John Watson had been dying (although not literally) to donate blood since he was eleven, and the prospect of finally being able to excited him no end. Blood donation for an O+ blood type was quite common, but John was the only boy in his age group willing to go ahead with it, earning several reproachful stares from his classmates when he volunteered. Harry, his sister, was frankly shocked that "young, precious Johnny" would partake in a blood donation, even though she herself had given blood the year before. And fainted in the process, an unfortunate side-effect of mass amounts of blood-taking. John had been prepared thoroughly, though, and he was expecting the possible black out.
So, there he sat, knees bunched tightly together, playing with a hole in his jeans, fiddling with the piece of cotton that hung loosely from it. Harry was watching him with a smirk on her face, obviously seeing the nervous side to her younger brother.
"You scared, Johnny?" she whispered to him, leaning in close.
"No!" he hissed back, possibly too quickly.
He really was nervous. This had always been his goal in life, to donate blood, and now he was faced with it... John suppressed a shiver. Harry grinned evilly.
"Watson?" a soft, female voice rang through the room where John was waiting, and he glanced at the door where donors walked through.
"That's me." he called, his nerves making his voice crumble.
"Through here, if you please." the woman who had apparently been speaking stepped through the door, gesturing at John.
"C-coming!" John cursed his vocal chords for expressing his nervousness.
John stood up, noticing that his knees were wobbling. He walked as boldly as he could, refusing to look at his softly cackling sister. The open door looked so big and... scary.
OoOoO
The door led into a short corridor, which ran into a small room, in which the woman was stood, along with a tall, black-haired man, dressed in a long, blue-black coat. He was a vampire. Anyone could see that, an imbecile could see that, John could see that. A famous vampire, at that. Lord Sherlock Holmes, commander of the third encampment, where John lived, with his family and friends. Holmes should've been in the first encampment with the other vampires, not in a blood don- oh.
Holmes held out a hand, "Mr Watson. My name is Sher-"
"I know who you are, sir." John interrupted, instantly regretting his disrespect.
"Good. Today, your blood shall be extracted, and drunk, by me." Holmes smirked at the blond boy, who cowered under the vampire's steely gaze.
"By... you? Lord of third camp? Why me? I'm just a common human, who is essentially a child. Why me? Is my blood exceptional? Do I taste good?" John's excited/nervous babbling seemed to overwhelm the vampire, whose eyes widened with surprise.
"Hush, boy." he barked out the simple command, his powerful voice reverberating through the room.
John felt the wave of power run through him, and he shivered, falling silent.
"Sorry, sir." he bowed his head, staring at his feet. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot.
"Not at all," Holmes smiled gently, his eyes flicking over John's face, roaming over his body. John felt like he was undergoing a test, "Prepare yourself, um..." he gestured towards the nurse, who pulled John over to the small, white chair, pushing him into it with more force than was needed.
"Your sleeve." her voice was flat and cold.
John rolled the sleeve of his beloved oatmeal-coloured jumper up until it came to his elbow, and relaxed in the chair, closing his eyes. He'd already had his blood tested for diseases, lack of white blood cells and so on, and he was a perfect specimen.
He felt the nurse attach the cuff, felt the pressure of the inflation, then the sharp, yet short prick of the needle. It was a peculiar sensation, as the blood was slowly pumped out of the vein, a sort of tingling. He counted the minutes as they passed.
One, two, three...
He could hear soft breathing.
Four, five, six...
A warm breath on his face.
Seven, eight, nine...
He started to feel woozy.
Ten, eleven, twelve...
He opened his eyes.
Holmes was stood in front of him, very close, his piercing silver eyes darting between John's blue ones, and the needle stuck in John's arm. His face was expressing stress, and his mouth was ajar, tongue darting out to wet his lips. John couldn't tear his gaze away from Holmes' perfect, perfect face. Holmes stared back at him, his eyes wide, breathing ragged. John's heart was pounding in his chest, and it was hardly helping, what with the blood loss and all.
A jolt of pain in his arm. John yelped, and then realized that the needle had been removed. Pressure on the wound. He stood up, too quick, far too quick, and the world spun. A steadying hand on his arm, holding him upright. John turned his gaze left, and there was Holmes, his face coated in a gentle sheen of sweat, his lips damp, eyes sparkling. John stared straight into those divine, glistening orbs in the centre of Holmes' unearthly face, and his world went dark.
OoOoO
John would wake up, four minutes later, to find himself drooped over a sofa, in an empty room. Holmes would be gone, and so would the blood. The pretty, yet cold, nurse would be gone too, and his family would have just been informed that the blood donation was complete.
Harry would rush in, and laugh at John because he'd fainted, and they'd proceed to have a verbal battle, ending in Harry leaving the room in a strop. John's mother would sit and stroke John's hair, before going after her daughter.
John would be left alone, again, and he would be left thinking about the vampire who had ever made such a huge first impression on him, and been seemingly interested in the common, disinteresting boy, his left forefinger rubbing the needle wound softly.
He would return home, to the third camp, lie on his bed, stare at the ceiling, and notice that his shoulder was aching. He would pull his jumper off, then his shirt, and look at himself in the mirror. There, in the centre of his shoulder, would be a pink circle of teeth marks, that had a trail of dried blood coming from it. John would gasp, and his mind would flick to Holmes. He would lie back down on his bed, and drift off into a heavy sleep, his dreams invaded by the silver pair of eyes that belonged to Lord Sherlock Holmes, the only man, or vampire, who had ever tasted John Watson's blood.
His dreams were good.