A/N: Yeah. I don't believe in 'twilight vampires'. My version of vampires have bloodlust dependant on the amount of blood taken. They have red eyes, pale skin, can't go out in the sunlight and have fangs - not just normal teeth. And they most definitely do not sparkle. That being said; do enjoy yourself…

Disclaimer: Since this hasn't happened in the TV show it would be a safe assumption to assume that I do not own Sherlock. Or any of the people in Sherlock. Or the rights to anything other than my brain - and the crazy imaginings that it sometimes expels.

He has hidden away all his life; creating barriers around himself to stop people from getting close. Labelling himself a sociopath, accepting the term 'freak', not even attempting to use the social niceties that Britain is seemingly run on. He used to try and act normal; but the constant façade always slipped eventually, leaving behind a grieving family, another mess for Mycroft to clear up, another reason to try and stay away from the people that entice him too much.

Even after all these years his brother still tries to appear up-to-date, modern even. Moving from being a leading figure in the king's courts, to the man who practically ran the modern government. Mycroft always did try to fit in, even if his version of fitting in was more outrageous than most people's. He may have been the more 'social' of the Holmes children, but as the eldest he did still feel the need to care for his younger sibling, even if the only 'acceptable' ways he could help were buying him a few modern gadgets, ensuring he had a roof over his head, and helping him deal with the thirst.

Because, Sherlock Holmes was most definitely not normal.

He was a vampire.

He would remember the night that he been turned for the rest of his (now never-ending) life. He had been in his early 30s, and on the run. He remembered the feeling of abject terror when he thought that he had been found by the group of killers- backed into a dead end. He was so terrified that when all he saw was the ethereal creature almost glowing in the moonlight it was almost a relief. Almost.

She had been beautiful; pale skin glowing, eyes seeming to bore right through him, her dark hair swinging around her head like a black halo - and Sherlock was momentarily reminded of tales about a dark angel that had killed children in their homes - once told to him by his late mother. He was entranced by the way she moved, so fluidly, as though she could swim through the air without the need to touch the ground like everyone else.

Sherlock could still feel the ghost of the faint tremors that his heart had emitted when she had drifted towards him, effectively cornering him in the dark alleyway, away from the busy marketplace where the rest of the village were currently convening after dark, taking place in a meeting about a killer that stalked the streets and drained their victims of blood - stopping their hearts with a sharp fingernail. He had realised seconds too late that he had been running from the wrong people; that the woman in front of him was the one to fear.

Unfortunately, she was too close for him to run from now, her breath making his hairs stand on end where they met in the cold. She looked him up and down, seeming to calculate how best to kill him, whilst all Sherlock could do was stand still - petrified with fear. When he finally found the strength to run, a single arm stopped him in his tracks, and the woman sneered as she flung him against the wall as if he weighed no more than a stray cloth.

He had hit his head hard against the brick of one of the unoccupied houses, and he could feel the blood begin to run down the back of his neck, and this only seemed to entice the woman further. Until suddenly she was on top of him, her legs straddling him and effectively holding him down, whilst she moved her fingers to his head wound. They came away covered in blood, which, to Sherlock's disgust, she then licked off.

His memory fails him here, for all he can remember is the sudden pain in his neck, how he had screamed in pain, not caring that after that her hand had stopped any further noise, not accepting the fact that her position on top of him made it impossible for him to squirm away. He remembered the exact moment he had realised that he was going to die here, in an alleyway, killed by some kind of dark angel who was stealing his lifeblood. He still had dreams of the moment when his vision blurred, and he succumbed to the darkness, knowing that he would never again see the light.

When he had opened his eyes next, it was to see the interior of his own home.

They were not a rich family, but they were richer than many of the peasant farmers, since his father had managed to secure a job (and lasting friendship) with the surrounding nobles, they were always guaranteed a comfortable home. The second thing he noticed was that he couldn't move. His arms and legs felt numb and unresponsive, reluctant to move as he asked them to. He must have been there for a while. And 'there', he now realised, was in his living quarters, tied to one of the dining chairs with strips of material that would not loosen, no matter how much he wiggled his hands. The third realisation was that his brother was in a similar predicament, on a chair next to him, but he was still out cold.

The fourth was that they had an audience.

Crammed into every nook and cranny in his home were villagers, all of them supporting looks that varied from horror and fear, to disgust and hatred. Sherlock couldn't work out what he had done wrong. He must have shown some of his confusion on his face because when he struggled, again fruitlessly, against his bonds, a few of the woman gave him sympathetic looks over the shoulders of the husbands they hid behind. Many of the men just laughed; his father among them.

The next memory was one he had tried to delete, many times over, always failing. Both himself and his now-conscious brother had been subject to interrogation from the villagers about the murdered people, people that had died before either of them had even seen the woman. Although none of the villagers believed their story about an angel.

