A/N: Oops, plot happened. Also, if you've not read part one, "The Most Beautiful Thing," you really, really should.

Drops of rain patter against the glass of the charming bedroom in a first floor flat in Fitzrovia, and John eyes the body of its former occupant staring up at him with distaste. It isn't that she's particularly gruesome or vile; as far as crime scenes go this one is rather boring. Had she not been lying there on the floor, pale as snow, he might have felt quite at ease in this homey room. Instead, his hackles have been raised since they walked through the front door.

Sherlock is hovering over her now, magnifying glass out, peering at the gaping wound at her thigh and making small noises every few seconds.

Lestrade stands beside John, eyes narrowed and shaking his head. "I just don't get it," he says for the fifth time. "How in the hell does a victim bleed out from a wound like that but not leave any blood behind?" He frowns and glances around the space. "Not a spec."

Somewhere behind them, Anderson is scanning the room with a UV light and grumbles, "Not for lack of trying."

"Hush," Sherlock snaps. The detective pushes a gloved finger gently against the edges of the wound, and leans in to peer closer. John has an uncomfortable urge to grab him by the collar and drag him out and away. Back home. Where he will suck bruises onto his skin and growl at anyone who so much as looks up the stairs towards their flat.

John drags his gaze away from the bloodless girl. He has one or two ideas of how such a thing could occur. He clears his throat and shuffles in an attempt appear baffled. "She must have been killed somewhere else."

"Her landlord said she hadn't left the house in two days."

John shrugs. "He must have been mistaken."

"Nope," Sherlock says. He rises to his feet and stares at the vic, Liz Danfield, 31, and frowns. "She was definitely murdered here."

"Then how– "

"I'm not..." Sherlock begins but hesitates, as if pained. He pops his mini-glass shut and shoves it in his pocket. "You've checked the pipes?"

"Anderson's team are checking now."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and glares at Anderson's back. "They've been here for hours. How long does it take to check the pipes beneath a bath?"

Anderson sighs, as if genuinely apologetic, and meets Sherlock's eyes. Since their little heart-to-heart, the pair tolerate each other much better now, but it seems as if they will forever be not quite on the same level.

"They're trying as quickly as they can. The building is on the registry as historic, so a licensed plumber needs to– "

"Yes, yes," Sherlock flaps at him and turns towards Lestrade. "Text me if they find any trace of blood." He then turns to John and looks into his eyes for a beat. "Taxi," he murmurs, then steps around him and out the room.

John is on his heels a heartbeat later. There isn't a chance in hell that Sherlock is getting more than a foot away from him until they're well away from this place. As they exit the front door, John's nostrils flare at the scent left behind on the jamb, and he wrinkles his nose. He has half a mind to swipe his palm over it, but that would be inciting trouble. He instead runs his palm over Sherlock's back, and then up briefly to his neck. His partner turns with a questioning glance, but John simply gives him a tight-lipped smile and subtly escorts him to the kerb.

They are in a taxi and back home within 15 minutes.

Sherlock watches him constantly.

Has had for a few days now. Ever since John's little confession. As predicted, his detective has indeed mulled over this supposed revelation, and as predicted hasn't taken it quite as seriously as he meant it. But, that was supposed to happen. John thinks that with the arrival of this new case Sherlock will forget it entirely, and John will go back to quietly keeping his desires at bay. He has enjoyed indulging it, though, while it's fresh on Sherlock's mind. Letting his stares linger, significantly. Letting his dark self peer out more frequently. Just enough to catch Sherlock's surprise. As if he'd forgotten, then gets a glimpse and is reminded again.

'I want to kill you.'

Sherlock, adorable thing, has been switching between confusion and playfulness at John's admission. John reckons he thinks it's a game. Perhaps a bit of roleplay between them. Of course, Sherlock is not familiar with such intimate games, and pairing it with this sort of dark subject matter, well, it has the detective thoroughly out of his comfort zone. But, bless him, he's embracing it. John is almost sorry to let him think it a game.

