A.N.: This is my first vampire AU story, and my version of vampires is very different to anything I've read but I've tried to explain everything that you need to know within the story at some point. Also, I place this between Baskerville and Reichenbach (but that's not really vital to the storyline).

Warnings: References to drug use and mental health issues, swearing, spoilers for the first series (and possibly the second series).

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.


Chapter 1 – The Hidden Community

Sherlock slurped the last drops of blood from the bottom of the blood bag, throwing it across the room so that it landed atop the pile of similarly empty plastic medical pouches. Blood from such a source was plain, cold. Boring. But it was clean, and that – as well as concern for morality – was the reason he went to Mycroft's office to raid his brother's supply rather than drag someone off the street to feed on. Random blood had the tendency to be laced with less-than-desirable substances – including his old vice, cocaine – and such contaminated blood was not advisable for addicts to be feasting on.

He wiped the excess blood off of his chin, smearing the crimson across the back of his hand. When he looked up from his position on the floor, his brother was looking down at him with a disapproving look on his face.

They had been born vampires, children of a vampire mother and a human father, existing in harmony with humans their entire lives, keeping their true natures secret while the mainstream race made fiction of their kind – most of it annoyingly inaccurate.

"What?" he spat, getting to his feet.

Mycroft didn't speak for a few moments. "When did you last feed, Sherlock?"

The detective sneered. "You know I don't feed on cases. Digestion slows my thinking."

Mycroft pursed his lips, disenchanted. "You have been working on that diamante case for two weeks, brother. Do you mean to tell me that not a single drop of blood has passed your lips in a fortnight?"

Sherlock glared at his brother, feeling his anger rising. "Thank you for the blood, Mycroft." He nodded curtly and turned to leave. But Mycroft – being taller – was faster than him, and blocked his exit.

Mycroft kept a large supply of blood bags in his office – his real one, not the one that John had seen. His real office was almost twice the size, about five miles away from the fake one. While the fake was wooden and dark, the real one was metallic and shiny, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out across an impressive view of London. The desk was almost identical to the one in the fake office, except for the large 'drawer' that was actually a fridge in which the vampire kept his blood; there was also a door hidden behind the bookcase to the right of the desk that led to a bedroom, for the British government spent far too much time in the office that he didn't always make it home.

All of the offices on that floor had glass doors, and anyone inside the office could see whatever was going on in the corridor beyond. However, the window was one-way, and so no one outside would have seen Sherlock devouring delicious crimson liquid from sterile medical pouches, and nor would they see the confrontation between the two vampires by the glass door.

"Move," the detective growled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, as though challenging him. "You need to feed more regularly." Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted. "Even when on a case."

"Surely it matters more that I catch a killer than feed?"

"Not when you are putting yourself in such a risk!" Mycroft snapped. "You could die. Or-" he added, raising his voice at Sherlock's attempt to retaliate, "you could kill someone. I would rather Miss Donovan's predictions not become reality."

Sherlock remained silent, his anger apparent in his expression. He had never come close to taking someone's life, even on the infrequent occasions when he had fed off of humans. Mostly he drank from blood bags, however unsatisfying it was when he had already tasted fresh blood.

He licked his lips. "What do you suggest?" he asked, only playing along with Mycroft because if he did not, his brother would not let him leave.

Mycroft smirked. "A volens."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the thought. "What?" he breathed, repulsed at the idea. "Are you insane?"

"I have one," Mycroft stated simply.

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed. "And how is that working out for you?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed so slightly, it took a vampire's superior eyesight to notice it. "Bearable," he said in a clipped tone.

While Sherlock loved to wind Mycroft up, even he was not so cruel as to push this particular matter; he gave him a fake smile and spoke quickly. "I don't think so." He attempted to push passed his brother, but Mycroft put a hand on his chest and shoved him back. Sherlock stumbled backwards, coming to a stop in the middle of the room and nearly slipping on the pile of empty blood bags that he had left. He glared at Mycroft as the elder walked forwards a few steps.

