Karachi, Pakistan

He had just come back from the local bazaar to find a package waiting on his stoop.

He unlocked the door, coming into the cool, airy home, a relief after such a hot and oppressive night. The visit had been uneventful – everyone in his local haunts had been either bonked on hookah, hash, or opium to give him the time of day, much less stand up. And to think he used to be worried about alcohol...it was like the goddamn 1890's again.

The parcel was heavy, wrapped in plain paper. As soon as he saw the familiar scrawl, he felt a pinch in his chest. He tossed his keys and sunglasses onto the foyer table, scrambling to get to his room and avoid toppling the towers of books and yellowed tomes around him as he tore open the seal and withdrew a large, flat disc.

A fucking 78…of course.

He huffed, grateful that he had taken the all-in-one player with him. He ran a hand gently over the raised ridges of the vinyl record, a smile coming onto his face as he saw the label, written in the same hurried chickenscratch as his address.

For John.

He put the record on and carefully set the needle down before laying out on the bed, closing his eyes. A beat – then the soft sound of violin filled his room, a generic wail, a classical prelude. It was an almost simple melody, lulling and pretty, but he wasn't to be fooled – Sherlock never did anything in halves, or deign to repeat himself. John knew if he even came close to comparing him to Mozart he'd throw a fit.

The hum of the violin bow shifted abruptly into a fast-paced plucking, sending his memories flying back to gaslights, dirty streets, crinolines. He almost smiled, but he knew to give a full critique he couldn't be compromised, so he reigned his attention back in, focusing in on every minute detail.

He could hear the exact sound of the strings as they vibrated against Sherlock's long fingers, could almost tell the scrape apart of his pads as he played. The echo of the wood was very fine; he was playing the Stradivarius then, 1712, a gift for his birthday. They had been in St Petersburg at the time, newly minted capital of Russia, and had used the plague at Vienna as a handy escape from questioning glances and aging friends. That had been the last straw for Bohemia; after they'd glutted themselves on the carnage of the Protestant's War or whatever they called it these days, they had gotten out of Central Europe on the double and hadn't looked back for nearly 150 years.

The plucking was fading away, becoming more resonant; cheeky git had fed the sound into an amplifier, then, or plugged it into one, however he did that. The sound of the violin became more stringent, noisy, edgier, and John found himself missing his husband, so lonely on the other end of the record.

The violin went back to its slow picking. There was a low moan underneath the violin, as if an electric guitar had been strummed then put on repeat; one of the Gibson's, but he'd never had a good feel for those kinds, all electric and plastic. He could hear the wood better.

He could lose himself in this kind of music, and as it rattled to a halt, he smiled.

Brilliant.

Olympia, Washington

She had just finished sewing up her newest arrival when the hair began to raise on the back of her neck. Slowly, recognizing the feeling, she snipped the plastic thread and set down the scalpel on the tray next to her, being sure to keep it near.

"What are you here for this time?" She asked without turning around.

"You love spoiling surprises, don't you?"

She closed her eyes at the familiar voice, deep and low, and spun around in her chair.

There he was: the tall man, his hair pulled back underneath the surgical cap, face hidden by the mask and a dark pair of sunglasses.

"What do you want?" She repeated, even though she knew. "We're out of A positive."

"Give me the usual, then."

She sighed, willing her shoulders not to droop so low, to keep some of her dignity intact. That voice did something to her, made her feel as if she had to listen, and if she were honest, she kind of wanted to. The allure, the mystery; it was hard to say no to someone like him. Underneath the mask, she could tell he was handsome and, well, if she was going to be alone for the rest of the night, company was always nice.

She walked out of the room, taking a sharp right into the breakroom across the hall. Crossing over to the minifridge, she grabbed the metal canister next to her takeout box and a dozen different condiments that no one in the lab ever used.

"Here," she said, coming back in. "It's O. But listen, if you're not busy, I—"

The canister was out of her hand in a moment, and before she had time to blink he was walking away, back down the hall. "Thank you, Molly. I will see you next time."

