiped clean of any incident. It is odorless and tasteless. You fell under my spell quite easily, John. I told you to sleep and you did. After that I brought you here. But its effects wear off soon and usually people only have a mild headache in the end. It’s the closet thing to mind control, as you put it, though I would say its more like an art of persuasion.”

“Then how have I not been under its influence since then? Or have I been and just not realized it? I’m around you all the time.”

“I believe you do recall from your physical examination of me that I was not breathing. I wanted you to be completely sober while you diagnosed me. The only air I breathe is to speak or to smell. Otherwise I have no use for oxygen since I am dead. Besides for my attributes to be…successful…so to speak, I would have to be right upon you. I would say you are relatively safe in my presence.”

John took a sip of his tea as he divulged this new information.

“Wait…was that why I didn’t move? When we were in the parking garage?”

“You may have caught a slight inhalation of it. Otherwise you were perfectly conscious.”

“Right.” 

Another blanket of silence fell between them. Sherlock assumed it had to do with the confession he had just told John, one he really hoped he wouldn’t have to tell. Not only had he been a captor of his flatmate but he had also played the part of violation. But how else was he to bring John back to the flat with little to no harm? Even with John’s proposed scenario when they first met, talking to him and simply asking him to be his flatmate, he highly doubted he would’ve came along with him. He could tell John was a man of reason and action and he would’ve said no in an instant. Guilt began to creep up on Sherlock’s mind as he watched the doctor drink his tea.

“Looking back on my behavior now, I see I may have overstepped my bounds…and yours. I do hope you do not hold it against me. Bringing you here and altering your life. It was never my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.’’

John set down his mug on the table beside him.

“If that’s as close to an apology as I’ll ever get, then I’ll take it.” He paused for a moment. “But I don’t regret it. I’ll admit I was bloody terrified that night. I didn’t know if I was going to live or die. But after the war I was living such a mundane life. And then I realized that was killing me more than this was. And in the end I gained a friend.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed in confusion. That wasn’t what he had meant at all. But…friend? He considered him a friend? It had been so long since he had heard that term of endearment that he had forgotten what it felt like to be called a friend. The solemn word gave an ache to his chest, if only he could truly feel that. Feeling how it made the heart quicken, heat to rise in the body, and the dusting of warmth across his cheeks. Oddly in this circumstance he was glad he was dead so not to easily show his true emotion. 

“Oh. I meant..I thought that you would be…the kiss.”

“Put off by a kiss I can’t remember?” John asked for the detective. “Not really. Not unless…you were? I mean that must’ve been a taboo thing in your time.”

“No! No. I mean yes.” Sherlock’s words stumbled again. “What I mean to say is that it was something not socially acceptable, but I was not…put off. It was…”

Lord, how on earth did he put such a thing into words?! The mere thought that John was not perturbed my his violating act was one thing, but he had turned the tables. John was the one acting as though he may have offended him! But how could he tell him? How could he say he actually enjoyed it? Even when John had no recollection of it. If he only knew how it made him feel that night. Like kissing a long lost lover with lips so soft…

“Oi! What’s all this then? Why does my kitchen smell like burnt haggis?” Mrs. Hudson cut off Sherlock’s wondering daydreaming mind with a shrill of her voice. Probably for the best anyway. Better off to keep his thoughts in check than to say something out of line in front of John. Least of all Mrs. Hudson.

“My kitchen.” Sherlock corrected. “And it’s an experiment! Don’t touch it!”

Mrs. Hudson gave a disgusted look to the contents of the basin sitting on the kitchen table.

“If I’m the one to clean it I can bloody well call it my kitchen, young man. I’m your landlady…”

“Not the housekeeper.” Sherlock and John said in unison and smiled at one another.

“Good. At least you know better. I expect this to be cleaned up. And open a window for goodness sake!” Mrs. Hudson flitted through the kitchen and into the sitting room, cracking open a window. No doubt hoping the air from the outside would filter through the smell lingering in the flat. As soon as she was done playing mother hen she made her way back down the stairs.

John cleared his throat, fully making sure Sherlock hadn’t forgotten the talk they were just having by getting his attention once more.

“As I was saying before hand. I still have questions. Maybe just one more.”

“Yes?”

“If you’re not the typical vampire and the myths hardly apply to you, then do you have…you know.”

“If it’s reading minds, no John, I can not. And no I do not know.”

“Oh come on.” John pointed near his mouth “You know.”

“On whether or not I have…I see. Well, I think you can thank your over obsession with my condition and say yes. And before you ask, no, I’m not showing you my deformed canines.”

John let out a laugh.

“Deformed canines. Fangs, Sherlock. You can say fangs.”

“Shut up and drink your tea.”

Chapter Text

December 20th, 1895

Gunshots rang out onto the streets below like hellfire of deadly intentions. The public, that had once been gathering up the last of their Christmas shopping in joyous occasion, was now cowering for their lives. Any carriage to hide behind, a cart of fresh baked goods to duck under, or a back alleyway to scurry off, was better than being a victim of the woman in white.

The streets were in utter pandemonium by her presence. No one knew what had made her turn into the wreathing mad creature she had become. She had command of the affair from her balcony, summoning the screams and terrors of the citizens like instruments from an orchestra as she brandished her long barreled pistols. The rouge of her lips was striking against her pale skin. Skin so pale it seemed whiter than the wedding dress she adorned. A bride. A bride in search of blood.

“You?!”

She fired into the street below again as one of the bullets smashed through the window of the baker’s shop. The pleas from her onlookers meant nothing to her.  

“You?!”

Her gaze swept across the chaos below her. This time her eyes settled on an intended victim. Her glare followed a man struggling to open a door to a shop, but to his unfortunate discovery it was locked. 

“You?!”

The man had no choice but to run if he was to survive…

“A moment.” Holmes paused Lestrade’s story with a raised hand. “When was this?”

“Yesterday morning.”

Visualizing the scene of the crime was the upmost importance of his methods. It was like making a painting upon a canvas. Every detail had to be precise in order to see the full picture. Lighting, position, colors and shapes is what he formulated within his mind palace. Every once and a while he stepped back to view different angles to see the secrets that laid hidden to the unobservant.

“The bride’s face. How was it described?”

Lestrade opened his small pad of paper to look over his notes once more.

“White as death...mouth like a crimson wound.”

The detective rose up out of his chair in a instant and drew to the other side of the room. The portrait of the gruesome tale was almost complete. Just minor strokes to the canvas now. Then he would be able to see the masterpiece.

“Poetry or truth?” The detective inquired.

“Many would say they’re the same thing.”

If it was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was how the Yard liked to over exaggerate things, especially when it came to dissolving facts from fiction. And irritating him even more when they disclosed such preposterous stories to the paper for them to dress it up in scandal and gossip. He couldn’t help but let out a sigh of frustration.

“Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?”

“I saw her face myself. Afterwards.”

Holmes immediately turned his face towards the Inspector at his words.

“After what?”

Lestrade continued on with the story returning to the scene of the bride on the balcony.

“You?!” She called out once more. Though the on lookers in the street wouldn’t know this would be her final accusation towards them. She paused for moment. Her once wild look dissipated like a fog clearing for the sun’s light.

“Or me?” She spoke to herself in a dreamlike voice. No more than the words had escaped her lips she acted on her own accord. Raising one of her pistols, the slick metal of the barrel of the weapon entered her mouth, and the next was inevitable. The last gunshot was the nail in the coffin. Blood splattered the curtain behind the bride as the people’s eyes were assaulted by the sight of suicide.

“That was it?” Holmes thought to himself as his imagined artwork had turned into nothing but a child’s scribbling. 

“Really, Lestrade.” Holmes returned back to the comfort of his chair. “A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party. I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” 

“I surmise.”

“What was her name, the bride?” Watson joined in, producing his own notebook to make his own findings.

“Emelia Ricoletti. Yesterday was her wedding anniversary. The police, of course, were called, and her body taken to the morgue.” The Inspector took another drink from his glass with a slight tremor of his hand.

“Standard procedure. Why are you telling us what may be presumed?”

“Because of what happened next. Limehouse, just a few hours later at an opium den. Thomas Ricoletti, Emelia Ricoletti’s husband was there. The owners of the den said he had been there for several hours until he heard the news of his wife and set out to leave.”

“Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains.” Holmes was still trying to follow along where the Inspector was going with his story. 

Lestrade took another drink, then nodded.

“As it turned out, he was saved the trip.”

Another canvas was produced in the detective’s mind palace. This time painting a glittering portrait of a darkened street. The light of the gas lamps set the tone of what would be displayed for all to see. A cab pulled up to the opium den, and the once dead bride had returned again and quite lively. This time her pistols was not her weapon of choice for this performance, but a shotgun.

“Do not forget me ...Do not forget me …”  She sung to her new victim like a pied piper. A fine tailored man coming out to the street from the den, hands raised in submission to her stance.

“Remember the maid ... The maid of the mill.” Her siren song continued on.

“Who are you?” The man asked. “Why are you doing this? Just tell me who you are!”

“You recognize our song, my dear? I sang it at our wedding.” The bride lifted up her veil and to the man’s horror only now realizes who it is. 

“Emelia?!” His voice stuttered out. “You’re dead. You can’t be here. You died.”

“Am I not beautiful, Thomas? As beautiful as the day you married me?” Her red smeared smile caressed her face.

However, the scene was not complete without out those witnessing this unhappy occasion. Not only had the occupants of the den came out into the night to watch the scene unlay before them, but the attention of the police as well. Approaching the from behind the bride, stopping a few paces back, a young constable entered. Though he too has a look of horror upon his face.

“What the hell’s all this about?” The policeman said nervously, trying to keep his wits about him.

The bride turned her head towards him. The back of her head covered in blood. The evidence of what she had done to herself only hours earlier shined like a glistening crater.

“What does it look like, my handsome friend?” The bride turned her head again toward her husband. “It’s a shotgun wedding.”

Cocking the shotgun twice in rapid succession, she fired twice. 

“And just like that she pulled her veil down and walked away. Constable Rance was in such a state of fright. He turned in his badge because of what he saw.” Lestrade finished off the rest of his drink, concluding his tale.

“’Til death us do part. Twice, in this case.” Holmes smiled at the Inspector. Just like him to save the good parts till last. Now this was getting interesting. This was the masterpiece he was trying to paint on his easel. And what a grand spectacle it was!

“Extraordinary.” Breathed out the doctor.

“Impossible!” His wife remarked.

“Superb!” Holmes stood abruptly. “Suicide as street theatre; murder by corpse. Lestrade, you’re spoiling us. Watson, your hat and coat.” He was in no mood to waste any time as he went to retrieve his own coat by the door. Here he had just ended the case of the misfortunate squire. Ah, but that was only the appetizer. This new mystery was the main course.

“Where are we going?” Watson asked as he stood from his chair, eager to follow the detective.

“To the morgue. There’s not a moment to lose.” Holmes replied as he shucked off his dressing gown and donned his coat. “Which one can so rarely say of a morgue.”

“And am I just to sit here?” Mary voiced her dismay to her husband.

“Not at all, my dear.” Watson tucked a finger under his wife’s chin. “We’ll be hungry later. Holmes, just one thing?” He faced his companion and looked briefly down at his clothes. “Tweeds, in a morgue?”

“Needs must when the devil drives, Watson.” That was all his words took to get Watson to follow him, hurrying down the stairs. 

“Ma’am.” The Inspector tipped his head toward’s the doctor’s wife and left to follow the pair.

When Holmes arrived at the morgue he expected to see the dead woman and her husband. However, he wasn’t expecting to see their supposed undead suspect chained to the very slab she laid upon. This was becoming preposterous. Had everyone in their right mind, or lack there of, gone mad? 

“Please tell me which idiot did this!” Holmes’s voiced sounded off as he observed the body.

The imbecile in question was the coroner’s assistant, Anderson, as he neared the detective. 

“It’s for everyone’s safety.”

This woman is dead.” Reasoned Watson as he pulled the cover off the corpse’s head to reveal her face. “Half her head is missing! She’s not a threat to anyone!”

“Tell that to her husband. He’s under a sheet over there.” The man pointed to the second body across the room.

“Whatever happened in Limehouse last night, I think we can safely assume it wasn’t the work of a dead woman.” said Holmes.

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Such as?” the detective challenged.

“Well...strange things.” Anderson said hesitantly.

“You’re speaking like a child.” said Watson.

“This is clearly his work. Where is he?” Asked Holmes.

Anderson hesitated once more, but before he could answer, the door to the adjoining room opened. Holmes turned to look at the new arrival, a man of soft young features and a mustache. Almost feminine in characteristic. Hooper was a man of peculiar ways. His reasoning for his code of conduct never made sense to the detective, but regardless of what he thought there were times that the coroner made him think outside the box. Even if they barely saw eye to eye.

“Holmes.”

“Hooper.”

The coroner flicked a hand towards Anderson, sharply telling his assistant to get back to work and the man scurried off at his command. Hooper came to the table of the chained corpse, opposite of the side of the detective, knowingly putting distance between the two of them.

“So, come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose.” Hooper sneered at Holmes.

“Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?” 

“Nothing at all, Mr Holmes. You may leave any time you like.”

“Doctor Hooper,” The Inspector chided. “I asked Mr. Holmes to come here. Co-operate. That’s an order.”

Hooper took a long breath and looked down at the body.

“There are two ‘features of interest,’ as you are always saying in Doctor Watson’s stories.”

The detective’s face scrunched in confusion and gave the coroner a pointed look.

“I never say that.”

“You do, actually, quite a lot.” Watson verified and this earned him a narrowing of the eyes of the sleuth.

“First of all, this is definitely Emelia Ricoletti. She has been categorically identified. Beyond a doubt it is her.” Hooper stated.

“Then who was that in Limehouse last night?” 

“That was also Emelia Ricoletti.”

“It can’t have been. She was dead. She was here.”

Holmes let them continue their banter in as he took out a small magnifying glass to take a better look at the subject in question. There couldn’t be without a doubt that this was all staged. A singular plot of a woman scorned who could not take the trials of her married life. So, in doing so, ended it. But she must’ve paid someone, a confidant of the whole plan, to dress up as her to take her husband to the grave. Simple as that. They just needed to find the accomplice. No such things as ghosts.

“She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died. He had no reason to lie. He could hardly be mistaken.” The coroner pressed.

“The cabbie knew her too.” The Inspector added. “There’s no question it’s her.”

“But she can’t have been in two different places at two different times, can she?” The doctor questioned.

“No, Watson.” Holmes straightened himself up. “One place is strictly the limit for the recently deceased.”

Well this wouldn’t do. Two positive identifications by two separate people, even the one who had picked her up to drive her to her next destination. That didn’t add up. 

Watson clicked his fingers and pointed towards Holmes, an epiphany suddenly striking his mind.

“Holmes, could it have been twins?” 

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s never twins.”

“Emelia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters. She had one older brother who died four years ago.” Lestrade informed them.

“Maybe it was a secret twin.” Mulled the doctor. Clearly he wasn’t prepared to let go of the idea.

“A what?” Holmes’s eyes widened with the nonsense that was now pouring out of his companion’s mouth. 

“A secret twin?” Watson clarified. “Hmm? You know? A twin that nobody knows about? This whole thing could have been planned.”

“Since the moment of conception? How breathtakingly prescient of her! It is never twins, Watson!”

“Then what’s your theory?”

Holmes wasn’t going to admit that the theory he had was slowly being erased. He hated not knowing. He felt like the common Scotland Yard officers he so blatantly ridiculed for their feeble minds. He simply had to think! 

“More to the point, what’s your problem?” Holmes turned to Lestrade, changing the subject entirely. The Inspector who had been bewitched by the presence of the corpse, lifted his eyes to face the onslaught of the detective.

“I-I don’t understand. What …"

“Why were you so frightened? Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter, and why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?”

“Ah. That would be the other feature of interest.” Hooper drew the group’s attention the hand of the bride, lifting it up to show them his findings. Holmes and Watson bent down for a closer look. 

“A smear of blood on her finger. That could have happened any number of ways.” said Watson.

Indeed.” Hooper lowered the hand back onto the table. “There’s one other thing. It wasn’t there earlier.

“And neither was that.” Lestrade pointed to the stone wall nearby. Walking towards the wall he picked up a lantern to illuminate it more clearly. Removing all interest of the dead woman, Holmes and Watson followed him to see what the Inspector had found. In the light from the lantern, a single word was painted on the stony surface, red, in blood. 

YOU

The detective was just about to peg this, once interesting case, for a dud. Though, there in the musty confines of the morgue he was now not so sure. An uneasiness was settling in the pits of his stomach, making it turn over. It was when he had these feelings he knew that he was out of his league. He dared not admit it openly. And here he had thought he had the answer, waiting to spring forth from the crevices of his mind. A painting of marital discontentment gone array to the point of a ghostly accomplice concluding in murder-suicide. Something was making him second guess his reasonings. As though he wasn’t asking the right questions and had to go back to square one.

“Gun in the mouth. A bullet through the brain. Back of the head blown clean off. How could she survive?” The words that came out of the detective’s mouth held confusion. 

Holmes was at a loss. Stumped. Usually he did not like leaving a difficult case unsolved, but there were a few times the occasion had happened. In times such as those he would sulk it out until he dusted off the air of failure and moved on to the next case that came his way. But this…something about this was burning into his mind that it needed to be unraveled. Needed to have every nook and cranny searched. That he needed to ingest it!

His heavy thoughts jolted him back from his internal ramblings to the present. Peering over to Lestrade, he schooled his features to one of indifference. There was no need to alarm the Yard if they saw that even he was starting to have his doubts. Especially if the possibilities of the supernatural could be in question.

“Well, thank you all for a fascinating case. I’ll send you a telegram when I’ve solved it. Watson?” Holmes needed out, fresh air, something to clear his mind. Whatever this case had started out as he had a feeling there was a east wind coming.

“Well, Holmes? Surely you must have some theory.” Said Watson as he looked across the cab to the blank expression of the detective.

A theory? What theory? If anything this night had once brought promises of a new exciting puzzle, but now that puzzle was starting to become a mystery within itself. Something didn’t settle right in Holmes’s bones. As though this case was Pandora’s box eagerly tempting, waiting, calling to be opened so that he could see all its wonders. But was it wonders that it held? Or was it a box full of deceptive misfortune?

“Not yet. These are deep waters, Watson. Deep waters. And I shall have to go deeper still.” He looked out the window as the cab stopped. The residence they had just pulled up to was not that of the comforts of Baker Street, but the marital home of the doctor.

“Can you not stay the night?” Holmes asked.

“Running after the devil is one thing. Staving off one, is entirely another matter. I believe it would be safer for us both if I went home. At least for awhile.”

“Very well. I’ll wire you of any changes.”

Before the doctor could open the door to exit the cab the detective placed his gloved hand over his, pausing his movements on the handle.

“John.” 

The tender spoken call of his first name caught Watson’s attention towards his companion. But Holmes did not look at him as such. Nor as a colleague or any professional manner. Shadows softened his features making him appear even younger in years and in the cover of the night gave him the faintest of smiles. His touch upon his hand had no firmness to it but only a delicate grasp. It was in these rare moments he looked to him as a lover. One he could only reveal in secret when the call of the heart came to him in their now scarce times together. Watson knew what he wanted, what he needed, and he knew exactly what to do to quell the the great mind that sat in earnest waiting for him. Leaning forward the doctor placed a parting kiss on the detective’s lips.

“Don’t think too hard on this. Don’t let this case consume you.” Watson caressed his hand against Holmes’s cheek.

“How can I not?” Holmes admitted in hushed tones.

“Because, that’s my job.”

“Then I would let you drink your fill of me, till your cup runneth over. Let you consume me. Set me ablaze with passion so hot the fires of Hell would have none equal.”

The doctor couldn’t help but smile. Holmes could be stern, cold, detached from the realm of emotion when on a case. But Watson knew he was one of the few individuals who ever got to see his true being. One that was full of life, desires, and a enthusiastic giver in the ways of relations in the bedroom. And if one got to know him intimately, they were graced with his over talented melodrama in the art of sentiment.

“Poetry or truth?” Watson asked, repeating Holmes's earlier question he had asked the Inspector.

“Truth looks better dressed up in poetry. It gives it meaning.”

The doctor gave one last kiss before pulling away.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

With that Watson got out, leaving the detective to watch him from behind the glass of the window of the cab as he went inside. Perhaps in another time, in another place, things would be different. As for now, their love could only be kindled in secret. And as such it would have to remain. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

The sun beat down on John’s face, the heat warming him from being cooped up inside the chilled hospital for most of his shift. He was thankful now that cooler temperatures had rolled into summer where he could take lunches outside and get some fresh air. In some ways the rush of the A&E and the blistering August weather gave him the nostalgic feeling of being in Kandahar again. The hospital’s cafeteria had an outside patio that was more than welcoming to any that needed a moments peace. And now that he had been acquainted with Molly they had made it their daily ritual to have lunch together to vent, chat, or gossip amongst themselves.

“So bloody hot today. I don’t see how you stand it.” Molly had taken up fanning herself with the folder she had brought. She had already shrugged off her lab coat and had gathered up her hair to get it off the nape of her neck to allow some semblance of a breeze to cool her off. But the humidity was doing her no favors.