For the only reason that Sherlock was still alive, was the same reason as to why his brother joined him on the chairs.

Mycroft Holmes had grown bored of the village men talking about supposed 'plans' to keep the killers out. Plans that he knew would never work. He had turned to talk to his younger brother, and found him gone. A scream in the distance alerted him to the danger - and without a thought for his own safety, Mycroft had sprinted in the direction of the noise, knowing that it was Sherlock who had screamed in pain.

He had arrived just as his sibling was on the verge of death. He had thrown himself at the back of his assailant as hard as he could, his only advantage being the element of surprise. She had thrown herself backwards to knock him off, momentarily forgetting her prey on the floor behind her, and concentrated on subduing the man who was now pointlessly attacking her with hands and feet, all the while shouting for help. She silenced him the only way she knew how - with her teeth. The arrival of the villagers meant that she had to abandon her meals quickly - and she sprinted off into the night, - never to be seen again.

It seemed that the villagers had found the unconscious boys, covered in blood, and mistaken them for the killers. But when Sherlock opened his mouth to inform them of their mistake, he felt something alien there.

A pair of sharp, white, canines that were not human had appeared in his mouth. And these were all the evidence the villagers needed to see. He was condemned to death, Mycroft also, and the villagers had left, apparently safe in the knowledge the killers were gone.

That night, Mycroft and Sherlock had broken free of their bonds, and gone in search of freedom and information.

…..

Now, over two hundred years later, Sherlock was still unused to the sight of himself at night, roaming the streets and trying to find a way to rid himself of the constant scratching in his throat. His skin now glowed a stark white in the moonlight, his curly dark hair waving around his face like a halo. His teeth growing and sharpening at the prospect of blood.

And there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

He had always lived on his own, his instincts and craving for blood being stronger than his brothers, as he had had more blood taken from him. Mycroft's position meant that no-one ever found out about them. And if they did, they wouldn't be able to tell anyone else their discoveries.

But even a self proclaimed sociopath can get lonely. Even a vampire can wish for company. So when a certain doctor had limped into his life needing a flat share, who was he to deny him his request?

At first his brother had been angry; thinking that he only wanted the doctor around as a sort of walking lunchbox, (as he so kindly put it). After that accusation they didn't speak for days. And the next day, John Watson moved into flat 221B Baker Street. And effectively began to wear down Sherlock's control.

Sherlock had lived the majority of his life with thirst. He had dealt with it in the only way possible - feeding. However rather than attacking other innocents, he would try and target criminals, people on the 'wanted' lists, people with dark intentions. It was the only way he felt he could justify himself.

No-one's blood had ever called to him as much as a certain doctor's did. When he had moved his stuff into the bedroom just up from Sherlock's own, the smell of him took his breath away. Sherlock reasoned that of course it would be the one man he chose as a flatmate that would be the one person he craved the most. It was just his luck. John didn't smell like normal people at all - most people on the street smelt like smoke, carbon, cheap perfumes, sweat, and sex. John smelt very, very different. And much more appetising.

He smelt of tea, of woods, and sunlight. Like a day that has just woken up and startled the world with it's unrefined beauty. Of dewdrops clinging to spider's webs and birds singing as they drift lazily across the sun. There were never any artificial smells on him, he never wore cologne or perfumes. He smelt natural - like safety.

And unfortunately, that just made him a lot more dangerous.

Over the years, Sherlock had managed to slip up and kill innocents only twice. But although Mycroft had tried to comfort him and smother him with the information that most vampires killed many more, the maths and feelings of guilt still hit Sherlock hard.

Two victims. Four parents. Three siblings. Five aunties. Six uncles. One grandparent. Two children. A niece.

24 lives ruined for two mistakes. He wouldn't be making that mistake again - he'd promised himself that.

But with John sat next to him in a chair in the flat, offering to make tea and telling him about arguments he had with machines, that promise was becoming increasingly difficult to keep. He doubted the doctor bit his lip in that seductive way on purpose. And it was very unlikely that the way he held his head; thrown backwards, face turned towards the ceiling, when he fell asleep was for any reason other than comfort - and it was most definitely not an invitation.

Sherlock had dealt with his increasing affections for John in a way he was quite proud of. The sudden stirrings of emotion had scared him. He had gone two hundred and thirty years without any at all. However, even in the face of his fear, he knew that now not only did he crave his flatmate's blood, he also quite fancied his body.

So when the inevitable happened, it did not surprise Sherlock.

