Welcome to the Series/Metamorphisis: Book I: The Awakening. (Full Summary Below the Tags)

Please Read Tags before you read the story. Some themes may be disturbing.

Tag Warning: Explicit mentions of rape in the form of professional analysis on a corpse (no actual rape or attempted rape).

Other Tags: Violence, Action, Humor, Slow Burn, Fantasy, Vampire-centric scenes - blood drinking, possessive and protective personality, Canon Sherlock-Centric, Light BDSM Play, More to be added as they appear.

Full Story Summary/Synopsis:

A year, and not a whisper of Moriarty. When he's found dead on Sherlock's couch, he and John are in for a big surprise. The dead can become undead, and like attracts like.

Experiencing emotions isn't for the feint of heart, especially for a Psychopath. Moriarty, a reluctant vampire, learns this the hard way. Not only does he now feel emotions, but as a vampire they are heightened.

The government are known for weaponizing power, so Sherlock can't report Moriarty, nor will Moriarty let him. Studying a vampire is an opportunity Sherlock won't let pass, and Moriarty knows it. What can possibly go wrong when a once psychopath, new vampire with heightened emotions, and a curious to a fault sleuth, two people who once played a deadly game of cat and mouse, connect?


Metamorphosis Series:
Book One
The Awakening

Chapter One

With a shaking bloody hand, Jim Moriarty turned the door-knob of two-two-one-B-Baker Street. He quietly opened the door - midway, a dizzy wave made him sway towards it. Gritting his teeth, he stopped it from slamming against the wall. He had to be quiet. He needed help and wouldn't get it if he were to be discovered by their Land Lady, Ms. Hudson. There may have been screaming, possible things being thrown at him, and then the Police would have been called.

No-no. His words were breathy as he said, "Too soon. Not yet." He kept his back to the door as he took in a few deep breaths. He was tired, sore, and it took ever bit of his remaining strength to keep himself upright. After what he'd been through this was cake. That's what he told himself as he closed the door. The blatant lie evoked an involuntary huff of amusement.

Even that sounded tired.

He braced his palms on the closed door and shut his eyes. Dizziness threatened to slam him in to unconsciousness. "Almost there," he whispered. His chest moved quickly with struggled breaths. He was so tired.
White spots in his vision didn't stop him from going to the stairs. He slid his hand along the wall to keep standing, and then he used the banister to go the rest of the way up. It was slow going. Deprived of air lungs made his sore muscles burn as he went up. Sherlock being home was a gamble - the Flat turned out to be empty.

He closed the door, went to the Seating Room, grabbed the blanket from Dr. Watson's chair, lay on the couch and covered his entire body. They may forgive him for dripping blood everywhere. Probably not. It wasn't like it'd matter. He hadn't turned on a light and the darkness made him feel relaxed - Free.

He could finally just stop, and he had. Dizziness crashed over him and this time he didn't fight it. His awareness abruptly dropped and then swirled down - clockwise around, and then his covered body took on a heavy appearance. A few vehicles outside went by. Silence swelled in the darkened room, bringing the refrigerators hum to attention.


"I can't wait to go to sleep," John said.

"Well, it has been over twenty-four hours, so it's understandable," Sherlock said.

They were on the sidewalk, heading for the door. John's exhaustion made him even point at it. "Yes," he said and walked faster.

Sherlock's eyes were heavy lidded, with light gray circles just beneath his bottom lid. His curly hair was barely frizzled though. He'd looked a lot worse and still stayed up much longer. John reached for the door and he grabbed his wrist to stop him. "What," he asked, no longer sounding tired.

Sherlock rarely touched anyone, so the shock caused a burst of adrenaline. "There's blood on the door-knob and the door," he said.

John looked at it and yes, there it was. Sherlock, with an ever gloved hand when outside, turned the door-knob. He slowly opened the door, John peeking under his arm. There was no one inside and there were no sounds hinting at Ms. Hudson being home. But that didn't mean she wasn't.

Bloody footprints started at the door and went up the stairs. "Do you think it's Ms. Hudson's blood here," John asked.

"No. The footprints are too big and if Ms. Hudson was injured, it wouldn't make since for her to go outside and then come back in to the Flat. She'd of called Emergency, rather she was inside or away from here. Or someone else would have," Sherlock said.

Relief flooded him and after taking in a deep breath John followed him to the stairs. Sherlock used his clean glove to touch below lines of blood on the wall as he went. All signs pointed to the injured person going to the Flat. It hadn't been the first time something like this had happened, but there'd never been this much blood. They'd even come home to find a dead body in the Seating room.