The doctor was sitting across from her at their table, relaxed, head tilted back to catch the rays. One eye cracked open to watch her feeble attempts. Poor girl was trying as hard as she could. She had even sat on the more shadier side too. Taking pity on her he dug into his lunchbox and found a chilled water bottle.

“Here take mine.” John slid it across the table to her. “It’s still cold. Put it on the back of your neck. It’ll feel good.”

“You sure?”

“Yea. I’m used to the heat. Couple of years out in the desert will do that to you.”

“Thanks.”

The young pathologist assistant had become a good friend of his and brought a sense of normalcy into his life. Given the fact she was the few “live” friends he had. John had decided after he met her that it would probably be in his best interest to be on good terms with her. It allowed him easy access to the labs below the hospital and he could freely come and go whenever he pleased. This meant hunting for blood became a lot simpler. And her odd disposition and scatterbrained demeanor meant she was never none the wiser and never noticed anything out of place.

But there was more to her than just that. She reminded him in some ways of the strange vampire that resided in his flat, being out of place with her personality, but at least she was with the current times. There were days John felt he was talking more with his grandfather when he was helping Sherlock with a case on his days off. Even though it made the detective interesting to listen to it could be tiring as well. John couldn’t count how many times he had to explain how certain things worked because Sherlock didn’t know. John could understand his frustration to some degree, but it didn’t help when your flatmate was considerably older than you were, yet looked younger.

John’s pager went off shaking him out of his thoughts. So much for a lunch break. Duty called. He reached down, plucked off the pager from the waist band of his scrub pants and read the message. The coded words brought a thrum of excitement to him though at the same time dread as well.

“Fuck.” He swore under his breath.

“What is it?” Molly stilled her fanning and looked over at John.

“Mass casualty code. Something’s happened. We’re going to have incoming.”

“Oh God.”

John wasted no time. He grabbed up the scraps of his lunch, binned them in a nearby trash can, and made a mad dash towards the A&E. His body sensed the habitual muscle memory of such a response and, like second nature, kicked into what it was supposed to do. It remembered the drop of a hat moments in the desert when the injured was flown in and work began immediately on arrival. There was no time to be hesitant or anxious. The adrenaline was too busy pumping through the bloodstream to allow such feelings.

When he arrived he saw that the lobby was still. Too still. Too calm. He knew this feeling and he hated it. It was the quiet before the storm. The retreating wave before the tsunami.

“What do we have?” John asked the charge nurse at the station.

“Something about a terrorist attack on the tube. The paramedic on the line said it was bad. Really bad. All the hospitals in the surrounding area are on stand by.”

“Terrorist attack?” John’s thoughts raced. “Surely Lestrade is blowing up Sherlock’s phone right now.”

In the three months they had been flatmates John had seen his fair share of cases. Though so far, as Sherlock had wanted it, they had all been mild mannered. Anything ranging from murders, burglaries, stake outs and kidnappings. A terrorist attack though? This was definitely going to make news. No matter how low profile Sherlock wanted to keep his identity out of the lime light, John knew he was going to be thrust into this head on. Whether it be a call from Lestrade, Mycroft, or Sherlock’s own curiosity.

But those thoughts didn’t matter now. From the wail of the sirens outside he could hear the first wave coming closer to the hospital. God only knew what the extent of the damage really was. He had seen his fair share of gruesome mangled bodies during his service. Bullet riddled wounds, missing limbs from IED’s, and other horrors that merited no form of words to describe them. After being discharged he thought he would be leaving all of those memories behind, though now it seemed that it had arrived right at his doorstep like an old friend.

The first ambulances arrived and it was just as John suspected. Bloodied citizens, that had no inkling that this would be where they would end up, came in through the doors. Screaming, crying, saying a last prayer to God that they would make it. He had heard it all before

A woman had a pole through her. Impaled diagonally from hip to hip. No doubt puncturing through her internal organs. It would be a fucking miracle if it didn’t hit her spinal column. She was rushed to surgery.

A dead on arrival teenage boy. A uni student. Shrapnel was imbedded into his skin on one side. He must have seen the brunt end of the explosion and was unfortunate to have a piece slice into his carotid artery. A phone call to his parents was going to have to be made to let them know their son was in the morgue.

A man with lacerations on his body, bleeding profusely. He wouldn't stop screaming. He would need a blood transfusion from all the blood loss, surgery to stop the bleeding, but he would survive.

John stepped back for a moment after awhile to survey the crowded trauma area. There were so many of them. And more coming. So many, many more. Though in the throes of chaos, just like any solider observing the battlefield, something felt off. And that’s when he saw him. A dark haired well tailored suited man standing outside the lobby beyond the sliding bay doors of the A&E. From what the doctor could tell he had no visible signs of pain or evidence of injury like the people here now. It was hard to make out who exactly he was. Who the hell wears a suit to an A&E?

“Mycroft of course.” John’s thoughts drawled out.

Well Mycroft was going to have to wait. A doctor couldn’t just abandon his patients to be summoned upon to have a chat or shooed into another black car waiting by the curb. He was going to have to wait his turn. Because right now all John needed to do was just breathe. Breathe and not think of war.

“Hey John I saved this for you,” Molly had found John in the locker room at the end of the shift, his lunchbox in hand. “You were off in such a flash at lunch that you forgot your bag. I took it with me for safe keeping.”

“Ah, thanks Molly.” He graciously took it.

“I heard it was bad. Had to be. We kept getting orders to the lab one right after another for blood. I’ve never seen so many orders. Now we’re going to have to look for more.”

“More?” He asked in confusion. Surely not. There was no way. But then again he didn’t exactly see what happened with his patients as he discharged them from the A&E to be admitted to another floor to the hospital or scheduled for surgery. His job was to take care of the patient at time of need, not for the long haul.

“Didn’t you hear. We’re out. Completely out of blood. Even the other hospitals are out too.”

John’s heart sank.

“That…is concerning news.”

“Hopefully something will come up. They’ll probably just get some transferred somewhere else.” Molly grabbed her bag from her own locker and bid John good night, leaving him in the wake of his new predicament.

Here he had hoped to bring home some blood for Sherlock, but his day had literally went to hell in a hand basket. Oddly, when John left the hospital there was no black car waiting for him. Perhaps Mycroft got tired and went back to his hole of a government office. Seemed like the inability to wait was another Holmes family trait. Why was he not surprised. Either way it made little difference to him and to be completely honest he was tired, hungry, and was in need of much needed rest after today’s mess. Actually it was miracle he hadn’t fell asleep on the bus ride back to Baker St.

With every step up the stairs John’s heart beat a little faster. What was he going to tell him? It wasn’t as if he had anticipated this. Sure there was bound to be mass injuries once in a great blue moon, but a terrorist attack that wiped out the whole hospital’s supply of blood? The whole second half of his shift had been a nightmare. It felt like Afghanistan all over again. Just like Afghanistan.

John stepped into the sitting room and he could see Sherlock had definitely gotten the call. He was wildly at work. The wall over the sofa was already being decorated in maps, papers and pictures. Strings tied one lead to the next in a flowing maze across different items of interest. One by one Sherlock thumbtacked a new segment here and there, adjusting where needed be, like a giant wall of abstract art.

When John first saw this display he had no idea what to make of it. To him it had been a foreign concept. He understood it had to do with how Sherlock solved cases, but wasn’t sure how to make sense of it. Until one day a thought finally struck him. Sherlock had said he had a mind palace filled with information. A skill he perfected in order to do his work. It wasn’t a hodge podge of random things tacked to a wall. What he finally realized was that this was a glimpse into the mind palace itself. This was how Sherlock’s brain worked and it was incredible. John sat down in his chair as he watched Sherlock work from across the room, flitting to and fro, rambling on about certain details.

It must have been from John’s lack of response that Sherlock abruptly stopped speaking to study the doctor. The detective’s eyes gave a brief scan of John from everything to the expression that worried his features to the way his posture held a defeated slump. He could hear John’s heart beat like a accelerating pounding mallet banging upon the walls of the muscled organ.

“What is it? You haven’t spoken since you arrived home. Work has made you flustered. Slight perspiration on your brow line suggests you have some anxiety weighing on your mind and equally exhausted judging by your gait as you came in. But knowing you, you thrive in the action, so it can’t be the A&E….oh!” Sherlock’s eyes lit up in realization.

Well that didn’t take long. Then again the detective was working in high gear tonight. Keeping his mind sharp and pristine.

“Sherlock, please…I…”

“It’s alright. I still have a little left to tide me over. You can try again tomorrow.” He said with the wave of his hand, dismissing the whole crisis.

“There’s not going to be a tomorrow.”

With John’s answer Sherlock’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“We’re out,” John continued. “The terrorist attack…there was a lot of people hurt. We’ve used up our supply. The surrounding hospitals have too. I’m not sure when we will have enough that I can bring home a bag or two extra that they won’t miss. I hate to say it but you may have to call Mycroft.”

“I see. Of course the victims were transferred to nearby hospitals. Yours being one of them.” Sherlock shook his head as if mentally scolding himself. “Well then this might be a slight problem as neither of us calculated this outcome to our day.”

“How’s that?”

“Mycroft is on the continent for a couple of weeks.”

“Ah so that’s why he wasn’t there at the end of my shift. He left England.” John’s question finally was answered.

“He can’t call someone to send one of his prisoners over to…give you a sip?”

“For heaven’s sake John its not like asking your neighbor to lend a cup of sugar. My identity is a heavily guarded secret. Not even his own secretary knows what I am.”

“What about…doing it the old fashioned way?”

The detective’s eyes widened at John’s proposal and the doctor could’ve swore he saw him flinch back at the idea.

“I’d prefer not to. Even though I have done it that way in the past it is something I personally don’t care to do. I can become too comfortable. Not just from getting blood directly from the source but in killing too. Its strange. Like a call to the void.”

Oh. Oh. So it was something more primal. Something out of his nature that he had barely any control over. Of course not. John had only seen a mere scratch of the surface when they were in the parking garage months ago. Sherlock had been on edge during that stake out, but from what he could remember he had just fed that previous day. He knew he hadn’t been hungry. But Sherlock said he knew John was about to be attacked. That must’ve been the trigger to have tipped him over the edge.

“Let’s not worry about it. Not right now.” Sherlock’s attention drew back over to the wall. “Right now there is a case ahead of us. And I have a feeling that this is more than just a terrorist attack.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t like not knowing.”

John hated not knowing either. It made the pit of his stomach heavy and nauseous with worry. Sherlock seemed pretty sure of himself from what John could gather. Sure the vampire was somewhat concerned of their new complication, but his focus was more on the case than his own well being. However, somewhere in the back of John’s mind, he wondered if the detective’s words held more than what they meant. If it was going to be difficult to get the blood supply Sherlock needed, then would this be a test of sheer will power and strength? How long could Sherlock hold out before he finally snapped? Would the thirst for blood be too much?

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

It had been going on for a half an hour now, almost a full forty-five minutes. John was trying to be inconspicuous by being fully invested in the paper he was reading, which at first he was, until the fine hairs on the back of his neck began to tingle with a sense of alarm. He knew it was Sherlock. 

In the past two weeks he had visibly seen the detective become paler and paler. A dusting of purple underlined his eyes once again and his movements had become more sluggish. Life was slowly draining from him. By the time the third week had ended Sherlock had stopped working on the terrorist case due to the fact he was now more sensitive to sunlight. This had him make a cover for Lestrade that he was severely sick with the flu. But in turn this meant the sitting room curtains had to be drawn during the day time so he could venture freely throughout the flat.

However, it wasn’t the only thing John had noticed. He couldn’t deny that he had seen some long side ways glances towards him from the vampire. He knew he had to be hungry, starving. Usually these staring fits started out as nothing more than one of his deep immersions into his mind palace. His eyes would be out of focus, his hands clasped in concentration under his chin, never moving a muscle. Though John had learned to be vigilant during his time in the army. He had developed an almost sixth sense and could tell when reality shifted to a more dangerous setting. And this was one of those moments.

Sherlock had been so deep in his trancelike gaze that the tips of his fingers were brushing ever so lightly across his lips as he stared. Not at John’s face, but further down towards his exposed neck. It felt more predatory than friendly. Like a mouth watering hungry man at a feast whose only privilege was to look; yet not allowed to touch or taste. But this was Sherlock’s own rules for himself. And from what he could guess this is why the vampire had put distance between them, choosing not to socialize at the table, but to take up residence in his grey chair. The faint glow of sunlight behind the curtains made him look more ominous in the darkened room. It was time that John took matters into his own hands before it started spiraling out of control.

John stood from the kitchen table and put his dishes in the sink, making the first move in the tension filled flat. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes follow his every movement.

“Well I’m off. I’ll be home by seven.”

Sherlock blinked away his trance as soon as John spoke and removed his fingers from his mouth, settling them on the arms of his chair.

“Very well. I shall see you later this evening.”

“Yea. I’ll check again today. Hopefully now that most of the hype has calmed down there is bound to be something.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Thank you.”

John knew Sherlock was trying his best to keep himself in check. He had no idea how hard it had to be for him, but he was putting up a strong effort. When John had told of the blood problem a few weeks ago there was only one bag in the fridge. The vampire had rationed it out the best he could, but it had only lasted a little over a week. 

Sherlock watched as John readied himself for work and slip out of the flat. He was safe now. At least John was from him. He hated to admit any type of weakness, but he was thankful that the doctor would be gone for the next twelve hours. Sherlock let go the arms of his chair that now had firm impressions in the leather from the death grip he had held upon it. Striding over to the draped curtains he pulled back the corner just a crack, enough to see John exit 221B and onto the pavement. 

He knew John was starting to feel uneasy about him. Of course he was, he was once a soldier, trained to be observant in times of danger. And he couldn’t say that he blamed him. The vampire’s thoughts had grown dark as of late. His once balanced mind was being thrown off into a skelter. It was the creature that he was that plagued him every moment of every day. The longer he went without blood the more thirsty he became. His tongue felt too thick, his throat dry with a burning sensation for lack of fluids, and a constant urge to bite.

No longer could he oblige John with tea. Every time he drew near the man Sherlock’s eyes would drop from his face, attuned to the pulsating rhythm of his artery that thrummed under the skin of his neck. All he would have to do was reach across the table and take hold of him. He would never see it coming, he was too quick. No longer could he find comfort in the violin that sat silently by the window. The poisonous thoughts had distorted the way he held the instrument. All he could see anymore was his fingers digging into the frets as if he was giving his victim a deadly hold by the neck. It didn’t matter what it was. Anything was bringing about thoughts of violence to get what he wanted. 

At that moment his phone chimed with a text and he withdrew it from his trouser pocket. Mycroft of course. His relation had been keeping tabs on him and his current state since he was still out of the country on official government business. Even from afar he knew Mycroft could easily supply him with an unsuspecting victim from his prisoner hoard. While the idea seemed like the more logical and sensible solution he could not bring himself to do it. He could not let himself go into baser instincts. He was still clutching onto the undoubted faith he had in his flatmate to get what he needed without turning into a ravenous lunatic any time soon.

Status report? MH

Sherlock could practically hear his eyes roll in his own orbital sockets.

Same. As always. SH

How long do you plan on keeping this up? Shall I make arrangements for John and Mrs. Hudson? MH

No. SH

Sherlock sighed and added another text.

Give me till tomorrow. If there is no improvement then make your call. SH

Noted. Keep me updated of any changes. MH

Sherlock threw open the curtain and stepped away quickly. There, at least the sunlight would be shining across the flat to the open staircase. Any idea of going downstairs would be immediately halted by the thought that he would be stricken with severe sunburns. And with no blood to ward away unwanted wounds, all temptation would be thwarted. So long as Mrs. Hudson stayed in her respective lodgings below he would be able to contain some semblance of self control. At least until John returned home later that evening. Sherlock had made his home his personal cage once before, he could do it again.

What was he thinking? Really what was he thinking? John looked down at the IV kit he had just set up on the metal tray table. Beside him was a pole with an empty bag. All of it ready for a donation. It wasn’t that he was opposed or weirded out by the sight of blood and needles on his own skin. It was the fact he was setting up this donation not for a live patient, but a dead one. 

“Blood transfusion for a vampire. That’s one for the medical journals.”  He thought amused at himself.

Honestly he should’ve thought of this sooner instead of letting this madness going on for so long. Yes, the hospital was receiving blood in the labs, all ready for another transfusion if needed be, but they were constantly going out as fast as they were coming in. Which led to the hospital’s newest solution that they came up with today and that was to hold a local blood drive for the victims of the terrorist attack on the tube. Once John saw all the setup he didn’t think twice about pickpocketing a IV kit and stealing other supplies, whisking it all away and setting up his own donation in an unoccupied consultation room.

John remembered what Sherlock had said, that he could easily smell who had a wound. But would a starving vampire notice any difference between the smell of John handling blood bags and his own actual blood? Reasoning with himself he figured, no. He had taken careful practice to never getting a cut around the vampire. A habit he started from day one; changing every aspect of his life and daily routine to do so. And now he was going to be going against his hard trained discipline.

John briefly glanced to his watch to check the time. His shift had ended ten minutes ago and he knew if he was going to do this he was going to have to get a move on. Sherlock may have been a detective for the past hundred years or so, but that only meant he was more meticulous in his ways. This meant that not only was he talented in moving in a complete stranger off the street, but it also meant he knew John’s work schedule too, down to the last minute. He knew when he arrived to work, went on break, clocked out for work, the bus route, traffic times, and walking distance. Anything and everything, the detective knew the slightest misstep or inconvenience if John should arrive home late. 

But for once John was going to have to outsmart him. This time would be just a trial run. For emergency means he reasoned with himself. He wasn’t going to sit through another evening in the flat while the vampire looked at him like he was starting to become a menu option. No need of risking anyone possibly getting killed simply because Sherlock was hungry. It was a win win situation if you looked at it right. Sherlock got fed, he didn’t have to kill. John brought home blood, he didn’t get bit. Simple as pie.

Going to be a little late. Finishing up some late charting. JW

The response was immediate.

Take your time. No rush. SH

“He won’t question it,’’ John’s thoughts encouraged him on as he wrapped the tourniquet around his right arm. “My smell is on the bags all the time, but he has never smelled my blood. He won’t know its me. And if he is truly hungry enough he probably wont care.”

He felt around for a promising vein and without hesitation plunged the needle in.

When John returned home it was oddly quiet. Too quiet for his liking. Usually when John came home from work Sherlock was always clamoring away in their flat. Whether it was endless pacing from trying to think, conducting some sort of experiment, or scratching away at his violin. The detective was a never ending bundle of energy that could hardly never keep still. Stagnation was never a good sign.

John didn’t go up right away but instead knocked on the door of Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He needed to know. And with her ears for gossip, as she always mentioned she did when she played cards with Mrs. Turner, the neighbor, she would know if Sherlock had been up and about today. The elderly woman opened up with a smile on her face when she saw the doctor.

“John, lovely of you to stop by.”

He gave a small smile to her but instantly cut to the chase.

“Has he been up at all since I was at work?”

Mrs. Hudson pondered for a moment.

“No. Been quiet as a church mouse. Stayed in his room all day. And since he was out of the way I tidied up a bit. Though I found it odd he left a curtain open and had left a note in his chair to open the other one.”

“He must be creating a barrier between us. So he won’t be tempted.”

“Tempted?”

“To not…you know. Harm us. He’s been blood thirsty for so long now.”

Mrs. Hudson’s features changed in understanding.

“I thought he was looking quite a fright lately. I didn’t want to say anything to him. You know how peculiar he is.”

“That’s alright. I’ll go up and check on him.”

When John reached the flat at the top of the stairs he was met with an empty dark room. He started to feel a jittery hesitation then. Like someone who was scared of the dark and did not want to go in alone because of the faceless lurking monster that hid in the shadows. He knew he had to go in though. Pushing down all natural instinct to stay away he made himself go, flicking on all the lights to drown away the darkness. Sherlock was no where to be found. Which only left his bedroom where he still must have been. 

Taking advantage of the absent vampire he put the blood in the fridge and went down the hallway to the shut door of Sherlock’s room, knocking hopefully to rouse him.

“Sherlock? If you’re in there I have blood for you.”

There was silence on the other side of the door. His hand grasped the handle, but his mind put a screeching halt on the action. The healer side of him wanted to disregard all decorum between their agreement and rush in to make sure his flatmate was well. Despite everything that wasn’t even remotely normal by any circumstances, John was still a doctor, he had made an oath to help the sick and injured. And that included the vampire that was once human just like he was. 

But he couldn’t help and remember their first night and Sherlock’s stern warning. Not to enter his room no matter what. Along with his intense stare this morning John knew he should know better. Respect his privacy and whatever internal battle Sherlock was engaging with himself to keep him on the side of sanity. Who knows, maybe this was how he dealt with situations such as these long before. He let go of the handle.

“I’m going to have a shower. I’ll be in there for a little while.”

He hoped the subtle hint was understood. 

And indeed it was. 

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief as he noted John’s retreating footsteps from the door. His hand loosened on the death grip he had on the handle just in case John had forgotten and burst in. He was almost entirely certain that he would have given the conversation he had overheard with Mrs. Hudson and the quick climb of the stairs John had made. He had been silently begging, praying that the good doctor wouldn’t tempt fate. 