It had been a hot day, and neither John nor Sherlock had ventured out into the blistering sun (although Sherlock had more than one reason to stay inside). John had resigned himself to a day of sorting out his legal documents, double checking insurance and creating a log of his spendings. From where Sherlock lay draped across the armchair he could see John's shirt begin to stick to his back with the sweat. His hair tousled as a result of running his fingers through it; an action that Sherlock would have given up his immortality to try himself.

Their peaceful, if uncomfortable, day was ruined when John suddenly hissed and stuck his finger in his mouth. A paper cut.

How normal.

The cut on John's finger was no more than a centimetre long. There had been only one tiny drop of blood, and then John had successfully removed that with his tongue. Now he had returned to his paperwork, ignoring the tiny wound on his index finger.

It was almost repulsive how fast Sherlock's body betrayed him. Within one second of that single note of blood reaching his nose, his fangs had elongated, pressing uncomfortably down on his inner lip where he had clamped his mouth shut. He felt the change in his eyes as well. Their colour faded from the unnatural grey he had disguised them with, to his natural eye colour - red.

Bright, blood red.

He squeezed them immediately shut as well. However, with the smell of John's blood still wafting lazily through the groggy heat he had to hold his breath, and the sudden intake of a last breath was not missed by John's keen ears in the silence of their flat.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John questioned incredulously, the hint of a smile in his tone at the sight of his flatmate sitting bolt upright in the armchair, eyes and mouth squeezed shut. Sherlock didn't react. There was no way he would be able to answer without showing his teeth. And he was pretty sure that if he lost concentration for even a second he would loose control completely - and do something he'd regret.

"Sherlock?" For once, Sherlock hated that John was worried about him. There was no way he'd give up now he thought there was something seriously wrong with his flatmate. "Are you feeling alright?"

Sherlock couldn't afford to even spare the concentration it took to nod.

And then John came over, and crouched in front of him - and it was all he could do to keep sitting still; knowing that that smell, that gorgeous, amazing smell came from the man in front of him. His heightened senses could hear his pulse stirring in his neck, could imagine the lazy thrum of blood in his veins, could practically feel it sliding around his body.

"Sherlock?" John placed a hand on Sherlock's knee, and Sherlock physically flinched backwards. "What's wrong?" Sherlock couldn't answer. He knew that sooner or later he was going to give in, he was like a time bomb slowly counting down the seconds until he snapped - and there was no way he could warn John - not without drastically reducing the few seconds he had left. He could only sit and pray that someone would interrupt - that Mrs Hudson would arrive and ask if John could help with the oven or something. It wasn't much of a hope.

The heat radiating from John's hand was like a red hot poker resting on his knee. It was burning him, down to the very core, it physically hurt to have it laying there - so casually pressed against his skin. It was severely damaging John's chances of getting out alive. And when John shook his knee, obviously trying to get Sherlock's attention - it was like an earthquake that shook his fragile hold on his bodily reactions and thoroughly shattered them.

And then, before he could stop himself, he took a deep breath.

John almost jumped out of his skin when Sherlock's hand suddenly clamped down over his wrist - holding it tight to his leg. His grip was tight, and John couldn't withdraw his hand, though he could feel the beginnings of pins and needles in his fingers.

"Sherlock?" He questioned worriedly. Words like 'seizure', 'drugs' and 'hallucination' circling uselessly in his brain. "What's the matter, can you talk to me?"

He got the fright of his life when Sherlock's eyes finally flashed open, and the blood red irises stared intently into his wide brown ones. But it wasn't until Sherlock opened his mouth and laughed - a deep belly laugh that rocked his slight frame - that John really began to panic.

Because in his wide open mouth he could see fangs. Like actual, bright white, pointy, fangs.

And the laugh wasn't natural either. It wasn't the sort of laugh that Sherlock would do, John would expect that sort of laugh to come from Moriarty, or the Cabbie. Not Sherlock. Because the noise that he was currently producing, pealing from his pointed mouth, was deranged.

It was the sound of a killer.

"What the hell…" John whispered, and the noise seemed to send an electric shock to Sherlock's system, and he stopped the unnatural laughter, the noise ceased as quickly as it had started. He stared at John; still kneeling on the floor in front of him, as though he hadn't noticed him before.

And John couldn't help but panic. He tried in vain to pull his wrist from Sherlock's grip, yanking his arm harshly backwards and using his other hand to try and pry away the strong fingers that were encapsulating his hand. It had absolutely no effect on Sherlock - who merely leaned forwards, and grabbed John's free wrist with his own other hand. Smiling slightly at the trapped look on the smaller man's face.

"What's the matter John?" His deep baritonal voice seemed almost mocking. "Never saw this side of me?"

John was too panicked to answer. He had been trained to be able to function well under stress, to be able to ignore panic. But that was in the face of enemy bombs - not psychopathic consulting detectives that had you at an obvious disadvantage.

