Just a little treat for Sherlock lovers. I am in the midst of writing quite heavy Vampire Diaries fics and so I thought I'd relax and have fun with this one – this is the only Sherlock fic I have ever written so I hope I don't disappoint. Gotta get me some Cumberbatch fix while we wait for the next Sherlock two years from now;-(

I own none of the characters in the writing – they belong to the immortal memory of Sir Arthur and a couple of Geeks at the BBC whom we all know and love.

Warnings for: Vampirelock, traumatic scenes, drug use etc.

APERATIF Chapter 1

"Come on John!" Sherlock yelled as he threw his body into the next alleyway ahead, his legs moving faster than the rest of him, prompting him falling over if he wasn't careful.

His heart pounded in his chest as he pushed his body to the limit. Two days with no food for his transport were taking their toll and for the first time in weeks he understood the need for the nutrition. John had said he should eat. John was always right. It was infuriating!

The criminal ahead jumped over a wire fence, separating the alley from a back courtyard and Sherlock huffed and pushed his body on, jumping onto the wire and clawing his way up it as he struggled to keep his other senses working. The sounds of his own panting breath, his heart beat pounding in his ears and the sounds of John struggling to keep up – John's footsteps falling further and further behind as he had sped on…

He jumped off of the fence and landed hard on his feet, feeling the impact – enough to make him fall forward and land on his hands. Damn, he was getting slower these days. Perhaps he should sleep a little more often.

He looked up towards where the assailant had run and huffed. He couldn't lose this one. This guy had been dealing for Moriarty – trading cash for favours. He'd been tracking him for months, knowing that Moriarty was playing with him and dangling this guy before him like a jewel on a string. Clearly this guy was a small time player in the game and Moriarty had planted him intentionally. Why – who knew why Moriarty did what he did? He enjoyed a game – generally with Sherlock himself at the centre and the awful truth of it was that Sherlock enjoyed it every bit as much as his nemesis did.

He grinned before launching himself of the ground in pursuit, not faltering for a moment, even as he heard John call out to him from miles behind. Too slow. Sometimes John could be so slow.

He rounded a corner and crashed into a body lying on the ground before him. He fell with a gasp of surprise and landed hard onto the concrete, crushing the air out of his lungs. What the hell?! He tried to take in a breath, even though he knew it was useless. He needed to ride out the shock to his lungs, as hard as it may be.

He squeezed his eyes closed, struggling to contain his desire to immediately spring to action and stand up.

"Joh…" he tried to wheeze but lowered his head as he tried to calm his tingling lungs.

He waited impatiently until he could slowly draw in a breath that reached his chest. He opened his eyes, scanning the alleyway. He was vulnerable here, laying on the ground, struggling to clear the cobwebs in his mind. He had to stand up and get a better look. John would no doubt be on his heels and reach him soon anyway.

He looked to the body he'd tripped over and reached out to move the fabric of the jacket away and get a better look at the man's face.

Clearly male, mid-thirties, ex-athlete but had developed an addition to performance enhancers and has been disqualified. Clear signs of continued drug use and muscle atrophy as a result. No wonder he'd struggled to keep up with him!

He swept the hair away from the man's face and leaned closer to check for signs of breath, when he was thrown suddenly against the wall, his feet lifting entirely from the ground as the wall took the whole brunt of his weight. He didn't have time to yell or make any sounds really, the movements of his attacker were too quick, almost invisible.

His head was slammed to the side, turning his vision away from whoever was responsible and a cold hand, as solid as lead, held his throat there. He automatically gagged and grabbed at the invaders hand, trying to turn his head to see. The man was holding Sherlock's neck as though it were made of marshmallow and he could not move an inch.

His body kicked into defence mode and he tried to lash out and harm the spectre before him, but all the spectre did was tut at him, as though he were a child. He tried to cry out but a hand was forced against his mouth, his head to the side at such an angle as to bear his neck away from the high collar of his coat. He screamed him into the hand as he felt his throat being torn apart viscously. The sound of his cries barely reached the air as the agony of the violation built until he couldn't stand without help.