He waited a few more minutes until he heard the sound of water spraying from the shower head in the bathroom. He didn’t want him to see him like this. Not at his most lowest and unstable. He quietly eased out of his darkened room, shutting it with a soft click, and made his way towards the kitchen.

His dark eyes flicked to the fridge and in a swift movement opened it. There nestled on the bottom shelf was two bags. He quickly grabbed one up and was surprised to find that it was barely cold.

“Fresh? Feels like it came straight from the body. If it is then it must be unprocessed. These are definitely fruitful rewards.”

Wasting no time he unscrewed the cap and took his first drink. The taste was like opening an old vintage wine. A flavor he had not tasted in a nearly a hundred years since the creation of blood banks. The blood was rich in iron that created a coppery tang on his tongue. The parched plains of his mouth and throat were immediately blessed. He could practically feel it already metabolizing in his system like a rush of a drug. He had forgotten what it tasted like to have fresh blood, live blood, one that could sustain him. He forgot how addicting it was, just like the cocaine that was his mistress long ago. He wanted to savor this. There was such a unique taste to it he was sure he had never tasted one quite like it before. 

“Oh, see you found it.” 

Sherlock turned to see the newly showered John in his pajamas and house coat. He had been so engrossed in the blood he hadn’t even heard him finish his shower. He turned away from John out of modesty for his current state so not to disgust his flatmate and mumbled out a quick apology. 

“It’s alright. I knew you were hungry.”

“Where did you get this blood?” Sherlock blurted out.

“Work. Why what’s wrong with it? Is it no good?”

“Unprocessed. It must've not have gone through the separation process just yet. Do you know who donated this blood?”

“No, why? I just picked it up from the labs like I usually do. Maybe it was just donated. The hospital did start a drive today as a matter of fact. But I have no idea who it was. If… if its not any good just..”

“It’s exquisite. Magnifique. Les eaux de la fontaine de jouvence.”

The French switch rolled off Sherlock’s tongue in such a fluid manner that was honeyed in nature. John knew the detective was well versed in the language and had heard it in small snippets from time to time. But only in times of excitement on a case when all the clues were coming together. This time however, they seemed like more careful chosen words, as if he was speaking to a lover.

“Oh. Oh ok. Well…that’s good.”

“You don’t understand,” Sherlock shook his head and turned to face John. “I haven’t had real blood like this in a very long time. I gave up getting it straight from the source around the beginnings of World War 1 when blood was first manipulated to work as transfusions for the war. It meant I didn’t have to kill anymore. Meant…I could become less of the creature I was created to be. But the chemicals and the process over time had changed the way it tasted for me. Though it has gotten better than before with technological advancement over the years. Previously, it would sometimes make me ill. This though, this is better than anything I’ve ever had.”

Something dropped in the bottom of John's stomach at his confession. He had just given a vampire a new fix. And it looked like he was already highly addicted. 

“It’s just for emergency purposes…just emergency. Then everything will go back to normal.” John’s thoughts tried to rationalize with him. But the more he said it to himself, the less confident he became.

**Magnifique—Magnificent** 

**Les eaux de la fontaine de jouvence — The waters of the fountain of youth**

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

He had done it. Well, more like it was going according to plan. Since John had put himself on the top of the list of the vampire’s donated blood supply everything was back to normal. Actually better than normal. In just a day Sherlock’s deteriorating appearance had disappeared and was replaced with one of outstanding health. It was such a startling turnaround that John noticed he even had a pep in his step. In fact the doctor had awoke to find the detective humming and whistling a tune as he made the morning tea for him. 

John wasn’t entirely sure what the difference was between his blood and anyone else’s that the vampire consumed. All that mattered at the moment was that Sherlock was back on his feet and acting like his old self again. John had somewhat missed him making tea and having casual conversations at the table. It was one of the quiet pleasures that they had both come to enjoy amidst their chaotic lifestyle. Besides, they still had a case to solve and Lestrade was biting at the bit for the detective to get over his ‘illness’ so they could get back on track.

“So what do we have on today?” John asked as he nibbled at his toast.

“Well since my absence from the case, to take care of more personal trivial matters, we are going to the club.” Sherlock announced.

Had John heard him correctly? Did he just say what he thought he said? Maybe he was losing his hearing early and possibly his mind.

“The club?” The doctor clarified.

Sherlock spun around and set John’s tea on the table.

“Yes, the club Watson.”

“What club?”

“Diogenes.” Sherlock answered as if it was known fact, continuing to peer down at the him in equal confusion.

“The…Diogenes club?”

“Yes! Am I speaking French or do you not understand?”

“I never understand when you speak French, but that’s usually normal and I ignore it.” John grabbed his tea and began to drink it.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again but immediately shut it. His confusion dissipating into more understanding.

“Right, of course you wouldn’t know. It happens to be a gentlemen’s club. One that I need to get to post haste. So please put your mouth to good use and finish your breakfast because you won't be using it once we get there.” 

Sherlock made a bee line for his room leaving John sitting at the table in a state of shock. A gentlemen’s club?! The doctor knew every man had needs. It was one of the very first things he learned in medical school. In the way of the hierarchy of things, love and belonging, was a category all on its own according to Maslow. It consisted of friendship, family and most of all intimacy. John had never been entirely sure of the detective’s sexuality and never gave it much thought. From what he knew Sherlock never talked about any past lovers. He had never mentioned a woman’s name from his past life. Or was he even interested in women? John remembered him saying he wasn’t ‘put off’ when he had kissed him the first time they had met.

Maybe he was gay. 

“Bloody hell!’’ John looked down at his watch. “Its only nine o’clock in the fucking morning!”

Sherlock walked through the kitchen again with a fresh change of clothes that was no different from his usual dressed up attire.

“Less thinking and more swallowing John. Do come on.”

Lord, that didn’t sound right. Even if it was about his unfinished breakfast and not…well…other things. He hurriedly downed his tea to rush and get dressed. After all, he had an overly eager flatmate waiting to get out the door.

Their cab ride was a short lived one. The whole time John felt almost embarrassed to look at the detective who seemed as calm as a cucumber. He shook his head. He was going to have to really stop thinking about food analogies if he was going to survive this trip with some amount of dignity. Surely, for all that was holy, this had to be for the case and not for more deviant matters.

John took a brief look down to assess his clothes. He wasn’t exactly sure if he needed to be more dressed up or play it casual. It had been a good long while since he had stepped into a club. Way before his army days.

“Do I look alright?”

Sherlock turned to him and took a brief look before continuing his attention towards his phone.

“You look fine.” 

“You sure? I wasn’t sure if this was ok.” John said with a slight awkwardness in his voice.

This time Sherlock’s full focus was now on him. His eyes didn’t take a quick gloss over his figure. Instead made it more of a study. From the very top of his head down to his shoes, his gaze roamed, pausing here and there to look at certain things with interest. 

“You look very dashing Watson. The dark brown sports coat and the light blue dress shirt compliment your complexion and eyes.” His deep voice was soft yet sincere as he gave him a small smile.

John could’ve swore at himself as he felt the dusting of a blush heat up on his cheeks. It was the way he had said it. Dashing? Him? He wasn’t use to such flattering remarks. The only courtesy he ever got on dates long ago was that he was either kind or funny. It didn’t really matter back then as all his romantic entanglements usually ended up at one place and that was the bedroom. Afterwards they soon dissipated and he would be back on the prowl for another conquest. However, in all of his relationships he had never been called handsome or good looking. But dashing? Seemed a bit of an old term, but he found that it swelled his heart with a new flame.

Being momentarily halted by Sherlock’s words he almost didn’t notice the detective reach out a hand towards his face. The blush that had started as a low cinder had ignited and he could feel it burning all the way down his neck and even up to his ears. John watched him with anticipation as his hand came closer and closer, but missed his face entirely. Instead he felt the brush of Sherlock’s fingers on the nape of his neck and tugging on his coat.

“The back of your collar had flipped,” Sherlock said as he straightened it back in place and withdrew his hand. “I can’t have my doctor looking unsightly before we arrive.”

John let out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“Right. Um, thanks.” He gave a quick smile and looked away out the widow, unable to look the detective in the face without feeling slightly embarrassed about his reaction. Though that didn’t matter. In the reflection of the glass he caught sight of Sherlock’s face looking thoroughly smug and even pleased.

The cab pulled to the kerb in front of a large ornate white building with a bold brass plaque that read Diogenes. Its Grecian columns and elaborate scroll work along the edges of the rooftops all suggested that this was more on the high society type of strip club. Maybe it was a fancy escort service instead. John had long since concluded that the detective had money of some sort as he rarely let him pay for his own meals or help with a bill. However, now he was starting to contemplate how much Sherlock truly had if he was going to be affording these kinds of services. He supposed that whatever the vampire wanted, he was going great lengths to get it.

Yet, at the same time, the more he studied the building as the exited the cab, the more it felt familiar. Perhaps it was because he saw similar buildings of this kind of structure all over the city or had passed it one day and was just now realizing it. Whatever it was, it was starting to become an itch he couldn’t scratch because he could almost swear he had already been here.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked as he started to ascend the stairs leading to the front door.

“Hmm?”

“You’re standing there gawking like a fish out of water.”

“I don’t know. I have an odd feeling. A deja vu. Like I’ve been here before, but I can’t have. I never been here. I know I haven’t”

“Interesting,” Sherlock murmured as he turned to look back down at John, eyes narrowing to study him. “And what makes you say you have never been here?” 

“I would know if I’ve been into a fancy strip club.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued his way up.

“For God’s sake! It’s not a brothel!”

Wasn’t a brothel? John caught up to Sherlock and entered the mysterious building. The inside was more elaborately decorated and fashioned with the style and times of the late Victorian period. The antique furniture gave off an old leathery smell which could have easily been mistaken for the older gentlemen who were seated about. All of them appeared to be just as lavishly put together in suits like Sherlock always wore. Though none of them were seated near one another and it was deadly quiet. In fact so quiet one could hear a pin drop. The sign by the counter they approached was not one of welcome, but of warning. Absolute Silence. 

“So that’s what Sherlock meant when he said I wasn’t going to be using my mouth.” John thought in realization.

Alright, so it certainly wasn’t a strip club, much to John’s relief. If not a strip club, then what exactly was this place? A club where no talking was allowed, prominent men came to gather, and no one seemed to socialize. Good God, what if this was a cult? It seemed to hit the creepiness level right on the head. Even the detective seemed to know the rules of the establishment as Sherlock gave off a series of hand gestures resembling sign language to the clerk at the desk. 

When Sherlock was finished he nodded his head for John to follow him, but the doctor did not budge. As if sensing his hesitancy about the questionable place they were now in, the detective came over to John and linked his arm with his at the elbow. Guiding him down a hallway like a man would guide a woman down the street in older films. John felt the impertinent blush start to rise again, but quickly brushed it away before he was seduced by another spell.

“Sherlock, what in the Illuminati is this place?” John whispered harshly into the detective’s ear.

“Shhhh! You’ll know in a moment! Keep quiet!” Sherlock whispered back.

They came to a room labeled the Stranger’s Room. The vampire instantly dropped John’s embraced arm and opened the door to an all empty room save for a few chairs and an obvious individual. Finally all the foreboding thoughts escaped the doctor’s mind once he saw who exactly they were meeting with.

“Pity you didn’t arrive sooner. We could’ve all had breakfast together, like family.” The drawled out voice of Mycroft filled the room as they approached him.

“Precisely the point. Morning nephew.”

“Uncle. Dr. Watson. I see you are well. Problems have been solved?”

“Yes. Everything is back to normal. Now what do you have for us?” Sherlock said as he sat in a vacant chair, cutting straight to the chase. John seated himself beside the detective.

“Only what you inquired about. The CCTV footage from the tube station.” Mycroft retrieved a USB drive from the inside of his suit jacket.

“I thought you had already went over that with Lestrade?” John asked looking towards Sherlock.

“I did. This is footage from the month prior to the incident and the weeks after. I’m looking for anything in particular that stands out.”

Ah, this place made more sense now. This wasn’t just some snooty club for the rich and powerful. This was a secret meeting place for Sherlock and Mycroft away from government eyes and eavesdropping ears. Whatever Sherlock couldn’t acquire from Scotland Yard he would come here to get it from Mycroft. Of course, he was the British government after all.

“Like who planted the bomb?” John said as he was catching on to Sherlock’s plan.

“Precisely. And who may have returned to the scene of the crime.”

“I haven’t had the moment to look over the footage myself but I assure you everything is there.” Mycroft handed over a USB drive to Sherlock.

“Perfect. There’s no time to waste. The game is on.”

Sherlock had stopped long enough to allow lunch. For that John was thankful. However he knew he wasn’t the only one that was hungry. He couldn’t fool him. In the small cafe he saw how the detective’s observant eyes wasn’t concentrating on what kind of people were around them, but only concentrating on the ones that started drinking. He would watch one person consume their drink until another caught his eye and flitted towards them. A nervous twitch had started in his leg causing it bounce up and down underneath the table. 

This pause to their day to let John eat was enough to cause the vampire to retreat into the crevices of his mind and even become wound up. John knew that his blood was giving Sherlock some newfound life that he hadn’t had in the past several weeks, but it almost appeared as if he was on a high from it.

“Alright?” John asked casually.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock said much too quickly, not even bothering to look at John to answer.

John could definitely tell he was not fine. He slid his hand across the table and grasped the detective’s.

“Thirsty?” John asked boldly.

Sherlock’s face snapped to John’s and then down to his hand that had enwrapped itself in his. His bouncing leg instantly came to a cease.

“Sorry. I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I?”

“No. Just making sure you’re ok.” John retrieved his hand.

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it go, trying to remain calm and not too fidgety. 

“When it’s been a long time I…I get the jitters in-between feedings. Can’t sit still.”

John nodded in understanding.

“Like someone who’s shot up and they're now on the comedown?”

“Exactly that. It will last a few days until it is regulated in my system again. Then the symptoms will go away.”

“We can stop by the flat if you need to.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated, but I’ll be fine. Besides I can’t leave right now I’m waiting for someone.”

“Oh?,” John took a quick look over his shoulder towards the windows and door. “A witness or a suspect?”

“Neither. His name is Wiggins.”

“Who’s Wiggins?”

“A junkie looking for another fix. He also happens to be an irregular of mine.”

John must have been on the brunt end of Sherlock’s cryptic conversations for the day. He hated to admit that sometimes if not most, he felt out of the loop whenever the detective was on a case. This meant being in a constant lost in translation. As in Sherlock would expect him to know what he was talking about and he would have absolutely no clue.

“An irregular? What other secrets haven’t you told me?”

“Quite a lot actually,’’ Sherlock admitted with a playful raised eyebrow. “Wiggins gathers information for me in the lower places of the city, I pay him for it, he takes his money, and gets whatever exhilarating drug he desires.”

“So he’s a crackhead homeless spy? And you trust him with credible information?”

“Oh yes. I trust them more than government officials. A user knows a user. Ah, there he is now. Going to go have a cigarette, John. Be back in a flash.”

With that the detective got up in a burst from the table and stepped outside the cafe. John’s eyes followed him and he observed their interaction from the other side of the window. Sherlock  casually strolled up to the scrawny, frankly malnourished, dingy clothed man and offered him a cigarette. And like a slight of hand magician’s trick, the man slipped a piece of paper inside the cigarette box as he took two cigarette’s in exchange. It was all sly and underhanded in front of street way CCTV cameras. But the performance was executed with such quick precision that no one would have been none the wiser that valuable information was being traded right under their noses.

The two men smoked and chatted on the pavement; blending in with the crowd. Once they finished the man known as Wiggins left to scurry back to wherever he came from. The detective gave a brief glance over to John and the doctor took that as his cue to follow. He finished off the last piece of his sandwich and headed outside to trail after Sherlock who had already started down the street and made a sharp turn down an alley.

“So what did he have for you?” John asked as he caught up to Sherlock.

Sherlock took the piece of paper out of his pack of cigarette’s and handed it to John.

“A note?” John asked skeptically looking back up to the detective for more insight.

“It was taped to the outside of one of the carriages. They want us to find them.”

“ ‘Miss me?’,” John’s brows knitted together in confusion as he handed back the paper and Sherlock tucked it into his coat pocket. “Sounds like they’ve done this before.” 

“Possibly. If that is the case it is most likely they will strike again.”

“Jesus.” John’s shoulders sagged at the thought.

“Oh don’t let your soldier's courage wane now,” Sherlock smiled teasingly. “The fun is just now starting.”

Every time he would look up from his computer he could see his eyes dart over to the fridge. John had never seen him so…how could he put it…obsessed. With the other blood he was more controlled, docile even. It was strange how he could tell which blood appealed to Sherlock more than others. If it was blood he was not particularly fond of he could easily go through one bag in two days. Draining it so he could simply not have it in the fridge. It almost seemed like the the vampire equivalent of a child forcing themselves to eat a vegetable that they didn’t particularly like. However, if it was more to his liking he tended to drawl it out, make it try to last as long as he could so he could savor it. But this, this was new. It was as if the vampire was having an internal struggle of wanting to consume it all or to stretch it out. Then again Sherlock did just go through a small starving period. Perhaps he really was just hungry.

“Well I’m not sure about you, but I’m having dinner. I think I’m going to reheat that curry from the other night.”

Sherlock's eyes flashed over to John who was now getting up and stretching away the stiffness his body had created from sitting in his chair for the past five hours.

“Ah, yes of course,” The detective shut his laptop. “We have been at this for awhile haven't we? I suppose a small interlude wouldn’t hurt.”

John wasn’t exactly sure what the vampire meant by fun, but the harsh light of the computer screen was starting to take a toll on his retina’s. He made his way to the kitchen and dug the curry out of the fridge, throwing it in the microwave to cook.

“Would you like me to make you some more tea? Or perhaps a beer would be more to your taste?” Sherlock asked from the sitting room.

“A beer would be fine.”

A single burst of air hit John’s back and he knew the vampire was right behind him at the fridge. He truly did want a beer. But he had also said so hoping his thirsty flatmate would come to his senses and just have some blood to drink. He knew Sherlock. He knew how he liked to be in absolute focus when diving into a case. So why was he denying himself now when John could clearly see it on his face that he wanted more? 

“You’re not going to put me off you know. You’ve been fighting it since this afternoon. In fact here.” John handed him a mug that was sitting on the counter. “Put some in there and sit at the table with me.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly and looked at the mug in his hands with confusion.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re the brainiac here. Surely you can solve that.” John gave him smirk and grabbed his dinner out of the microwave as it dinged. 

Despite the request being even somewhat dangerous he knew he needed to do this for Sherlock. Yes, their meeting and living together was altogether strange, but his flatmate had been more than accommodating for him. He had let him live there under good pretenses and had eased his burden in life. This vampire, who had saved his life and always kept himself in check, never really allowed himself to be himself in his own home. It was time to change that.

John sat at the table and waited for Sherlock; listening to him as he carefully poured the blood into his mug. Once he was finished he joined him at the table, vaguely looking like a lost solider waiting for his next instruction from his commanding officer. The doctor broke the tense atmosphere as he began to eat, looking towards Sherlock to do the same, and with some hesitancy the vampire did. 

“How’s the tomato juice?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth tipped up in a smile. So this was how he was doing it. Easier to trick the mind into thinking one thing is actually something else. Clever doctor.

“The ‘tomato juice’ is excellent. How is your curry?”

“Good.”

“I remember curry. At least my mind remembers the flavor of it. I tried it once. With a friend.”

The doctor’s face perked up with intrigue. 

“What does food do to a vampire? Does it repel you?” John asked.

“It doesn't exactly repel me as I really have no desire for it. It still all smells the same. Even what you are eating smells quite lovely it’s just that it would have no flavor to me. All food has no flavor and on a second note I can not digest it. It is another conjuncture to my condition. The only thing that appeals to me is blood.”

“What was your favorite food?”

The vampire closed his eyes. A simple walk through his mind palace was all he needed to regain the memories of his once human life. Memories stored from long ago, not of violent ends, but of happier times. Times where he and his former companion would have meaningless conversations just as these at the dinner table, reminiscing of their cases together and their thoughts on life. Even though these were not those same times, the detective couldn’t help but merge the past reality into the current.   

“I used to go to one hotel to dine when the time permitted it. When I wasn’t chasing criminals. They served the most exquisite roasted pheasant with rosemary, glazed carrots, asparagus with hollandaise, and when I had a sweet tooth, a tiramisu. Their merlot wine was smooth and fruity.” Sherlock stated in a dream like voice as he came to.

“Is the hotel still around?”

“Afraid not,” He shook his head. “It has since been demolished and reconstructed into a housing complex.” The detective stood from his chair. Even though he often liked to indulge in visiting his past life it was better off not to get too caught up in it. It always served as a reminder that he was no longer there. Best to remove himself from the moment.

 “I’m going to review some more footage. Take your time and eat.”

With a simple nod from John, Sherlock returned to the desk mug in hand. This had been somewhat of an odd day for him. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had been starving for a length of time or it was the rush of new blood in his system. He had crossed realities this morning with John blatantly thinking he knew of the Diogenes Club. He subtly flirted on the cab ride, which if he was truly honest he quite enjoyed himself, and even pleased he had invoked such a reaction in the doctor. And then it even seemed, for the briefest of seconds, he had hoped John had remembered the club in his deja vu encounter. What was wrong with him today? These would have to be questions he would need to answer at a later time. Right now the case was at hand.