"Think about it," Mycroft urged. "A food source you could depend on. One that could be accessed at ease, even when you run out of blood bags. A reliable food source."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's barbaric," he whispered.

Mycroft scoffed. "Ridiculous!"

"No one has a volens anymore!" Sherlock exclaimed, spreading his arms slightly.

"No," Mycroft agreed, "but do you know why?" Sherlock did not respond, hoping to escape this conversation as soon as possible. Mycroft stepped forward, passing his brother and offering Sherlock the seat in front of his desk. Begrudgingly, the younger Holmes accepted as Mycroft walked around his desk and sat down.

"There was once a time," Mycroft began, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers, "when vampires and humans coexisted peacefully, living side-by-side. We were not seen as much of a threat. We are, after all, so similar to humans in almost every way that the idea that we are all bloodthirsty murdering monsters is a modern stereotype, one that was unheard of at this time. To have a volens was common, because we could be trusted.

"But, sadly, over time, humans became increasingly suspicious of us, and as a result, we practically had to fake our own extinction. As the generations passed, we were all but forgotten and condemned to fiction as we entered this more 'rational' age. The unpopularity of having a volens is based on this mistrust of vampires held by humans. We cannot risk letting humans know of our true nature, and so finding a volens is harder than before – but not impossible. It is by no means, as you say, 'barbaric'."

Sherlock listened intently, his breathing becoming shallower with every word. "Even when you consider the side effects?" he asked, in barely more than a murmur.

Mycroft seemed to suppress a flinch at this. He considered for a moment before speaking. "Yes. Even taking the possible side effects into account."

Sherlock gulped. Mycroft had a terrifying knack of persuading people that that which they found irrational before was now the most sensible thing in the world – a talent that no doubt served him well in his political life – and he was beginning to find it difficult to come up with another possible objection to the notion.

"A volens requires a previous relationship," he began, speaking fast and desperately. "A friendship, at least. I am a sociopath-"

Mycroft's expression changed slightly, and Sherlock quietened. "I believe you know who I think you should ask," he said softly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Was it obvious? He wracked his brain, thinking over all those he had somehow grown close to; those who, if no other word was available, he would consider as 'friends'. When he realised just which of these individuals his brother was eluding to, his eyes widened in shock and disgust.

"No," he stated firmly. "Not John."

Mycroft made no attempt to stop him as he got to his feet and strode purposefully towards the door to the office. He was almost at the door when his brother called him again. Sherlock froze, but did not turn back.

"Ask him. I'm sure he feels the same concern as I."

Sherlock sneered, and carried on through the door.

~{G}~

Against his better judgement, Sherlock did think about it. Two weeks after the diamante case had finished, he had a short case that took his mind off of his brother's suggestion; and then a hiatus. As the boredom crept in, he tried not to think about the notion of asking John to be his volens, but, despite himself, he found himself wondering about it once more as he threw the fifth empty blood bag onto the coffee table after the conclusion of the short case. John had asked him not to do that, but the doctor wasn't there, and the detective was more than capable of cleaning up after himself so that his flatmate would never be the wiser.

As much as he loathed admitting it, after some time to think, his brother's suggestion seemed acceptable; even logical. He couldn't go on like this, depriving himself of blood just because he was working on a case. He usually drank his entire store when Lestrade called him, so that he was alert and fully-functional at the crime scene. After that, for the duration of the case, he deprived himself, citing that he didn't have time to get blood bags on a case, or that he had no need for physical sustenance when his mind was fuelled by the puzzle.

He was now beginning to realise that it was a stupid thing to do.

Yet… John? Would that be too much to ask of the good doctor, who already had to put up with his experiments and his boredom and his petulance and his late-night violin performances? Would asking him to be his volens be too great a liberty to take?

However, much to the detective's annoyance, it was the only thing that made sense. For, only three humans knew of Sherlock's true nature, and John was the only one whom he had chosen to reveal it to.