Well, he reasons, for now it probably is. John has no intention of killing him quite yet. There are still many discussions to have and layers to get through, first.

Including this new case.

From the moment they'd left the scene, to the time they'd walked into their sitting room, John has kept a hand on him at all times. When Sherlock sheds his coat, he reluctantly releases him and goes to sit in his chair. His thoughts are back on the crime scene. Or, more specifically, her killer and how much he does not want Sherlock working this case.

He's been sitting there, ruminating, for more than a bit when he registers a shift of air. Sherlock is beside him, staring down with a furrowed brow.

"You're being awfully quiet."

John blinks and then softens his expression immediately. "Isn't that usually my line?"

Sherlock tilts his chin and hums.

John shrugs. "Well, you usually demand silence at the start of a case, anyway."

Sherlock's eyes dart to the kitchen and back. "No tea."

John feels the back of his neck heat. Ah. Break in routine.

Sherlock settles into his own chair and steeples those long fingers before his lovely lips. John holds perfectly still. Is perfectly amiable.

"No tea," Sherlock murmurs again. "That crime scene bothered you. Why? It's hardly the strangest one we've worked."

John chuckles, flexing his left hand. "Isn't that the truth?" He abruptly stands and heads for the kitchen. "If it's tea you wanted, all you had to do was say," he calls over his shoulder.

He flits about the kitchen, feeling eyes on the back of his neck the entire time. This he ignores, hoping that Sherlock will veer back onto the case and leave off pestering John. He hopes this will happen, but knows it won't. John sighs as he stirs Sherlock's cuppa. He definitely is not ready to have this conversation. He knows what killed that girl, just as he knows he needs to cover for it. And when he finds whoever it was that was foolish enough to leave her exposed, he'll kill them, too.

Besides, if there is a rogue vampire out there, killing irresponsibly, he won't allow them to live while his beloved does. Too risky.

Waiting any longer will only peak Sherlock's curiosity, so John sighs and returns to the sitting room with their mugs. It isn't blood, but John does truly love a good cup of tea. Vampire though he is, he was born English, after all.

He crosses the room, noting the pale eyes following him, and pauses between the long legs spread out halfway to his own chair. Sherlock stares up at him. John arches a playful brow.

"Your majesty," he smirks, setting the mug down beside him with a soft thump.

Sherlock's eyes flick to the tea and back. He removes his fingers a few centimetres from his mouth. "No, thank you."

John's lips thin and he frowns. "Do not waste perfectly good tea. Drink it." He turns away and carefully seats himself across from his prat of a lover, and glares.

Distraction.

John takes a delicate sip, savours the lovely pop of spice and bergamot, and settles in. "Right. Why do you think she was murdered there if there's no blood."

Sherlock's eyes narrow at him briefly, but then he takes in a huge lungful of air and noisily releases it. His arms flop to the rests framing him, and he throws his head back, all at the same time. John smothers a grin. Such a drama queen.

"The scuff marks, the boot prints, the carpet fibres under her nails, her sheets."

John takes another sip and nods. Barring the fibres, he'd noted the same things. More than anything though, the awful scent of her killer and the obvious fact that she'd been completely exsanguinated, through the thigh and immaturely covered, gave it away. That and the scent of sex. John knows how it happened, but he's curious as to what excuse Sherlock has created.

"Okay," he says. "So... yeah, I'm not getting it. Take me through it."

Sherlock raises his head, limbs outstretched like a starfish. "How do you think it happened?"

John snorts.

Sherlock sits up a fraction straighter. "I'm serious. I'd like your medical opinion."

John takes a moment for his tea. "Well, I didn't get to examine the body, did I? I couldn't reliably say."

Sherlock frowns. John's eyes go wide.

"Because someone stalked off the scene before I could have a look!"

Sherlock groans and drops his head back. "Fetishist."

John lets the heat of the mug seep through his palms and waits. A stirring of dread twists in his gut. He clears his throat. "Fetish?"