Sherlock hit the play button for the footage to continue. But as it seemed, the universe had other plans for the detective’s questions. It barely took thirty seconds for him to identify the man on the platform. How could he forget such a face? The way he walked and held himself with such flamboyant airs, his distinguished fashion, his devilish smile. The figure set a terrible dread within him. 

Sherlock glanced over at John still eating at the kitchen table. He couldn’t show any alarm or fear. The last thing he needed was causing a rile in the doctor. The game was now no longer just a game. It had become a hunt for revenge.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

“Did you find anything last night?” John sat across from Sherlock at the desk with his tea. 

The vampire had been strangely silent since John had gotten up. He hadn’t even bothered to look up from the morning newspaper to acknowledge his presence when he came down. The night before he had dismissed any further assistance on John’s part; claiming the doctor had been more than helpful and that he would continue while he rested. Not that he was complaining. There were times the detective could be an absolute driving machine and wouldn’t want to stop for any minor inconvenience if he could so help it. But John always loved a good mystery and even he didn’t like to leave a story unfinished.

“Hmm? Oh yes. I sent Lestrade a text early this morning. A low life bored idiot made the home made bombs. The case has been taken to more higher government officials that will be handling it off the record and under careful eye. Its out of my hands now. Case closed.” Sherlock rattled off without missing a beat.

“Then what about the note? Miss me?”

“I do believe you can make your own deductions from that.”

“So they’re a repeat offender? It’s likely they will strike again?”

“Likely. Maybe not in the way we anticipate, but likely.”

And Sherlock left it at that. Nothing more was said. If there was nothing more they could do then so be it. 

“On the hunt for the next case then?’’

Sherlock gave a mere grunt of a yes. John’s eyes scanned the front page of the paper looking for anything that might appeal to the detective. Anything to lift his sour mood of a case left undone.

“There’s a cabinet election coming up.”

“Eh.”

“Champion equestrian horse double? Possibly switched out and stolen?”

“Ugh.”

“Hmm. Solar eclipse is coming up.”

John saw Sherlock’s eyes stall on the page he was reading.

“Is that…when the Earth is in front of the Sun…or when the Moon is?” 

It was such an innocent question that the doctor didn’t mean to laugh. Honestly he didn’t. It was just the mere thought of how could this man, decades beyond older than he was, not know such a simple answer. This is what always surprised John from time to time. He could understand if the vampire didn’t know modern day things, but when it came to primary school level information, it baffled him.

“What?” Sherlock asked glaring at John.

“Did you not learn this when you were a boy?”

“I…astronomy is not exactly my forte. Besides I can’t be expected to know everything even if I have lived for an extended period of time. Do you know what an appalling amount of brain space would be wasted on things that are not crucial to The Work? Heaps, good man, heaps!”

“But its primary school stuff!”

“At least I do know now that the Earth revolves around the Sun, the planetary names, and what the obliquity of the ecliptic is!”

Whelp, that was just more to add to the ever growing list John had created on his laptop. For awhile now he was becoming curiouser of who Sherlock truly was, than what he was. He wanted to learn the man behind the brain. And he had picked up enough on the detective’s quirks of deduction to make his own rulings about him. 

As far as he could tell, he wasn’t too bad off. At least it was giving him an understanding of how old he really was. His knowledge in chemistry and working with lab equipment was genius. He seemed to have a solid ground when it came to anatomy, but even John piped in and helped him at times at crime scenes. Especially if he wanted the newest and latest information on the subject. His knowledge on criminology was vast. Then again it would if he knew crimes that were committed as far back as the early 1900’s. To John he seemed to read a great deal, but it was nothing in the fictional nature. So fiction had a score of zero while nonfiction such as botany, geology, politics were well versed. Even in British law. However, now  he knew that Sherlock knew very little about astronomy. John judged by the way he played violin he knew works as far back as Bach, but nothing in the modern nature. And the instrument that he prized so dearly, had to be at least a 17th century Stradivarius. For extra curricular, the detective was fluent in French and possibly knew more languages. If he had to guess the man before him had to be at least 200 years old.

From small findings here and there was where he would often quiz the vampire. How much had he actually retained and let other information slide by to the point he was out of his time? The doctor updated his document. If Sherlock was going to be in a picky mood about new cases,  John could at least work on his own personal one he had made labeled ‘Where in time is Sherlock Holmes?’ Might as well if they were going to have nothing better to do.

“Don’t be daft John! Of course I know who the prime minister is!,” Sherlock bent his newspaper aggressively down, giving John a heated look at his pestering. “It’s...Baldwin.” 

John’s eyebrows lifted as if saying ‘Is that your final answer?’

“Or maybe Macdonald. One of the two. They were always switching back and forth.” Sherlock’s curls bounced as he shook his head and turned back to his paper.

John dropped his clasped hand from under his chin and sighed.

“It’s Blair.”

“Who?” Sherlock’s head jerked back up.

“Blair. Tony Blair. Baldwin and Macdonald haven’t been around since the 20’s and 30’s.”

“Oh. When did they keel off?”

“Macdonald died in ‘37 and Baldwin died in ’47,” John poked in his findings on the keyboard. “So for about 73 years you haven’t known who the prime minister was.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed until he had a crinkle in between them.

“Then...what about that Churchill fellow?”

“He died in the 60’s”

Sherlock nodded and his gaze drifted away from John. John couldn’t help but smile at the perplexed man. Rarely was Sherlock ever confused, but when it did happen he would seemingly retreat into his own mind and his eyes would dart about as if searching his own mind palace for answers.

“Do we still have a King of England?” Sherlock asked in all seriousness.

“Jesus Christ,” John breathed out. “He died in the 50’s.”

“Who’s the King now?”

“We have a Queen. Queen Elizabeth the second.”

“We have a queen? Again?”

John scoffed and smiled.

“Yes, again! Where were you?”

Sherlock folded up his paper in frustration and threw it upon the desk.

“How the hell do I know. I was probably in Germany at the time. Seriously, John this is ridiculous. I don’t understand your fascination of what I know about who the prime minister is or who is the current monarch.” He huffed.

“Or that television was invented much earlier and not some current thing that has happened in the last 40 years.” John sniggered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, John this is ludicrous.”

A brush of wind came to John’s side. Peering over his shoulder he jumped slightly when he saw the head of Sherlock stooping over him to get a better look at what he had been typing.

“A list?! You have a list John?! Good God!” Sherlock swept himself away and disappeared before John could register he had left the room. The only indicator he had buried himself away to sulk was the bang of his bedroom door.

John chuckled to himself. Even if it was a possibility of the vampire being 200 years old he sure had a temperament of a dramatic spoilt child.

Two could play at this game. John wasn’t the only one who had his own list of curiosities. Sherlock had been keeping a mental note on all the times John had said something that piqued his interest, the ever growing list of similarities of him and the Watson that he knew, and the differences. Even he couldn’t count how many times he would catch himself referring to this modern version of John as his old beloved Watson. Their mannerisms crossed paths so much he had to keep himself in check so not to stumble into something that he considered the unexplainable. Were they one in the same? The question burned in his mind every waking moment of everyday. There were times he wanted to throw all things aside and tell John outright, but he knew that would solve nothing. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t play with fire.

As the evening blossomed into early autumn hours he felt an experiment was due. One of more metaphysical properties than practical. All his life he lived by science and facts. Magic did not exist, monsters were mere criminals, and fortune tellers were con artists. Funny how a singular turn of events could change ones perception of reality. If he could be easily turned into a vampire were the powers of reincarnation possible in this world to a mortal human being? This was his hypothesis.

Sherlock had long since gotten over his sulk and silently came out of his room. He found John in the sitting room seated in his chair with a book at hand and fireplace blazing to stave off the chill of the night. An indulgence that his Watson would always do in the evening before bed. He looked quite cozy. It was in these rare quiet moments the detective could watch him undisturbed. The warm light of the fire danced on his golden tresses and Sherlock wished he could run his fingers through his doctor’s hair to kiss the top of his head like he used to.

“Did you finally come out of your cave?” John spoke without looking up from his book.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered as he strode to his chair and took a seat, tucking his burgundy dressing gown around him. “I was thinking.” 

“Thinking about what?”

“Life.”

John’s eyes glanced up at the detective in interest.

“Oh? Anything you want to talk about?” He put his book on his side table, giving him his full attention.

“You have a list. About me. Your deductions are not too far off, but not quite correct. I know I can come off as intimidating and cold shouldered at times, but as I’ve said before, it would be idiotic if you didn’t know who or what I was. Though you must understand John it has been quite a long time since I’ve had the privilege to talk to anyone about myself. And there are some things that are more easier to talk about than others. There are even some things that Mycroft does not know. Things I wish to keep private. I will admit I was hesitant at first, flustering at any mention of my past, but I have grown more comfortable around you. So tell me, where on earth did you come up with the deductions you have on your list?”

John shrugged and looked away.

“I don’t know. It’s a silly game I have with myself. Most of it is just from observing you.”

“Just a silly game?” Sherlock egged on with a quirked brow in a teasing manner.

“Its just…What were you like back then? In your human life?,” John looked back towards him with almost childlike curiosity. “I’ve lived with you for months now and I feel like you know more about me than I do of you.”

There it was. Sherlock had baited him in and now the real fun could start. What could he say that would make the doctor hesitate for a moment? Feel off balance? Even second guess his own mind? What could possibly be the magic words that would make this John wake up and realize there was more to himself than he knew?

“I know you are curious John. No surprise there. I would just hate to disappoint you. Much of what you see now is what I was when I was human.” 

“But when were you born? Where did you grow up?”

“Oh that will dull you to sleep. My childhood was fairly unremarkable.” 

The doctor sat up a little straighter, leaning forward in his chair.

“No. I really want to know. You are the first and frankly the last person I will ever get to talk to, who is probably much older than my grandad. And he was born in the early 1920’s I believe.”

Sherlock relaxed back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

“Very well. I was born in 1863 in the countryside. My parents ancestry as squires had acquired them a suitable estate for me and my elder brother to grow up on. With such inheritances we were well off. We grew up with tutors till we were of age to go to university. Mycroft went into politics whereas I was more interested in science.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” John held up a hand to stop him. “Mycroft? You mean your brother was named Mycroft too?”

“Yes, an unfortunate family name that has been passed down my brother’s line.”

“Jesus, a name like that yeah. I see his side is still in politics. What sort of science did you study? Where did you study at?”

“Chemistry held a great appeal to me and when I turned 17 I went to Cambridge College. I studied there for about four years, but it was when I was an undergraduate that detective work caught my eye in the most unusual manner. At first I thought about perfecting my studies in forensics until one of my classmate’s father came in as a speaker for our class and he made such an impression on me that afterwards I knew my heart’s calling.”

"What did he say to change your mind about chemistry to detective work?”

“Well, he himself was a coroner by trade. Though it was his methods of deduction in which he could determine how the body had died and where it had been prior to death that fascinated me.”

The doctor’s lips upturned to a small smile.

“Ah. So you learned from him?” John declared almost triumphantly as he learned the source of the detective’s uncanny power.

“Oh yes. Met him several times just to talk of the subject and then I started notes of my own. I had only just turned 19 when I took my first case from one of my classmates.”

“Practically a kid. Do you remember the case?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to give him an expectant look. 

“John you can’t expect me to remember nearly a hundred and thirty years into the past. I have to delete something from time to time.” Sherlock admitted.

“True. I guess if I were the same I would have to as well. What happened after you graduated university?” John was eager to move on with the story of the detective’s life, eyes sparkling with anticipation. However, Sherlock’s mood had unconsciously shifted and a dark cloud had come over his features.

“I didn’t really what you would say graduate, but more had to...discontinue my studies,” Sherlock looked down at his hands that had suddenly come to a mind of their own and began picking at the fingernails. “When I was in my last year my parents both died unexpectedly and my father had some outstanding debts against him. And Mycroft, being the eldest and trying to save our good name, he sold our parents estate to pay off the debts and I dropped out of university to go live with him in London. I was only 21 and my brother was making a good living in politics at the time. His name was becoming widely known.”

The vampire took a deep breath and willed his fingers to stop.

“He supported me to the best of his ability, but I was young, arrogant, bitter, naive even and mad at the world for selling my education so short when I was so close to being finished. That was when I first turned to cocaine and the opium dens.” He knew this was a minor period in his life with struggles all its own. Nights where he was so wasted under the creeping vine of the white substance that it nearly strangled the life from him as it flowed in his veins. Nights where he never came home. Nights where he had worried his brother to death as he wandered the city in search of him hoping to at least find a body.

“Good God. Could Mycroft not see to it that you had finished school?” John’s voice came softly.

“Not exactly. I still had my own debts to pay with them and he had already taken over that plus managing his own estate here in London. Those were dark times for me. Even coming to the point I really didn’t care if I lived or died.”

“But you survived it. You said you was changed when you was 32. Still have 11 years left. Surely you wasn’t on a binge for that long.” Sherlock looked back up to the doctor’s face and found a comforting smile. He hadn’t judged his choices, but instead was more concerned what had happened to lead to his consumption of drugs. The contagious smile soon spread to Sherlock and he continued on.

“Quite right. It was Mycroft who always found me there in the lowest places of the world. He knew I had a problem when I kept my habitual drug habits up for 3 years. Until one fateful night my misfortunes were turned around when I was arrested. This I do remember. I was in the holding cell, high as a kite, when I began spouting off deductions at the officer about how they had arrested the wrong man who was in the cell with me. Lestrade nearly had me beat until I began proving how I knew my observations to be true. By the end of the night he had went through all of his evidence again and released both me and my cell mate. He told me then if I wasn’t looking like the back end of a horse’s ass he would hire me there on the spot as a detective on their force.”

Somewhere in the narrative Sherlock had missed when John’s jaw had dropped in surprise.

“Wait...Lestrade too?!”

"You would be surprised how some descendants take on their ancestors former occupations.”

“Does he know?” John asked not believing his own ears.

“Oh no!,” Sherlock shook his head. “And I plan on never telling him on how he and his ancestor look so much alike either.”

The doctor blew out a nervous laugh still trying to wrap his head around what he had just heard.

“Anyway did you take the job?”

“Hmm? No! Lestrade’s men were idiots then and have only vaguely improved now. If anything it moved me into sobriety to where I could invent my own job as a consulting detective. In some ways I chose to invent it so that I could start a foundation for my own name and at the same time Mycroft could keep an eye on me if I should slip back into my old ways. I began taking on consulting when I was 24 and by the time I was 27 I had already paid back Mycroft my university debts and interest for having to put up with me. After that I ventured out on my own and came here to Baker St.”

John looked around at the flat as though he was seeing it for the first time.

“Here? You mean you’ve lived here doing detective work all this time? How were able to keep the address for so long?”

“That is a little more tricky. See me changing at 32 didn’t exactly help matters any since I no longer aged. People began to notice. It didn't take long for Mycroft to find out about my sudden change in status. But we kept it under tight sealed lips and never uttered a word about it. But by 1913 I could no longer convince people I was 50 years old. I had clients coming in and instead of cases for me they wanted to know what medication or fitness regimen I was doing to make myself look so youthful. That was when Mycroft and I decided it was best that I leave Baker St. I had lived here for 23 years and I hate to say that sentiment made me purchase the entire property. I own 221 Baker St. and every so often I inherit it from myself.”

John had went slack jawed again. At this rate the vampire wasn’t exactly sure at times if his flatmate had finally had a moment of realization for his experiment or if he was going to cause him a stroke by the sheer amount of shock he was putting the man in.

“Oh my God! That’s bloody incredible! But where did you go? Who looked after Baker St while you was gone?”

“Mycroft and his son did while I was away to Switzerland for about 15 years. Then my brother passed away. I stayed in Scotland for about 5 years after that until I returned back to London in 1933. By that time my nephew had grown enough to where I could call him my elder cousin.”

“Surely you didn’t come back under your old name? I mean if your name was as strange sounding back then as it is today anyone would recognize it.”

Sherlock smirked.

“You catch on quickly. You’re right I didn’t come back as Sherlock but under my true first name, William. I did have some people ask as they were old enough to remember me as I was but I quickly spread the rumor I was Sherlock’s long lost son and had come to inherit my father’s estate.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“It was. I was able to say I was 25 in order to stay a little longer but unfortunately that plan didn’t work out. World War 2 crept up upon us and soon I was helping my nephew in undercover work by helping the British government find out when the Germans were planning to attack. I was able to find out in advance that the Germans were planning on bombing London and my nephew had a hand in getting Londoners evacuated to the country side. I myself had to leave Baker St to an unknown demise in the spring of 1940. My nephew sent me on an another undercover mission in Eastern Europe hunting Nazis before the bombings. Word was sent to me in France that my nephew did not make it.”

Sherlock remembered it so clearly. Getting on the the train with bare essentials to evacuate the city in haste. Warfare had developed into something he couldn’t fathom with reports of aerial bombings and zeppelins that could level whole cities. What had the world morphed into? Never in all his time living in London would he had thought he would live to see the day he would be forced out of Baker St. It was the first time he noticed he felt out of place. Out of his own familiar time. But these words and thoughts were not just his own. They were also shared by an elderly gentleman he sat next to. He remembered the lines and wrinkles that were like crevices on his face. His hair white as snow, weathered blue eyes and a cane in hand. The gentleman had told him he was surprised to see him, a young man such as himself. All the others were at war and the gentleman’s grandson was about his age on the front lines. The word had startled him. Grandson? He, Sherlock, young enough to be considered this man’s grandson? It was then the vampire realized this man was what he was supposed to be. An old man. A 77 year old man. 

“I’m so sorry.” John said solemnly after a moment of silence. 

“He knew the risk he was taking by staying in London. But by staying he saved countless lives.”

“When...when you say you hunted Nazis,” John stuttered out nervously. A habit Sherlock had picked up from him when he was about to ask something pertaining to his unique disposition. “Do you mean you captured them, killed them or...hunted them?”

Bless the doctor and his dark curious mind. Of course he would want to know. However, he would have to disappoint him. The vampire did not stray away from his long meticulous practice of not killing people to sustain his lifestyle. He had been doing very well being 20 years sober by then. Though that did not mean his mission was all for not. It did prefect his skill in hunting, if one should call it such. In London he had used his heightened senses on cases, but only when the need called for it. He didn’t want to use his ability to track down every criminal roaming in London simply because he could. What use would his brain be then if it was not exercised? But in Europe he wasn’t on a case. He was on a catch and retrieve. He had essentially become the Royal Sniffer Dog, allowed to scour across the continent for eight years learning what he was.

“Whatever eases your mind more John. But do know they are dead now.” Sherlock’s answer came brief.

“So what happened when the war was over? Did you come back here?”

“I did only in writing. I came back to find Baker St. war torn and ravaged. It needed extensive repair. And luckily by that time I had inherited it from myself again. This time as Scott Holmes. Considering by 1948 I should have technically been 85 years old I was quite a wealthy man. Renovating Baker St. barely put a dent in my bank. However, I didn’t officially come back until 1956.”

“Why? Surely it doesn’t take almost ten years to rebuild a building.”

“I decided to travel. Call it a sabbatical if you will. Though when I came back to the roots of London I knew my time here was going to be very short. By the 1970s CCTV became our new security and I had a high risk of being noticed all the time. I only stayed till 1974 and then left once again moving from place to place. And I only came back this last time last year.”

“Claiming to be 25 again? So you at least have a good 20 years left until you move on.”

The air suddenly became thick for Sherlock. Move on when the time arose? How could he? John was here. Now, in the present, living, breathing. He was alive and tangible. Even in 20 years when he was an old man could he leave him? No! The thought was absurd to even think of! However, so far, his experiment was not producing any fruit. Nothing. Not one solitary word, phrase or memory he had recounted to him had made a lick of difference. Perhaps it was all a fluke. A fascination he wished to project into reality.

“I’m not sure if I can next time. Or if I want to.” Sherlock admitted quietly.

“Then...what makes you stay? What makes you come back to Baker St.?

“Sentiment my dear Watson. A chemical defect found on the losing side.”

“Defect?,” John’s face shifted as though he wasn’t sure he believed the vampire’s words. “You know…you’ve never mentioned anyone?”

The detective’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“Anyone? Who?”

“Well I know you had Mycroft, you knew people working at Scotland Yard, but was there anyone else? Friends?… A lady?” John hinted trying to convey a subtle message.

Here he had not once made the doctor have another deja vu moment, but instead the table had violently shifted and it was Sherlock’s turn to be caught off guard. Of all the things, he wanted to know about his love life.

“I believe I understand what you mean. Even back then I was a singular sort of man with a practically non-existent list of people I could call friends and even fewer I could call acquaintances. Though there was one I loved very much with all my heart.”

The light of the fireplace glowed on John’s face as he smiled at him. Of course this John would be a hopeless romantic too. Transfixed at pretty words and happy endings. 

“Ah, ok. So who was the lucky lady?”

Sherlock internally cringed at the question.

“He.”

Realization dawned on John’s features very quickly.

“Oh! He… Sorry I didn’t…I didn’t know. I mean I thought you may have been, but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to assume.” His words stumbled out, but the detective waved him off.