Blood spilled down the front of his famous coat and he heard sounds of an animal growling. The pain robbed him of his reason and he continued to fight and scream before the pain made him black out.

"Sherlock?" John's voice somewhere far away, muted almost.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

Sherlock grunted, fighting the urge to fall back asleep. Everything seemed murky and confusing. The more sounds and senses that began to creep back to life, the less he was sure of whether he should encourage it.

A warmth enfolded him and he felt his body lifted upwards.

Am I dying? Again?

"Pupils are responsive, but the pulse is thready and quickening. I need an I.V!"

"Sherlock, hang on you bloody git!"

"What's his name?"

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, please…"

Sherlock felt his eyes rolling back into his head and he shivered. He felt sweaty and cold and muddled. What the hell was happening? His senses were so highly attuned that right now they were a nuisance. Beeping and smells of hospital surrounded him.

"Sherlock, they're giving you a transfusion ok? I'm going to be here the whole time. Open your eyes. Please god…open your eyes for me Sherlock."

John was so worried, desperate even. Why was he so concerned? Of course he was going to open his eyes eventually, when he felt the need to. Right now the confusion and mixture of stimuli were rather intriguing and he wouldn't mind staying in this place a little longer. He felt tired – more tired than he'd ever been while hunting Moriarty's network. He'd been driven by the thought of home, of being able to come back home someday and know that the people he loved were safe.

Why had he had to run again?

"Sherlock? No…" Poor simple, empathetic John, "I need a crash team in here stat! He's going into hypovolemic shock!"

Beepers going crazy, people's voices stressing and creating havoc in his neutral space. How irritating. He exhaled deeply, wanting all the noise to stop, when he felt a huge blow to his chest. He opened his eyes, gagging and another blow followed. He grabbed at the arms of his attacker, fearing his end when he saw John struggling against him. John breathed in relief and nodded to the other doctors present.

"Easy now!" John emphasised and lay him back down onto the bed. "Relax, you're going to be ok Sherlock."

He frowned, confused but nodded and closed his eyes again. The buzzing sound of life around him faded into grey.

He awoke some time later, with his throat burning from thirst. He groaned, frowning and felt a hand upon his jaw, coaxing his head upwards at a slight angle. He allowed himself to be moved in that direction and felt a straw push against his lips. He opened them and allowed entry, sucking at the straw and relaxing instantly when he tasted the fresh cool water slide into his mouth. He drank hungrily, until he heard John's voice placating him.

He opened his eyes and blinked some double vision away.

"Hi." John smiled, searching his face intently as only a doctor could.

"What happened?" He croaked before clearing his throat.

"We almost lost you is what happened." John sighed.

"No, with the case! Moriarty's man, did he..?"

"Jesus Christ. You nearly get your head ripped off and you're first thought is for the investigation?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock studied him.

Hasn't had a shower in 2 days. Slept in a chair. Had disgusting hospital grade food for lunch and has regurgitated it back into the world again since. Hair pulling, signs of stress, worry. Blood on his shirt sleeve – my blood. Not been home since my attack, so hasn't changed. Obviously.

"How do you feel?" John touched his hand gently.

"Fine."

"Fine?" John shook his head. "You're not fine. Some animal found you in that alley and decided you were dinner."

"Animal?" He frowned and John stood up and began to examine his neck.

Until now he hadn't become aware of the aching, throbbing sensation there. That was odd. Normally all of his senses performed highly. He reached up to touch his neck and John batted his hand away, peeling back the bandage which was evidently suckered to his throat.

"Jesus." John sighed. "Can you remember what happened?"

Sherlock winced in discomfort as some of the tape pinched at his wound and John carefully sealed it back over again, looking at his pupils and discretely taking his pulse.

"No." He said, checking his mind palace for memories but there were none.

