Once again, I should be writing the last two or three chapters of All is Fair, but what the hey. The idea for this second edition wasn't leaving me alone, and I had at least one person interested in seeing more, so here it is and maybe now I'll be able to sleep at night. For point of reference, this story is set somewhere between A Scandal in Belgravia and The Hounds of Baskerville, while this chapter is occurring about a month after the first one. Future drabble-things may be posted as plot bunnies warrant. Expect blood and Johnlock.

Sherlock was on the computer when John told him he was going out. John liked to do that on days when the detective was being especially difficult. Sherlock had set the curtains on fire that afternoon while conducting a flame test on a piece of magnesium, and though John had merely looked at the scorched fabric and sighed, the detective rather got the impression that that might have had something to do with the doctor's need for a good pint at the pub.

Sherlock was still on the computer an hour later. In the middle of counting the screen's pixels, it occurred to him to wonder when John would be home. He could feel, through the strength of their Imprint, John becoming lightly intoxicated. Well, at least he was enjoying himself.

Sherlock was just getting up from the computer, carrying his tea mug, when his head felt suddenly cleaved in two by an ear-splitting migraine. He collapsed back onto the couch, the mug sliding through his surprised fingers. The detective could see it falling, had actually calculated its trajectory, but though he knew how to position his hands to catch it, a wave of nausea spun his consciousness counterclockwise and Sherlock found himself incapable of exercising meaningful control over his limbs. He missed the handle. The cup dropped, landing on the couch exactly where he had predicted it would, and all the tea came spilling out.

A minute passed.

The bizarre dizzy spell dispersed somewhat.

Rubbing his forehead vigorously, and trying to determine what could possibly have evoked such a reaction, Sherlock glared at the wet spot now spread across the settee. That was John's seat, and he was going to be even less happy with the detective when he got back and saw the mess.

Taking a deep breath and finding himself recovered, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and removed the offending cup from where it was now sitting on its side. Retrieving the paper towels from behind the pickled liver in the kitchen cabinet, he made a vague attempt at sopping up the cold liquid. John would expect it of him. Actually, John would expect it of anyone else, but not of Sherlock. Perhaps the detective could surprise him pleasantly for a change with his efforts, although he knew full well that the doctor would prefer his flatmate not have spilled the tea at all. The thought brought a small smile to Sherlock's lips. Surprising John was simultaneously far too easy and exceptionally difficult.

It was possibly that very juxtaposition that drew him so strongly to the human man. John was, on the surface, absurdly predictable. He wore the same jumpers every day, swapped trainers for dress shoes when he had a date (or more recently when he and Sherlock went to dinner), and never took sugar with his tea. And yet, at the same time, the quiet doctor wasn't afraid hardly of anything, could manage a crack shot with a revolver under duress, and consistently found the detective's deductive powers a source of amazement instead of annoyance or fear.

It was the complexity of it that had caught Sherlock's initial attention, and his persistent inability to solve the underlying pattern that had retained it. Indeed, every time he thought he had the man figured out, John did something else that surprised him. It took a lot to surprise Sherlock Holmes.

The detective gave the laptop a petulant shove and dropped with the grace of an aggravated feline onto the sofa. He was particularly vexed, so rather than bring his fingertips together under his chin as he so often did, he rolled over and buried his face in the crevice where the sofa's arm merged into its back.

What was wrong with him?

Vampyres do not get sick in the same manner as humans. They can be hurt or even killed in most of the usual mortal ways, but their altered biology prevents them catching cold. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had had influenza - in point of fact, it was a memory he'd deleted. That being said, he was well aware that he shouldn't be getting dizzy for no reason, and now on top of it all, he could feel a headache building in his temples. The consulting detective nestled himself further into the cushions. He would just take a nap until John got home.

In all probability, it was the last thought regarding the doctor that did it. One moment, everything was the peaceful black of sleep, and the next, everything was a riotous blaze of confused sound and color. When the dream solidified, Sherlock found himself standing in a locker room; idly, he noted that it was the locker room at the pool where Carl Powers had died. Truth be told, this was not his most engaging nightmare. He had relived the incident at the pool a hundred times in his dreams, and here he was again. With a mental sigh, Sherlock stepped out the door onto the pool deck.

