Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. The majority of this work was done on a cruise ship in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, so there's at least some excuse for the delay.

"Tiny vessels oozed into your neck
And formed the bruises
That you said you didn't want to fade
But they did and so did i that day
All I see are dark grey clouds
In the distance moving closer with every hour
So when you ask 'was something wrong?'
That I think 'you're damn right there is but we can't talk about it now.
No, we can't talk about it now'. – Tiny Vessels by Death Cab For A Cutie

Molly could remember the exact second it started, but she can't reason why it happened at all. Maybe it was simple inevitability. Maybe it was all more innocent than she let on.

It's not sex. It's never sex, never has been. It's better. Sherlock is holding her down at the wrists, his fangs penetrating the soft flesh where her neck becomes her shoulder. He's shirtless and despite the fact that he's just as cold as she is, he always feels warm when he's drinking her and…why was his goddamn shirt always off? Does he think he's Jacob Black?

His body is different than the first time she saw him. He's slender, but with more definition. Not having anything to eat except blood and caffeine does wonders for a vampire in Sherlock's shape. She fights the urge to struggle free (because let's be honest, he's still not stronger than her) and run her fingers along his chest. This feels dirty and somehow she thinks if they just fucked and got it over with that the awkwardness would end.

Sherlock finishes and for a moment she's swimming in an overwhelming light-headed feeling. She's not sure of the science behind vampires or even if there is all that much science to the supernatural undead, but she's certain that whatever it is that happens when a vampire bites another in this way is better than orgasm.

There's no lights on in the house and for the most part they've no need for them. Molly can see Sherlock sitting on the corner of the bed staring at the patterns in the carpet. When the waves of euphoria have subsided enough for her to move, she sits up grabs him at the chin. She licks the remnants of her blood from his lips and for a brief moment it's as if they kiss. That quickly subsides.

Molly sits on the bed next to him trying to recall if she had embarrassed herself. Sherlock always drank from her and after the feeling was the same, but she didn't want to risk letting out some embarrassing moan or saying the wrong thing in the middle of it all. They never talked during and they rarely discussed it later. He hadn't asked permission the first time. Though if he had she would have over thought it and denied him more than likely.

She wondered if he did it out of convenience or attraction. A thought like that would have gone unanimously to the former for the old Molly, but she was aware of the changes her body was undergoing. Her hair was shinier and luscious now. There was a wideness to her hips that hadn't existed before and her breasts had gained a cup size. She looked awake and alert all of the time now. But she doubted Sherlock cared about these things.

Her clothes don't fit well anymore, or they don't fit the way she used to like them. But she hasn't had time to shop for more. She cleans the wound in her neck before hiding it beneath a scarf and dresses in a fresh shirt, skirt and leggings. She's pulling her hair up into a ponytail when she steps into the room, Sherlock's gotten into his shirt. "Have you talked to Mycroft yet?"

"No," Sherlock says.

"He knows about us now."

"You presume he knows based on the fact that he found a piece of blood covered cloth in a dank warehouse operated by Moriarty. We've checked my so called grave for three weeks straight now and we've looked for any signs he might contact either myself or you and we've seen nothing to indicate that he knows what happened."

"It really is a problem for you? You get one theory in your head and once you think it's solid you protect it from all other logical explanation."

"If there's a better theory I'd be happy for you to tell me what it is."

Molly sighs. "It could be that he's figured out that you were protecting something or someone and will come back on your own if it's safe. Any attempt for him to look for you would arouse suspicion. If he dug your grave up it would tip anyone watching off. If people knew he thought you were alive, they'd be looking for you too."

"Hmm."

"Is that all you've got to say then?"

"There's always this." He dashes the distance between them and flings Molly back against the headboard of the bed. It's not enough force to hurt her, but she feels the bed post dig into the wall and before she knows what's happening Sherlock's on top of her ripping at the black fabric of the leggings and digging his fangs into the soft, cool flesh of her inner thigh. She stifles a scream and brings her leg up instinctively.

This is new. Before it's always been her neck or an arm. He's never drank from her this way. She presses her back into the bed to raise her thigh to a better level. Her other leg wraps around the side of his neck and dangles down his back.

Molly's head swims with a thousand sensations that bury any question of why he's doing this. Who cares? It might be manipulation, but it was something tangible. No more kisses on the cheek or clever quips about her hair. The vampire in Sherlock spurred him to passion in areas where he had previously been lacking it.

