A/N: Ok this is something completely new for me. I write plenty of paranormal own fiction, but have never applied it to the Sherlock universe before - this will either work, or be completely dire - if it's the latter I apologise lol Writing as I go again, which means I can't guarantee when I'll update, but I'd be grateful if you give it a chance. Kudos to bulletproofsince1999 for giving me the encouragement to try this out.
Prologue
John Watson was inebriated. Drunk as a skunk, pissed as a newt, three sheets to the wind. Not quite falling down drunk, but definitely a bit unsteady on the old pins. Giggling drunk, laughing too loud drunk, dancing like an idiot drunk. Slobbering all over his date drunk, but she didn't seem to mind too much. What was her name again? Shirley, Sheryl, Sherl… Nope not going there… Shagnasty that was it! She was pissed too and was trying her best to perform a bit of dirty dancing on him but they were both a bit beyond any co-ordination. She gave up and tried thrusting her hand down the front of his jeans instead, slurring in his ear about going upstairs to find a bed to do the nasty. Sounded good, not sure the old dick was up for it, but she was enthusiastic that's for sure. House parties were never like this back in the day. He never got laid on the coat pile, or found some slutty girl to suck him off in the bathroom, but this girl… Shagnasty… she was going to do it. She was going to do him, at the grand old age of forty-something in a house full of kids barely out of their teens! He giggled, weaving through the press of pissed, sweaty students after her. She fell over on the stairs, dragging him down on top of her and wrapping her legs round his waist, skirt riding up to expose tomorrow's laundry. "Let's just do it here, no one will care," she giggled, grabbing his hand and pushing it between her legs.
"Up you come," said a dark chocolate voice, large hand clasping around his upper arm and pulling him off the girl. He resisted, wriggling in the taller man's grasp, but he was too strong. The girl had lost interest anyway, spying someone she knew across the room and wobbling away, her date forgotten. He looked up. And up and up, to the pale thin face and mass of inky curls, the full curving lips and shrewd pale eyes. And the bottom fell out of his world. "Whoa, there you go… Bit too much pop, mate? Think you need some fresh air. Come on." John's mouth worked silently, forming the name over and over that refused to become a sound. His legs threatened to give out again and he threw his arms around his friend. His perfect, dead friend. He stood on tiptoe, reaching as high as he could on jelly legs and pressed his mouth wetly against the taller man's lips. "Affectionate little thing aren't you?" his friend said, guiding him out into the dark garden and propping him up against the wall.
"I'm never letting you go Sherlock," he slurred, "never again, you hear?" He pushed off the wall, stumbling heavily into the broad wool coat covered chest. Strong arms encircled him, lifting him to his toes. He smashed his mouth against Sherlock's again and this time his friend possessively thrust his tongue between his parted lips and gripped his arse cheeks with long strong fingers.
"I don't know who the fuck this Sherlock is, man, but I think you and me should get real close. Forget the girl." He pulled John along, down to the deep shadows at the bottom of the garden. John stumbled after his friend eagerly and dropped to the lawn, letting his dearest friend press him into the grass and rub at his growing erection through his jeans. Sherlock was back, Sherlock kissed him, Sherlock was going to… Fuck no, Sherlock was dead! That's why he was here at this stupid party with the vacuous girl, getting pissed and getting laid. The anniversary. This was impossible! "Stop wriggling, man; I'm going to make you feel so good." The voice deepened to a heated growl, the full weight of his body on John's, rough hands pushing his jeans and pants down his thighs, flipping him over to lay face first in the grass, breathing in the earth. The man-who-was-not-Sherlock pinned him, hot breath searing the back of his neck, teeth clamping hard on the flesh of his shoulder. Sharp teeth, impossibly sharp. Hard fingers roughly breached his hole, no finesse or care, just agonising pain that jolted him back to his senses and forced his fight response. He kicked, bucked, rolled and yelled, until he finally blacked out from the ripping pain in his neck.