He waited.

That was odd.

Usually in these dreams John would have walked out by now.

There was a noise from inside the other locker room, the one which John was supposed to walk out of wrapped in an overcoat filled with Semtex. Apparently, this dream had decided to deviate from memory a little earlier than usual. Sherlock pressed his hand against the door; to his consternation, it went straight through what appeared to be solid wood. Abandoning the logic of physics, the detective stepped through the closed door and took in the sight on the other side.

John was sitting on a bench, leaning back against an orange locker. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his hands were zip-tied together in front of him, and he was whispering, mantra-like under his breath, "Sherlock, for the love of God, please help". The raven-haired man felt his breath catch in his chest - something about this dream was all wrong.

"Oh, Johnny-dear, I'm home," called an unpleasantly familiar voice. Moriarty's sing-song tones echoed sinisterly off the concrete walls and the doctor's hands tightened into fists. Then John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, and the detective sat bolt-upright on his couch in Baker Street, panting.

For a moment, there was absolute silence of the most anticipatory nature. That was before Sherlock stood and muttered, "Buggering Imprint," as he headed to the door to grab his coat.

It was perfectly obvious what had happened, Sherlock reflected during the twenty minute taxi car ride to the pool. John had been returning home from the pub. He'd been ambushed and then drugged - that was the nauseous moment Sherlock had had, when the detective's Imprint told him what had occurred before his mind had any conscious understanding of it - and now he was having visions of his partner being held captive by Moriarty. Sherlock felt his grip on John's gun (hastily retrieved from the desk drawer) tighten.

How could he have been such an idiot? John never stayed that late at the pub, hadn't been gone so long since his last date with a vapid receptionist. Of course this would happen, Sherlock berated himself. He made it a point to always follow John, whether the doctor was aware of it or not, ever since the last time they had met the consulting criminal at the pool. John had been out on his own then, and he was out on his own tonight. Last time, they'd very nearly both been killed. Hopefully his lapse tonight wouldn't finish the job.

The cab pulled over to the curb next to the dark natatorium, and the cabbie turned around in his seat.

"The fare is eight pounds fifty," he said uncertainly, "but you do know this place is closed, right?"

"Mmm, I know," Sherlock said, handing the man his fare. "I'm just meeting a friend here."

He stepped out of the car and allowed the taxi to disappear down the next corner before he jumped the fence into the pool lot. John was okay, he told himself. He would know if he wasn't. The door to the locker room was locked, a problem that took the detective less than thirty seconds with a bent paperclip to rectify.

Inside, deep shadows cloaked most of the room, lit as it was only by the dimmest of after-hours maintenance light. There was almost without question the corpse of an unsuspecting janitor stashed away somewhere. Drawing back a plastic shower curtain, Sherlock looked down at the body stuffed perfunctorily in the small stall, still dripping wetly from a bullet wound to the head. Ah. There he was.

This locker bank was entirely devoid of life. The only sound was the soft gurgle of water running through the metal pipes. So far, his vision seemed to hold out with the facts - lack of a murder weapon rather indicated that the janitor hasn't just shot himself in the shower, so someone was there. Then again, the odds of his having "just a dream" had always been slim. It was not unheard for vampyres to have perfectly innocuous dreams, but it was also not an everyday occurrence. Sherlock had nightmares, and if he didn't have nightmares, then he had visions. He'd learned to ignore them a long time ago, and perhaps the only noticeable effect was his dodging a bullet on a case that someone else might not have thought to duck away from. This was the first time that the extrasensory information was cued in to someone else. It could only be a result of his Imprint.

John was going to be pissed. Sherlock was late again.

The detective stepped out of the locker room and into the pool area itself, raising the Browning's to chest level. Still, there was no sign of anyone, human or otherwise. There was, however, the almost inaudible sound of voices coming from inside the second locker room. Thus far, the vision was two for two. The detective pressed himself against the door, listening intently.

