Ok, so... VampireLock. It's not that simple, though. There are some serious shit in this. Problems with gore? Don't read.
Chapter 1 - Half dead
"I think I'll surprise him." said Sherlock, fixing his suit. He was looking at Mycroft through the mirror, checking for the tenth time if his new appearance was anyhow noticeable. "I might jump out of a cake".
Mycroft raised the right side of his lip, like it was common for both the Holmes brothers, and then turned around, walking to the couch.
"I don't think you'll need any kind of fancy act to surprise him."
Sherlock turned on his heels, now facing Mycroft directly, hands behind his back.
"I'm still waiting for you to surprise me with good answers." Sherlock said, with a slightly sarcastic voice, but still prideful, stuffed chest.
Mycroft simply rolled his eyes and held the umbrella that was leaning on the chair. For a long moment, he said nothing, and the silence that remains between two Holmes in the same room is quite deafening. But it wasn't like if Sherlock would insist anyway.
"It's not a simple task, I might say." Mycroft finally answered. "We're doing as much as possible."
"We?" Sherlock frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Who else is involved? Don't tell me you've turned this into some sort of new weapon. Although it suits you very well."
Mycroft looked offended, but not for more than seconds. He checked the time in his Swiss watch, a gift from the Confederation President, and then looked at Sherlock again.
"Not a weapon. An armor. I'm not discarding the possibility of…"
"How many years, Mycroft?" Sherlock said, interrupting him, now putting his hands in his pockets, leaning slightly towards him. "How many years have we lived without a single threat?"
"Well, you are 34, therefore, I'd say we lived 34 years without a threat. But things have changed, and I won't discard the chance of an attack of any kind."
"If you think I'll be your guinea pig for this…"
"It would certainly help." He said, and got up, holding the umbrella. He walked to the window and pulled the curtain to the side, which made the street light illuminate the room. "But since you are not willing to cooperate, I have to ask you to be patient about the researches. It might take a day or a year. It depends on when we'll be able to capture another specimen."
Sherlock sighed and turned his back on Mycroft, going for the door. Before he could open, though, his brother called him again.
"He's in Saint Peter's restaurant. Try not to ruin his life that much. You know how messy that is.".
Wine. About 40 quid bottle. Two glasses. One is half filled. The other is empty. Single person. No aperitif. Barely used suit. Judging by the tension on his shoulders, important day, waiting for an important person, life changing decision. Small volume on his left trousers' pocket. Exactly the size of a jewelry box.
The perfect day for not being dead.
As he entered the place, the waiter collected his coat. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as if he could release the tension with the air. Some time ago, he'd have inhaled deeper, just to feel the smoke of cigarettes filling his lungs. But this was the new London. No self-inflicted cancer allowed. So he was basically feeling a mix of Channel 5, Jean Paul femme, Hugo Boss and some other less relevant colognes. Also, aside from that, and even though he was trying to ignore, he could feel the smell of warm blood inside of each one's bodies, as well as hear the rhythm of the hearts pumping the liquid through their veins.
Focusing on John, he found it easy to recognize which smell was his, which heart beating belonged to the now looking older man. Polo Red. Heart rate at 140 bpm.
Another step forward. Heart beating increased. 150 bpm. 160 bpm. 180 bpm. 200 pbm. No, that's not possible. He'd be having a crisis by now. It wasn't until John laid eyes on him that he realized. It was his own heart. And he couldn't have a crisis, could he?
Not anymore.
"Sh-Sher…"
Sherlock knew that John had refused to say the whole name. Like if his mind was telling him that it was impossible and he'd be seen as a crazy old man if he said his name again. So he took another step forward.
"John. I need you to come with me."
He stayed there, looking at him, without moving, mouth half open, that damn mustache just hanging there, like a disguise Sherlock would make him use just to take a picture and blackmail him to make him get milk, otherwise he'd send the picture to the Scotland Yard.
"But you're dead." He said, looking dumb.
"That's only half true." Sherlock said, nodding. "Look, I'm sorry…"
It took John exactly as much time as Sherlock had predicted. Nine seconds. Within that time, it occurred to John the complete thought that Sherlock had faked his death in a very genius way and somehow managed to stay dead for two years without contacting him in any point, just to simply appear in a restaurant saying that he should follow him.
"You're a fucking bastard."
Sherlock saw John's fists approaching his nose. It was much slower than a punch should be. Not because John wanted, but because Sherlock's brain was much faster now, if that's possible. He could have dodged. In fact, that would have been easier than staying still while the closed hand came closer and closer to his face. Yet, he simply shut his eyes, until he felt his nose being compressed and his body being pushed towards the floor.
It didn't hurt, but his nose started bleeding. It was good, because then he couldn't feel the smell of John's blood on his own fists, as he shook his hand from the pain of hitting pure bone.
But the fact was that Sherlock was on the floor, and before he could stand on his feet, he saw a blonde woman rushing towards John from the entrance. She was just as well dressed as him. And seemed to recognize him as soon as she saw Sherlock on the floor.
"Oh, my God, you're him!" she exclaimed, pale. "Sherlock Holmes!"
"Yes, he fucking is. The cunt himself. Always knowing how to call attention. How to ruin everything for everyone." John said. "Someone I once called friend. How stupid of me."
Saying that, John clenched his fists and left through the door. Sherlock saw someone giving him a sheet of paper for his nose. The woman helped him getting up, like if he couldn't do that himself. Things were wrong. People were alarmed. The manager came in their direction and asked them to move out. And then Sherlock was back in the cold street of London, watching John getting in a cab without asking it to leave. The woman was standing by Sherlock's side, in front of the restaurant's door, with a curious smile on her face.
"I don't understand," said Sherlock, legitimately confused, holding the paper in front of his nose. "I said sorry."
"He needs his time." The woman said, protecting herself from the cold by crossing her arms tightly. "I'll talk to him, Mr. Holmes. It was a pleasure to meet you."
"Mary!" John yelled from the cab.
Mary smiled again. "I have to go now. Don't worry. I know he missed you like hell." She said, and quickly walked to the cab. She got in, the engine was turned on, and they left.
The blood in his nose stopped dripping as soon as Sherlock forced his own heart to stop. It still felt awkward like the first time, but he was getting used to being half dead.
Okay, so this was just the reunion. Or whatever you'd like to call it. Please, review it.