Anthea had been intelligent.

Mycroft kept no secrets from his assistant, and although her previous knowledge of vampires was limited – as were most humans' – she, as ever thirsty for enlightenment, had researched and discovered that if her boss was a vampire, then, by extension, his brother must be one too.

Lestrade had been an accident.

It had happened when Sherlock was detoxing, in secret to avoid his brother's smugness at being right about his addiction. The detective inspector had walked into his flat while he was lying on the sofa, trembling and sweating with withdrawal.

Sherlock had barely registered what was happening; all he knew was that a human was fussing over him, taking his temperature and trying to make him feel more 'comfortable' – asking him if there was anything he wanted, anything he needed.

When the detective was unresponsive, out of spite more than an inability to reply, Lestrade had taken his phone out and begun to call someone. Sherlock knew that it was Mycroft.

He didn't want his brother to know that he had finally taken his advice, so he began to make demands to distract the detective inspector from the phone call.

"Could you close the curtains?" he asked. "The light is not helping my migraine."

The detective inspector had nodded obligingly, but the order had not achieved Sherlock's true aim: the phone had already begun dialling, and Lestrade simply put it on speaker and laid the device on the floor.

"Holmes," the voice came through the phone. Sherlock sneered as his suspicions were confirmed.

"It's Lestrade," the detective inspector called over his shoulder from the curtains. "I found Sherlock. He's at his flat. Detoxing."

Darkness was filling the room as Lestrade shut the curtains. Sherlock noticed that his withdrawal symptoms seemed to be getting worse; a niggling had begun at the base of his throat.

"Gregory," Mycroft had said slowly, almost warningly. The niggling became recognisable: Sherlock was hungry.

"Yeah?" Lestrade had asked, still fiddling with the curtains.

Sherlock's throat was beginning to hurt. He needed blood. He could imagine the thick liquid slipping down his throat, soothing it like honey. His disorientation from the detox was fading. He began to sit up.

"Gregory, do not turn your back on him!" came the voice through the phone, becoming increasingly urgent. "Get out of there-"

Sherlock pressed the button to hang up the phone as he pushed himself off of the sofa and padded silently up to the detective inspector.

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, turning. Sherlock was inches from him. The older man looked up at him strangely. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

It would be wrong, Sherlock tried to remind himself. Vampires were not supposed to reveal themselves, not to people they knew, not to people who – for some reason – seemed to trust them. It was dangerous – for both sides.

But Lestrade was not an addict. His blood would be clean. It would help speed up the detoxing process; he would feel so much better, so much more quickly…

It would be so fresh, so much warmer than the sterile, medically stored blood in those awful pouches that always seemed to leave a funny aftertaste in his mouth…

All thoughts of right and wrong left his head as his fangs extended, nipping at his bottom lip impatiently like someone tapping their knuckles on a door.

He couldn't fight it anymore.

He struck.

Lestrade hissed in pain; Sherlock drank slowly, savouring each gulp of clean, fresh blood. Lestrade tried to push him away, but his protests were futile; Sherlock was stronger. The vampire simply dug his fangs deeper into the older man's neck.

Eventually, the detective inspector's attempts to push him off became weaker, and as he lost consciousness he grew heavier in the vampire's arms, until Sherlock had to lower him to the floor. He placed a hand underneath the older man's head so he didn't have to stop drinking. One the human was laying on the floor, he took two last mouthfuls before retracting his fangs, licking the wounds so that they healed.

It was only when the haze from satisfying his hunger subsided that he realised that Lestrade's phone was ringing.

He crossed the room quickly and snatched up the device. It was a private number. He answered it.

"Hello?" he asked, his voice thick.

"Gr-Sherlock?" It was Mycroft, as he had expected. "What have you done?"

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade's unmoving body. "I drank."

Mycroft sighed. "Is he dead?"

Sherlock did not answer straight away. The migraine was returning. "No."

"How much did you take?"