Dumbfounded, she watched him go, turning back to her work when she noticed a weight in her pocket. Reaching in, she pulled out a large wad of bills, banded together neatly. Willing her lip not to tremble, she shoved in back in.

She didn't know what she hated more: him, or the fact that she could never tell him no.

Kennedy, Washington

He shrugged out of the scrubs as soon as he came into the house, despising the cheap fabric and its sterilized smell. Trudging up the stairs, he carefully folded them over his arm, knowing John would have a nagging aneurysm if they were left out.

John.

He must have gotten the record by now, but he hadn't called. It wasn't his longest, perhaps only an hour or so, and he didn't know what the hell else there was for John to do in Karachi, so what was the delay?

Huffing, he threw himself on the couch. The wind rattled at the old wood and timber; the cabin had seen better days, but he had wanted solitude, and he would have it at whatever price he wanted. It was perfect in its own way, far enough from people to not be tempted, but close enough to reach the hospital in Olympia on his food runs. And John would like it, with its cosy rugs, the stone fireplace, wooly throws and the eclectic décor, scrounged and sampled from the collection they had made together. The life they had had.

He didn't know why John was being so difficult about it – he'd love Washington; it would remind him of Scotland. But no, he was the one who insisted on that insipid trip to Karachi of all godforsaken places, and who knows what the people ate there, and what he'd be eating in turn—

He was broken from his thoughts as a phone rang. Leaping up from his sulk, he nearly tripped over himself to get to the laptop, the laptop, where had he put the fucking laptop? Hurriedly clearing the coffee table of its used cups, books, detritus, he found it under an art book; Basquiat.

He opened it and laid back on the couch, taking in his partner's face as it filled the screen. He looked well. That was good, and terrible. How to get him to come home, to him? How to get him out of the desert and all its bones…

"Hello darling." John said. "Your handwriting is atrocious as ever."

"John." He answered, thinking, reaching around for his violin. "Always good to note your many criticisms."

"It's not a criticism, love, I'm just saying in five hundred years maybe you take a penmanship course once in a while."

Over on the other end of the world, John watched Sherlock smile, but he seemed distracted, absently tapping at his chin with his bow.

"I enjoyed the pizzicato."

"Mmm…of course you did."

"Of course I did," he repeated, smiling. "You do know what I like."

"Five centuries of penmanship sacrificed at your altar."

"Oh, don't be like that. I'm just teasing about the writing, you know that. How is it in beautiful Kennedy, Washington?"

"Gloomy, solitary."

"Just what the doctor ordered."

"Yes." He said, with a harsh screech of the violin. "He did."

There was a deep moment of silence, and John was nearly tempted to break it just to get rid of it.

"Have you gone into town, then?"

"Only when necessary. It's hateful. You'll never guess what the island nearby is called."

"Haven't the foggiest, love."

"Anderson."

John snickered.

"How is Pakistan? Enjoying your world tour?"

He sighed, knowing this would come eventually. "Sherlock, don't make me feel guilty about wanting to see more than our corner of the world."

"I can't make you feel anything." Unfortunately.

"You know what I mean. I told you, it's only temporary."

"Temporary is too long, John."

Narrowing his eyes, John looked at his husband, supine on the couch, ready for an almighty sulk. But there was something else there, something he couldn't quite see. Something he thought he'd forgotten, but was becoming all too clear that it was only under the surface.

"How are you, sweetheart?" He asked softly.

"'Sweetheart'," Sherlock scoffed, "Honestly John, it's like your pet names never made it out of the Dark Ages."

"Well you weren't exactly around for that, were you?"

"Neither were you."

"Only just—don't speak back to your elders, young man."

He caught a hint of a smirk on Sherlock's face and seized on it.

"Are you—you know, are you feeling alright? Eating well?"

"Yes, mother. I'm eating fine."

"And the rest of it?"

Sherlock let out a long exhale, fingering at the violin. "It's getting dark again, without you here."