“It’s quite alright. One often assumes that in my era such dalliances were not heard of or either brushed under a rug. Easier to be called good friends, roommates, two bachelors, instead of lovers. It was a taboo practice that led to time in prison. In today’s society it is more tolerated and accepted. One that I envy very much if I could have had such a luxury back then.”

John nodded.

“I would feel the same if I loved someone and the law forbade it. I would try everything in my power to keep it secret. If it were me I probably would have found a cottage by the seaside, no neighbors, no gossip. We could live our lives in peace.”

And there it was. Flowing like water out of the doctor’s mouth that it came upon Sherlock like a tidal wave, hitting full force he was stunned into silence. Not one hundred and twenty years ago, in that very room, he remembered soft lips caressing his neck. The light for the notes that he had been writing at his desk had been smoldered by the sudden draw of curtains. He had been about to protest to the intrusion when his beloved doctor had put down a newspaper in front of him with an advertisement in South Downs.

“What do you think dear boy? A cottage by the sea? No gossiping neighbors. Shall we retire there someday?”

In that brief moment in time the future had looked promising and bright. He could see them both old and grey in a house of their own. There would be endless manuscripts, typing, ink stained hands working diligently on the adventures of their lives as young men. His doctor hard at work to get every word right. And there would be his own arthritic fingers scratching away at the violin and making adjustments of spectacles to see the music better. And endless promises of honey from the hives from their garden. A happy ending to a fulfilling life. What bliss it would bring. 

He had brought a hand up to stroke the doctor’s face, turning to give him a chaste kiss on the lips.

“How could I deny you?”

In a blink Sherlock was brought back, the room silent, John’s chair empty and the warmth of the fireplace had died down. He shook his head. He had gotten lost in the Mind Palace again. Such a brief memory but he could spend countless hours playing it, relishing in it as slowly as he wanted, never having to leave. He must’ve relapsed into it at John’s words. And judging by the time of his watch that was about four hours ago. Here he had tried to use this experiment to get a reaction out of the doctor and instead it had thrown him into his own reminiscence. Perhaps it wasn’t a fluke after all.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13 

Sherlock had always been a forward thinking man. The use of logic, facts, and evidence was the very foundation of his work and he felt it wise to never dwell on the past. One could not change it after a transgression had already taken place, but one could possibly change the future in hopes of acquiring the justice it deserved. Despite his rooted ways he now found himself looking at the past more than ever since the doctor suddenly reappeared in his life. And though at one point of time fate was something he barely believed in; he stared it in the face day after day in the reanimated likeness of John Watson. This man who made Sherlock question his own sanity, his reality, if he was truly here or perhaps this was his own twisted version of hell. If this was indeed hell was there any hope for salvation? If not for himself in this damnable state of being then at least for the death of John? He deserved that justice.

Moriarty. The name was an insufferable ear worm that was wriggling its way through his mind. He could feel it eating away at him. Piece by piece it was wearing down on his patience. Since the discovery of this resurrected adversary it had made him keep all the more careful eye on John. He was lenient to let the doctor have his own space, but cautious enough to never have him leave his line of sight. He knew what this spider could do and how proficiently he could do it. He could be anywhere hiding in his web in the corner of a room waiting patiently. The question now was how long had the spider been in the room without Sherlock knowing? How long had it been up there scheming, putting all its pawns into place, waiting for the right moment when to strike?

It was the start of another work day for his flatmate and Sherlock knew he couldn’t follow him around the hospital all day long, but that didn’t stop him from trailing his bus route along the rooftops. It gave him the advantage to go unnoticed during the daytime; along with his keen eyesight and swiftness to pass from building to building fooling security cameras and the common person because no one thought to look up. He was positive Moriarty wouldn’t show his hand in a direct manner towards them, it was his style to never get his own hands dirty, but that didn’t mean he had minions at his disposal to do his bidding. Other weasels and rats to scurry about the city to do his every whim. 

A ring came from his coat pocket and he quickly let his eyes look at his phone that he plucked out, only to shove it back in. The Inspector could do without his services for today. He had his own case to put together. He watched as John departed off the bus and enter the hospital. He would be safe for the moment at least until his shift ended. Then the vampire would follow him back to Baker St. There he would be under his watch from anything that dare lurk on the streets during the night hours that threatened the doctor’s livelihood.

Another ring came and Sherlock hit the accept button.

“What is it Lestrade? You’ve called me 15 times since 6 am. Must be out of your depth. Whatever it is.” Sherlock spoke tersely into the phone.

“Hello to you too, Sherlock.” said the Inspector in mock happiness. “I have something you may want to look at.”

“Not right now. I’m busy.” He took a quick stride and leapt to another rooftop.

“Too busy for a murder that’s a new one. Trust me I think you’ll want to see this.”

Sherlock had no time for this. He needed to get back to Baker St. and start putting together what Moriarty’s next move would be. He was already behind. But if the Inspector was going to be so persistent perhaps he could appease him and solve whatever simpleminded case he was dangling in front of him this time. At least it would get him to stop calling.

“I’ve seen plenty of murdered bodies Lestrade what’s so special about this one?”

“Well, for starters she’s hung upside down.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Boring.”

“Throat has been slashed.” Lestrade continued on, but Sherlock just grunted in annoyance.

“Obvious cause of death. Just find the murder weapon Gavin.”

“There is no murder weapon! Come on, I know this has to interest you! She was found in an unused warehouse by the docks strung up like some animal.”

“Reading the dictionary sounds more interesting than this case. Now if you have no other useful information I’m sure Donovan or Anderson can help you despite how useless they are.” The detective drew the phone away and was about to end the call.

“There’s no blood.” He added in the last second.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and put the phone back up to his ear.

“Say that again.”

“There’s no blood.” Lestrade stated again, “Like I said she’s a pitiful sight. As if someone hunted her down and strung her up like this.”

He could see Baker St. farther up the road but it looked like his case was already starting. Once again one move behind.

He sighed.

“Text me the address.”

“Just you today?” Lestrade asked as he met Sherlock outside the warehouse, smoking the last bit of his cigarette. 

“John’s at the A&E. I thought you were trying to quit.” the detective said curtly.

“Yea…well that’s police work for you. Especially for messed up shit like this.” He flicked the butt on the ground. Its smoke smoldered out by the formed puddle on the pavement from the light rain just the night before. 

“In here.”

The Inspector led him inside the warehouse. The Yard was busy at work photographing anything that might be of value. Or lack thereof. As Lestrade had stated it was unused. The structure was in various ages of decay, rusting like an infiltrating cancer. Beams that were once the very skeleton of keeping it together appeared as though they would collapse. 

However, it still had enough stronghold to dangle the victim in mid-air. In the center of the warehouse a chain, looped through a pulley system, was wrapped around the young woman’s feet to leave her hanging upside down. A rope had been placed around her neck and tied to the chain, giving her head a tilt back to expose the neck and the long slash that nearly went from ear to ear. 

Lestrade wasn’t lying. It reminded Sherlock of his younger years and how his father went game hunting and how he would have the deer strung up so all the blood would drain from the body. Drain. Of course. If this was indeed the work of Moriarty he had no doubt that he would not only be feeding himself, but an army. And while keeping himself nice and fed he would keep Sherlock on a wild goose chase and out of the way. That way to scheme his next move.

“How was she found?” Sherlock asked Lestrade as he put on a pair of latex from a nearby forensic set up and began to inspect the body.

“Oddly enough a building inspector was scheduled to come out here today. This place is on their list to be demolished and when he opened up the warehouse here she was. He called us straight away.”

“I’m assuming there is CCTV footage?”

“Unfortunately, no. We have already looked into it and there is no suspicious vehicles or anyone matching her description entering the docks. It was all undetected.”

Undetected…Invisible…unstoppable.

More echoes of Sherlock’s past was now coming to mind again. Words once uttered by his own brother when he had thought the Ricoletti case a waste of time. How he had been so wrong. Though, the times were more modern now. The realm of supernatural occurrences held more disbelief in every day life than it once did. Not only was Moriarty endangering John’s life, but others as well. And how would police take it that their invisible assailant was a blood drinking creature reeking havoc upon the city? He was going to have to steer this case off to deflect the Yard from getting into the crosshairs of an army of vampires.

“And you are absolutely positive?”

“We’ve searched the grounds and the other warehouses. There’s nothing.”

“Impossible. She was killed here. She had to be. There’s no bruising on her, no signs of struggle suggesting she was probably drugged when she got here. Whoever did this has knowledge of butchering or at least game hunting.  Save for the clothes, face and hair the rest of her is spotless. They wanted her blood.”

“What kind of sick bastard would want her blood?”

In the past he would’ve told the Inspector the truth. He would have gathered all the evidence and laid it before his feet as a completed puzzle with their next course of action being an arrest. His dear Watson at his side, ready to take down whatever criminal as soon as he gave the word. Not anymore. He could not risk anymore lives.

So the detective did the only thing he knew to do and turned towards Lestrade.

“No idea.” He lied.

John had wondered if Sherlock would turn up at the end of his shift. He really wasn’t surprised at this point, but it did not make him feel any less nervous. The news report he had seen before clocking out had been gruesome, just like all the homicide scenes he and Sherlock had been to before. Young girl in the prime of her life only to be savagely snuffed out like a candle. He had no doubt the detective had been called by Lestrade to help with his expertise though something felt off. A body devoid of blood had made his mind conclude to an answer other people would think impossible, but he knew it was indeed the truth. It had to be a vampire.

He felt mixed emotions as he strode out the door to Sherlock who was waiting for him by the street light. Not many months ago it had been Mycroft who had been waiting for him in a similar fashion and had given him a heady warning. And now, just as he was beginning to feel so at ease with the vampire, he was starting to remember those words. Surely it couldn’t be Sherlock. It couldn’t have. Though he was the one who had started to be his secret donor. But had he overstepped? Had he somehow changed Sherlock’s way of thinking, disregarding all his hard learned moral principles of who he was and was now…no…surely not.

“Hey.” John tried to keep his voice casual and cool.

“Evening.” The detective responded in an equal manner. 

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing’s wrong. Just in the neighborhood finishing up some casework for Lestrade and I thought I would see you home.”

The hairs on the back of John’s neck bristled at his choice of words as Sherlock turned and walked towards the bus stop. The doctor followed and tried to shake off the nervousness, chalking up the prickly sensation to the colder temperature of the season. They didn’t have to wait long and soon Sherlock boarded the bus and briskly made his way all the way to the back. John followed suit and sat beside him. Despite feeling as he did the last thing he needed to do was tip off the detective that something was wrong by sitting in another seat. That would just be a dead giveaway. 

However he knew. He knew deep down that Sherlock already knew what he was thinking and feeling. It didn’t matter what he did or where he sat or how he got home. He knew Sherlock was keeping an eye on him. So might as well not beat around the bush and get straight to the point. 

“Why do I get the feeling this is more than seeing me home?” John said tentatively.

“What gives you that impression?” 

“Because you never see me home,” He looked over to the detective. “Is there something…more…that you need?”

“Like what?” Sherlock’s face was stolic and gave no impression.

“Look, we can talk about it if you want or is the situation…not…good?” the doctor said more quietly.

At John’s change in tone Sherlock looked at him in a perplexed manner.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I saw the news tonight before I clocked out. Its not hard to put two and two together. If you would’ve just told me…”

“Of course. John thinks I need help with the case,” Sherlock’s thoughts brought him up to speed to the doctor’s strange behavior. “He is always so ready and eager to jump to action at a moments notice.”

“John, John, John,” Sherlock tutted under his breath. “Obviously you see but you did not observe. I had hoped you would not have seen the news, but word travels faster these days. You wear your worries on your face like an open book for anyone and everyone to see. Always have.”

The detective got up abruptly as their stop came near and headed for the exit. 

“I do not!” John got up after him, but he was too fast. Sherlock had already made it to the door of 221B and gone in.

 “If you would’ve just told me I could’ve got you more. There’s no need to do what you did!” 

That was not the response Sherlock had expected.

“What?!”

The vampire whirled around to face him before he could lay a hand on the staircase. This time letting his true emotion of shock and anger show. His ominous glare that bored into John made the doctor stop in his tracks in the foyer. 

It was John’s turn to study Sherlock and the conversation they had just previously had on the bus. They were talking about the dead girl, right? The dead girl who was completely drained of blood, obvious sign of a vampire attack, right? He knew he shouldn’t have obliged Sherlock in drinking his blood without his knowledge or consent, but at the time it was of the essence. And as far as he knew Sherlock was the only vampire in London, or was he wrong?

“Ok…we are not on the same page, are we?”

“Oh that one you see! Brilliant Dr. Watson, brilliant!” Sherlock dismissed him and went up to the flat.

“Oi, no need to get your knickers in a twist. What’s going on?” John raced after him.

“You know my methods. Did I not just confess to you the other night ago of my sobriety or did that fall on deaf ears as well?!” The detective threw his coat off as it landed on the sofa. “Do you honestly think so low of me that I would do this on a whim?” He roughly ran his hands through his hair. 

John hadn’t seen the detective this on edge since the night they staked out at the parking garage. How Sherlock paced in front of the fireplace was just like he paced the garage as he chained smoked. His sharp biting words could cut through glass. Even his harsh facial expressions could stop a clock if they so desired. That’s when it all sank in.

“Wait…you mean its..”

“Someone else, yes John, I’m glad you finally caught up!” Sherlock let out a huff.

Another vampire besides Sherlock. So his wonderings had finally proved true. There were more like him. Others walking by him in the streets of London with the same blood lust cravings as the man that stood before him. 

“Fuck.” John cursed under his breath, “Sherlock I’m sorry.”

Sherlock leaned against the mantle piece, arms resting above and head bowed. He didn’t move and barely twitched a muscle and John wasn’t sure which made him more hesitant. There were times that the detective’s emotions could be all over the place and he had grown accustom to it. But the silence…the silence and stillness was maddening. It was like accidentally stepping on a land mine and not being sure if it was safe to take his foot off just yet. Hoping and praying it was a dud.

“John I value you.” His voice was quiet, holding the slightest tremor. “More than just my flatmate, my colleague, even as a friend. I’m trying to protect you. This…other one…I don’t know what they want, or if they have a specific target, or if there are others with them. But they know they have caught my attention. It’s just a matter of time before they do something else.”

The small confession caught John off guard and it seemed for the first time he was truly seeing him. The walls were coming down. Right now he was more than just a detective, a vampire, he was a man. A man with feeling and heart and was now laying it out before him. In some strange sense, in the safety and security of the flat, it was his way of telling John that he loved him. And  the doctor couldn’t help but feel the same. Though he knew he was going to have to speak more in a context that Sherlock would understand. 

“I’m sorry. You’re right Sherlock. When I saw it on the news the first person I thought of was you. And I’m a bloody idiot to think that. You haven’t hurt me not once, no, I know you won’t hurt me.” John said gently. “I value you as well. More than I can imagine.”

Sherlock stood up straight and turned to look at John. His features aglow by the firelight gave away the moisture in his eyes that only he dared not threaten to fall. 

“You put your full trust in me?”

“Yes.” 

He nodded.

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

In some folklore, 3am is considered the witching hour. A mysterious time of night where things that are unexplainable seem to happen. It can be physiological, behavioral, or supernatural in nature. Police associate this time with increased violence. The body, in its sleep induced state, can experience the REM cycle. The supernatural, however, has a more peculiar hold on a person. Fears that we associate when we are awake somehow protrude into our subconscious. It sends us into a fit of nightmares. Waking up terrified. Scrambling to one source that will burn away the dark blanket that resides over us. The light.

Sherlock stilled his movements when John came haphazardly down the stairs and into the sitting room, making a clear path toward the kitchen and flipping on the kettle. He had been plucking absent minded at his violin, making minor note adjustments upon his sheet paper before the sudden intrusion. It had been many years since he had seen the vice like grips of nighttime horrors shake a man to his foundation. John showed all the tell tale signs. The perspiration gleaming on his brow and stains on his shirt showed he had been in deep. Enough to give off the waif of fear. He could hear John’s heart thundering so loud it sounded like a maddening storm. And through it all he was struggling to keep his breathing in check.

“John?” Sherlock spoke cautiously as he set down his violin by his music stand.

The doctor still jumped though, his head jerking towards the sitting room to him.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to…bug you. Nightmare. I’m just…going to have a cuppa and then go back to bed. Once I’m settled.” John said nearly breathless.

“Of course.”

Sherlock approached him slowly as to not set him off. From past experiences he knew not to be so careless as to come up on a man who was on edge. It had earned him a bloody nose a time or two trying to sooth his dear Watson, writhing, struggling against the ghost like foes of his past as he slumbered. At least back then he could calm his doctor with loving words and tender touches. He did not have the same luxuries now, but that didn't mean he couldn’t offer a listening ear.

“John,” Sherlock said softly, placing a gentle hand over his on the counter. “You’re trembling. Why don’t you sit by the fire? Calm yourself. I’ll make your tea and bring it over to you.”

All the doctor could do is silently nod and shuffle his feet over to the red sitting chair. Sherlock guided him over, but before John could take a seat the vampire slid off his robe and draped over his companion’s shoulders.

“A little big on you, simply because I am taller,” Sherlock said as he adjusted the fabric, “but its better than catching a chill in ones shirt and pants.”

John tugged the robe tighter around him as he settled into his chair. Once he was satisfied that the doctor was more comfortable, Sherlock went back to the kitchen to work on tea. Normally he would oblige John with his usual Earl Grey, but tonight matters of the mind were in desperate need of sympathy. Echoes of war were the haunts tonight. He flipped on the kettle and rummaged in the cabinet for a different canister of tea. Once prepared in a mug he brought it to John.

“Thank you.” John took it and immediately sipped at it. “Mmm, this isn’t Earl Grey.”

“No. It’s a mix of Chamomile with a touch of lavender. It will help soothe your nerves and body. I used to make it a long time ago. For a friend.” Sherlock said as he took to his own chair across from him, draping one long leg over the other as he usually did.

“Your friend had PTSD too?”

“Yes. Only back then they called it shell shock. There was little they did to treat it in my day and those who did not recover were sent to institutions. His was not as bad as others, but every once in a while it preyed on his mind. He said chamomile tea with lavender helped him sleep.”

“He was a soldier too?”

“In the Second Afghan War.”

“Ha. Afghan vet as well. Well ain’t that a coincidence. Next you’ll be telling me he was a doctor too.”

As John sipped at his tea he raised his eyes to the detective across from him; the silence telling.

“Now that’s something.” Said John settling his cup on the table beside his chair. 

“Coincidence I suppose.” Sherlock shrugged trying to brush the comment off.

“And what is your view? With coincidences, I mean.”

“Nothing is merely a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy.”

John nodded.

“Hypothetically, what if…what if coincidence is common for some people? So common to the point they think they are cursed.”

“What do you mean, John?”

“If I told you something, would you listen? Truly listen? More than a friend, more than a client would if they came to you? Because I swear it Sherlock there are days I feel as though I’m rightfully insane.” The doctor’s voice seemed strained.

The change in the air of the conversation now had the detective’s full interest. John had come down tonight plagued by terror. Seeking warmth, comfort, and light within the sitting room that was more familiar to him. However, John was vulnerable right now and in his vulnerability he would be more inclined to speak freely on whatever was on his mind. He didn’t have to analyze any detail to know that. Right now, in this moment, Sherlock knew this was it; John’s confession about the war. What truly happened.  

“Of course, John. Whatever is uttered in this room, I swear it, it shall go no further than the threshold. I am your confidant.”

John was quiet and Sherlock dared not rush him. Delicate things took patience. First the silence and the reflection. He could see it now as it clouded over the doctor’s eyes like a thin veil. Next the descent. The mind would begin to remember, only now more slowly, more controlled. Once that happened, it would be only a matter of time before John spoke. And when he did, his voice didn’t seem his own.

“I thought I was making a difference when I was younger. Had hopes and dreams of a bright future and a promising medical career under my belt when I heard the call of war. I didn’t hesitate for a moment signing up. My parents thought I was mad even then. Chalking it up to stress from school to make me do such an irrational thing, but in my heart I knew that it wasn’t. It was like a switch had been flipped on and I didn’t want to turn it off. Not a second thought ran across in my mind about my decision.” 

“Straight from medical school I was thrown in basic training, studying as a surgeon and combat medic. I passed through training with flying colors and reached the very top of my class with little effort. As soon as it started it was over and I was assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Those of us that were in the same regiment were shipped off to Bombay, India only to find out that our corps were already deep in Afghanistan, almost a thousand miles away in Kandahar. I believe on our trip there was when it started.” 

John paused for a moment.

“When what started?” prompted the vampire.

“These ‘episodes’. I want to call it…deja vu maybe,” John shrugged shaking his head, ”but I don’t feel like that’s the right word for it. Or even premonitions. I know some people have them from time to time and that they are completely normal, but something…something just felt off about them.”

John took a hasty sip of tea and then returned the cup to table by his side.

“It took us several days to get to Kandahar. The first time it happened I was looking out the window of our humvee as it drove into Pakistan. At first I thought it was just a civilian caravan of nomads crossing the desert. But the harder I looked I saw a flag that designated them as British and they had tan uniforms like we did. I thought perhaps they were some of our soldiers that had gotten stranded or ambushed and were in need of assistance. I alerted our driver of what I had saw and we came to a stop for a moment. He rightly chewed me a new ear when he saw absolutely nothing out there and we continued on. I was so confused. I was a hundred percent sure I had saw them. But then again maybe I hadn’t. Mirages do happen in the desert. I simply could’ve been looking at a reflection of our own troops.”