Sherlock nods, then audibly winces. He sits back up, rubbing his neck. "You can't have missed that she was drained of blood, and there were teeth marks at her femoral artery, which was the only wound visible on her body."

"You didn't even check her back. You can't know that."

Sherlock fluffs his hair and huffs. "No bruising or blood evident on her sides, near her back."

John opens his mouth to argue but Sherlock holds up a palm.

"The only physical trauma was at her thigh, and there were sloppily covered human teeth marks at the site. Someone drained her, very carefully, probably with some sort of medical equipment, and then acted upon his fetishised desires and bit the wound he'd inflicted at her artery. Possibly he ingested a small quantity of blood, and then ejaculated over her corpse either directly after or during." He looks up. "Semen on the floor between and on her thighs."

John feels his slowly beating heart pulse excitedly and he licks his lips. Sherlock's deep voice is inciting images that make John's teeth ache. "Is that so."

Sherlock blinks at the deepness of his voice and he slowly nods. "This isn't his first kill, most likely. It was too neat." He shakes his head. "No, the means of exsanguination was neat - the actual kill was not. He's moderately inexperienced, but practised enough not to leave behind much evidence."

'No shit.'

Sherlock's right leg begins to jiggle, and his fingers tap against the armrests. John sets his mug down and resists the urge to straddle him and suck at his neck. All that manic energy flowing through him... he is nearly irresistible. And all this talk of blood? John will most certainly have to go hunting later tonight.

John twists in his chair, subtly adjusting himself, and watches Sherlock's leg bob up and down.

"Laptop," Sherlock says. Or, rather demands.

"It's right beside you, get it yourself."

"John," Sherlock whines.

"Jesus," John breathes, but nevertheless rocks up to fetch the computer. "You're a lazy sod." He drops the thing unceremoniously into Sherlock's lap, who clucks his tongue in affront. John smacks his thigh and settles back into his chair.

While Sherlock's nimble fingers are typing, John drinks his tea. He thinks about how quickly Sherlock accepted the theory of exsanguination with blood play fetishing. The man has no idea just how close he is to the truth, though. John runs a finger along his lips, dead giveaway, that, and thinks of how to redirect Sherlock's attention.

"We," Sherlock says, interrupting his thoughts, "are going clubbing tonight, John." He sets aside the laptop, and John stares, nonplussed.

"Come again."

Sherlock smirks. "I'm not repeating myself."

"Yes you are. We're in our 40s– " Sherlock scoffs, offended, "or pushing them in your case, and we don't dance." John's neck prickles with uncomfortable awareness. He suspects he knows precisely where this is leading, and it is nothing good.

Sherlock's lids lower, he pouts his lips and sinuously rises from his chair. John's cock gives another interested twitch, and he watches as Sherlock slowly minces his way towards John's chair. He huffs in surprise when he suddenly gets a lapful of sinfully writhing detective.

"What was it you were saying?" Sherlock bats his eyelashes, the little tart, and rubs his lips against John's jaw. "Something about not being desirable enough to be in a club?" Sherlock rolls his hips down onto John's thickening erection.

"Okay, point made," John grits out. He slides his hands down to grip Sherlock's hips, keeping him exactly where he is, and thrusts up. Sherlock bites his lip with a wicked smirk.

John's brows raise. "You're actually serious."

Sherlock wets his lips and mouths at John's ear. His sweet, hot breath rolls across his skin, and John shivers at the scent of him, of his neck so close to his mouth. He bites his tongue because he knows where Sherlock wants them to go. God. John is going to get them into trouble. Well, no, Sherlock is going to get them into trouble, which will, in turn, lead to John getting them into trouble.

"There's a very specific club. It caters to..." Sherlock drags his mouth from John's ear and lingers above the pulse in his neck while John squeezes two handfuls of plush arse and grinds up into him. "...the type of clientele who fetishise the drinking..." Sherlock licks a stripe up John's neck, "of blood."