His head was pounding. A sweat broke out on his forehead. "Three," he gasped as he sank to the floor.

"I'm on my way."

After many talks with both of the brothers, Lestrade had finally accepted the apology that Sherlock offered him – or rather, that Mycroft had offered on Sherlock's behalf. In fact, he had even reached the point where he considered their true natures… cool, was the word he had used.

But John…

John was another matter. He had chosen to tell him. One evening, he had showed him the secret compartment that he had hidden in the fridge for his blood bags and told him everything, fully expecting him to leave; fully expecting that this eccentricity would be the final straw, and that the doctor would go before anything could happen to him.

Not that anything would happen to him. Sherlock would never allow that. Having a vampire for a flatmate did not automatically put one in danger. Vampires were, in most cases, very good at not allowing their impulses to take over in such a way that anyone would be harmed; as long as they fed regularly…

But he didn't. That was the point. That was what Mycroft was afraid of: that his refusal to let a single drop of blood pass his lips when he was so immersed in whatever case he was working on would lead to a lapse of judgement, that his hunger would get the better of him – that he would kill someone…

It was because of this that Sherlock had reconsidered his brother's suggestion. It was because of this that he realised that it would be the sensible thing to at least ask – if asking was only as far as it ever got. It was because of this that he was standing before a locked gate in an apparently deserted back street in Camden, checking to see if anyone was in the vicinity.

The gate was plain, inconspicuous, but that was the whole point. Most would pass by without batting an eyelid and those that did would simply wonder briefly why the gate needed to be locked at all – for it did not seem to be guarding anything – before moving on.

The gate had a black box that covered the crease by which it opened, and in the black box was a keyhole. No key in existence actually fit the lock; it was just there for show. Along the side of the black box, too small to be visible to the naked eye – well, the naked human eye – was a thin line. An opening.

Sherlock flicked the black box open and revealed the retina scanner inside. It had to be one of the most powerful retina scanners in the world, for it did not check for the identity of the person it scanned, but rather to see whether or not they were a vampire.

Sherlock let his fangs elongate in his mouth, prizing his lips open slightly so that he did not prick his bottom one. He leaned forward and allowed the scanner to check for the subtle change that this made to his eyes – so subtle that only a vampire could see it.

Satisfied that he was, indeed, not human, the lock clicked and the gate was open. He retracted his fangs and shut the black box, pulling the gate towards him and slipping through as quickly as possible.

The street he entered was dull, bleak. It looked desolate; the buildings had signs outside that revealed their neglect – years old 'for lease' signs, and even a danger one. The paint and plaster was peeling, and through one smashed window, a bird's nest was visible.

He passed the derelict buildings without a second thought, turning the corner to enter a secret of the London vampire community.

It was a small retail street, with shops and facilities tailored to the needs of vampires. The first was a pharmacy, providing medicine for genetic ailments some vampires suffered from, and the all-important bandages which vampires used to cover the bite marks they left on those from which they fed. A little further along the street was a café, whose weird and wonderful coffee concoctions would put Starbucks to shame. There was even a small chapel for those of religious inclination to frequent.

None of those interested Sherlock, however. Not today. Today, he headed straight for the last shop on the street: Maggie's, the bookshop.

Maggie's was a fairly new establishment, though the green paint on the outside was already chipped in places. Across the top of the front of the shop was the name in large, white lettering; this motif was kept in much better condition than the rest of the display. The books in the window were frayed, and there were frequently ones missing due to the shop assistants' tendencies to 'borrow' them on their lunch hours to read.

A bell above the door trilled as he stepped inside. The bookshop was, as always, seemingly deserted. Even Maggie herself – usually gossiping behind the counter on her phone – was nowhere to be seen.