"- do you want?" John was asking, his voice almost too steady.

"Me?" Sherlock could just imagine Moriarty's expression of wounded pride. "Does Uncle Jim need a reason to pay little Johnny a visit?"

"Most people would have one," said John. "But then, I guess you're not 'most people'. Is this about Sherlock again?"

Moriarty chuckled. "Very good. He's managed to teach you something, I see. But then, what's a pet that can't do a few tricks?"

"Why am I here? You're not going do the thing with the Semtex again, are you? Because that's getting a little old."

"Oh, John," Moriarty sighed. "Has anyone ever informed you that bravery is really just a euphemism for stupidity?"

"Yeah, Mycroft said something about that once, actually," the doctor replied.

The criminal mastermind scoffed. "Do not talk to me about Mycroft. He isn't any fun at all. I'd say he needs to get laid, but that's really too disturbing an image, even for me. No, I wanted to talk to Sherlock. I got bored."

Mentally, Sherlock could envision John raising his shoulders. "You could have called him. I mean, you have his number. You've got my number, too. There was no need to kidnap me. Again. It's getting a bit cliché, isn't it? This? The pool?"

"Call it a repeating motif," Moriarty grinned. "As it happens, I was planning to call the pretty-boy detective. I was worried, though. I thought he might not come play. He loves playing with you, you see, so I just had to extend you my invitation first."

"Thanks," said the doctor, a hint of sarcasm entering his voice, "but I think I'll have to decline. I'm going to miss the Doctor Who reruns if you keep me here any longer."

"Mmm, sorry, Johnny-boy," Moriarty said, his phone beeping as he plugged something into it. "That wasn't really a request. Let's give him a call, shall we?"

There was a final beep, and then Sherlock kicked the door open even as his phone started to ring in his pocket.

"Evening," he said softly.

John looked shell-shocked. Even Jim Moriarty looked momentarily surprised.

"Well, well," the criminal mastermind said, canceling the call. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to play," Sherlock said, shrugging as he stepped into the dingy locker room. "I believe that was rather the point?"

"Yeah, duh." Moriarty stepped out of the shadows, crossing his arms over his chest. The fluorescent light was enough to illuminate the scarlet tattoos wrapped over his face, like sanguine spiderwebs. The crescent Mark on his forehead was similarly blood-red. "You've sort of ruined the fun, though," he continued. "I mean, I can't hardly lead you on a wild goose chase around London if you're already here, can I?"

"Sorry," Sherlock replied with a smirk. "I just really don't have time for that. So I'll be taking John and leaving, if you don't mind."

"And if I do mind?"

Sherlock just cocked the pistol by way of answer.

"Ah ah ah," Moriarty tutted. "No so fast, there. You might, er, regret it."

"How do you mean?" The detective's eyes slid between the criminal and his friend, who was regarding him still with some measure of startled disbelief. Apparently, the doctor hadn't believed he could exert pressure on their psychic link, no matter what his biology professor told him was true.

"It's just that, you see, shooting me would have consequences." Moriarty rolled up his sleeve, revealing a small black piece of equipment strapped to his wrist like a watch. "This is a signal jammer," he explained. "There are two hundred kilograms of C-4 in the next room, and another device trying to set it off. The jammer is the only thing keeping this place from exploding like an egg in a microwave. Naturally, it's attuned to my DNA and my pulse. Stop my pulse and stop the jamming signal. I'd be dead, but then, so would you."

"I told you," John said from behind him. "The bomber thing. It's getting to be overdone."

Moriarty did not look remotely troubled by this criticism. "Overdone? Perhaps. And yet, it remains astonishingly effective, wouldn't you agree?" He smiled, snake-like, at Sherlock. "So, the only question now is what to play."

"I hope you're not about to make some chess metaphor," the detective sighed.

"Now who's being cliché?" Moriarty winked and pulled John by the collar. "On your feet, Johnny-boy." Turning back to Sherlock, he added, "Your move."