“Very possible. Logical even.” Sherlock clasped his hands under his chin. “Continue. What happened once you arrived in Kandahar?”

“We reached Kandahar without any exchange of gunfire. Once I arrived I was put straight to work. I had no idea the next couple of years were going to be a complete nightmare for me. While war brings honor and promotion to others mine was riddled with nothing but hardships. I saw many a friend go to the battle line only to not return back to base. Or if they did they were long out of saving hands. Along with each excursion one of these ‘episodes’ would happen. I would see people who weren’t there. There were times things began to seem out of touch with current reality, more like a past life. Over lapse in memory where I knew for certain I had already done something. I knew how whole conversations went without having them beforehand. It was like I was someone else. Like I wasn’t me. My God, I nearly turned myself into my superiors for a psych evaluation! And the dreams…I kept having the same dream over and over again. Each time it would be more real than the last. Until finally it wasn’t anymore.”

“It happened exactly how it was supposed to. Troops over an hour away in Maiwand had got word that the enemy was in the area and they were anticipating an attack. By the next morning it started and they suffered causalities. I was selected to go and help in combat. I left Kandahar…went to Maiwand…” John’s voice trailed off.

“It was an ambush wasn’t it?” The detective answered.

John’s features changed in confused suspicion, eyes narrowing as he peered at the man across from him.

“…Yeah…It was. How did you know that?”

“The, uh, the Maiwand Pass. Its a mountainous terrain through that area. It’s ideal for hiding and ambushing.” Sherlock threw out quickly. 

He could read the doctor’s face and he knew he had jumped the gun. This wasn’t the first time he had heard this story. When he had first met Watson all those years ago he could only deduce what he saw of the man. A solider abroad, invalid from war, short of finances and needing a place to live. But later on when he had published his first story in the Strand of A Study In Scarlet he finally got to read what truly happened. Even if it was just a short glossed over snippet to set as an introductory. It wouldn’t be till years later, in a manner just like this, Watson would tell him the full story. One he did in greater detail and Sherlock memorized to heart.

“No one had any idea. No one but me.” John continued on, “We marched into that pass and it was a suicide mission from the start. They were on top of us before we knew it, shooting bullets past our ears. The gun fire sound alone seemed louder than it possibly could. They mowed through us like were nothing but easy pawns on a chessboard to pick off one by one. We yelled, we screamed, we fired back. Then came the bloody bombs taking out most of us. In the heat of the battle I had forgotten all about the dreams I had, had. But it didn’t matter. I still saw the dead bodies of my comrades laying all around me, their blood covering my uniform, the enemy rapidly coming down us to snuff us out. I had stopped for a moment to try and give medical aide to one solider, I don’t remember who, but that’s when it happened. I was shot by a Jezail bullet, shattered my collar bone, nicked my subclavian artery. And Murray, that crazy bastard, he was an orderly of mine, tried to stop the bleeding the best he could. How the hell he managed to get me out of there and back to British lines I’ll never know. I woke up a week later in a base hospital in Peshawar.”

John’s tale had ended abruptly. 

“You said you were pulled from enemy lines by Murray, that he had tried to stop the bleeding as best he could.” Sherlock dropped his hands and rested them on the arms of his chair, adjusting his posture as he started to pick apart the story. “That phrase, ‘the best he could’, it is past tense in nature. It indicates more happened from being rescued to then waking up in a hospital.”

That was when John’s controlled demeanor finally fell. He had stood strong recounting what had happened to him during the war. A true brave solider. Now though that it was finally over, it started to break down his defenses. His features became distorted by lines of weariness making him appear older than what he really was. His voice had lost it’s steadiness and began to crack, barely able to start up again.

“I…well…I lost too much blood…needed surgery. I…I lost too much…I died…on the operating table, I died.”

As John’s breathing became deeper and more ragged it dawned on the vampire what the common denominator was. Death. His Watson had revealed it to him many years ago and only spoke of it one time then never agin. Now here it was, both of them dying on the battlefield. Their stories both identical twins repeated by the flux of time and now crossed again in some form of reincarnation. A coincidence, no. This man was both John and Watson come together. But pieces of him were missing. It was as if he was some sort of amnesic patient trying to recall who he was in the past life of over a hundred years ago; while at the same time trying to find it in the present day.

“These dreams, these episodes…do you still have them now…now that you are away from the war zone?” Sherlock asked cautiously.

“No…and yes.” John dug the palms of his hands to his eyes to force back the moisture that threaten to evade him, wiping his hands on his thighs. “My health was ruined afterwards. At one point I had caught a high fever and diagnosed with sepsis. I don’t know if my death aided in the episodes or if they were delusions of my ill state. Regardless, I did not feel the same after a couple of months in the hospital. Its as if my out of time reality had merged to my present one. Yet at the same time it was if it had stopped. And it felt like a relief, but at the same time felt like someone pulled a blanket off of me and could no longer keep warm. That’s when I realized I was craving it. I thought once I got back to London and back to the hectic life of the trauma room it would would spark up again, but it didn’t. Not till you came.”

“Sherlock you have no idea. No inkling of what you have done to me. When you brought me here that night you saved me from myself. I had planned on moving away but honestly I didn’t have the money to. So I had contemplated…other more permanent things as well.” 

“The gun in his briefcase. Seems I was wrong yet again. He was going to use it for suicide, not protection. He never did say he was definitely going to move only that he had found other flats.” Sherlock’s thoughts were trying to rationalize the night of their meeting.

“John…” Sherlock’s came more softer and concerned.

“I wasn’t finding what I needed. And I figured if I couldn’t have it back what was the point of living. Then you came along. Granted you scared the daylights out of me but something about you ignited it again. And I didn’t understand why. I still don’t sometimes. At the beginning I was hesitant and wary of you, but then it started to ebb away. As though I’ve met you before and now I’m so at ease with you.

“Do I still have nightmares about war, from time to time, yes. But they do not effect me in my day to day life like they was when I was already at war. They are just reminders of what happened. Do I still get strange deja vu during the waking hours of the day, sometimes. They can be small things or things I really have to pause and think about. Like the day we went to the Diogenes Club. I recognized the building, but I couldn’t tell you how. And that’s probably how it will always be and I’m ok with that.”

The room grew quiet once more with the crackling of the fire as their music. Heavy words were spoken tonight and not without cause. They were words that needed to be spoken. Both for John’s mental well being and Sherlock’s peace of mind. He had been waiting in anticipation for the former solider to recount his time in the war and now he knew for certain that this was indeed Dr. John H. Watson. An army veteran of both Afghan wars, a doctor for the people of Victorian and modern day London, his biographer, his assistant, his roommate, and most of all his long lost love. This case was closed and a new was beginning.

The detective studied the man before him more deeper now. Before he would try and caution himself of how he spoke to him, not trying to mix both John and Watson together, as he did not fully know if they were the same. Now that question had been put to rest. How was he now going to recover those memories for John without being so blatantly obvious? There were times John said a particular phrase that was nearly verbatim of what Watson had said. His story tonight was no different. Perhaps he would have to lead John on his own path; spoon feed small clues as to not make sure he felt like he was going entirely crazy, but to give a little push in the right direction.

“John as I said before, no word of this will leave this room. You have experienced Hell in more ways the average citizen will never come to understand. Know this though, if you ever need someone to confide to, you can always come to me.” The gentle tones of Sherlock’s voice resonated towards John and he nodded.

“I know, I trust you.” John gave a small smile and finished off his tea. “I think I’m going to go back to bed.” He stood and started to take off the robe but Sherlock paused him.

“Keep it. I have others.”

John shifted the robe back on and tied it tighter around him, mumbling a quick thanks before heading off to the stairs.

“Oh and John…”

The doctor looked back over his shoulder to the detective.

“You’re certain it was a Jezail bullet?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“What? What’s so interesting?”

“If I remember correctly, that model of bullet has been out of commission for some time now. I’d say over a hundred years. How does a bullet from the past end up in modern gunfire?”

The doctor’s brows furrowed as he thought for a moment.

“I…I don’t know.”

Sherlock smirked in a teasing way.

“Quo Fata Vocant. The motto truly lives up for you it seems.”

John’s eyes widened at his words. Wherever the Fates call, it was the motto of his regiment. One he had thought many a time a practical joke of irony since that was his time in the army was. A call of fate.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

March 28th, 1896

Bewildered. Mystified. Perplexed. Baffled. All common words for being stumped. Annoying useless words that Holmes dare not admit himself to for this damnable case of the Ricoletti woman. The more he thought he would never hear about it again after his failed…no he didn’t want to say that word either.

Lack of evidence.

There, that sounded better. The more he thought about his lack of evidence of the case the more murders of the same inclination bled itself across headlines of The Times newspaper. Journalist after journalist, with no imagination, giving full credit to a dead woman that was out for vengeance seemingly on every marital household. Surely the population wasn’t that imbecilic, oh what was he saying, of course they were! At least that is what Holmes had told Lestrade when the Inspector had come to him flustering for help. The poor man threw a fit when he stated he had solved it saying it was just a guise of everyone else covering up their own boring little murders because the threat of a ghost sounded more appealing. 

The detective hated to have a case unsolved just as much as Lestrade did and by putting him off he knew that he was not only lying to the inspector, but he himself. Despite taking on different clients and cases his mind kept wandering back to the Ricoletti woman. No matter how hard he tried he could not stop thinking about her. He had followed up on different leads, talked to anyone who knew her and not one could be her accomplice in murdering Mr. Ricoletti. The one common answer anyone could give was that his wife had already committed suicide and then in turn she killed her husband. In conclusion the answer was a ghost. Which was absolutely preposterous!

However, the winds of fate changed in the course of a day when he had informed the Inspector of how he had solved the Ricoletti case. Hence why he was on a jostling train ride with Watson by his side going all the way outside of London to investigate the Carmichael family per Mycroft. Holmes knew it would only be a matter of time before his elephant sized brother caught the scent of the mystery that plagued the greater London area. How he stressed to him that Lady Carmichael’s plea for help was of greatest importance. 

“You don’t suppose…” Watson started but the detective was quick to cut him off. 

“No I don’t. And neither should you.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter and I was about to laugh in your face.”

“But the bride, Holmes. Emelia Ricoletti, again, a dead woman walking the Earth.”

There it was again. This horrid fascination! And even if this was Mycroft’s push to go and investigate, as much as he didn’t want to and to be a sensible man putting away childish endeavors, he wanted this piece to the puzzle! The detective let out a deep sigh of frustration and opened his eyes to his companion across from him who was waiting on an answer with anticipation.

“You amaze me, Watson.”

“I do?” The doctor asked confused by the derailment of the conversation.

“Since when do you have any kind of imagination.” Holmes said icily. 

Watson’s confusion sloughed off, his posture became more rigid and jaw clenched. He knew exactly where this was headed. Anytime Holmes preferred not to talk about something he wasn’t willing to share or comfortable with he used insults made of knives to stab anyone who was in line of fire. He had been in a sour mood for nearly two months now. Practically avoiding all contact with him altogether. The last time he had displayed this kind of behavior was right after his wedding to Mary. Whatever this was, if he did something or whether Holmes thought he did something, the doctor knew he would eventually get over it.

“Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict was some kind of gentleman hero.” Retaliated the doctor.

The detective did have to give him credit for that. Touché for fighting ice with fire. After all Watson’s stories were what gave him clients and income to live by.

“Yes, now you come to mention it that was quite impressive. You may, however, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world. Save for those we make for ourselves.” Holmes shut his eyes, ending any further input from him.

Watson scrunched his brow at Holmes’ cryptic answer.

“Sorry, what did you just say? Ghosts we make for ourselves, what do you mean?”

Holmes didn’t answer. What more could he say on the subject? It seemed to go around and around like an endless carousel. The only way to put the case to rest, or in the grave more like it, once and for all, was to speak with Mr. Carmichael. And the sooner the train reached their destination the sooner all of this would be put to an end. 

The rest of the train ride to the Carmichael estate was set in silence between the two men. A silence that seemed to be a growing canyon between them, getting larger with each passing day. The doctor wasn’t exactly sure what had changed Holmes’ demeanor. The detective rarely called upon him nowadays despite taking on cases. Or if he did summon him it was for cases of the most minor of importances that could’ve easily been solved from the confines of Baker St. Though, once those cases were finished, there was never an offer to stay as there usually was, which he also found equally as odd. It was a habit of the detective to try and keep him ‘just another hour more’, luring him with his lips as they teased the tops of his shirt collar while they were by the staircase door. And he would almost always give in. However, if Holmes was having second thoughts of their relationship, or perhaps procured another gentleman without his knowledge to spend his company with, all he had to do was just say so.

Watson cleared his mind of those thoughts. That couldn’t be it. He peered over to the detective out of the corner of his eye who was currently pacing the parlor room as he listened to their client speak. The doctor knew his companion too well. His pacing was a signature trait of deep thinking but also of anxiety. It had to be this blasted case! That was the only logical explanation to the matter. Holmes had been so perturbed by this case since he had last spoken of it before Christmas. Watson had told him to not let this case consume him, but it seems it had anyway.

“Somnambulism.”

Watson’s eye drew back to their client and he felt embarrassed to say he hadn’t been paying attention.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“I sleepwalk, that’s all. It’s a common enough condition.” Clarified Sir Eustace. “I thought you were a doctor. The whole thing was a bad dream.”

The doctor felt the heat rise to his cheeks, but detective work had rubbed off on him enough that he knew how to turn the conversation back towards the person they were questioning.

“Including the contents of the envelope you received?”

Sir Eustace gave a scoffed off laugh.

“Well, that’s a grotesque joke.”

“Well, that’s not the impression you gave your wife, sir.”

“She’s an hysteric, prone to fancies.”

“No.” Holmes interjected as he finally stopped his frantic pacing.

“I’m sorry? What did you say?” 

“I said no, she’s not an hysteric,” Holmes clarified. “She’s a highly intelligent woman of rare perception.”

Sir Eustace’s face turned up in a mocking grin, clearly the detective was making some sort of joke. His wife? An intelligent woman? How ridiculous! What on earth could a woman know?

“My wife sees terror in an orange pip.”

“Your wife can see worlds where no one else can see anything of value whatsoever.”

“Can she really?” Replied the man in a sarcastic tone. “And how do you ‘deduce’ that, Mr. Holmes?”

“She married you. I assume she was capable of finding a reason.”

Sir Eustace angrily surged towards him. No doubt to give a good swing to the detective’s face for the insult towards his own person. Heaven knows Watson had beaten him to the ‘punch’ several times over the years for greater offenses. The doctor instantly stepped closer to close in the gap between Holmes and Sir Eustace, ready to protect him if necessary, but Sir Eustace stopped as Holmes spoke again.

“I’ll do my best to save your life tonight, but first it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case.”

“Ricoletti?” The man’s voice shook in hesitation.

“Yes. In detail, please.”

Sir Eustace paused once more before admitting he never heard of her.

“Interesting. I didn’t mention she was a woman. We’ll show ourselves out. I hope to see you again in the morning.” Holmes started out, leaving the room and Watson took his cue and followed behind.

“You will not!” Sir Eustace shouted at them.

“Then sadly I shall be solving your murder. Good day.”

Holmes and Watson walked away, leaving Sir Eustace to dwell on his impending demise, and into the entrance hall. Another dead end. How could a man be so blind to see that death was on his very doorstep but chose to ignore it. The detective only had one more idea and if this did not work he wasn’t sure what else to do. Holmes took out a notebook from his trouser pocket, scribbling quickly a precise message.

“Well, you tried.” stated Watson as he trailed behind him.

Indeed he had tried, but to no avail. How could he convince a man so haunted by the past that something lurked in the shadows. The only one that seemed to take this seriously was his wife. And for once, in this case, the spouse was the farthest reach of being a prime suspect. Lady Carmichael was trying to do everything within her power to try and prevent her husband’s murder.

“Will you see that Lady Carmichael receives this?” Holmes placed the note he had written to a passing by footman’s hand. “Thank you. Good afternoon.”

The footman wasted no time and did as he was instructed.

“What was that?” asked Watson as they walked on.

“Lady Carmichael will sleep alone tonight, on the pretense of a violent headache. All the doors and windows of the house will be locked.” Holmes said as he divulged his plan.

They took down their coats and hats and dressed to leave. If the doctor could predict the future he was certain that his companion had plans for a stake out tonight. If Holmes was right they would be able to stop Sir Eustace from being attacked and ultimately killed. Perhaps even capture a more ‘alive’ suspect than what was being put out by the press. But if this was indeed a wrathful spirit, would it be possible for them to become the victims and not their client?

“Ah, you think the spectre ...” Watson peered over at Holmes but it just earned him a disapproving look, “... er, the Bride will attempt to lure Sir Eustace outside again?”

“Certainly.” the detective said putting on his coat. “Why else the portentous threat? ‘This night you will die.’”

“Well, he won’t follow her, surely?”

“It’s difficult to say quite what he’ll do. Guilt is eating away at his soul.”

“Guilt? About what?” Watson asked now curious.

“Something in his past. The orange pips were a reminder.”

“Not a joke.”

“Not at all. Orange pips are a traditional warning of avenging death, originating in America. Sir Eustace knows this only too well, just as he knows why he is to be punished.” Holmes exited the house and Watson followed behind, putting on his hat.

“Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti.”

“I presume. We all have a past, Watson.”

“Ghosts – they are the shadows that define our every sunny day. Sir Eustace knows he’s a marked man.There’s something more than murder he fears. He believes he is to be dragged to Hell by the risen corpse of the late Mrs. Ricoletti.”

Ghosts we make for ourselves? Something more than murder? And Holmes thought the doctor was being the more ridiculous of the two of them. Usually there were more to these cases than what met the eye. Watson knew that Holmes could see the smallest crack in the lens, but this case in particular he was starting to realize, was taking a beating on the detective’s nerves. Watson looked across the grounds of the Carmichael home and hoped once this case was over Holmes would be back to himself again.

“That’s a lot of nonsense, isn’t it?” Watson said looking over to Holmes.

“God, yes.” The detective breathed out in exaggeration. “Did you bring your revolver?”

“What good would that be against a ghost?”

“Exactly. Did you bring it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then come, Watson, come.” The detective put on his own hat. “The game is afoot!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

“Come on John or we’re going to loose him!” Sherlock huffed in the pursuit of the suspect. 

John trailed behind the detective, steadily loosing distance in their chase. It was supposed to be a simple catch of a robber. But the word “simple” was putting it mildly. Everything they had planned out had gone wrong, the robber escaped, and now they were trying to arrest him on foot. However, after the eighth block of this madding dash, John had begun to loose speed. Though Sherlock was not even showing the slightest inclination of exhaustion. 

“Damn bloody show off! I called into work for you this morning, he said. It’s more fun than work, he said!” John internally chastised the vampire for his unnatural abilities as he rounded another corner. The sprint continued on, the doctor’s eyes only keeping track of the fluttering long coat of the detective as he saw him run down an alley. 

Not a second later gunshots rang out. One firing after the other. For a moment a cold stroke of dread set in John’s heart. He had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock could hold his own in a fight. He had seen the swift like dexterity when he flashed his skill of fencing on Mycroft in their sitting room. And also the brute like force of his vampiric strength when he had crushed the man’s throat during their stake out.

That night still lingered in his dreams at times. The crunch of the man’s windpipe, the smell of blood in the air, and the haunting aura of death. It was enough to jostle him back to the living world and lie awake in his bed to hear the quiet puttering of the detective downstairs. At least those dreams were not enough to have him running for the safety of the sitting room for company. Those were nights when his mind wandered and thought too much. He could remember everything about that encounter and what fascinated him the most about it was Sherlock. The vampire had been so transfixed by the blood on his hand like a bystander entranced by a magician’s hypnotism. What did the sight and smell of blood truly do to him when he was in his dark element? What captivating stories did it tell him? John didn’t want to know, but on the other hand he truly did.

The doctor finally caught up to the corner where Sherlock had slipped down the alley and heard only the sounds of silence now. The lack of noise was enough to make his skin crawl and the palms of his hands to clam up as he reached for his gun, carefully drawing it. Pressing his back against the stone wall of the building, he took a quick peek to assess the situation. From what he could tell it was a dead end but it was too dark outside to see what figures remained without proper lighting from a street lamp. 

Then the screaming started. Scuffles and the sound struggle were now the orchestrated noise that filled the alleyway. John raised his gun and aimed it, bringing himself into full view. He stepped ever so carefully forward, in hopes to not to trigger the robber let alone the vampire, of his approach. He had more of a feeling it would be the latter. 

“Sherlock?” John tried to keep his voice steady even though his heart was pounding in anticipation. Dare he even say, almost fear. 

“Watson, your assistance is required, if you would be so kind as to hand cuff Mr. Franklin.” Sherlock’s voice was a relief that wash over him. 

John clicked back on the safety of his gun and sheltered it in the back of his jeans. As he approached, Sherlock had a firm grasp on the suspect that he currently had face down on the ground. The detective looked up at John, giving him a silent knowing nod to take over, and the doctor jumped right into action handcuffing the still belligerent, screaming suspect. 

