Hello! For those of you who know me, I'm taking a wee break from the "Alice" Sherlock/John series. An idea for vampire!Sherlock just hit and was too incendiary to resist.
Anyhoot, Warnings: THIS IS MEANT FOR OLDER TEENAGERS. Violence, pre-slash & slash, drug references, the whole shabang. I was trying to make a vampire series that was not 'M' (since practically all of them are), but when you're writing for Sherlock's addictive personality (addicted to cocaine, addicted to work, addicted to John), it's difficult to keep it 'T.'
Disclaimer: Sherlock things that belong to BBC belong to BBC. Italized paragraphs belong to Lady Gaga.
History of a Vamprye: a BBC Sherlock Fanfic
Chapter 1: GaGa
Don't call me GaGa
I've never seen one like that before
Don't look at me like that
You amaze me
Sherlock remembered clearly when he was first bitten. He had been tailing an international murderer who he had connected with so many deaths that the police had nicknamed him "The Second Ripper." His limbs and brain had been doused in adrenaline with the thrill of running down the darkened London streets, easily outstripping the huffing Lestrade. His heart was like a drum in his ears, his breath rising up in steam, every single cell electrically alive. The Second Ripper was fast, so quick and agile though the reports must indicate him being well into his mid-60s. Left, left, left, right, right, deeper and deeper into the London outskirt slums and back alleys away from any streetlamp shine. Until...
Suddenly the world tilted, a force thrust him sideways, two sharp knives pressed desperately into his neck. Sherlock careened into the wall, hitting his head hard against the stone.
And then he woke up alone.
His mind loved it. Therefore, he loved it too. It was so pulsating, so fast, so wild, so incantatory hypnotizingly intoxicatingly needing, beyond desperate, had to have it, get it now, just a little pumping vein that is so easily mine mine mine. A drownless roar of thought, he could be lightening, he could be thunder, he could be rain, he could be god.
He ate my heart
He a-a-ate my heart
(You little monster)
Mycroft eventually found him. Spoilsport. But of course he couldn't control him. No one could control Sherlock like that. So Mycroft shoved the excuse that Sherlock needed to attend rehab for his previous cocaine addiction-cocaine's high was so insignificantly nothing compared to this-in Lestrade's face. Sherlock broke out of every single containment facility Mycroft put him in. So Mycroft decided to satiate his brother's need, if only a little. He put him in the military. Special Unit. Sherlock could break through any enemy defense, using his mind to locate weak points and most importantly attack, attack, attack. There were never survivors.
He ate my heart
He a-a-ate my heart out
(You amaze me)
Mycroft could never order Sherlock to do anything any more. Mycroft was lucky Sherlock left him alive. Bullets did nothing. Everyone outside of Mycroft's staff who ever saw Sherlock in his new existence did not live to tell the tale. Humans, already dull to begin with, were now food sources, little vessels of that glowing red liquid of life, of power. Sherlock could literally drink their memories, tasting them on in their blood, savoring their anger, sadness, and desperation in their dying moments. Sometimes he tasted love. It was the biggest high of all.
Look at him
Look at me
That boy is bad
And honestly
He's a wolf in disguise
But I can't stop staring in those evil eyes
One time, a soldier got in his way.
It was night (obviously: the only thing that hurt anymore was sun, which burned through his skin after a few hours, and wood plunged into him). Sherlock had been tracking a car bomber when the man had been stupid enough to go to the site of his chosen car. The bomb went off as planned, but what was not planned was the off-duty medical corps. They burst out of the nearby bar to see to the situation and one man's eyes connected to Sherlock's for the briefest moment. Then both glanced at the man on the street corner who was rapidly scuttling away. Sherlock took off, ignoring the nagging feeling in his stomach (he didn't get nagging feelings now, nothing could ever be wrong when he was like this. Must have been that paranoid extremist he'd eaten days ago). He was hungry now and that man was his prey and he would eat him, he would destroy him.