Shite.

"I don't mean that as bait. I don't want you to come back out of guilt. But…"

"But.." John prodded.

"…I miss you."

"I miss you too, love."

"So come back."

"It's not that easy. You know what travel is like for us."

"You seemed to leave pretty quickly."

"Yeah, well you try staying in New York for that long. I can't believe we didn't starve."

"We were lucky for the healthy craze." Sherlock muttered, playing a quick God Save the Queen. John closed his eyes, knowing what he was going to say before he even thought about saying it.

"And…if I did? Come back, I mean. If I came to Kennedy –"

Sherlock sighed, setting down his violin and laying down again, crossing his hands over his stomach. "I don't want you to be my savior, John."

John chuckled. "It's a little late for that, love. Couple centuries too late."

"I mean it."

"I know." Eyeing his husband a little more closely – or as close as he could with the resolution – he frowned. "You're not…you're not in the dark place, are you?"

"No." Sherlock answered, and John nearly sighed in relief, but he spoke again: "Not yet. But I can feel it coming. The wave."

John closed his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose then out again. Although technically he had no use for it anymore, the motion calmed him, gave him a moment to think and consider what he was going to say.

"Alright." He said quietly. "Alright. I can't believe I'm doing this again, but…I'll go."

He didn't miss the hope in Sherlock's eyes, and he felt rotten for putting it there and snuffing it out in the first place.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked, wary. "You only just got to Karachi."

"After Istanbul and Tbilisi and Tehran. It's okay, Sherlock. These places will be here for a while yet."

"So will you."

"Yes. So will we."

Karachi, Pakistan

John drummed his fingers nervously against the chair, waiting for the line to connect.

"Yes, hello? Hi, I'd like to book a flight to Seattle. From Karachi, yes." He ran a hand through his hair as the desk clerk read off the available times. "No, sorry, that's no good. It has to be a night flight. Yes, I'll wait."

He sorted through the pile of papers on his table, passports, money, travel documents, credit cards; a colorful array of past lives and present possibilities.

"A transfer in Tokyo? Perfect."

As he read off his information for the booking, he glanced over at the window, where he could just see the sea, churning under the moon. It made him think of Sherlock, the last time they were together. The moon hanging over Paris.

He hung up, and started to pack.

Kennedy, Washington

"Beautiful." Sherlock hummed, touching his cheek against the fine wood of the sitar. "Gayaki style. Teak wood, seasoned for nearly a century. Mother of pearl inlay. An extraordinary find."

"No problem, Sherlock, really." Billy smiled, rubbing the back of his head. He could tell he made the boy nervous, but that was how he liked it. Nervous didn't ask questions. "Is there anything else I can get you? Anything you might need?"

"Now that you mentioned it – yes." He turned to look at Billy, little Billy Wiggins, all of 21 years old with nowhere to go but the local venue and the bar attached to it. "I need a bullet. But it has to be made of a very dense, very particular wood, and encased in silver. Do you understand?"

"Uh…yeah, a dense wood like…pine, or something?"

He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in irritation. "No, not pine. Like Itin, Prosopis kuntzei, Ironwood, Krugiodendron ferreum, Blackwood, Dalbergia melanoxylon, also known as ebony…"

"Wait, hold on man, alright, I have to write this down."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he snapped the locks on the case to the sitar. He hated repeating himself. The whole lot of them could starve. Interacting with them was like watching a cow chew cud, so lost and ignorant they couldn't even see what they were doing to themselves much less his kind much less the entire planet. They were all going to burn, burn, and take him with them, roasting in perpetuity because they were all too stupid to –

Right. The boy was still here.

"Do you have what you need?" He asked, voice pinched.

"Yeah, but this is…really specific. What's it for? Just wondering."

He plucked at the strings, turning away. "Oh…just in case."

"In case of what?"

He turned to him and smiled, showing off his teeth.

"Vampires."

Billy laughed. "Want me to add a stake to the list too?"