“Did you call Lestrade?” John asked looking back at Sherlock who had stepped away to readjusted his clothing, buttoning the last of his coat.

“Should be here any second now.” Red and blue lights then illuminated the alleyway, finally giving John a proper look at the scene around him. “Ah, speak of the devil.”

The Inspector in mind stepped out of the car, looking none too pleased with the two men crowded down the alleyway with the suspect under their tow.

“Sherlock! For Christ’s sake! We were meant to catch the robber at the bank. Not lead us on a wild goose chase down here!” Lestrade’s voice echoed off the stone buildings, making it seem even louder than it was.

“Slight miscalculation on my part. Turns out he was tunneling his way to the bank vault from a nearby building. Once I realized that we all but met him at the entrance, but when he saw us he fled on foot. So we started our pursuit. Don’t worry Lestrade he dropped the money and ran. You can find it all safe and secure in a basement underneath a hardware store.”

Lestrade shook his head in disbelief and called Sergeant Donovan to take ahold of the suspect, relieving John of his post.

“Fine.” The Inspector said sternly. “But I want a full report in the morning.”

Donovan hauled up Mr. Franklin, ushering him out of the rancid alley, all the while the man was blubbering about incoherently. 

John took this moment to observe the detective next to him. He could tell he wasn’t breathing, though his icy blue eyes seemed to be boring a hole, staring, as the robber was put in the police car. He glanced back over to Mr. Franklin, imagining only what kind of fear Sherlock had instilled into the man, and could see the answer written on his face. Blood was glistening off his chin, no doubt a scrape during their scuffle just moments before. The vampire was trying to keep himself in control. John could see that now. And this incident, as minor as it was, was like dangling a bone in front of a hungry dog.

“Sherlock,” John softly said, trying to get the detective’s attention. “Why don’t we go, yea? Lestrade and them got it from here.”

The vampire snapped out his daze and peered at his companion, nodding in agreement.

As they started to make their leave they were stopped once again by the call of the Inspector’s voice. Both men turned back to see Lestrade giving Sherlock brief once over, his brows all knitted, confused and concerned. 

“Oi! Sherlock! This man is blabbing away saying he shot you. What’s that all about? He’s in complete histerics.”

The detective’s eyes briefly shifted from the suspect to Lestrade. 

“Well Gerald, that’s the difference between being “shot” and being “shot at”. You do know the difference I presume?” Came his off hand remark. 

John silently prayed the Inspector would take Sherlock’s word for it and leave it be. He had lived with the detective long enough to know that his biting insults at another’s intellect was a defense mechanism. Especially, if he was trying to avoid something. This case being, finding out Sherlock was not altogether human. The detective had thrown the ball back into Lestrade’s court.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get your tail feathers all in a crimp.” The Inspector said as he slammed the door of the police vehicle, muffling Mr. Franklin’s voice from inside the car. “Just asking if you were ok.”

“Perfectly fine.”

The two men watched as the police returned to their vehicles. Seemingly they had everything they needed, along with a caught criminal, and drove away. Another case was closed.

“Glad that’s over with.” John breathed in deeply as they hailed a cab.

“Yes indeed. Let’s go home.”

If it was one thing Sherlock knew how to do well, it was to keep a secret. He had always been well proficient as both a detective and a vampire. The art of keeping something hidden, to not let your opponent know the next move, was a well versed language to him. It was in the now quiet cab, after the rush of adrenaline had long since died down and they were coming down from their high, when he first noticed his predicament. He had covered it well at the scene and it was now hidden behind the confinements of his coat. He didn’t want to alarm John. Not here. Not now.

By the time they reached the safety of 221B Baker St. his senses had begun to change. Surely the stairs were not that monstrously large. Not that high up. But his vision was saying yes. When did the feet in his shoes become so heavy as he climbed or his mind sloshing around like toiling waves of the sea? This was not good.

John had already retreated to the kitchen, hanging up his coat and securing his gun in its own home in the desk drawer, then to perform his own nightly rituals. His last cup of tea before bed. This gave Sherlock a singular moment to survey the damage before the next flight of action. Easing his body down, sitting carefully on the sofa, he unbuttoned his coat. It didn’t necessarily hurt. Even in death, the nerves in his body could still detect pain, but it was short lived, not prolonged if he had still been human. He had felt the burning, sharp twinge of bullets as they had lodged themselves into his body when Mr. Franklin had shot him. He had been injured countless times before and not a stranger to getting himself into odd situations. Long ago he could easily have said he was blessed to have a doctor as a flatmate. All the while, the same doctor would reprimand him of his careless actions that got him into said state. Now, he needed his doctor again.

“John…” Sherlock called, “you were well proficient at surgery during the war, yes?”

“Yea, why?”

“Good at making do with what you had to get the job done?”

The doctor knitted his brows together at the odd series of questions and set down his mug.

“I suppose so, why?” John exited the kitchen to where he saw Sherlock sitting on the sofa, gingerly taking off his coat to reveal a bloody dress shirt. Two bullet holes graced the light blue fabric. One on the upper left side and one on the further right where it had barely grazed the top of his trousers. Dark blood had already soaked through and was trailing down the front, more oozing out anytime Sherlock moved a certain way.

John hastily maneuvered through the sitting room over to the detective.

“Shit! Sherlock are you alright?!”

“Do you ask that with all your gunshot patients?” The detective quipped back.

“Right, no I….but you’re not…what do I need to do?”John flustered over his words.

“Operate obviously. I can’t heal with foreign objects inside of me.”

“What do you want me to operate with? I can’t exactly use a pair of salad tongs to get them out.”

Sherlock sighed and stood slowly, grasping at the wound on his lower abdomen.

“Wait here.”

John could hardly believe the man was still moving, let alone getting out one coherent thought, as he watched him walk unsteadily through the sitting room like an uncoordinated child. Making a quick mental note he noticed there was no blood on Sherlock’s back, no exit wounds. It was second nature to him to look after a patient who was a fall risk and he didn’t even realize he had been following him till Sherlock got to his bedroom door. But he abided by Sherlock’s rule and waited outside in the hallway until he returned with a large brown, crusted leather bag.

“What the hell is that?” 

“Your…” Sherlock stopped short on his words and handed it to John, “early Christmas present.”

“While I’m touched and all it looks like an antique.” John gingerly opened the old doctor’s bag. “Actually, all these tools are antiques.”

“Excellent observation. Yes, they are.” Sherlock passed by him, leaving a droplet trail of blood as he proceeded to the kitchen. “Now the best lighting we have is in here. We just need to clean the table…”

“On the table?!” John exclaimed following behind him.

The thought of turning their kitchen into some semblance of an operating room, felt damn near impossible. There was no proper equipment and the only tools he had were considered ancient by modern standards. Good Lord, and the fact he didn’t even know what chemicals laid on every surface of the room since Sherlock used the area as a makeshift laboratory.

“All right. You, sit!” John’s demeanor changed from the worried doctor to a soldier in command. “I don’t want you moving anymore than necessary. You’re already getting more blood everywhere. And I’m bleaching the table first.”

Sherlock did as he was told and sat in one of the chairs by the table.

“Yes, captain.”

John made due diligence and came down upon the kitchen with a vengeance. He moved every single piece of lab equipment that littered the table out of the way, then scrubbed it with a bleach wipe till he was sure the finish would come off of the wood. Next he headed to the bathroom for the first aid kit. He had remembered there was some Nylon stitching thread in there and grabbed it. Lastly, was how he was going to clean what he could use out of the antique medical supplies. Where on earth did Sherlock even find such a thing?Let alone keep it around the flat. Then John remembered what he had said. He had, had a friend who was also a doctor. Was this his? 

“John don’t bother to try and attempt to sterilize them it’s pointless.” Sherlock said, jostling him from his musings. “Dead remember?”

Of course. Germs didn’t really apply to the vampire. No need of going through the process that would take what time they had. And by the looks of things it wasn’t a whole lot. Comparing to what he had seen Sherlock look like earlier in the evening, he now looked deathly pale. Bone white skin, darkened under eyes, and now the beginnings of sluggish behavior reminded him of the vampire he had seen not months ago during the terrorist attack. Only now, bullets inside his body aided in the steady progression into this state. Seems there was a way to weaken the creature that controlled him. Get him at his lowest and attack.

John took off his watch and threw it on the counter and rolled up his sleeves. Time to get to work. He gestured for Sherlock to lay down on the table and the detective did as he was told. Once in a good position for the overhead light to shine down where John needed, the doctor took a pair of scissors he had retrieved from a kitchen drawer and cut the dress shirt right down the middle, giving him full access to what he was going to be dealing with.

The first bullet wound in the left portion of the chest had to have been in his lung. The second on the lower right definitely pierced in his intestine. If Sherlock had still been alive in Victorian times he wouldn’t have survived. This kind of trauma could only be treated in modern times with modern medicine. Even then, hypothetically, if he were human his chances of survival would be slim and would be spending his time in the intensive care unit. By stroke of luck, none of those factors played into this situation. As a vampire he was remarkably resilient. There were no classic indications that he was in distress save for the fact that internal vessels had been torn open and openly bleeding. There were no vital signs to get because he didn’t have any. The main goal was to get the bullets out and get Sherlock fed.

“Right, so I’m going to have to feel around to see where the bullets are. It might not be pleasant. If at all possible try not to speak or breathe for that matter. I’m not sure if this one bullet has pierced your lung or not but if it has it’s probably filling up with blood as we speak. Alright?”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted to one of understanding as he hung onto the doctor’s words and nodded. To say it wasn’t pleasant might’ve been putting it lightly. Nerve endings zapped and stung as John prodded the chest wound. The detective dared not to even grunt in pain and gritted his teeth.

“Oh, you are one lucky bastard.” John breathed out. “It’s in the rib bone. I don’t think it got your lung.”

The doctor rummaged around in the decrepit bag and found a pair of long nosed forceps. He tested them out in his hand and found them surprisingly still moveable and not rusted out of commission. As much as it irked his mind that they were not clean and not even doing this in a sterile field he got on with the work and maneuvered the instrument in the wound. With a little twisting, he managed to clamp ahold of the bullet and pulled it out. Sherlock let out a deep pained breath.

“There’s the bugger.” John said as he dropped the bullet in the sink with a tink.

John glided around the table for better access for the second location.

“Now for your friend over here.” He muttered to himself. He repeated the process again, locating the bullet, and digging it out with the forceps. His second prize tinked in the sink as he dropped it in.

“Hard part’s over.” He smiled softly at Sherlock. The detective had took to the spur of the moment operation like a trooper. Especially, with no anesthetics.

“God, I need a fucking cigarette after this.” Sherlock groaned.

“Normally I would advise my patients on smoking, but hell even I would smoke after a night like this.”

A soft chuckling came from the detective.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me you were shot back there?” John asked as he started on the stitches.

“I was in shock. Besides it was not the time nor the place. I had to deter Lestrade’s worries so he could focus on the criminal and not me. It’s why I buttoned up my coat. To hide the evidence of Mr. Franklin’s, I must say spot on, marksmanship. And I couldn’t have you fretting over me there either. Your face is an open book and Lestrade would’ve noticed something was amiss.”

“Pardon? You? Shock?” John cocked an eyebrow up at Sherlock teasingly, a smirk threatening to grace his mouth as he finished up the first wound and began on the second.

The detective picked up on the change in tone and looked down at John’s face, perplexed at what he thought was amusing.

“Yes, from being shot. I’ve never been shot as a vampire. I was processing the experience.”

John rolled his eyes. Only Sherlock would stop a moment while in mortal danger to “process” being shot. 

“There. That’s the last of the stitches.” John snipped the last one and sat back in his chair. “Do you feel yourself healing now that the bullets are out?”

Sherlock shook his head and sat up, his head swimming from the sudden movement.

“It’s been several days since I drank. That and the fact the bullets created some blood loss I am probably low. Get me a bag from the fridge and I should be good as new.”

The doctor haphazardly dropped the medical instruments he had just been using on the table and went to the fridge and opened it. But all that stared back at him was an empty shelf and no blood.

“Fucking hell.” John swore under his breath as he shut the fridge, resting his head on the door.

Sherlock glanced back at his companion, curious of his changed lighthearted mood. 

“John? What’s wrong?”

“It was collection day.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows.

“I’m not sure if it’s from the lack of blood, or the fact I cannot read minds, but you are going to have to be more precise; what is collection day?”

“It means you called me out of work this morning.”

Sherlock sighed and eased himself down off the table and into a nearby chair.

“Precise John. That means being more clear. What are you talking about?” He strained out. John turned around and crossed his arms.

“It means I was supposed to go to work to day because I had a specific purpose in doing so. You are out.”

“Out? Out of….oh.” Sherlock’s features returned to that knowing ver quickly.

“Yea. We need to call Mycroft.”

The detective shook his head.

“I’m…I’m not sure if I can hold out that long. Besides he’s out of the country again.”

Of course he was. Ever the busy politician. He couldn’t effectively have leeway over all of Britain if he didn’t have a finger in every pie across Europe.

This was going to be a risk. A monstrous risk, but what choice did they have. What on earth would he even need? He made for the bathroom, grabbed towels, managed to even find a bottle of iodine in the medicine cabinet and set them on the kitchen table. 

“I know that germs and whatnot don’t exactly apply to you but they do to me. And I’ve read nasty cases about people get bit by other people and mouths are full of bacteria. So I would like to avoid that.”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, all seriousness in his voice had come back.

Despite senses being dull and hazy, the vampire had a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“John…please do not say what I think you’re about to say. Let alone propose to do.”

“Thought you couldn’t read minds.”

“No, but I can deduce. You’re going to offer your own blood.”

“Smart deduction. Now, which do you prefer? Neck? Maybe a wrist?”

“Stop being so nonchalant about it John!”

“Then stop being a drama queen!” John persisted. But the vampire squared off at the doctor’s orders with a deep low warning.

“Oh hush. Your growling isn’t going to scare me off.” He shucked off his jumper in one fluid movement and threw it over the back of his chair, scooting it closer to him. “I trust you Sherlock. You can do this.”

“I can’t…I’ll kill you.”

“Sherlock…you’re stronger than this and you know it.”

“That’s not the point John! If I bite you…If..If I drink from you…”

“You’ll stop. I know you will.” John was trying his best to reassure him.

“No! I don’t know if it will change you!” The vampire blurted out.

“You mean…you don’t know how it’s done?”

“Of course I don’t know how it’s done! I didn’t exactly have a moment to take notes when I was changed.”

Another burning question that John had held onto was answered unexpectedly. One he had hoped, in some sense, wasn’t true, but knew deep down it had been the truth from the start. Sherlock’s life had been brutally taken and changed into a vampire. Without his choice or consent, but by force. And now here John was so readily to give what he could offer without a second thought.

However, Sherlock’s answer, added more complications into the mix. The detective had no idea what the process was of creating a new vampire or how he himself came to be one. Even if it was a bite alone or the sharing of blood that sparked the change of a human. John thought surely he would remember such a thing, but then again if his murder was as horrid as he said it was, he wouldn’t know anyway. Perhaps he didn’t want to remember. But that left one thing for sure, Sherlock had made no other vampires in the years when he did hunt humans for his blood consumption. He drank them till they were dead.

Right now, they need a plan. John was willing to take a risk, whether changed or unchanged, through bite alone or not, he could not see the vampire suffer. Maybe if they walked through it, rationalize it, they would both come out unscathed. Because as Sherlock said, if something were happen to him, he would never forgive himself.

“Stop. Stop this right now and think.” John’s voice was steady as he seized the vampire firmly by the shoulders so he would look his right in the eye. “You are loosing blood, so much so that you said yourself you can’t heal. At most I’ll loose a pint or two, so what. My body regenerates blood and makes more. Yours does not. I do believe it is only a small sacrifice. Now, neck or wrist?”

Sherlock could only shake his head incredulously. The odds of him talking John out of this plan of action were slim. He was too headstrong in his ways.

“Your first instinct will be to struggle and fight to get away. Don’t do that. Or I could bite down deeper than necessary and then you will bleed out. And for god’s sake if you begin to feel faint try to get my attention.”

“Perhaps a safe word?”

“Moriarty” Sherlock said quietly.

The word, or was it a name, made John’s brow frown in confusion. He rightfully didn’t care what word it was, but it was the way Sherlock said it. Despite the detective being odd and cryptic at times he always had a reason for saying certain things. It was like a trigger for a well trained disciplined animal, imbedded deep within his mind. He recalled a case months ago that was exceedingly difficult and Lestrade had simply said Norbury and Sherlock, in his endless tongue lashing, had shut right up. So what did Moriarty mean to him?

“Um..ok.” Said John.

“Neck then.” 

John poured some iodine on a wash cloth and scrubbed at his neck throughly. If they were going to do this is was now or never. He tossed the cloth onto the table and sat ever so still, letting the vampire come to him.

Sherlock’s hand was firm yet surprisingly gentle cupping the nape of John’s neck. The vampire didn’t want to have too harsh of a grip or he could easily snap the doctor’s bones if he did involuntary try to jerk away. It was a natural reaction from any human in the chaos of being murdered. He had to be cautious for John and himself. It had been over 90 years since he had done this the traditional way. His other hand freely scoped out the plains of John’s neck, feeling the major veins and arteries that thrummed underneath. He couldn’t hit them directly. No, then they really would have a bloody mess on their hands. He would need to shoot for an off branch. The blood would still flow out strong, but chances of survival were greater. And enough blood would still go to the brain without John passing out from light headed ness. At least he hoped.

As if John sensed he was stalling he felt the doctor’s hand glide through his hair, gently bringing him closer to his focal point. His brave soldier. He wasn’t uttering a sound. There was no screaming or begging for mercy. No flailing attempts to be pushed off or fighting back. He was a silent lamb being led to slaughter and even encouraging it. For a brief moment he thought about comforting John. Cooing his willing victim that everything would be alright, the bite’s stabbing pain will only be for a moment, but even he didn’t know if any of those words were true. He himself only had one experience and it was not a pleasant one. Perhaps it was better to get on with it. 

His mouth neared its destination and like natural instinct the urge to bite became overwhelming. And with such urges like he had, had before the creature within him overtook, came alive, and his fangs grew. Grasping John’s neck with more determination he let his teeth and fangs dive into his supple flesh. A bitter, copper tang instantly flooded Sherlock’s mouth. It had been so long since he had last let his mouth taste warm blood. How he missed the embrace of his victim, engulfed in the power of life and death all at once. All the while drinking from the fountain of youth of his intended, drunk off the euphoria to notice that they would soon be dead. And this blood, John’s blood had brung back those sweet sinful delights.

John’s blood was full of life. Of course it was he was once a soldier. He had kept his body in good health save for the occasional drink of alcohol. The deep metal taste was an indicator of rich iron in the bloodstream. Good cells to carry nutrients through his body. His lips pressed more firmly, drawing in the wound as it pulled the blood to the surface. He could surprisingly taste the stinging burn of liquor that John must’ve consumed several hours ago without his knowledge. If he could call himself a connoisseur of the tastes of life he could write notes in the most morbidly fashion of how he could tell what person had what alcohol or used what drug. It was all simple chemistry.

For example, he knew John preferred whiskey over beer. He could tell the age, location, and what brand it was by mere taste alone. There were hints of smoke and spice mixed in his bloodstream, laced with malt. He preferred the Scottish flare where the alcohol was ripened over time in the oak barrels. A gentleman’s drink. John and the blood produced by the individual he had bringing home had the same tastes in life’s small privileges. What were the odds that both chemical make up of blood had all the same distinct characteristics of the bottle that resided in the cabinet above the stove? Just like the one in the cabinet above the stove!

Sherlock drew back horrified. John’s face was closed off and unresponsive, eyes shut from the lack of adequate blood flow to his brain.

“No. No, no, no, no John! John!!” Sherlock shook the limp body in his arms. 

By God he had been a fool! A damn fool to not have known! This man, this selfless man who had stolen his heart was ever the dedicated physician and solider. A man who would not let his oath as a healer deter him to treat the sick in any way shape or form. Even if that meant sacrificing himself for the consequences.

“John! John wake up!” He shook at the doctor’s body cradled in his arms. The slow rise and fall of his chest was the only indicator that he was still alive. 

“John!” He said with more force in his voice that was starting to waver into panic. “John by hell you will open your eyes! Wake up!” He grabbed a nearby towel and picked up the doctor, hastily taking him to the sofa and laid him down. He took the acquired towel and began applying pressure to John’s neck to hold off the flow of blood threatening to escape.

“Please! John fight this!” His vision was starting to blur with moisture of tears, pooling on the rims threatening to fall. His hand, that he had controlled himself to be so careful and still with, was now a shaking mess as it caressed John’s face.

“I can’t lose you again…please John!”

A sliver of John’s eyes opened but were tempted to close again.

“Sh’lck.” John’s voice slurred out and Sherlock drew in a deep breath of relief.

“Damn you Watson! Damn you to hell! I could have killed you! I could’ve drank you to your very death and then where would we be?!”

“Well ya dint did you?”

“That’s not the point! How could you? What’s the point of a safe word if you don’t use the safe word?!”

“I couldn…let ya go… on like ya wus.”