The last bite was for show. He's done almost as soon as it began and Molly's left discarding the ripped leggings as she climbs from the bed. The skirt will hide the wound well enough and in a few hours she'll be healed. She has to get out of the house—sitting here with him is too much. She heads for the door of the flat and Sherlock watches as she leaves.

"Where are you going?"

"Out to get more blood. Someone drank me dry," Molly says over her shoulder. There's a bit of sass in her voice, but she doesn't care.

Their world is hunting now. The moments between finding and killing Moriarty's men are extraneous—they're ellipses, they're the low point between the crests of two waves. London is a hotbed for his former syndicate and with the reins of power unclaimed there are all manner of thugs battling for position. It afforded them a rare opportunity. Sherlock monitored the criminals as best he could and they took out the ones who seemed to be gaining a following.

It kept the whole organization (if one could still call it that) unstable and because of the nature of the infighting the idea that they might be killing one another took care of any suspicion.

Molly takes a shift spur of the moment to avoid Sherlock. She drifts through another dull day at the mortuary. Halfway through her lunch she throws up the half of her soup that she'd eaten. Sherlock's drank too much again, she can't keep normal food down anymore without the aid of blood. Her veins are on fire and her head is pounding as she makes her way through the halls of St. Bart's. Every person she passes smells like food. She can see the vein in their neck thudding against the outer membrane of skin. If she bit them just right the blood would practically drain itself into her mouth. That easy.

She knew it was wrong, that was why she didn't do it. It wasn't like all that fiction where it was too hard to resist the urge. She was a vampire, but she still had self-control.

With a few pints of blood from the supply room Molly makes her way to the handicap stall in the loo. She devours four pints before she realizes it. She'll pack some home for Sherlock—if he's well fed he'll be less inclined to drink so heavily from her. But it wasn't as if the biting was about feeding. He derived pleasure from it, Molly was sure.

As she neared her workbench someone could be heard coming around the corner into the mortuary. The gait is familiar, purposeful and with a mysterious metallic third step. The pop of something with a metal frame is in this person's walk. A leg brace? No.

"We've met before a few times, Miss Hooper. I'm sure you remember." Mycroft announces himself just before he comes into view. He stabs the shimmering tip of his umbrella into the tile as he comes to a stop.

"Mister Holmes? You've come by to see me?"

"Sherlock considered you an acquaintance, did he not?" asked Mycroft. "He and I had grown distant over the past several years, as you could probably tell. Still, I've been trying to compile a picture of who my brother was based on the opinions of his friends and loved ones. I was wondering if you'd mind going for a ride to discuss some things?"

"I can't really. Despite what you might think of me, the memory of Sherlock isn't something I could just go over so easily. I was in love with him…"

"Infatuated," Mycroft corrects her.

Molly swallows. "Talking about him for any period of time still gets to me."

"Grieving. I see." Mycroft steps around to her other side and points with the umbrella. "It's odd though. You're healthier than before, taking better care of you hair, gaining weight where it matters and despite the paler look, you're alert and giving off more of a feeling of more sexual awareness."

"What are you…"

"Come now, Miss Hooper. You've been dousing this room in hormones since I entered. Were I unaware of the fact my heart would be pounding out of my chest."

"Sherlock inspired me to be more confident." She keeps up the lie though it's obvious he knows. The hormone thing is predatory. Vampires do it unaware sometimes, usually the hormones at least obeyed sexual preference. But in a pinch a vampire could entice anyone that might be attracted, it was evolutionary. She fought to stifle it.

"And what a long way inspiration seems to have gone in a short time."

"Stop."

"The truth will come out soon enough, there's not much point in you hiding it anymore."

"Stop it." Molly could hear the growl in her own voice now. Something sharp and violent was rising up inside of her.

"I can't tell, but the tone of your voice sounds vaguely like a threat. I'm not sure why Miss Hooper. I only came to discuss the particulars of my brother's untimely passing…"

She couldn't be asked to hold back any longer. Molly dashes the distance between herself and the door in a flash, slamming and locking it. It was the only exit. She had Mycroft around the collar a few short moments later and was lifting him until the umbrella clattered to the floor haphazardly.

Molly pushes him back against the wall, barring her fangs at him. "You'll keep his name out of your mouth—this isn't another game. John told me what you did, how you sold your brother out. I would suggest you count yourself lucky that Sherlock scarified himself and his life to protect yours. Otherwise I might drink you dry here and now."