"It's not unusual with a trauma like that. You went into shock because of the blood loss and your heart stopped."

"Hmmn." Sherlock grunted. "Inconvenient."

"Inconvenient?" John huffed again and crossed his arms, looking up at the ceiling and Sherlock smirked a little.

"How many times have I told you not to charge ahead without me into the unknown Sherlock? Christ you could have been killed this time. Lestrade was right behind us, it's too dangerous for you to be…"

"Did we catch him?" Sherlock interrupted.

"What?"

"Malcolmson. Did we catch him?"

John exhaled.

"Yeah, we got him alright."

"Excellent, I need to question him as soon as possible." Sherlock tried to sit up and some alarms went off beside him.

John pressed on his chest, forcing him back down onto the bed, while turning some knobs on the machines blaring next to him, to stop the noise. Sherlock cringed and covered his ears. His senses were so raw.

"You're not going anywhere Sherlock, not this time."

"John, don't be naïve. If Moriarty is still alive out there somewhere, then this man can help me track him down! We're wasting time!"

"Enough!" John said harshly and Sherlock looked to him in surprise at his tone. "You are going to listen to me for a change."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue when John continued.

"After what you put me through for two years thinking you were dead…"

"This again." Sherlock huffed and relaxed back into the pillow behind him.

"After making me watch you die! You may not value your life Sherlock, but for god's sake..!" he bellowed, startling Sherlock into attention once again. "You will consider me! I can't go through that again, do you understand?"

Sherlock stared at his friend for a long moment as John swallowed down tears and emotion. So emotional. John always felt so much. He really had to remember that. John looked down at his feet for a few seconds and then back at him, a little more collected.

"What you did the other night was reckless and stupid. You can't go running headlong into dangerous situations anymore to get your kicks."

"My kicks?"

"Yes your kicks." John said calmly. "If you had died, what would have happened to all of us you leave behind? There would be no coming back this time, not ever. I want you to consider that before you go chasing death again."

John looked down at his feet again and Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes. John's emotions threatened his calm demeanour at times and right now he had to conserve his energy for healing so he could convince John he was well enough to resume the work. John sat down next to him, the legs of the chair scraping as he tried to push himself a little further away from the bed. Clearly he had been close enough to touch Sherlock's arm before and given the warmth of the edge of the mattress under his fingertips, John had been leaning over and holding his hand too.

"Has Lestrade gotten anything out of Malcolmson yet?" He dared to ask.

"No and I don't expect he will." John sighed and Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. "He's dead."

"Dead?" Sherlock frowned in surprise and annoyance.

"He was lying dead next to where I found you. You don't remember anything at all?"

"Dead." Sherlock whispered to himself, his eyes moving side to side as his brain kicked into gear in rapid motion.

"It doesn't make sense that there should have been an animal big enough to maul you like that and not do the same to him, unless he had the animal waiting at his command." John sat back in his chair as he considered it all.

"How was he killed?"

"Broken neck."

"Impossible. I was barely 30 seconds behind him…I...I would have heard something."

John sat forward again.

"Is it coming back to you?"

"Something…something's not…" Sherlock frowned and seemed to weaken a little.

John placed his hand on his and patted it.

"Now's not the time to strain yourself. You need to rest and then you'll figure it out."

"Nonsense John, we both know that the most imperative time to capture details is immediately after an attack!" He huffed.

"Under normal circumstances, but you almost died Sherlock. When I found you, you were barely responsive. Give it time."

"We don't have time!" He exhaled and closed his eyes, feeling the pull of sleep once more.

John leaned over to one of the tubes connected to Sherlock's arm and adjusted the morphine. In normal circumstances he wouldn't want this particular chemical painkiller prescribed to his addict friend, but his body needed the rest. He twisted it a little, upping the dosage and Sherlock's breathing became a regular pattern once more. Once his blood pressure and vitals looked better they'd deal with figuring out what had happened in the alleyway and not a minute sooner.