"You can talk you know." Sherlock stated. "It's more fun that way" Although he didn't seem to notice how he was practically quoting Moriarty - who had been in the process of trying to kill John when he had said it.

John briefly wondered if that was what Sherlock was doing.

"What are you?" He was in too much of a state to realise how his voice had raised a few octaves.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Was the answering rumble. Sherlock seemed to only be half listening to John's questioning, seemingly far more interested in smelling his wrist - holding it against his face as though it were a perfume bottle he was sampling. He acted as though John wasn't trying with all his might to pull his wrist from his grasp.

"I don't understand" John gasped. There was a moment of silence.

"What's new about that?"

The grip on his wrist tightened imperceptibly, as though Sherlock were warring with himself, or preparing for something.

"You're hurting me Sherlock" John whimpered; and the sound sent sparks of pleasure jolting around Sherlock's body. John's wrist was now directly in front of his mouth; so much so that when Sherlock spoke next, John could feel his breath against the skin of his wrist.

"Good."

And then John felt nothing but pain. There was pain in his wrist, flowing down his arm, in his heart, pulsing around his body. His eyes were blind to everything but white light, his ears could hear nothing but the rushing of his own blood, and the frantic pulsing of his heart. And the familiar coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils until he felt nauseous.

After a few minutes, he blacked out.

Sherlock was in heaven. There was literally nothing on earth that could compare to the taste of John. He could taste him all over his body, there was John in his heart now, in his bloodstream, in his stomach. The warmth of blood filled him, until the fire in his throat was quenched slightly and he slowed a little, relishing each drop that fell on his tongue, content to let the blood come to him.

He was not expecting an interruption.

Especially not from Mycroft.

He strode into the room as though he owned the flat, in full vampire form; eyes glowing red and fangs perfectly on show. His umbrella was clutched at his side - the silver coated tip now posing more of a threat than Sherlock had first anticipated - especially when it was pointed at where his own heart resided; cold and un-beating, inside his chest. He reluctantly pulled the wrist from his mouth.

"Brother." He hissed. The noise was not human, and most definitely was not Sherlock's natural voice.

"Leave him." Mycroft instructed.

"He is mine." Sherlock sneered. "You cannot take him from me."

"Don't think for a second that I will not try."

A moment of silence. The brothers stared into each other's eyes, their looks challenging.

"You wouldn't kill your own brother."

"If this is him - then Sherlock died long ago."

"Lies."

"Do you even realise what you are doing?"

"I am feeding."

"On John."

"I don't care for names."

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock. Do you remember John? You are killing him. If you continue for much longer he will die."

"Human's hold no interest for me!"

"I think we both know that you are lying Sherlock. Do you remember the others? Jane Matthews and Harrison Fry… Such a shame don't you think?"

"Be quiet." But there was a tremor in his voice.

" Such a waste of life… She had just opened her own business you know? Was going to start a family-run decorating company. Her sister shut it down when she was found. Apparently they didn't want to carry on alone." Mycroft's tone was conversational, but his eyes told a different story; they were searching Sherlock's face for a reaction, searching for chinks in the armour.

"Shut up!" Sherlock was screaming now - but the red was fading from his eyes, a slight blue tinge returning.

"Harrison was just about to get engaged; even had a ring on the body. His girlfriend - Anna I seem to remember - left the restaurant thinking she'd been stood up. She didn't realise that he couldn't really help his absence." The sneer was evident in Mycroft's voice .

The fear was evident in Sherlock's tone. "Stop. Please!"

"Give me John"

Sherlock almost looked defiant - the red seeming to brighten - before he looked down into John's face, his closed eyes screwed up in pain, and practically threw him at his brother.

The ambulance was there in under 5 minutes.

By which point Mycroft had returned to his human form, and encapsulated his shaking sibling in a hug, feeling the tears gradually soak into his suit. Sherlock always had been delicate, his control flimsy at best. And Mycroft didn't dare to think what the possibility of John's death would do to him.

When the ambulance crew arrived they stared at the blood on the floor, and covering the two men, and immediately jumped to conclusions - attempting to subtly call for police backup. A quiet word from Mycroft changed their minds, and they concentrated on getting John safely to hospital, where his blood type would be confirmed and he could be given the transfusions he desperately needed. Until then he was given a few bags in the ambulance - to be safe - and his wrist was anaesthetised and bound in bandages, hiding the wound from view.

Sherlock stayed with Mycroft whilst the ambulance left, speeding John away from 221B.

A/N: Please review with any feedback, or if you want this to continue. That isn't holding my writing to ransom - I just don't see the point in writing more if no-one is wanting to read it. And being one of those people in the pessimistic half of the world - I assume that if you read it and then make no comments that you aren't really bothered about it. Thank you