Oh, what am I doing? I'm writing a vamp!Sherlock. Crazy, crazy, me. I'm not too fond of the whole spin on sparkling vampires. I'm a big Being Human fan though, and characters such as Mitchell and Hal gave me hope. SO, enjoy, I guess. Reviews much appreciated! I'll probably be uploading the second part in the next few days because I already know what I'm writing for that.

The light patter of Sherlock's footfalls littered his thoughts. He chose to concentrate on his walking, tugging at the collar of his coat to hide the precarious shades of red smeared across his pale features. It would have been silent, if it were not for the mechanical buzzing of the street lights and the soft crunching of his feet scuffling against the pavement.

He stopped. A brief moment of fumbling with keys was passed. The door unlocked. He inhaled a deep breath before creaking the door aside. He slid through the gap, easing it to a close behind him as he moved. His long strides climbed the stairs and entered the living room in a dreamy haze. His coat was shrugged off and slung over the hanger as though nothing had happened.

He started in the direction of the bathroom. The shower switch was flicked and he plunged himself under the cold streams. The water nipped at his skin as he teased the buttons of his shirt open. His eyes were drawn to the blood and dirt speckled across the crevices of his fingernails, before they fluttered closed. The shirt was cast aside in a bundle and his head lulled back against the glass as he allowed the bitter droplets to bathe his bare skin.

The jingling of keys hitting against a table rang from the living room. Sherlock's eyes shot open. John. Sherlock jerked himself forward as the sound of his flatmate shuffling continued to pierce his mind with anxieties. He glanced at his shirt, a soaked ball of fabric occupying the far corner of the shower as his name was called.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyelids drooped over once more and his hands entangled themselves in his dark curls as they bounced against the panes. He could hear John starting in his direction, abandoning his jacket as he approached his friend with a mild hesitancy.

Sherlock relieved a sharp sigh. He's worried. And so he should be.

It wasn't long before John's head peered past the door frame and his eyes latched onto Sherlock, curled under the hail as the vapours snaked around the room.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, his eyes darting between the man's naked chest and the blood embellishing his clouded visage. Sherlock replied with an incoherent groan.

"Oh god." John raised a trembling hand to his ashen face.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock managed an apology, not lifting his heavy lids yet. "It's getting worse. It was screaming for me. Screaming."

John mustered a mindless nod.

"I just... I lost control. No, I was in control. I tore away their skin. I..." Sherlock tailed off with a shudder. Then, his silvery iris' revealed themselves and his stare snapped towards John.

"John... I understand if your trust in me is faltering. I understand if you want to leave. If wouldn't blame you if you ran away right now," he said all too quickly.

John shook his head, composing himself.

"No, no. Don't do that. I've been at your side. I've helped you."

"I know. You didn't have to. You don't have to."

"No."

John clenched his hands into fists. He inhaled a quivering breath then stepped forward, bringing himself next to the shower and its inhabitant. Sherlock glanced up at him, only a hint of curiosity twitching at his brows stopping his expression from remaining entirely blank.

"I think it's time."

Sherlock's head swayed gently from side to side as he spoke, "I never agreed that there would ever be a time."

"You wouldn't have to worry anymore."

"Quite the opposite."

John's tongue slid over his lips and his eyes averted from his friend. Sherlock held his focus on John, ignoring the icy water that trickled over him.

John elicited another sigh and uncurled one of his fists to flip the shower's power switch, silencing the distracting rains.

Sherlock's arms wrapped around his knees and tugged them close. His head buried into the soft fabric of his trousers.

"It'll end like this either way. One day you won't be able to…" John tailed off.

"Won't be able to resist?" Sherlock locked back to attention and he scrambled to his feet, balancing himself with outstretched arms towards the sides of the cubicle. "One day I won't be able to resist. Imagining won't be enough. I'll need to know. I'll need to know how you really taste! What your blood feels like against my skin! Against my tongue." He spat as he lurched forward.

"You don't have to imagine any more."

Sherlock grasped hold of John. His pale hand coiled around the pigmented texture of John's wrist. John's breath hitched. Sherlock's voice plummeted from a roar to a whisper. "You're so warm…"