Sherlock pocketed the Browning's, watching the criminal mastermind through slitted eyes. "How about we leave John out of this? He's not the one you're actually after, here."

Moriarty shook his head. "Bad move, dear. You're supposed to act uninterested in his welfare, remember? Otherwise I'm just reminded of the fact that so long as I have him, I have you."

The detective laughed mirthlessly. "And if I appeared 'uninterested', you'd hurt him anyway to see if the indifference was genuine. You'll have to try harder than that."

A snicker twisted Moriarty's lips. "Not bad. But you've already lost, you see? It's one thing to shag him, but to actually have affection for the good doctor? Caring is a characteristic of the losing side. You want me to prove it?" He pulled John closer with his left hand and withdrew a penknife from his pocket with his right. Holding the razor-thin blade to John's throat, he grinned at Sherlock. "Nice concealer," he said conversationally. "It must be strong, to hide what you are from everyone. Tell me, does your pet know? Or did you hide that from him, too?"

Sherlock's mouth was set in a grim line, but he answered readily enough. "John knows exactly what I am. And we all know what you are."

"Prove it," Moriarty hissed.

The detective glanced at the knife, assessing the way it was being held and where, before reaching over for an abandoned pool towel. His eyes never left his opponent's face as he wiped off the makeup. When he finished, he lifted a single eyebrow. "Well?" he asked.

If anything, Moriarty's grin widened. "So you did tell him," he breathed. "And he didn't leave you? That's commitment." He seemed to consider this for a moment, tilting his head curiously. "But I bet you want to know what he tastes like, don't you? You can't not, living with him day after day. How do you restrain yourself? Better yet, why do you? Goodness knows I never bother."

Sherlock's smirk was beginning to look somewhat forced as he answered, "And therein lies the reason that I'll be the one to put an end to you."

Moriarty laughed that off easily. "No you won't." He ran the edge of the knife down the length of John's neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

The detective could see in his friend's stance John's absolute determination not to flinch, and felt in some impartial corner of his mind palace his own fury boiling over, but Sherlock brushed that aside. Neither he nor John could afford him allowing emotion to warp his judgement. The only way out for either of them was Sherlock remaining calm and, above all else, logical.

As scarlet liquid began dripping in earnest from the cut, several things happened in unison: the smell of fresh blood ripped through the air like a gunshot, Sherlock felt a stinging pain in his own neck and a simultaneous rush of desire, and Moriarty took a deep breath of the air. Immediately, his expression turned from triumph to sly calculation.

"His blood smells wrong," the consulting criminal informed the detective. "Have you noticed?"

"I wouldn't have any idea," Sherlock replied coolly.

"No, it does," Moriarty insisted. "It smells like - Oh. Oh no." He started to laugh. "You did not."

"Didn't what?" the detective asked sullenly.

"You did!" exclaimed Moriarty through gales of laughter. "You Imprinted on Johnny-boy! Oh dear, we have been bad. What'd you do, push him up against the wall and have at it? I know I wouldn't mind -"

"Stop it," Sherlock growled.

"Oh, we are touchy. Does it bother you if I do this?" He ran a finger across John's neck, catching a drop of blood, and licked the red liquid from his thumb.

"Sherlock..." John began, the edge of anxiety in his voice.

"It's okay, John," Sherlock assured him, but felt his own features draining of what little color they possessed.

Moriarty wrapped his fingers around the doctor's waist and pulled him to his chest.

"You know what comes next, don't you?" the madman asked, his eyes never once leaving Sherlock's face.

"I believe you said something to the effect of 'burning the heart out of me'," supplied the detective, "but I suppose I expected a bit... more."

"Oh, there will be more," Moriarty informed him. "Consider this the pre-show, not even my opening act." Then without further ado, he plunged his teeth into John's neck.

For all of thirty seconds, Sherlock watched his flatmate struggle. He could feel his friend's mingled pain and terror, felt his heart flutter as he began to lose blood. Then the organic chemicals started to filter into John's bloodstream, and the doctor slumped back against Moriarty in a drug-induced faint.