He saw the boy out, giving him a larger sum than normal. His wide-eyed protestations had been genuine, however, and although humanity had long ago lost its ability to touch him with its atrocious sentiment, he felt a detached sort of pleasure that people like Billy still existed. He supposed he was fond of the boy, in a way. Happy to have someone around willing to do his errands for him, and bring him beautiful instruments to continue playing.

He stood in the doorway, watching as Billy's car left the driveway, and turned his face to the moon.

-/-

John hated flying. Really hated it.

The man sitting across the aisle had caught his finger on the lid of the can as he opened it, and soon a brilliant red was pouring from its mortal confines. John couldn't help it – he zeroed in on the source, heard its call, smelled it, could damn near taste it.

A stewardess had come back with napkins, but the cheap paper did nothing to dampen the smell, and that was the worst part. Even though he had been sure to eat before leaving Karachi, he felt hunger pangs broil in his stomach, felt the tips of his teeth detach and lower as he leaned in close to –

No.

He forced himself back into his seat, turning away and hiding his mouth, willing his teeth to behave. He was stronger than…well, himself. But it wasn't him, really, just a part of him. The part that always hungered, the part that feed into him and off of him, the darkness, the negative lifeforce. He began to tear away bits of napkin with his gloved hands, a gift from Sherlock before he had left. Their kind was particularly sensitive to touch, so insistent coverage was necessary, and Sherlock had chosen a lovely dark shade of soft leather, weather-resistant and flexible.

Just thinking about him made John feel calmer. He rested his head against the seat, closing his eyes against the bright overhead lights, glaring at him through his tinted sunglasses.

He opened his eyes, and willed himself to look at the moon. It wouldn't do if he'd made Sherlock wait all this time for nothing. Soon, they would be together. It was just a matter of patience.

-/-

The driver had just set his things down on the curb when John saw it: movement in the upper floor window; the drawing back of a curtain.

"Are you sure you can carry these all the way up?" The man asked. "They're a little heavy."

"I'll be fine." He smiled. "Thank you for your trouble."

As the car drove away he hitched his things up. Narrowing his most-prized belongings hadn't been easy, but he had wanted to travel light, so two bags it was. He had scoured through his books at his place in Karachi, pouring over every one that caught his eye in case he might want to take it, not to mention his journals, his photographs, keepsakes from other lives. It had been hard, but it was worth it. He didn't want to delay now that he'd made his mind up.

The cabin was quite nice, quite old, and nestled far back in the lush misty mountains, away from prying eyes and nosey neighbors. It looked rather simple, not like Sherlock at all, but then again, he didn't seem to mind. There was a short, sparse yard and a small raised deck with a porch swing, looking for all the world like it had been tacked on in afterthought. The house itself looked tiny, perhaps only four or five rooms in total, and painted a rusty red – dried blood, John's mind pinged – with a homey buttercream colored door. A steep, short staircase ran up the side to the top floor, and he could just make out the living room through the front windows.

The moon was bright tonight, working its way to its peak. He stopped in the middle of the yard, crunching on dead leaves. There was music playing inside, and John knew it was Sherlock's. He could tell; by now it was in his bones; he was made of it.

The yellow door opened. Sherlock stepped down off the porch and John got a good look at his husband in the flesh for the first time in years.

He hadn't changed much – a relief, all told. John's biggest worry when he was away was that Sherlock wouldn't take care of himself, would forget to eat or worse, eat something poisoned. Yet here he was, tall and lean as ever, with the same spark in his eye and the same ridiculous mop of hair.

John didn't say anything as he stepped forward. They never did when they came back together. He held out his hands, open, but not reaching, and Sherlock met him in the middle, staring down at him as he took John's gloved hands in his own. Their height difference never really bothered him, although at times he did wish he were a little taller, if not to be so imposed upon all the time by the stupid git he called his husband. When he loomed like a giant bat, that's what he had an issue with.

