Title: A Toast to Eternity
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Note: Vampire AU.
Rating: NC-17 in later chapters.
Description:For centuries vampires and werewolves have been in war. Any sort of relationship with the enemy are strictly forbidden - but then again, Sherlock was never fond of following the rules.

Chapter I

The situation wouldn't be normally like this - if he had gotten the lead before that damn hound he wouldn't be bleeding on the dirty forest ground. With effort, he managed himself to sit up and lean against a close tree trunk. His hand was placed firmly on his stomach, where all the blood was coming from. Taking his hand cautiously off his wound, he groaned with pain. It was pretty nasty, some of his organs could be seen if looked inside carefully. He put his hand on it again, trying to keep it closed and to keep the blood from spilling.

Sherlock was extremely frustrated. His eyes moved towards the dead wolf beside him, covered with blood and nearly entirely mutilated. Why do these dogs insist on this war? If he had not killed one of my sisters, I wouldn't be here right now. He thought, angrily, glaring at the werewolf, triple the size of an average wolf. For a while, he continued to sit like that. Vampires had the ability to heal themselves, sure, but this wasn't a normal wound; it would probably take a day or two to completely heal. It was a werewolf bite, the only thing capable, besides a stake to the heart, of killing them if stricken really badly.

He tried effortlessly to get up, and with that, he fell back to his previous position, head banged on the bark behind him. His legs were shaking and he was sweating cold. Stained with blood, he dragged his fingers to his forehead to wipe off the sweat, only managing to get blood over his face. His ears captured a sound, distant, but in no way unrecognisable: a howl. There was another one, and it was close. His scent was failing him - he would've smelled the creature if he hadn't been so weak from his last fight. Also, his ears weren't functioning as he hoped to. He had to move, fast.

He tried one more time to get up, but fell back again. Damn it! If only he could only manage to get himself up!. Crawling wouldn't be much use - he would leave an enormous trail behind, which would practically mean begging to be attacked. He thought about a hundred ways to get out of the place, but since he couldn't stand up, they were all useless. He heard leaves cracking behind him. Too late, he gave up. He didn't have enough strength to fight, it would be better off to be finished peacefully. By closing his eyes, he focused on the scent his killer would have - he smelled like cinnamon, pretty nice and unusual for a hound -. He could hear him getting closer, the warmth emanated from a werewolf was something incredibly noticeable.

Still with his eyes shut, waiting, nothing came. He then returned to opening them, and saw the creature before him. He had it's chest risen, ash blond fur that shined in the moonlight. His golden eyes looked into Sherlock's blue ones. Beautiful.

Nothing happened for a few moments, they just remained there, silent, looking at each other. It was like they were in some kind of trance - unable to move or to leave the other's eyesight. Sherlock admired the creature before him, his future killer, he assumed, that was now moving closer towards him. His body was steadily resting on the tree trunk, the back of his head was hurt from all the times he crashed on to the bark. The hound was eyeing him curiously, his gaze fixed on Sherlock's eyes. His nose drifted to Sherlock's hand, sniffing the blood that was over it, and he examined the wound for a brief moment. He looked up again, though now with an expression that somewhat showed compassion. Sherlock managed to escape a painful laugh, the situation was absurd. A dog, showing compassion? Impossible.

The wolf caught the sight of his laugh, and continued to stare into his eyes, seriously. Sherlock was taken by surprise, leaving his mouth half open with the moment. He proceeded to take his hand off the wound, as if granting the creature before him to view the damage. It sniffed the wound and it's surroundings, and did something Sherlock did not expect. The wolf bent down. As if it were asking Sherlock to hold on to him. "What..." The rest of the phrase was left unsaid and he took his other hand to grab the hound's fur, attaching himself on the top of the dog's body. The werewolf then started to walk, dragging Sherlock along with him. As Sherlock adjusted to the movements it made, it's pace got faster; until finally starting to run while casually dodging the forest trees and roots.

It invaded the vampire territory now, an incredibly dangerous move. If any other vampire scented him, he would probably be killed. It went deeper in the territory, up to a point where it was almost certain to be found. Stopping the run, it leaned down towards a tree. Sherlock let go of the animal's fur and rested on the tree trunk. With small smirk on his face, Sherlock looked once again into the animal's golden eyes.

That wolf had been the most beautiful creature Sherlock had ever seen, this was his last thought before passing out.

Sherlock woke up in his coffin. He stared to the inside of it's lid, velvet red, before finally pushing it open without many problems. He found himself in a familiar room with walls made of large stones. The only illumination present came from the candelabrums in the dark corners. He looked to his stomach, partially healed. His white shirt was now ruined, it's front was ripped apart. Sherlock took it off and leaped out of the coffin, directing himself towards the main room. He was hungry.

"There you are," A familiar voice echoed from the dining room when Sherlock arrived upstairs. He made an annoyed expression but leaded himself to where it came from, it wasn't like he could run away, after all, they lived in the same place. "What did you get yourself into yesterday, my dear brother?"

The room was large, at it's centre was a dining table carved with one of the most expensive woods - it was probably over a hundred years old -. Mycroft was sitting on it's end, with a glass of blood in his hands. There was another glass already poured by the seat at the other end, clearly meant for Sherlock.

"I went hunting the werewolf that was getting too close to our boundaries," Sherlock stated, before taking his seat and the glass in his hands and gulping it all at once. "You, on the other hand, should have warned me he was my age."

"Should have I?" The other vampire said, comfortably in his seat. "I recall you not listening to me when I speak." He grinned, while Sherlock poured in the glass more blood from a bottle nearby. "Help yourself, there's more in the dungeons." Mycroft said, now getting up slowly. Sherlock just continued to ignore his presence. "I'm afraid I'll be leaving now to investigate an invasion that happened last night before you were found."

"No." Sherlock immediately said, where his brother reacted arching his eyebrows surprised. "Let me investigate it." He announced, getting up from his seat.

"Are you sure?" He asked, in a doubtful manner. Sherlock continued drinking the blood and glaring at his brother. "This is curious." Mycroft continued to say, still with an amused grin on his face. "Don't you want to recover yourself first?"

"You know that if I do that, the trail would be gone." Sherlock pouted. His brother certainly knew this, but just wanted to test him. Ridiculous.

"Of course." Mycroft grinned, now taking his cane he left resting on the side of the table and going towards the end of the room. "Well, if you must. I have some affairs to attend to, anyway. Farewell."

Sherlock said nothing, but continued to drink as much blood as possible until he was full. When wounded, the first step for a vampire to take was to feed - it would speed up the healing process, not so fast, though, but it would take less time to heal than it would without any -, because of the loss of blood. When done, Sherlock went upstairs to the closet and took a clean white shirt to put on.

The trespass that happened the night before was obviously the werewolf that had saved him. He couldn't manage to understand why the creature had done such a thing - they were mortal enemies, for centuries -. The wolf had the opportunity to kill him, but he didn't. Instead, he saved him from his certain death and even showed compassion. Sherlock's thoughts wondered about his encounter with the hound, and he was decided on finding him. He left the castle needing to know who he was.

Sherlock went on, into the woods, to his latest dangerous quest. Where could you be, my handsome wolf?

AN: I have also posted this on livejournal. I'll be updating this monthly and comments are what motivates me! Hope you all enjoy this roller coaster of emotion's I'll put you all through.