Her chest swells and falls in rapid succession and Molly can't remember a single time she's ever been angrier. An outsider would have guessed Molly lost control, but this was different. She had no issue with killing to protect Sherlock. The realization struck her as odder than the actuality of what she was doing. And it seemed to be what convinced Mycroft.

"I see," he manages before Molly lets him go. He struggles to get his collar back into place as he steps away from her. She doesn't make any sudden movements, not that it would matter. Mycroft seems just as collected as when he first entered the room. The Ice Man. Sherlock had told her about the nickname Moriarty had for his brother. He did not divulge his own nickname though—it was of no relevance, or so he said.

"Mycroft…"

"As I can see here you're clearly stricken with bouts of grief over his death. I can be assured that you were a loyal friend to him and you would do to anything that he's asked of you, had there been such a thing." Mycroft was speaking in a not-so-subtle-code, he knew that she was going to guard Sherlock and his secret; he had seen the seriousness in her eyes.

"I would."

Her fangs had retracted themselves by now and the fierceness was draining out of her features. Mycroft gathered his umbrella up off the floor and leaned down on the curved handle. "I think at this juncture the need for our ride has diminished," Mycroft said. "You're clearly not feeling up for it. But if at any time you need anything, monetary or otherwise just call on me."

"I haven't got your number."

"Just drop by Thames House," he gave a completely Cheshire grin before turning to head out of the room. "Good day, Doctor Hooper."

"Good day, Mister Holmes."

If he was anything like his brother, Mycroft probably picked her apart before he even entered the room. Did he realize his brother's fangs had been sunken into various parts of her body just hours before? He didn't seem surprised by Molly's fangs or the speed with which she moved. Mycroft was said to be keeping tabs on everyone, had he known about her for some time?

All at once she wonders if the government knew about her kind, there always seemed to be that possibility. But she had never given it much thought. Molly shrugs it off and begins to pack her things to head home. She loads a cooler with blood destined for Sherlock—he preferred his blood warmed naturally, perhaps he would request that she gorged herself and he drank it from her?

Molly sits on the sofa next to Sherlock that night flipping through a copy of Cosmo with a rerun of Downton Abbey playing in the background. She won't tell him what happened or that Mycroft visited her. Somehow actively being a vampire has made lying easier over all. She folds the magazine at the spine and flips it over to show Sherlock a picture of a girl with while blonde streaks in her shimmering hair.

"I want my hair like this," Molly says.

"I could dye it."

"You? Dying hair?" Molly couldn't help but burst into laughter. She stops when she realizes that even her laugh is unfamiliar to her now. How much has being on blood changed her?

Sherlock grimaced. "I've had to disguise myself on more than one occasion. Normally it's just a hat or a phony accent. But on occasion there's been hair dying or even makeshift prosthetics involved…"

"You never cease to amaze me," Molly says. She dropped the magazine and Sherlock caught it a moment before the ground, even with the vampire reflexes sometimes her clumsy nature took over. He spread its pages open and looked at the photo spread. It was a piece describing what made love-bites sexy.

"You avoided this on purpose," Sherlock says scanning the page. "Why?"

Molly bit her lip. "It didn't suit my interests."

Sherlock's reading the article now, studying the pictures and Molly can tell just form his expression that he's deducing something. He's cooking up some scheme. He tosses the magazine to the side. "Why don't we test their theory?" he asks.

"What?"

"Love-bites, I've never given one before." You could have fooled me. Sherlock's almost instantly on top of her, his nose in the nape of her neck. "Have you eaten yet?" His voice was muffled against her skin. He knew the answer, he was probing for permission for something else.

"Yes."

He made some primal sound that was very un-Sherlock and at the same time it fit the moment and covered her in goose pimples. He bit softly, his fangs weren't out. He sucked at her skin playfully and let his tongue pass over the spot. She could feel the blood rising to the spot where he worked.

"What's this?" his lips were hovering just above her skin now, his words vibrated through neck. "Where did you go today?"

Sherlock was plucking a hair from her undershirt. His pale eyes move over the hair and then back to her suspiciously. "I went to work," she says weakly, she's the old Molly suddenly.

"And I take it that my dear brother stopped by…"

"I can explain—he's not actually upset. Not anymore, I handled the situation," Molly says.

Sherlock rose from the couch, wiping his hand across his mouth to clear blood away. "A lie of omission is still a lie. Don't ever think you can lie to me," Sherlock is on his feet heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Molly asks rushing after him.

"I've suddenly lost my appetite."