But he didn't care now. All the longing, the pent-up emotions, the silent, solitary nights he spent travelling with emptiness beside and in him, he felt it now. He'd missed the great idiot.

He smiled, still holding Sherlock's hands in his, caught between their chests. They were nearly nose to nose, standing alone in the blank, barren lawn, tangled in memories. It had been so long since they had touched like this, and he was remembering all the times before; Paris, New York, Vienna, Prague, Milan, Venice, London, London, London. Every caress, every kiss, every intimate whisper; all the time they had spent together, dwarfing the moments they had been apart. He could feel Sherlock's breath on his face, warm in the late summer night, and he knew it well – it was the same breath when he sighed, when he pouted, when he cried out, lost in ecstasy.

He drew away, looking up at the man he so loved, and had so missed. Wordlessly, he picked up one bag and Sherlock the other, taking them inside.

As he shut the door to the night, he looked around. They were in the living room, large and spacious, with a sunken den in the middle. To the left was a short hall with a ladder leading upwards on one side, ending in a tiny kitchen they'd never use. The rest of the room was taken up by the den, lined with instrument cases, stacks of notebooks, charts, reports, books, newspapers – anything Sherlock could get his hands on. An outdated television set was huddled on the far end, complete with rabbit ears. Sherlock had shot a smiley face into the wall immediately ahead, then spray painted over in in some kind of glittery gold paint.

"May I?" John asked, motioning to his gloves.

"Ever the model of propriety, John." Sherlock answered, and hearing his voice so clear and low sent a warm crawl to the base of his spine. He grasped John's hands in his larger ones, stripping off the leather and tossing them onto the coffee table. He lifted the newly exposed skin to his face and inhaled deeply; John couldn't help the bolt of arousal that shot through him – it was considered rude to scent another vampire, an invasion of personal decorum and conductivity. Perhaps that was the ancient chivalry in him; Sherlock had never been one for courtesy.

"My apologies, John. I know you don't much like that."

John smiled, touched at his attempt to at least play decent. "How do you know what I like?"

"Mmm…" He grinned, leaning closer. "I know what you like."

They met in the middle, a sweet kiss that made Shakespeare and Marlowe, Rumi and Whitman, bloom in his mind. The kiss of the tender, the aching, the unconstrained longing. He wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer, nearer. Sherlock took the hint – he always did – and drew his arms around him, pressing them together.

"Oh," He sighed against his husband's lips. His partner. His equal. "I missed you." He whispered.

"Three years," Sherlock mumbled back, running his hands along John's sides. "2 months, 21 days. 8 hours, 4 minutes, 20 seconds, 13 milliseconds. I didn't miss you, John. I mourned you. I ached for you."

"I know, my love. I know." They broke apart, but John kept his hands on Sherlock's skin, letting their memories wash over them both. "Have you eaten yet?"

"I was waiting for you."

John chuckled, intertwining their hands. "Look at you. You've got manners now. And they said old dogs can't learn new tricks."

-/-

After they drank, they lay together. Sherlock had always enjoyed sex after a feeding, and John wasn't one to complain; if he was rougher than normal, if John's head spun a little more, if he cried out a little louder, who was around to care? No one minded them but the moon.

The stock that he had gotten from Olympia had been strong, heady. John could never come up with the words to describe the feeling – ridiculous, seeing as he was the writer between them – but it was a very potent, very fortified fine wine, dark and rich, and going immediately to their heads. It was more than an indulgence, it was euphoric, it was life, it was everything at is purest, and it felt bloody fantastic. You could tell the weaker blood from the better ones; it felt thin and watery, less substantial, and frankly put, the high wasn't as good.

Sherlock hadn't been able to wait for his fangs to ascend – he'd leapt on him, carrying John outside and up the stairs before he'd even had a chance to put his glass down. His bedroom upstairs was dark, but John had taken the opportunity to open the curtains, spilling moonlight into the room as he lay back on the soft pillows. Sherlock had stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, naked, staring at him. If he'd been a younger man, human even, he'd have covered himself up, but there was no need between them for that. They had always known each other, from the very first.