Sherlock stood stock-still as waves of his friend's carnal desire - for someone else - washed over him, but his sharp, analytic mind picked it apart. Everything about it was biochemistry. There wasn't, anywhere in John's psyche, an emotional reaction that wasn't painted by disgust or by loathing.

That, more than anything, settled Sherlock. He raised the revolver to the height of Moriarty's mid-thigh. The problem with people, he decided, was that they always assumed you were shooting to kill. The consulting criminal did not even notice. He was getting a little too grabby for Sherlock's tastes as well. That would have to stop.

The detective cocked the gun. His finger was actually on the trigger when he felt a sudden wrench in his gut. The weapon slipped in his hand. What was happening?

In the millisecond before it happened, Sherlock figured it out. Moriarty had drank too much of John's blood, enough that all of the enzymes which altered the composition of his blood and marked him as Sherlock's had been drained. Their Imprint was breaking.

The millisecond passed, and time stretched the borders of reality again, not because the detective's rate of conscious processing surpassed it, but because the moment their psychic link shattered, Sherlock felt his world implode on itself. The pain of it had to be psychosomatic, but that didn't stop it lighting up every nerve in his body like wildfire. His head rolled back on his shoulders and his knees buckled. It seemed like he ought to have screamed, but he had forgotten how to make sound. John's gun clattered from trembling fingers onto the waterproofed floor.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Moriarty let John collapse to the ground with a soft thud and quiet snap. He gave the detective a grin that bordered on serpentine.

"Well," he began, "that was fun. Have to do it again sometime. This is entirely your fault, you know. You should keep better track of your pets."

Sherlock's reply, had he been in any condition to formulate one, would have been scathing, but he was interrupted by a fist driving itself into the criminal mastermind's jawbone.

John stood, breathing heavily, over the body of his captor. Possibly his right hook would have been less effective had not the back of Moriarty's skull come into sharp contact with a metal pool bench.

"Bastard," John muttered, pressing his hand to his neck.

"John?" Sherlock choked out, tasting bile in his throat. "How did you...?"

"You're not the only one allowed to be clever," the doctor smiled wryly. "Zip ties - not actually that hard to break, provided that you tighten them first and then bring your wrists down hard on something. Moriarty let go of me, so I snapped it over my knee. Not bad, for a 'pet'." This last was uttered somewhat more bitterly than Sherlock would have liked to hear, so he gestured weakly at himself.

"A little help -?" was all he had to say before John was at his side, pulling him to his feet and holding him close.

"The Imprint broke," the doctor observed.

"I'd noticed," said the detective faintly.

"It hurt you."

"Yes."

"I won't let Moriarty hurt either of us again. Ever."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked in a smile. "Quit making promises you can't keep and phone Lestrade. We're still standing in a building full of C-4, remember."

Hastily, John fired off a text to the detective inspector, and Sherlock dug through the contents of his coat pockets until he found a tube of concealer. In ten minutes, the place was abuzz with police officers. Half the LPD must have come out to ensure Moriarty's successful arrest. Lestrade took the story from John as Sherlock fended off paramedics trying to wrap him in a shock blanket.

"Go give him one," he said, gesturing brusquely at his flatmate. "I didn't even get hurt."

One of the doctors looked at him oddly. "It was Dr. Watson who told us that you might need it."

The detective turned to stare at John, who gave him a small wink even as he explained how after kidnapping him, Moriarty had cut him up a bit for laughs. Lestrade was grim-faced by the end of the (somewhat edited) retelling, and assured John that Moriarty was being transferred to the highest-security prison London had at its disposal.

It was well past midnight by the time the pair of flatmates stumbled into 221B.

"Good God," John groaned. "You're never going to let me go out on my own again, are you?"

"Nope," Sherlock answered shortly, hanging his coat on the hook.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to stock up on vodka the next time I go for groceries."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, sidling up behind John and wrapping his arms around the doctor's middle. He pressed his lips against John's shoulder, and then it was John who was sighing in contentment. The blonde man turned around in his partner's embrace and kissed Sherlock soundly, loving the feel of the man's soft mouth moving against his own. The detective walked him slowly backwards until the back of John's legs ran into the sofa seat, at which point the doctor barely hesitated before collapsing onto the cushions and pulling Sherlock onto his lap.