It was the victim's dying wish for them to solve their murder. John may have been a Doctor, but he'd just eaten and he was tired. He wasn't sure he could handle seeing a corpse right now, and with this much blood, he was pretty sure it's what they were about to find. The Flat's door was open - blood was on it's knob as well, and a bloody hand print above it. Sherlock studied it then said, "The palm is more bold than the fingers, which makes since."

"The person could be five-three at most, but the thickness on the knob means they squeezed it hard, and pushed the door open in an up-like manner. Like the evidence shows, they're obviously wounded, most likely already dead. They had to have been leaning over, so most likely a stomach wound. Although, it could be broken ribs, but if that were the case, they wouldn't have pressed up. They would've pressed forward."

"They were so weak that they shouldn't have been able to get here. Who ever they were, they were determined."
That Sherlock said they 'were' confirmed the victim was already dead. Also, that he didn't say 'boring' meant he was, at the most, curious. The flat was illuminated only by the lit building across the street and the street lights, but the Flat was higher, so they could barely make out the shape of things. Sherlock clicked on the standing lamp and he blinked. "The couch," he said tonelessly.

A small crease appeared between John's brows. As many dead bodies as he'd seen he'd mostly developed a tolerance for the sight of them, but none affected him as much as a person who appeared to have died peacefully, when it'd been anything but. This one had most likely been stabbed and had used their last bit of energy to come to them for after death retribution. They were hidden beneath his personal blanket, curled towards the couch. "They couldn't have been there long," he said.

"There's no stench."

"Yes," Sherlock said distractedly. He was walking towards the couch, predatorily focused on the covered body. He worked a part of the blanket over their middle, which left their face and legs concealed. "It came free easily. The body isn't stiff, but the blankets not warm."

"It feels room temperature. It makes it impossible to determine the length of time they've been dead. Strange." He uncovered their face and his eyes squinched up. Blood was splattered on their right cheek, over their nose, and on their forehead.

The corner of their lip was busted and bruised, blood had run down their chin and dried, and blood had dried in their nostrils. His initial reaction to exactly who this was should have been dramatic, but it was too improbable for him to process, much less accept. "John, can you confirm something for me," he said, once again, tonelessly.

He'd remained a reasonable distance back. Immediately walking forward he said, "What?"

"I just... Just do it. Tell me who this is." He stepped back enough for him to see.

One glance and he knew. "My God," he said. "It's Moriarty."


Sherlock groaned in that life suffering way he does when he's just done. With whatever the current thing he's being forced to endure is. He was known for dramatics. "You've asked the same question three times in different ways. Like rewording it will make us slip up and admit to murder," he said to Lestrad, and if anyone else would've said that last part you'd think it had been the slip up.

Sherlock was different. His offense usually meant he knew something you didn't and that he was disappointed by how simple minded everyone else was. Like knowing what others didn't was the most exasperating thing he'd ever experienced. He and John were seated across Lestrad's work desk. Because of their upstanding reputation... yeah right (even though they solved most of the crimes) with the police force they were there instead of the interview room.

Actually, Lestrad, the head detective, was a close friend. So close, in fact, that they referred to him by his first name, Greg. Well, John did. Sherlock forgot (douchely pretended not to remember) it most of the time. Thankfully, Sherlock had gained his respect and he never took it seriously, and Sherlock occasionally throwing his name out there, proving that he did know it, showed that he also considered him a friend.

"We were on that Case, the one with the missing husband, the one you gave us, and we stopped to get Fish and Chips before we went home," John said tiredly.

Lestrad had a Manila folder open on his desk and had written their statement down, plus the answers to his additional questions. "It's procedure, you know that," he said kindly.

"Yes yes. Can I go now. I want to be there when Molly examines Moriarty's body," Sherlock said. John sighed resignedly. Usually, he wouldn't do that much. Sherlock was Sherlock and morbidity didn't register in his brain. Only an inexplicable need to Know to Learn to Understand - everything. Minus anything containing the Solar System. He'd - Begin Quote: "Deleted useless information to make room for important things." - End Quote.

"Just one last question."

"Ugh. What?"

Undaunted by Sherlock's unrestrained irritation, Lestrad said, "Any theories on why Moriarty would come to your flat just to die? Did he think you'd try and solve his murder?" He hesitated, then said, "Do you plan on trying to solve his murder?"

"I haven't decided yet," Sherlock said.