“So feeding me yourself these past few months has been your solution?!” John could barely see the burning rage in Sherlock’s eyes. He had finally put two and two together. Who was he fooling he knew it would only be a matter of time anyway. It was the whiskey. He knew it had been the whiskey that had been the giveaway. He hated to admit it but there were times he had slipped a drink before collection day. He had chalked it up to nerves in fear of being caught. Now though, none of it mattered anymore. 

“Don’t move. I need to get you cleaned up.”

Chapter Text

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick.

How does a device calculating the hours of a day, a metronome of time, drive one to madness? His foot had been jerking in double time with the clock, arms crossed to control himself yet chewing on a fingernail, and he wasn’t even sure if he had blinked in the past couple of hours. Patience was not a virtue Sherlock could harness. It was a wild animal in a cage, desperate to get out, be free, and breathe. Had he even bothered to breathe? No, no, he couldn’t. He would smell it again. John’s blood scent was everywhere, tantalizing him. He couldn’t become distracted. He had to focus on the rise and fall of John’s chest.

It had been hours now. Precisely seven hours since he had stopped John’s bleeding and dressed his neck. Six hours since he had carried John, who had drifted back into the unconscious world, up the flight of stairs to the comforts of his own room and laid him in bed. Four and half hours ago, he had left John’s side briefly to clean up every evidence of the chaotic evening they both had endured. Two hours and twenty-three minutes after that, he decided to check on John’s handy work in the bathroom. The skin had already healed, barely even a scar there, and he easily snipped and picked out the stitches. The remainder of his time had been by the doctor’s side. But the clock continued to tick away. He been counting hours, minutes, even seconds in his mind over and over again just to keep himself sane.

Normally sitting vigil was quite the opposite of Sherlock’s idea of observance at this moment. Death is what came in the end. Loved ones and friends stayed around the dying individual until they breathed their last. Curtains were drawn, mirrors were covered, and the shroud of death became their fashion. That’s how things were in his time. 

He, however, was observing life. Every time John moved in his sleep, his intake of air, the beat of his heart. It grounded the detective whenever he had an inkling of doubt that he was indeed still alive. But it had been hours now! No. No, he need to let John rest. He just needed time. 

His eyes flicked to the floorboards. The stirrings of the elderly woman below had begun. She could be another distraction for a moment. The thought of tasking her to make breakfast with a heavy helping of orange juice swept into his mind. As soon as he thought it he was out of his chair and on his feet. His unnatural speed had him at Mrs. Hudson’s door in a matter of seconds, knocking furiously.

The disgruntled looking elderly lady opened the door still tying her robe in a hurry and gave the crazed vampire a pointed look of confused and irritancy.

“Sherlock it’s only six in the morning! What on earth are you banging at my door so early…”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Hudson, but I need your help.” The detective blurted out in a rush.

A harder look took residence on the woman’s face and she pursed her lips.

“I heard you and John having a tiff last night. Practically a full domestic if I may be so bold. If you think I can be the referee for your disputes…”

“No I…I just need help. It’s John…” His voice trailed off disappearing into his thoughts.

Mrs. Hudson’s face softened as she saw the detective struggle, opening his mouth and then closing it, words escaping him. He could do nothing but stand there rigid, hair mused and face as though it had seen a horrible sight before him.

“Sherlock what’s happened? What’s happened to John?”

“I…” he couldn’t form the confession. He couldn’t voice his unspeakable act into existence. Is this what his criminals felt like? To not wanting to confess to a crime yet feeling guilt and helplessness all at once.

“Do I need to call Mycroft?”

“No!” He shouted, but quickly regained composure.“No. At least…not yet. Could you…could you please make some breakfast for John? Lots of protein. And orange juice. Lots of orange juice.”

The elderly woman’s eyes widened a fraction and complexion paled. The message had gotten through. She nodded her head slowly in understanding.

“I’ll see what I have. Eggs. Sausage. Some bacon. I’ll get on it straight away.”

“Thank you. Don’t rush. He’s still resting. I’m not sure when he will wake up, hopefully soon, but it’ll be good to have a meal together for him when he does.”

Mrs. Hudson stepped back inside her flat and closed the door. The whole encounter took no less than ten minutes. 

He chided himself again for counting the meaningless minutes. The return upstairs taking no more but another mere seconds. He breathed in deeply and let out a shaky breath, trying to will his nerves to calm down. He entered John’s room and closed the door softly.

“Holmes?” 

The detective almost couldn’t believe his own ears as he turned to face the doctor who was now awake and sitting on the side of the bed. Such a simple name like his shouldn’t have brought hope to his dead heart. Scraps of the past seeping into the future yet again. John never referred to him as Holmes, but Watson did.

“John?”

“Sherlock…how…”

John’s mind held vague memories of coming up the staircase to his room, but he couldn’t remember when or even how. He had welcomed sleep with open arms once he was settled in the comforts of his bed. Strange dreams plaguing his mind once again of a time that wasn’t his, yet oddly familiar. But he shook it off as just his mind being overly imaginative.

“I carried you up here. I figured waking on the sofa a second time while I have brought you grief would cause a habit for us.” Sherlock said trying to keep the mood light.

“A dangerous habit I suppose. People would talk.” John’s lips tugged into a small knowing smile, reminiscing about his first night in the flat. “How are you feeling?”

The detective scoffed in disbelief.

“For Christ’s sake, John. That is a question I should be asking you. Not the other way around. I…stopped the bleeding the best I could. Bandaged it…”

John held up his hand to cut him off.

“Hey. I’m alright. I told you my body would regenerate the blood loss. Just needed rest.” 

“But you were supposed to…you didn’t…”

Oh yes. The safe word. John felt guilty for not saying anything when the time came for Sherlock needing to stop. He had put himself in harms way. No doubt made the vampire more of an inconsolable mess than he already was and John was not even conscious enough to help him through that.

“I know. I’m sorry. I wanted to make sure you had enough. Kept telling myself to hold out a little more. That I could take it. I swear I thought I had closed my eyes for the briefest second. But..” John shook his head, “I started to get way too relaxed. Like you do right before you fall asleep.”

“No doubt the blood loss and the effects of me to put you into that state.” Sherlock returned to his chair stationed by John’s bed. “You have been feeding me yourself all these past few months. Why? Do you know what kind of position you have put me in? Put yourself in? Now that I know that it was you.”

“I couldn’t let you starve. I’m a doctor Sherlock I can’t just turn it off.”

“I would’ve rather have starved than to know it was you who had been giving your blood to me. To know what it’s like to have it on my tongue, to taste you. If I would’ve known I would’ve never let you have done that. And to know you have been feeding me yourself...you are foolish Watson. I will need to keep myself strictly in check around you. Be on my best behavior.”

“Like you have been on your best behavior since we’ve met?” John’s eyebrows raised in to an all knowing look, but Sherlock’s expression did not share his sentiments.

“I mean it! When I drank from you, God the obscene words that could spew from my mouth, but you tasted divine. I didn’t want to stop. I wanted a little more...just a little more. Until I began to recognize the taste and then I realized, it had been you all along. I could’ve killed you. If I would’ve done that I would not be able to bare it. Your presence is beyond friendship to me. So much more.”

John’s face fell, heart aching at this poor man. He had been so worried, so riddled down by the thought of accidentally killing him, that it was breaking his soul. Never would’ve it occurred to John that this being before him who had seen countless others come and go out of his life that Sherlock perhaps harbored feelings of survivors guilt. Outliving friends, family, and the one love he never spoke about except for the small bits of details the detective had disclosed. And to have one more die in his presence, God, of course he wouldn’t have been able to bare it.

“Sherlock I trust you…”

“I don’t trust me!” The detective exclaimed, the last of his nerves straining as he grasped John’s hand.

“I am a selfish man, John Watson, a very selfish man. And I want so much more from you than what you are willing to give. Don’t you see? Please tell me you can deduce and see that I want more. I want more than you being my flatmate, more than a colleague, a friend. My world has been so empty without you for so long. Can you not see?”

In his eyes he could see it. He had seen it for so long he had been blind to it. The subtle glances the detective gave him, the comforting ear he lent, how they bantered and teased each other, laugh like children only to turn their faces away in bashfulness. Even in times when they did not see eye to eye and fought through miscommunication or stubbornness alone. One thing always stood out, Sherlock had made it exceptionally clear from the beginning. He wanted John by his side. So much so that he was willing to kill, to deny himself basic needs, to admit he would be lost without him. Because he loved him.

“I do see.” John admitted. “You have a very strange way of showing it though.”

John let go of Sherlock’s hand and cupped his cheek. The doctor drew closer, his face mere centimeters from his own. These lips that could utter brilliance were now claimed by his. He could feel the hesitant reply of the detective’s, a butterfly’s touch at first, but then it grew. A hand placed itself firmly on his knee, whether from supporting himself or not, embers that Sherlock hadn’t tended to in a long time were beginning to burn. 

Kisses became more urgent, fingers entangled in curls at the nape of the detective’s neck, noses knocking against one another. He only remembered these instances in the private hours of his own bedroom but never thought he would live to see the day he would receive them again. As many times Sherlock had compared this John to his Watson he could say for sure his deploys of affection were exactly the same. He could savor these touches and burn them into his mind anew. How the tiniest of moans escaped John when he let his hand travel higher to the edge of his hip. Or when his breath hitched when he used the right amount of pressure against his lips. Now as a vampire he could gather more clues of arousal. He noticed a change in smell, pheromones, upon his skin. He could hear his heartbeat quickening, the blood rushing, inviting him in, coming closer, the urge to bite, fangs descending…

“I have to stop. I can’t get carried away like this.” Sherlock’s mind screamed at him urgently. It was enough to take John’s blood willingly but to be called to it like a sirens song during an intimate time. Never. 

“Can’t have you too breathless.” Said Sherlock pulling away. “Mrs. Hudson is coming up with your breakfast. We need to compose ourselves.” He shuffled back into his chair, brushing down the tops of his trousers with his hands.

How interesting to find out. This overly confident, abrasive, at times infuriating detective, was somehow modest, shy even. The doctor knew the time Sherlock was more familiar with had more proper ways of showing affection. Especially if it was in more traditional roles. However, the detective was not the sort, as he had stated months before, and John could only imagine what kind of secrecy he had to keep to be undetected by the public eye. But here he was now in a more modern accepting era, being hesitant to a kissing touch.

Sherlock drew up from his chair on cue when Mrs. Hudson came into the room, finding a folding table for the breakfast tray to sit on. The older woman’s face lit up, relieved to find John sitting the side of the bed.

“Oh John. You’re up. So good to see you in good spirits and…well…alive. Sherlock gave me such a fright this morning.” She threw a pointed look at the detective who had sat the table in front of John, obviously scolding him in her mind.

“I’m fine Mrs. Hudson. Just taking it easy.” He reassured her.

“That’s all well and good. Brought you breakfast to get your strength back.” 

“Just minor blood loss really.” John remarked as she set the tray on the table. “ But thank you all the same. Looks good.”

“I’ll return the tray once he’s finished.” Said Sherlock as he returned once more to his chair.

The older woman gave Sherlock a questioning look and laid a hand upon his shoulder.

“If you need a break?”

The vampire peered up at Mrs. Hudson. Subtle words asking if he was alright, if he was control. Right now the beast was reigned in firmly on a tight leash, trashing, but reigned. He was grateful for her asking, but he could endure a little longer.

“All is well. Thank you.”

Mrs. Hudson gave a small squeeze of reassurance on his shoulder and left the room. Sherlock turned his attention back to John who had started on his breakfast, though making odd faces anytime he chewed.

“John?”

John furrowed his brows as he smacked his lips as if he had tasted a strange concoction.

“I think she needs to check her eggs. Taste off.” He tried a bite of sausage, but slowly chewed that as well. “Maybe the sausage too.”

“What…does it taste like?” Sherlock said cautiously, his full attention on John’s words.

“Like iron. Or the bottom of a greasy skillet. The eggs taste like sulphur. I mean, I know eggs can have a sulphur aftertaste, but these have a stronger one.”

The vampires eyes grew wide, eyebrows drawing up in realization. His bite. His essence of darkness now lingered within the doctor.

“I’ve altered you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think John. You didn’t turn. You survived.”  “When I…died…this, what I am, had a full effect on me. I wasn’t even aware I was dead until…”

John stopped eating, his hands pausing the utensils, slightly hovering over his plate.

“Until what?” His eyes flicked up at Sherlock.

“One of the first side effects I had was vomiting. I thought I had a severe case of the flu. But it was just my body slowly dying. I couldn’t eat anything because everything tasted horrible yet at the same time I was starving. I didn’t even know what I wanted was blood…”

A thought struck the vampire and he grabbed John’s knife in a flash, quicker than John could see what was happening before Sherlock already did it. The buttons of his shirt sleeve became undone, rolled up, and in a fell movement the knife slid across his wrist. Blood swelled up instantly.

“Sherlock?!” Yelled the doctor.

“Smell it John.” He held his arm closer to the doctor.

“What?! I’m not smelling…”

“Please,” Sherlock stressed, “just…humor me.”

John leant forward hesitantly and gave a slight sniff, then drew back.

“I don’t smell anything.”

The vampire drew back settling in his chair once more, grabbing the napkin off his tray and barely dabbing at the self inflicted wound. No longer than it was there, it was gone, healing quickly by Sherlock’s vampiric ability. It was an amazing sight to see.

“Good. The effect would’ve been immediate like it was for me. But like any disease your body has had a taste of it now. You have side effects from me. It’s altered your taste.”

The doctor picked at his breakfast once more, trying to force it down and get past the off flavor. These were the new trials he would have to face. 

“If I can barely stomach a simple breakfast then what else is there in store for me?” John thought to himself. 

Ashes hissed between his fingers as he took a draw off his cigarette. Rich fumes filled his lungs, relishing in the Arabic tobacco engulfing them, and then slowly releasing it into the winters night wind. This day had been a trial. Pushed to his limitations mentally, physically, and emotionally. As human and vampire. 

One thing he did not expect was how it brought new insight into what he was. Despite the previous night’s fiasco, they had preformed an experiment that Sherlock would’ve never done it the first place. What were to happen if a victim did survive if bitten by him? He had never known because, frankly, everyone he had ever bitten for the sake of his nourishment, had ceased to exist. He now knew for sure it was not the bite alone that would change a person, the key was in the blood. It had to be.

This new data now fascinated him. It was bringing a light to dark crevices of his mind of what in turn had changed him. The memories of his death were broken like a fragmented mirror. All the reflections distorted and out of place. Closing his eyes he tried to remember it now. Nighttime, an abandoned stone structure, Watson, the bride, and Moriarty. Always Moriarty. Each vision twisted and scratched through his mind, never really settling into place.

He took another draw from his cigarette to gather some courage. He had been entangled in the spiders web for too long. He had the scars to prove it. How could he forget they were a constant everyday reminder of who had done this to him. 

The detective’s hand found its way underneath his scarf at the base of the right side of his neck, feeling at the softer jagged tissue with a trembling touch. One could barely tell they were there, only sunlight gave away their silvery disguise. They decorated his body in an untold battle, ribboning down in shallow rivers, while others in their half moon shape cut craters into his flesh. His eyes flew open, breath faltering as he drew his hand away quickly. Past recollections could wait. There were more present matters that called his attentions.

He dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out with his shoe. Upon entering the back door of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, the elderly woman was busy puttering about cleaning the last of the dishes from John’s dinner. 

“Mrs. Hudson I know I have asked plenty of you today. But there is one last favor I am in  need of.”

“What’s that, dear?” She glanced at him.

“I have cleaned every surface of the flat from the previous night’s debacle. However, there are clothes and towels. I need them out. I…I can’t…John’s blood on them and if I smell it…”

The old woman made a despairing little noise and tutted at him.

“Of course. I’ll get them and put it out in the bins.”

He shook his head. 

“No. Not the bins. Burn them in the fireplace. Please.”

He could take no chances. If the blood of the doctor could easily enrapture him, God knows what it could do to Moriarty, calling him like a pied piper to their doorstep along with any other that followed in his shadow. It was bad enough one vampire had tasted his blood. He didn’t need any others.

“Alright. If you say so.” Said Mrs. Hudson agreeing to his request.

Sherlock kissed her forehead. The woman was truly a saint in disguise. No matter how much she fussed about him. He left the lower flat and took the staircase at his own unnatural speed, skipping past his own and straight up to John’s. 

The doctor was resting in bed once again. The dim light of the desk lamp glowed on his face, all traces of worried lines were softened. In time past this room was a place of gentle refuge. One where he and Watson could converse quietly in the dark on mundane things to ease their minds. Or, if the need called for it, they eased their bodies. It brought Sherlock some peace of mind that this room could do such things again. Slowly perhaps.

The detective shucked off his long coat and scarf and hung them behind the door. Careful to not make a sound, he came to the side of the bed and slipped off his shoes, laying down beside John.

“You’ve been smoking again.” John’s words slipped out without even opening an eye.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk.

“Are you chastising me?” He turned on his side facing him.

“No. You said you needed a cigarette.” John opened his eyes to Sherlock. “Did you ever get back with Lestrade about Mr. Franklin?”

“Emailed my statement this afternoon. Told him I couldn’t come in, personal matters.”

A silence fell between them. John reached a hand up to his shoulder massaging the muscle that was tender there. It had hurt just for moment. The deep sinking of fangs into flesh and the pressure of blood being drawn up to the bite was the worst of it. Until it wasn’t. He remembered warmth had radiated into him, spidering away through his body, enveloping him like a cocoon. It reminded him of his studies in university and how he had learned that one had to warn a patient on the effects of drinking barium before a CT scan. Then his body had begun to feel heavier and heavier, eyelids drooping, the only thing keeping him upright was the arms of Sherlock.

“Does it pain you?” Concern was in the vampires eyes as he watched him.

“Only a little. Bandage tugs at it more than anything.”

“I tried to be gentle.”

John sighed.

The vampire had showed him a kindness that he himself had not been privy to. It made John wonder how exactly did Sherlock hunt in his early changed years. He had hoped he had bestowed on them the same sense of death that was a comfort as he had shown him. Then again he had seen his ruthlessness months before in the parking garage. No doubt he fought daily with his demon so it would not possess him. 

John could see the scars now on Sherlock’s neck. When he first moved in he had asked ignorantly what had happened and had felt foolish for doing so. He was right. This wasn’t a topic he could openly converse over the dining table. This was deeper. Intimate. Feral. But with the room now calm and all horrors were still, perhaps this would be a better time. To understand and bring closure to both of them.

“How did it happen? For you?” The gentle words escaped John’s lips.

What would’ve earned him a hard look before only pained blue eyes met him now. The detectives body withdrew from him as he laid on his back staring at the ceiling.

“I…I can’t.” The detective’s reply came. “Not yet. Last night’s endeavors are still too fresh in my mind.”

Not the words John was hoping but it was progress. There would be a later time he would speak more freely about how he was changed. However, if the detective couldn’t bring the story to light just yet, perhaps another approach was needed.

“Then…you said earlier I have some of the same effects like you. When you changed. Maybe we can, I don’t know, put a list together of symptoms. You know, to look out for.” The doctors hand slid across the sheets of the bed and took ahold of Sherlock’s hand.

“You and I have something in common. We have both been in deaths embrace and have lived to tell the tale. Yours more fortunate than mine. As I have said before, changing is no walk in the park. It was…painful. Ghastly. I was alone, here, violently ill. Vomiting. Fever. Muscles seizing and aching. My body purging itself of life in a precipice of change. In your medical view you would almost attribute it to flu like symptoms. It felt like it would never end. No matter what bite of food I had my body wouldn’t allow it to stay down. No warmth from the fireplace could ease the cold settling in.”

Sherlock’s hand grasped John’s tighter, holding on to this newfound strength to speak.

 “The final realization I noticed was I didn’t have a heartbeat. You would think that would be the first but it wasn’t. How often does a person fully concentrate on their own heartbeat? They don’t. It’s like breathing. You don’t fully concentrate on it because the body automatically does it for you.”

“I’m surprised your doctor friend didn’t check up on you. He would’ve noticed straight away. Where was he? Didn’t you or your brother call for him?” Asked John.

“He would’ve. But I couldn’t call on him. He…he had already passed on.”

John’s heart sank for him.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It was long ago.”

“Then what about, him. The one you loved.”

“He too was gone.”

Moisture pricked at the doctor’s eyes. In the back of John’s mind he knew this was only the tip of the iceberg. A mere glimpse of what Sherlock had endured. Dying alone, changing alone, not having a clue what was happening to him. No one to help him. 

“You should rest.”

Sensing an end to the conversation John felt like he couldn’t let it go. The circumstances regarding Sherlock’s death and change had a significant impact on the sleuth. The fact they had made a breakthrough with him discussing side effects was a big step forward. And the night before, despite it being a spur of the moment decision, they had gotten through John giving blood with Sherlock’s instruction. But the detective had given something away. At least John suspected he had. One word held a deeper meaning and he wanted to know why. Why would a strange word have such a mental reign on the vampire that he had trained it into his psyche like operant conditioning?

“Sherlock? Moriarty. What does that word mean to you? Like Norbury.”

A single glance told the doctor everything. He had seen that look before. The blank stare haunted by past memories. He had seen it on soldiers in war. Men looking into an abyss they could only see and thinking it was their end. Sherlock had those eyes as he looked at him.

“It means death.”