"Are you," the raven-haired man asked between kisses, "sure you want this?"

John ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, catching his fingers on jet curls.

"I think I answered that question once already."

The doctor and detective had steered clear of serious intimacy ever since they Imprinted the previous month; that wasn't to say that they didn't snog each other senseless, because they did. There had even been a few evenings where jumpers and button-down shirts had been abandoned on the carpet. The fact of the matter was simply that John was generally too shy to take things any further than that. Sherlock was now quickly drawing the conclusion that John had gotten over his nerves, if the hand sliding suggestively down his back was any indicator. The detective was in the midst of testing this hypothesis, subtly adjusting their position on the couch so that he could pin John down on the seat, when the doctor whispered, "Bite me."

Sherlock tensed. "What?"

"Bite me," John repeated. "Please."

"We don't have to do this," the detective said, feeling his stomach clench. "If the only time you want me is when you're drugged on vampyre venom, then really, it's probably better if we -"

"Shut up." John grabbed Sherlock by the chin, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. "That is not what this is about," he said seriously. "Whether you bite me or not, I'm going to bugger you through this bloody sofa."

Sherlock smirked a little bit at that. "Is that so? Because last I checked, I was the one sitting on -"

"I thought I said to shut up?" John's tone brooked no argument, but there was a playful light in his eyes and he ran his thumb over the detective's lips. "Now," he said in that no-nonsense voice that all doctors come to possess. "My request is really a very logical one. For one thing, it is entirely possible that Moriarty was able to force an Imprint of his own on me earlier this evening, in which case he knows where I am and what I'm doing. At the moment, that's embarrassing. At other times? That could be the death of either of us. The most sure way to break an Imprint is to create one with a different person, am I right?" Sherlock didn't answer, but there was a change in his expression that suggested he wasn't unimpressed with John's argument. "Furthermore," the doctor continued, his grip on the detective becoming tighter as he shivered, "I can still feel his touch on me everywhere. Get rid of it. I am yours, and no-one else's, Moriarty's least of all."

Sherlock leaned forward, covering John's mouth with his own. After a leisurely moment, he pulled back enough to murmur, "You would choose to follow the sensible line of reasoning with an emotional one."

Raising an eyebrow, the doctor hooked his fingers through the detective's belt loops and pulled him even closer.

"Still think caring is a disadvantage?" he asked, speaking in the sort of timbre that said "people who don't care don't get to do this".

Sherlock grinned, his expression only describable as wicked as he less-than-gently lowered John to lay across the settee, pinning the doctor's good shoulder in place.

"Caring may not be an advantage," he said, settling himself so he wouldn't crush his partner, "but I'm beginning to think it may not be a disadvantage, either."

One hand he pressed against John's chest, monitoring the doctor's pulse, and the other he threaded through short blonde hair. Though harder to see in the dim light, there was on John's neck a reddish patch of raised skin set along a thin, scabbed line where earlier a penknife had run its length. Sherlock's lips brushed over the inflammation, noting John's imperceptible shudder as the doctor erased the phantom sensation of Moriarty's caress from his memory. A lightning spark of anger ran down the detective's spine. Moriarty could do as he pleased, save one thing - John was his. More accurately, he was John's. No criminal mastermind, however clever, was permitted to take any part of it.

Sherlock pressed a line of kisses down the exposed skin, letting the doctor relax into it. John was lazily plying the hem of the detective's trousers, so he plainly was not too distressed by his present vulnerability. At such close quarters, Sherlock's heightened senses could actually detect the scent of John's blood rushing through his carotid arteries. There was something off about it, a distinctly metallic tang that shouldn't have been there running in undercurrent. The detective's spark of displeasure fanned itself into a concentrated flame, like a blowtorch, hell-bent on eradicating every last reminder of Moriarty's assault on his Consort.