I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you round before
She mumbled something while we got down on the floor baby
We might've f-ed not really sure, don't quite recall
But something tells me that I've seen him, yeah
Someone was following him as he ran. How was that possible? His hateful dog tags clanged against his silent chest as he leaped to the building roofs and loped along, easily coming upon the car bomber. He sailed on top of him, purposefully breaking the man's neck. Now to eat...Sherlock felt his fangs grow, his eyes redden and the need to get larger, greater, feed now, now nownownow! Like the consuming perfume of lust coursing up his dusty veins, like a burning. He dived into the man's cracked neck, sucking in the liquid. He tasted like fear and adrenaline and smug satisfaction. 54. Lived alone, tortured others his age when young. Tasted a bit like a particularly oily donut but still so very delicious...
Suddenly Sherlock heard something behind him. He cast out his mind to search for others. Ah. The medical solider from before, Dr. John Watson. A good man full of emotion and so very young and that masculine tang of sweat and muscle and-.
Sherlock was on him in a second, pushing him against the wall he had previously jumped from. "Wha-" John gasped. "I didn't mean to surprise you. You have dog tags. Are you in the force?" John must have seen a flicker of the bursting crimson of Sherlock's eyes in the faint moonlight because his own eyes widened. Sherlock felt a trickle of blood down his chin. He licked it up. John was going to be so much better...
"Have I seen you before? What's your unit?"
Sherlock tilted his neck slightly and a wicked smile creeped onto his face. But enough foreplay. He plunged his fangs into John's fluttering vein. So good, like heaven. The man tried to pry him off, rather desperately, but still like a doll to Sherlock's strength. "Get off! What are you doing!"
Sherlock sucked harder. Love, this man had so much unspent, hidden love! Compassion, loyalty, kindness, patience. But also rage and sorrow. Such a rush to Sherlock's brain, this would last for hours, days, weeks.
John was weakening and they slid down the wall together. "My God..." John whispered, hand still trying to push off Sherlock's face. But then something happened. Something that never happened before.
Please God, let me live.
It was a thought. Written in the blood, blossoming up in Sherlock's drenched brain. And then nothing.
Nothing, absolutely nothing. No emotion, no memory, no more thought. Sherlock might as well have been drinking stale water. He broke away, shocked. This man. He was human. Too human. What-
Sherlock ran.
That boy is a monster
M-M-M-Monster
That boy is a monster
M-M-M-Monster
That boy is a monster
Er-er-er-er
The high John gave him lasted not for weeks, as Sherlock had guessed, but a whole month. Sherlock was strong, Sherlock was powerful, Sherlock was sharper than ever. But he was also almost human. A bit more reasonable for Mycroft. Not wanting to eat all the personnel (particularly not threatening to eat the exquisite smelling 'Not-Anthea'). Telling them which target he was attacking before instead of after they were all dead. Sarcasm, sophisticated insults, body movements to indicate annoyance instead of immediately pushing the object of irritation against the wall and pressing his fangs to their jugular. Wearing non-bloodstained clothes. Combing his unruly mop of curls. Doing chemical experiments to pass the time. Sherlock put it down to not having to feed.
He ate my heart
(I love that girl)
He ate my heart
(Wanna talk to her, she's hot as hell)
After the month was over, however, Sherlock was worse but manageable. It was almost like withdrawal. He would curl up in his room until sun went down and then stalk the streets like the possessed. He would need to drain five people entirely dry to get even close to what John had given to him. He tried to find John again. It had all been so fast, John's scent had barely registered and was completely lost amid the pungent aroma constantly wafting up from Bagdad. Mycroft wouldn't let him near the military files, so how to track a medic?
Sherlock's tour of duty ended before he could find him. Though John was a good, strong high, Sherlock hated Afghanistan: the heat, the smell, the situation, the limited cell phone service, the even more limited computer access, the dog tags, red tape, and army clothes. The only reason he'd agreed at all was because it would provide an unending, legitimate source of food to quench his insatiable thrist. But he was better now, than before. He could handle the British city and continue with Lestrade. And there were many more untraceable computers in London...
He licked his lips
Said to me
Girl you look good enough to eat
Put his arms around me
Said "Boy now get your paws right off me"
Finally, finally, finally, he found him. A Dr. John Watson had been sent home due to injury. Sherlock was much, much better at interacting and intermingling with people now: his previous skills returning honed and refined with his new vampiric energy. Almost nobody could tell the difference. Sherlock was tailing John from a pub where the man had been visiting someone: a regular to the establishment, judging by the tipsiness in the female's gait. John didn't seem too happy about that fact and was limping away while scowling between her and a cell phone in his hand.
