Night. Silent night. Screaming night. Eden of dreams. Tophet of lusts.
Shades. Festive shades. Funereal shades. Men are sleeping. Vampires are hunting.
Vampires are hunting. All. But two.
He. Whose curls are dark and eyes blue. Whose body is lean and skin pale. Pensive. Mournful. Seraphic. Diabolic. Is holding a body in his arms. Blonde and short. Dead and cold.
And he. Lighter and bluer. Taller and fuller. Ghosts behind him. And watches him anguish.
He is mortal. And you are undead. You know this is fate. And it is sealed.
He did not reply. He did not let go. From the very beginning he understands all.
Power. Fathomless power. Meaningless power. Graves of love. Ashes of heart. The power that reigns. The power that hurts.
Thousands. And thousands of years. It has always been and it will always be. You. And me. The Two of us. Only. Always. Forever. Perpetually. Intertwined.
He kisses the pallid lips of the dead. Tremulous and tender. Cold. To cold.
I have never kissed him alive. I thought we had time.
The one behind him caresses his neck. Steady hand. Cold as his. Cold as the dead.
He tips his head and bites his neck.
He puts the body down and he bites back.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
Come back to me. Sherlock. As you always do.
They lick.
They suck.
They kiss.
They fuck.
I cannot live without you. Mycroft. But I cannot not live.
Night. Silent night. Screaming night. Men are sleeping. Vampires are hunting.
Vampires are hunting. All. But two.