John immediately buries his face into his lover's neck and tastes his own blood from biting clear through his tongue. He moans and rocks up into Sherlock's pelvis. The heady combination of blood and Sherlock's scent is doing amazing things to his head.

"God, John," Sherlock breathes. His eyes are dilated, leaving only a thin ring of blue-grey, and John immediately decides he's going to fuck him right in this chair. If they're going to the vamp club, John is going to have his madman absolutely covered in his scent. There will be no confusing who he belongs to.

"Trousers, off," John says. This is not a request.

"Case..." Sherlock protests half-heartedly, but his hands are already going to his belt. Fuck Sherlock's rules; they're going to break them this time.

"You heard me," John rumbles. He jerks the hem of Sherlock's fancy shirt out of his trousers, and groans at the flash of pale skin. "If I'm going to have," he rubs his straining cock along the underside of Sherlock's thigh, "a bunch of blood-obsessed crazies making eyes at you," Sherlock gasps as John runs his nails down over his clothed chest, "then I'm going fuck you just to make sure you remember who you belong to."

Sherlock whines and scrabbles at the buttons of his dress shirt, flinging it off behind him. John dips into his pants and pulls out his fully-erect cock. His mouth waters over how much he'd love to suck that down right now, but he suspects they don't have time. This is going to be quick and dirty. It's going to be perfect. Sherlock works John's shirt off, arching his neck while John kisses and (lightly) bites at his throat. He does some sort of contortionist act, and then his pants and trousers are sailing across the room. John lifts his hips then to allow Sherlock to tug his own trousers off, but skips the pants, opting instead to pull his dick out over the band.

"You were going to fuck me?" he asks, half-choked on his own words. His lips are getting redder, puffier, and he dives in for another kiss. John opens wide for him, latching onto his tongue and sucking it deep into his mouth. Sherlock moans and clutches at his shoulders, pumping his hips and rubbing his erection against John's stomach.

"Oh, I'm gonna fuck you all right. But first," John grabs Sherlock hand and slides it back behind him. Over the curve of that insanely gorgeous arse. "You're gonna finger yourself open." Sherlock's throat bobs in a swallow and he pants against John's lips. "And you'd better do it quickly because I won't wait very long."

Sherlock nods obediently and fishes into side of the cushion for a small bottle of lube. He wastes no time flicking it open, and moans at the feel of his fingers breeching himself. John gnaws on that lovely jaw, nips his way back down Sherlock's perfect throat. His cock is already leaking and leaving trails against Sherlock's chest where it's bent low while deft fingers work himself open.

"Good boy," John whispers, laving his tongue over Sherlock's frantic pulse. He slides a hand round Sherlock's bum to feel how many fingers he's got stuffed inside his arse, and groans to feel two slipping and sliding past that tight rim. He slips one in alongside the others, and Sherlock breathes out a deep sigh, slowly taking the extra digit deep inside.

"Oh god, fuck, do it. I'm ready," he pants.

"Yeah," John soothes, reaches between them to line his cock up. His fat head circles Sherlock's rim, teasing for a moment before sinking in. He pushes and pushes, barely giving his lover any time to adjust. His eyes roll at the feel of Sherlock's fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders. He hopes it bruises. Sherlock is never nearly rough enough with him, but he knows they'll get there.

"Fuck you feel so good," John says between clenched teeth. He reaches a hand up to pull Sherlock in by the back of his neck and smashes their lips together. A velvet-y tongue snakes in and John shivers at the taste of his mouth, his tongue moving in time with his cock sliding into sweet, tight, heat. Sherlock's arse deserves to have poetry written about it.

Sherlock arches his back and rolls his hips down, up, and circles when John bottoms out. He's a fucking porno when he gets this worked up, and John feels a fierce stab of pride at ticking his boxes in a few short minutes. A nice, little energetic fuck to make him sore, and sated, and claimed. Speaking of.