Both Sherlock and John were too absorbed respectively in their thoughts and the happy haze of comfortable arousal to notice when the vampyre detective's teeth grazed his flatmate's throat. It was only in the split second when enamel pierced flesh that John started and Sherlock discovered he'd just been taken over by pure instinct.

John waited for a rush of fear to take him over - if Sherlock wasn't careful, John could bleed out and die in a matter of minutes. Surely, the doctor asked himself, it wasn't possible for him remain completely relaxed when someone - even the man he found he loved - was draining the lifeblood from a primary artery in his neck? A moment later, he decided that it apparently was. Sherlock Holmes had nothing but his complete and absolute trust. Melting into the couch, John felt the last vestiges of the evening's poison seep out of him, in both the literal and figurative interpretations of the expression.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was putting John's dearth of resistance to good use, angling his face to fit in the crook between neck and shoulder, letting hot liquid flow over his tongue, sweeter and more volatile than Scotch, or nicotine, or cocaine. In spite of the kaleidoscope of competing desires devastating his senses, the detective kept himself composed. He had to know exactly what he was doing, or else he could kill John without even trying. The human body holds approximately four quarts of blood. Getting a pint drawn for the local blood bank left most people feeling woozy. According to Sherlock's calculations, he was nearly halfway to that point already.

The metallic taste had all but disappeared, and the detective was quite sure that the sixth sense he tended to ignore had heard something intangible snap moments before. Whatever hold Moriarty had managed to get over John was most assuredly broken. That in mind, the detective gave himself to controlled abandon, allowing him to draw more forcefully on John's system, renewing the ancient contract that informed those who Knew what to look for that John was Taken, and that anyone who tried some taking of their own would suffer the most painful consequences the detective's immaculate imagination could invent. With a sound that was not so much heard as felt, Sherlock sensed an Imprint blaze back into life, stronger and more impermeable than ever. It seemed that John too felt a difference, for he smiled into the detective's hair.

"Now that's more like it," he said. The doctor's was voice turning ragged, a fact which was not just a result of blood loss.

With a single motion, Sherlock closed the bite mark - for all that it was still visible, it may as well have never been there.

"What was that about you buggering me through the sofa?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John through heavily lidded eyes.

Between their ribcages, the detective felt his partner's heart rate pick up ever so slightly, and the hands around his hips suddenly made Sherlock very aware of where they were.

"Did you want something?" John asked, sounding amused.

Sherlock rolled to the side, pulling John on top of him in the same motion.

"I thought I was supposed to be the one with the smart-ass comments," he half growled, perfectly conscious that the part of John that was a physician was reading the same signs of piqued interest in the detective that Sherlock could see written all over his flatmate.

John began pulling at the buttons of the detective's shirt, moving with teasing slowness, until Sherlock ripped the fabric out of his hands and finished the job himself, throwing the red button-down unceremoniously on the floor.

"Bit keen, are we?" John asked.

"Too right."

Sherlock slid his hands under the doctor's sweater, drawing the knit garment up and over John's head, but rather than slide the sleeves off his arms, the detective quickly wrapped the jumper around behind his back, trapping John's wrists. The detective slid back over the other man's lap.

"I told you I was on top," he said smugly.

"Good luck with that," John replied.

"Hmm?"

Next thing he knew, Sherlock was pinioned again underneath the ex-army doctor.

"That jumper doesn't have buttons on the sleeves," John informed him tartly. "It's a little hard to tie someone up in a shirt that slips off."

Sherlock almost managed to argue with that assessment. Then John's hand came to rest rather close to the detective's inner thigh and a protestation transmuted into a strangled inarticulation.

It sounded something like "Nrghh".

Later, when they were laying, spent, in a sticky pile on the couch, Sherlock chuckled lightly.

"What?" John asked, turning his head by a fraction of a degree to look at his flatmate.

"I was just thinking," Sherlock smiled, "that this makes my mess with the tea look like nothing."

John's brow creased. "What tea?"

The detective blinked. "Who said anything about tea? And what was that in my email about a giant ghost-dog?"