John looked at him in surprise and said, "Really? I thought you'd jump at the chance. Moriarty was you're-" He did air-quotes saying, "-greatest distraction yet. And someone took that away from you."

Lestrad closed the folder and put his pen in the blue mug with the rest of them. "I wished I could say I'm surprised, but I'm really not," he said.

"Yes, typical," John said. He looked at Sherlock again and his expression was blank. He didn't care what they thought. His awareness was fully on the Morgue he'd yet to get to.

"Does that mean I can go," he said.

Waving a dismissive hand, Lestrad said, "Yes yes. Go." He sounded tired, but no where near how John did.

Sherlock was gone in a flair of coat and purposeful strides. John rubbed his eyes and told Lestrad that he'd better follow him, to the best of his abilities, keep him in track around Molly. Manners were something Sherlock had, up until they'd met, been thought of as annoying and useless. Honestly, he hadn't truly understood the concept (Manners are a social necessity and the proper way to associate with "Human Beings.") In the two years John had known him he'd managed to help him cultivate, at the least, that concept.

Plus, that manners got you further than being rude, "and the world isn't just about you, Sherlock." It was still hit and miss.


Seeing a Psychopath who had killed so many innocent people, and deceived her in to dating him - he could have killed her - laying on her Slab was beyond unnerving. His face was soft line mixed with delicate features. Before Molly had known him he'd looked so cute, so innocent, and he'd seemed like such a sweet heart even. Even in death that innocent deception was present. His eyelids held the most delicacy and she studied them, taking in his short, light brown eyelashes.

He looked peaceful. The thought of cutting him open made her feel sick. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes, and sucked air in through her nose. This was who she was, a mortician - she could do this. First, she had to analyze his body, th-th-then the cutting.

She cleared her throat, adjusted her lab coat, and turned to the silver instrument tray. She removed a pair of bright blue elastic gloves, happy to see they weren't powdered. The powder made her hands break out. A blue paper blanket covered Moriarty from his neck to his ankles. She rolled the top to his belly-button.

She clicked on a hand held voice recorder and spoke aloud as she analyzed his body. "Subjects Name: Jim Moriarty, Caucasian Male, Age: thirty-one, Height: Five-three, short brown hair, brown eyes. Large purple bruises cover the Sternum, which no doubt means multiple broken ribs, will know for sure during the Autopsy. Wound to the right side of bottom lip, gash in right side of right eyebrow, large bruise on right cheek. The yellow with in the brown means it's been healing for a while, so it's older than the previously mentioned ones."

"Possibly a bruise over a bruise, which means repeated abuse to same area over short periods of time." She opened the fingers on his left hand and said, "Left hand cuticles are red and swollen and top knuckles are broken open, which tells me he was left handed. Assumed Hypothesis is that he was in a recent altercation, but the bruises once again suggest repeated abuse. It's possible he was being held against his will and tortured. From his hand wounds it's seems he fought back, and recently."

"These wounds are fresh. Right hand has a purple bruise around the wrist, in the shape of a large hand and fingers. Who ever did this was very strong. Attackers Estimated Height: Six foot to Six foot two." She removed the blue paper blanket completely and froze.

Tingles ran from the middle of her spine to the back of her head. She felt sick again. "Large dark brown bruises on both hips... in the shape of large hand prints. Knees are bruise a darker brown color, like he lost his balance and fell. His feet are in good condition, meaning he had been wearing shoes."

"However, the shoes weren't present at the Scene."

She involuntarily gulped at what she had to do next. The Rape Kit. She knew already. The knowledge that he'd suffered like that, regardless of who he was- was- horrific. And her findings confirmed her suspicion. "Subject has been recently sexual assaulted."

Her voice didn't waver this time. She clicked the recorder off and closed her eyes, her hand still on the button. "Moriarty... Jim," she said. "You didn't deserve this." She opened her eyes and brought her hand to her side.

"I'm so sorry." Her eyes stung and she sniffed before fanning her face. She needed air, but it was unethical to leave the Morgue once she'd started. Instead, she walked to the other side of the room and braced her hands on an empty Slab. It was a natural human response to feel emotionally affected by tragedy, even more so when you know the person, but this level of emotion...

She couldn't help it. He was Jim in her mind, regardless, and she hadn't experience the Moriarty side of his personality. She refused to feel weak. Emotions were Human and she accepted hers. More people would be happy if they did the same. Accept you're human, analyze your feelings, move on.

With that in mind she pushed away from the Slab. She turned around and felt a scream gather in her throat, and freeze there. She couldn't speak, she couldn't think, she couldn't move. Moriarty was there, his expression was blank, his pupils were completely dilated. They were what scared her the most.