John releases his mouth and nudges his face aside with his nose to get at his throat again. He latches on, pulling a circle of creamy flesh into the heat of his mouth, and he sucks. He sucks, and bites, and licks, and he swears he can just taste the slightest metallic tang at the blood that rushes up to quickly purple his skin. He chose a spot that will be visible above the collars he never buttons anyway, because he'll be damned if anyone, groupie or vampire, will have any excuse to touch. what. isn't. theirs.

Sherlock cries out when John gives a particularly sharp thrust, and John reaches down to take his cock in hand.

"You want to come, sweetheart?" he says, delighting in the way Sherlock shivers at the sound of his voice. Sherlock's face is a wreck: his cheeks are flushed, there's a sheen of sweat John is itching to lick away, his mouth is wet and puffy from where his teeth are chewing on his lower lip. He nods and lifts up only to slam back down onto John's cock and moan with abandon.

"Please," he pleads, voice low and hoarse, "yes, wanna, John, ohhh..."

John's cock pulses with the lust his darling boy draws out of him. His head spins with the scent and cloud of mating pheremones his beloved shrouds him in. He brings his free hand back between Sherlock's cheeks, feels along to the point where he's sliding in and out that tight arse. His fingers massage around the rim that is full of his cock, and Sherlock jerks with ecstasy. With his other hand, he squeezes Sherlock's prick, sliding a tight circle up and down his length. Sherlock shudders and cries again.

"Gonna- oh John, ohhhh fuck!"

John feels his lover's cock thicken just before he comes, curling over to brace his forehead against John's shoulder as his come spurts over John's fingers, and John finally gives in and pounds into the clenching body above that's milking him for every drop.

Sherlock is shivering with the force of his sudden orgasm, and John groans from his toes as he spills himself deep inside that luscious heat. Sherlock falls limply against him, breath and heart racing, and John reaches both hands now to collect the semen dripping from Sherlock's quivering arse. When he deems he's got enough, he smoothly rubs it into the skin of his lover, his claim's, sweat-slicked back.

Sherlock, still getting his breath back, squirms. "Did you just..."

"Quiet," John breaths, nipping Sherlock's poor, abused neck again. He rubs his seed, his scent, completely into Sherlock's skin, runs his fingers lightly over it, feeling rather proud of himself. Primal. His Other, dark self purrs in delight. John presses kisses to his lover's jaw. He smiles when Sherlock twitches with an aftershock, and then rakes his nails abruptly down Sherlock's back, growling with pleasure when Sherlock arches up and squeals in surprise. His wide eyes blink down at John, and John leans forward to kiss his collarbones.

"Just a reminder."

"Of what? That I'm a scratching post?"

John, whose hand is still wrapped around Sherlock's dick, pointedly looks down and back. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy it."

"I... " he pants, but trails off. He wipes his brow at the sweat gathering there. Blushes further. Oh, how John loves him.

"I know," John whispers. He stretches his neck to softly kiss Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock lets himself sink back into John. They hold each other, enjoying the afterglow of a really solid quickie. Seriously, five stars, that. Far too soon, Sherlock shakes his head and awkwardly untangles his giraffe limbs to get to his feet.

He winces and rubs a hand on his arse. He gives John a pointed look, and gingerly makes his way to their room to change.

John chuckles to himself, then hears the bathroom door shut and sits up in alarm. He twists around to shout down the hall. "Don't you dare wash that off, Sherlock!"

Sherlock pokes his dishevelled head around the door. "John, that's disgusting!"

"I will hold you down and do it again. You watch me!"

Sherlock groans the groan of the severely oppressed but stomps his way to their bedroom all the same.

"Fine!" he yells. "But if we get any funny looks– " he slams the door.

John smirks to himself and quietly says, "I'll deal with them."

He stretches back with a satisfied sigh. Rubs his hands over his belly, smearing Sherlock's come into his own skin and flexes his toes. His lazy gaze finally lands on the mug of tea Sherlock had abandoned when he'd started to tease. John tisks.

"He wasted it anyway. That bastard."

A/N: I think this bit will be multi-chaptered. With porn.

Thank you to all comments and encouragement! Both are appreciated. :)