He loved John's throat. Vampires especially had a thing for them, for good reason; it was where the skin was thinnest and the blood loudest. Hot, smooth teeth bit at him, below his ears, his chin, at his shoulders; he gave as good as he got, but Sherlock possessed an otherworldly passion for necking, leaving faint smears of dried blood along his skin, licking them up in turn and grazing against the flesh with the ends of his fangs. He loved it, and he knew John loved it too.

Their physical absence had been felt keenly on both ends. Both were eager for the night to be over, but just begun as well. John had never been with anyone else for the past five hundred years, and he knew Sherlock had never even entertained or expected the idea of anyone, much less John himself. They had a rule: feed, but no fucking. Feeding was easy, and contrary to popular human notions, vampires were fairly monogamous. Now that didn't mean that they hadn't had adventures as a team with a little outside interference, no. In his wilder youth, Sherlock had been damn near insatiable, pulling down any willing participant he could find into their bed. In a way, John missed the experimental days, but he much preferred what they had now; they'd hightailed it out of France before the first revolution anyways, sick off of boozy, sugary blood that made them sluggish and lazy, and that had been that.

Even when he was away fighting in some war or another – and there was always a war to be had – John had been faithful. Sherlock would follow him, or he wouldn't, or they might choose somewhere together, but they understood implicitly that they were a team, and there would only ever be two.

God, he'd missed this. The connectivity, the instant rejoining. They were perfect, soulmates wasn't adequate for what they shared. Sherlock would lap at his neck, kiss him, wedge his thighs open with his knee, and it was unlike anything else; no blood high, no bite, no human, would ever match him, and he knew Sherlock felt the same, even if he didn't say it. He almost wished he could still bruise, just to see those marks in the mirror the next day and try to match them with his own palm.

Strictly speaking, vampires had no need for sex. Why would they? Their form of procreation was exceedingly intimate, but clinical. It was only ever a bite, only someone inflicting it on someone else. John had never turned anyone, but he suspected that Sherlock had; only guesses, certain ways he talked about things, when he talked about them, but he was never completely certain. It didn't matter much to him. Turning was often more of a mistake than a sign of intent; when one of their kin drained a human too far but didn't want them dead, they were turned. It had gotten harder to keep making those mistakes, as more and more of them battled for resources. Humans were getting muddied, and soon it would be hard enough to find good blood, let alone blood that wasn't poisonous already.

Their kind didn't bleed unless they'd feed recently, a fact that Sherlock used to his full advantage when they were in bed. He would worry at John's neck, making nips here and there, leaving marks that never lingered, but when they were lost to it and in the haze between reason and passion, he would sink his teeth into John and John would reply in kind, working and moving together until they were reduced to their bodies and nothing more. The wounds were never serious, and John loved the feeling of a doubled intrusion, being fucked and being bitten. Sometimes they shifted it around, and he knew Sherlock enjoyed it as well, but not on the same level; he was not as enthusiastically game for it.

Usually afterwards they would fall asleep, wrapped up together. They didn't necessarily need it, but sometimes they needed a respite, a biological crutch to fall back on while they recuperated. Sex was always intense after they'd been apart; once in Amsterdam after a long separation Sherlock had nearly ripped out his neck. No harm done, and John rather considered it the hottest sex of his life as well as his death, but it was one thing to have an otherworldly orgasm and quite another to have it ripped away from you and thrown into the next universe over.

John rose quickly, closing all of the curtains before the dawn came. He crawled back into bed, laying his hands on Sherlock's face; he was already asleep or passed out, lean arms coming up to wrap around his waist. Through the points where they touched John could sense he was dreaming, about a night in Romania they had shared nearly a century ago, and something about wood, a small piece of wood. He placed a kiss at the corner of his mouth, licking away a stray dot of blood, and nestled into him, welcoming sleep as they lay together in the muted, fading moonlight.