Luckily, it was a moonless night. All he had to do was wait until John passed the alley not far from the pub. His fangs were already extending in anticipation of the best rush ever and then the following, blissful, surprising thought and the ensuing silence...
He pounced down, swiftly picked up the protesting man (he yelled right into his ear, how rude), and darted into the alleyway. It was like the solider had been here and in a single blink he was not.
John was screaming even more now, kicking and thrashing and trying to push away. Sherlock put a gloved hand over his mouth. He didn't want to kill John, not ever, because then how would he get the high?
I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you round before
She mumbled something while we got down on the floor baby
We might've f-ed not really sure, don't quite recall
But something tells me that I've seen him, yeah
"Would you please calm down, John Watson?" the person said. John was pressed against the alley wall, Harry's cell phone dropped against the concrete. He was surprised at the sound of his name, but didn't still or shake. He continued struggling, trying to move his hands and legs, but it was no use. God, how strong was this man? John could tell it was a man because every inch of him was glued to John. Every weirdly cold inch of him. The man let go of John's mouth and took him by the wrists and held them against either side.
"What do you want?" John spat. "My money? Take it. It's only 5 quid."
"No," said the velvety voice against his neck. It made his hair stand on end: again the breath was stale, cold instead of the moist warmth John was expecting. "I want you, John Watson," The man suddenly looked him deep in the eyes. His eyes were mesmerizing, all the wrong colors mixed together of red and blue and grey and gold and green. "To trust me for the rest of the evening. To not run away. To tell your companion that you are well and do not require assistance. To lie to get her to go away. And to forget everything that happens for the rest of the night."
That boy is a monster
M-M-M-Monster
That boy is a monster
M-M-M-Monster
That boy is a monster
Er-er-er-er
The man released John, smoothed down his coat, melded exactly with the shadows. John heard words come out of his mouth instead of actually saying them. "I'm fine, Harry. Just got a bit of a surprise."
"Alrighty, John-o!" replied Harry as she tipped away from the alleyway entrance and into the awaiting arms of a taxi she'd flagged just before. "Call me!"
She disappeared, and John was alone with the man. He knew the man was still there. But he couldn't move. He had dropped his cane and the alley was empty save them: no weapons. The man reappeared beside him.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I'll be much gentler this time."
Oh no. John felt the blood drain from his face. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. His mind was panicking as he was backed into the wall again, but suddenly those eyes were there and everything was alright. The man was deathly pale and thin-needed to eat more-and an darker spot of dark against the sky served to identify his hair as dark. The sharp cheekbones lightly brushed his as the face leaned down again towards his neck, the cold breath making the skin prickle but not so unpleasantly. John closed his eyes.
He felt what must be fangs press against the skin of his neck, their wet and surprisingly hot length pierce his flesh like it was threading a needle. It stung but nothing more, nothing less.
He ate my heart
(I love that girl)
He ate my heart
(Wanna talk to her, she's hot as hell)
It was so so so much better than Sherlock had imagined, had remembered, and he had remembered quite a bit. All that untapped love, unspent, unneeded, and unused. All this strength and vitality! Courage, openness, humor. Low self-esteem and trust issues: so mouthwateringly complicated! Need for adventure, thrills behind all the ordinary: how could all this fit in one being?
John was losing consciousness fast, but somehow the man's hands got threaded into Sherlock's curls, pressing him closer, making him want more more more, more than he should. The silence was coming, Sherlock could feel it's approach this time: the thought traipsing along John's clouded brain. Wait, why was it so clouded, Sherlock hadn't meant...Suddenly John groaned and slid onto the alleyway floor and Sherlock released him, already scolding himself for taking too much.
He ate my heart
He ate my heart instead
he's a monster in my bed
Sherlock looked down at the man passed out on the ground. How full of surprises was this Dr. John Watson. Sherlock could barely see straight that was so glorious. But he couldn't leave him here: no, not when other people could find him and take him away, possibly forever. He was Sherlock's and Sherlock's alone.