He looked inhuman and she felt more fear than she ever had. She watched his left arm move towards her, felt his fingers close around the back of her neck, and they were a strange temperature of cool. Not cold like being a corpse laying on a cold metal Slab way, but just... cool. It made her think of Life. If him standing in front of her wasn't proof enough that he was alive, then his temperature was.

But what was wrong with his eyes? His top lip raised and her eyes widened. Fangs. He had fangs. No, this had to be a trick.

But she'd checked his pulse and he'd been dead. Besides acknowledging the obvious she couldn't think - still, or move. She was going to die. He brought her against him and him being naked was a fleeting thought. Another scream became stuck in her throat.

Her arms were barely raised from her sides. They wouldn't move either. She was paralyzed from fear. There was a rip sound and cold morgue air told her it was her left sleeve. Her shoulder was bare.

The pain of fangs puncturing just behind her shoulder kicked her body in gear. Her hands flew to his sides and she growled. The vocalization was an involuntary reaction to pain, but her eyes felt dewy from un-shed tears, and she felt helpless. Now she could feel the tight sensation of him sucking on her neck. It hurt.
Her arms shook from shock as she tried to push him off.

Moriarty took a step forward, throwing her off balance, and she would've fallen against a Slab if his hold on her hadn't been as firm as it was. "Get off," she only managed to whisper. It felt wrong to call him Moriarty, so she didn't. "Jim... Jim, please. Get off."

Another tight suck to her shoulder and blurriness crept in to the corners of her vision. No, he had already taken too much. Any more would bring her closer to the death she'd been expecting.

"Jim Jim," she said in panic. "Stop. Stop, you have to stop. Jim." A sob abruptly left her mouth and tears flooded her vision.

She clawed at his sides, his shoulder, his back, and got no reaction from him. He felt like a wall against her, too strong to be human. Even though she knew he wasn't human, couldn't be, her mind couldn't process it, and she was dying. In a blur of seconds her neck stung, the grip on her was gone and she was falling.

She abruptly stopped falling and her head spun.

She felt herself being lowered, felt the floor underneath her, couldn't process the cold, and a pole from the bottom of a Slab holding her in a sitting position. Her breathing was erratic and she squinted, trying to figure out what had happened, what was happening. She first saw alabaster skin, kneeling, Jim's face blinked in and out of focus. He looked... worried. "Strange," she mumbled.

The world titled and she had the thought it wasn't the world, but her that was moving. She was carefully righted back to a sitting position. When she came to she was laying down, a weight was on her, and a minor ache pulsed in her temples. She tried to sit up and felt a hand on her chest. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she heard.

She touched the hand in confusion. Two things registered at once. Jim, no - Moriarty was standing over her, touching her, and she was laying on a Slab. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream. The hand on her covered it.

This time when he spoke his thick Irish accent registered in her brain, causing the hair on the back of her neck to raise. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said.
Who was he trying to kid...? Something was niggling in her mind, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She'd analyzed his body... apologized to his corpse for what he'd endured before death... and... h-he was a freaking vampire. He'd attacked her. She shoved his hand off and tried to get off the Slab.

Her head spun violently and she nearly toppled head first in to the floor. He was suddenly in front of her and she couldn't fight back as he eased her back down. "You have an I.V. in you're arm," she heard him say. "Rather nifty having a blood supply of Oh-Negative down here. I wonder where you got it seeing as only six-point-six percent of the population have it."

"Well compensated donors," she said. Her eyes were closed. "So, you're giving me a transfusion. Why?"

"Because it's possible you may die with out it and it's not like I can just take you up to the main hospital wing... and it's not like I'm going to leave you here to try and make your way there on your own. So... transfusion."

She groaned. It felt like someone was hammering her temples.

"Would you like some Tylenol. There's a full bottle in the desk drawer."

"Yes, please," she said before she thought about it. She couldn't accept medicine from him. What if he tried to poison her now? Did that make since? Why would he do that? Wouldn't he have already killed her if he'd wanted to.

Yes.


I haven't posted on FFNet for so long, and I'm please to present to you a story which I needed in my life. You know what they say, if you find a story you want to read, write it. I feel blessed that I have that skill. I hope you enjoy it as much as I am enjoying writing it. I invite you sto Subscribe to keep up with new chapters, and I love talking about it, so you're welcome to leave Comments about it. Also, constructive criticism is welcome.

~Demitria_Teague (Author)