Ignoring this fact, Sherlock headed straight for the non-fiction books, passing so many of the crime novels that he had read as a child. The bookshop featured books specifically for vampires; fiction that told the true stories of how romance would actually work in the vampire community, because they were written by vampires – not the guesses that humans made in their fantasy novels; they never sparkled in the books in Maggie's – and non-fiction that explained various historical vampire references that were hidden from human eyes, covered up with conspiracy theories that only those whom no one would ever believe would uncover. There was even a self-help section, as emotions affected vampires differently from humans and subjects such as depression needed to be handled with slightly different levels of discretion. The detective almost found himself distracted by the poetry section, but moved on swiftly. If he dawdled too long, he might change his mind.

The book he was looking for was found in the non-fiction section, and was one of the few books that were actually intended for humans. It was a thin book, no more than fifty pages, and had a bright white cover with a yellow title: Volens – Explaining the Concept to Your Human.

Sherlock sneered at the patronising title; vampires always liked to assume that they were better than humans: smarter, faster, stronger. In reality they held no real extra powers than their human counterparts; they could not change into bats, they could not 'flit', they could not hold the consciousness of a human captive and force them into slavery with a single glance so that they helplessly followed every instruction without question. The only real difference between vampires and humans was that they needed blood for sustenance rather than food and drink, and were perhaps paler in complexion. Yet some vampires saw themselves as superior simply because they had been born into this life, forgetting the fact that they could just have easily been born human.

Sneering, Sherlock picked the book off of the shelf – once again determined to make this purchase quick lest he revise his opinion on the matter.

When he reached the counter with the book in hand, Maggie had returned and was reaching for her phone – the latest Nokia Lumia – presumably to call someone who may have had some worthy gossip for her. Her hand was hovering over the large screen when she seemed to realise that she had a customer, and she instantly abandoned her mission to flash the detective a wide, infuriating smile.

Maggie – no one knew her surname – was a tall woman, practically six foot. Her hair was golden blonde and fell in rivulets down to her elbows. Her eyes were strikingly blue, sticking out from her pale skin like strobe lights. She wore a flowery material headband and a flowing dress in rainbow colours, while her thin fingers were adorned with a variety of colourful rings. A ring was also present in her nose, and she wore large earrings with blue jewels dangling from them on little metal chains, just visible from beneath her sunshine locks.

"Hello," she smiled at him. It was a huge smile, one that practically invaded the entire bottom half of her face as it stretched from ear to ear. Sherlock was put in mind of the Cheshire Cat.

Sherlock did not reply as he placed the book on the counter. Maggie, who was used to the detective's anti-social, sociopathic behaviour, was not perturbed in the slightest. Her smile did falter, however, when she saw the title of the book he was purchasing.

"Volens?" She looked up at him with a quizzical look as she turned the book over to search for the barcode. "Surely this isn't for you, you don't have anyone to ask to be a volens? Are you picking it up for your brother? Oh, I hope not. Vampires can't feed off of each other, and I would love to be his volens-"

"My brother has one," Sherlock explained plainly, and a look of disappointment crossed Maggie's face. He was exhausted by the bookshop owner's infuriating infatuation with his older brother.

"Oh," Maggie said, sliding the scanner over the barcode. She seemed to have deflated at the unsatisfactory news, her cheeriness leaving her in an instant. The scanner bleeped and the price appeared on the screen facing Sherlock. "£4.99, please."

Sherlock pulled out a crisp five pound note and picked the book up from the counter, neatly tucking it away in the inside pocket of his coat. "Thank you." He nodded and turned to the door.

"Are you sure he has one?" Maggie asked desperately behind him.

"Good afternoon, Maggie," he called back, not stopping until he was out of the shop and beyond the gate at the end of the street.

When he returned to 221b, John was reading in his chair.

"Hello," the doctor called, not looking up from his book.

Sherlock slapped the thin volume retrieved from his pocket down on the coffee table.

"What-?" John began, pushing himself up slightly in the chair.

"Think about it," Sherlock asked of him, not looking up as he strode straight to his room.


A.N.: This is going to be a three-shot, and exactly what a volens is will be explained in the next chapter. By the way, it's all in John's POV from now on.