The consulting detective leaned down and gently lapped up the specks of blood still evident on John's neck before using his salvia to seal the wound. It healed instantly and Sherlock picked up the unconscious man to carry him home as well as the dropped mobile and cane. When they arrived (he used the key in John's pocket to enter), Sherlock laid John on the bed. He stepped away and just looked for a bit, relishing the sight. Sleep was beyond Sherlock now, not that he missed it (more time to think), but it was somehow comforting to see someone else performing the act. And what if somebody walked in and tried to rob John tonight? Surely it would be alright for Sherlock to stand guard, just watch the place to make sure nothing happened to his succulent food source?
I wanna Just Dance
But he took me home instead
Uh oh! There was a monster in my bed
We french kissed on a subway train
He tore my clothes right off
Sherlock really had just been experimenting on how to erase traces of blood (could be useful in the future) on that day in Bart's. He would not have guessed that Mike Stamford, of all the people Sherlock had classified at "do not eat," to introduce him to the man Sherlock's body was currently running on. After deducing John like he had never met him before, Sherlock quickly calculated the advantages of being flatmates with him (he refused to live off Mycroft and it would ensure safety of the John food source as well as give him a chance to study the curious effect Watson had on him) and offered the flat to John. John said yes of course.
He ate my heart then he ate my brain
Uh oh uh oh
(I love that girl)
(Wanna talk to her, she's hot as hell)
Sherlock had really tried to do the decent thing and not feed on the flatmate. After the first night when he saw that John had killed a man for him, and then after being kidnapped over him, and then after offering to give up his life for a man that was already dead and beyond saving, surely that meant all the lies and borderline abuse should be kept to a minimum. Surely, surely, surely, but Sherlock was hungry because Mycroft had cut his regular food source on accident (had tried to "talk" to him while Sherlock was stealing from the blood bank at Bart's, but came armed with wooden bullets) and it wouldn't be safe to get some more for another whole month and it hurt like it hadn't in a long time.
John was too good. Why was he too good in too many ways? He was just too lip-smacking, melt-in-your-mouth heavenly. And there wasn't a case for distraction or experiments or, or, or...Sherlock heard the front door open and a gust of wind blew up through the flat. He smelled him: that scent of wool and tea and suntan and home that was John.
Precious, precious John Watson.
Sherlock got off the couch as John entered the room, letting his dressing gown fan out and trail behind him. "I got the milk, Sherlock," John said as he went towards the kitchen. He was putting the cartons in the fridge when he finally noticed Sherlock standing behind him. The man started. "You scared me," he said, but then he frowned and the little crease between his eyebrows appeared, which happened only when he was confused or concerned. "Sherlock, are you crying?"
"I'm so sorry, John." Quick as a wink, Sherlock had pressed his lips to his flatmate's, craving the high, the drug, the blood that he wanted, no needed, but wanted to do anything to avoid. He had desperately wanted this too. John gasped, and Sherlock was surprised to find he tried to kiss back despite Sherlock's obvious strength. The ex-solider was soon pinned against the fridge and Sherlock pressed as much of himself he could to John, John, John. John-he-was-not-supposed-to-eat. John-who-was-too-good.
But then John was wrapping himself around Sherlock and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair like he did before and Sherlock lost it.
That boy is a monster
M-m-m-monster
(Could I love him?)
It actually pained Sherlock to have to wipe the memory of that night. After hypnotizing John into accepting him, they had ended up tangled in one another and John's bedsheets. But now it was morning, the dawn softly padding in to reveal the bloodstains and bites and bruises as well as John's contented, sleeping face. That experiment at Bart's from long ago would come in handy today.
That boy is a monster
M-m-m-monster
(Could I love him?)
What the fuck was he doing? The weight of what he felt for a simple human, for John fucking Watson was crushing him inch by inch, a boulder falling on him slowly, making him unable to think, breathe, function. The place where his heart had been hurt so much all the time. And he couldn't do what he'd done before. Remember how hard it had been to explain it away with rational, human explanations. Remember you don't know how you were created. You could accidentally turn John into you.
That boy is a monster
M-m-m-monster
(Could I love him?)
Sherlock failed and had to wipe away another night. He almost hoped that Moriarty found out the way to kill him.
That boy is a monster
Er-er-er-er
Please, please, please review and tell me what you think! There's a lot more to come and feedback can make it better. Your opinion matters to me greatly!