When Laura woke again, she was briefly disoriented of dreams of an angel of death. As she blinked away the last bits of her drowsiness, her new reality came back, and she quickly sat up. Even though the guest bedroom was completely dark, she could see perfectly. She could hear movement in the apartment, and the occasional voice. To her surprise and distress, she could feel that she was hungry, but every thought of the blood packet and the disgusting, thick blood that had filled her mouth made her nauseous. She felt weaker, almost the same as when she'd first been admitted to the hospital for her leukemia; Laura felt shaky, and dizzy. For a moment, she stayed upright in bed, trying to get used to cataloging and sensing so many things at once before John's words came back to her. He'd said that if she needed anything or felt sick that she should go and find them.

To her dismay, she felt a slight, anxious need to know where Sherlock was above her need for food. She would be happy if she never saw the man again, and yet she couldn't help but worry about him. He had said that he was her sire, and that he was her protector, and she'd initially scoffed at the idea. But now? Now she needed to see him, even though she could smell him in the living area of the apartment. Sliding off the bed, Laura took a deeper breath in when she detected John's scent. It was fresher than she would have expected, and after a moment she noticed that the dresser had been used while she was asleep. Curious, she went over to it and pulled open one of the drawers to find clothing. In the time that she'd been asleep, Sherlock had gotten her clothes (she could smell it now that the drawer was open) and John had come and put them in her room.

Suddenly embarrassed by the fact that she was still wearing a hospital gown that reeked of death and blood, she changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and then stepped out of the guest bedroom cautiously. The apartment was her new home, and yet she felt like she was at a police station or in a principal's office. Laura found her way to the kitchen, where John was putting away blood packets into what looked like a small oven. Sherlock was seated in the living area, eyes hidden by his microscope. "Hey, I see you found the- Laura, are you alright?" John cut himself off halfway through his train of thought. To him, Laura looked as sick as she had before her transformation, which was not a good sign. Sherlock's head snapped up from his microscope at his remark as Laura shrugged at John, sliding onto one of the barstools that were clustered around the kitchen island. Being in Sherlock's presence and seeing her sire had helped her to relax somewhat, but she still felt dizzy.

"I-I'm hungry, but every time I think about blood, I-," Laura stopped talking, shaking her head at the very idea of drinking blood.

"Sherlock and I thought about that while you were asleep. The blood we gave you wasn't bad, but it wasn't super either. We thought that maybe if you tried something a bit more pure you'd like it better." John explained, opening the oven again and picking out, to her great surprise, a normal looking thermos. He set it down on the island within her reach, but didn't push it on her, much to her relief. "Some vampires are picky eaters," John added as she hesitantly reached for it. Laura unscrewed the cap, holding her breath when the stench hit her. Before she could stop it, she instantly compared the scent to that of menstrual blood and she nearly pressed a hand to her mouth to fight down her gag reflex. Despite her obvious aversion to it, she knew that she had to try. Building up her nerve, she quickly pinched her nose and took a sip, hastily setting the thermos back down as far away from her as possible. As soon as the blood went down she couldn't stop herself from clamping a hand over her mouth, convinced that she was about to upchuck all over the kitchen island. John hastily capped the thermos and put it back into the oven, shooting Sherlock the same look she'd seen before.

"What's wrong with me? Vampires are supposed to drink blood and I can't do it; I can see that look on your face." She blurted out, wiping her lips clean with the back of her hand. John threw Sherlock another meaningful look before her sire sighed, getting up and coming into the kitchen.

"It happens very rarely, but when the victim of a vampire bite is so against the idea of the transformation they sometimes alter the process. They are still by definition a vampire; they were dead and were reborn, but they cannot find sustenance in human blood." Sherlock explained dully, leaning against the cabinets and looking at the floor instead of at her.

"So am I going to die?" Laura asked, trying to decide if she was pleased or horrified by this development. Dying would give her what she'd wanted all along, but she couldn't imagine dying peacefully as a vampire, not after all the pain she'd been through to become one.

"No, no; you won't starve to death. There are alternatives that these vampires, the Hambre, use to eat. Some prefer animal blood, and some even can use normal, human foods." John was quick to reassure her, and Laura tried to squash her brief disappointment. John opened the oven again and came back with a different thermos. Laura stared at it for a moment, trying to wrap her mind around the idea that she was already a defective vampire before she unscrewed the cap. The animal blood inside had a different odor, one that smelled literally like dead and decaying animals.

"No; I can't." Laura didn't even bother trying to drink from it- she simply screwed the cap back on and was grateful when John put it back.

"Well, that just leaves human food. I hope pizza is okay; I haven't had to shop for human food in a long time." John said apologetically, going over to a small refrigerator she hadn't even noticed, pulling out a Tupperware container full of cold pizza. She opened it cautiously, still prepared for disgusting smells. To her delight, the smell of tomatoes and mozzarella nearly made her close her eyes in relief. Slightly intimidated by the half curious, half jealous gazes of Sherlock and John, she took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "Good?" John asked almost suspiciously as she took another bite, relaxing as her cramping stomach started to get the food it desperately wanted.

"Yes, thank god," Laura replied, half under her breath as she polished off the slice and reached for another. "Why are they called the Hambre?" She asked after eating her fill in uncomfortable silence. Sherlock let out an angry sounding snort, which John ignored, shooting her a kind smile.

"Vampires that can't drink human blood are called Hambre because you don't feel the lust for blood that Sherlock and I do; all you feel is normal, human hunger. A newborn vampire like you should be angry and ferocious in its quest for blood, but you are just very, very hungry. Hambre vampires are different than the general kind." John ended with a glare at Sherlock as her sire started to pace angrily across the kitchen, expression as dark as a thundercloud.

"Don't sugar-coat it, John. Hambre are seen as weak, as a mar upon the race of vampires. They and their sires are perceived as cripples and failures." Sherlock snapped, voice low and harsh.

"Oh, so sorry that I make you look like a failure; that must be such a hardship for you. How selfish I've been, being upset about how I was murdered." The words poured out of Laura before she could stop them as some of that ferocious anger John mentioned suddenly filled her up until she was shaking with the force of it.

"That is not what I meant; only that you will be seen as an easy target." Sherlock said almost absentmindedly as he continued to pace. His complete disregard for Laura made her so angry that she punched the granite counter of the kitchen island with all of her strength in a rash, furious motion. She ended up punching right through it and through the plywood beneath. The horrid screech her skin made against the stone was enough to stop Sherlock in his tracks.

"Don't talk about me like that! I'm not some sort of-of disobedient pet or lost suitcase; I can't believe you are choosing to focus on how much of a bloody inconvenience I'll be to you instead of the fact that I'm still a person." Laura had wanted each word to be angry and malicious, but she only sounded sad. Her rage had died once she'd ruined their kitchen island, and her hand and knuckles were throbbing a bit from her moment of rage. She felt the horrible urge to cry, and probably would have been if she wasn't a vampire. Without another word, she turned and walked shakily back to the guest bedroom, closing the door behind her. Laura curled back up onto the bed, holding her aching fist in her free hand. After a moment, she sensed Sherlock leaving the apartment- it must have been nighttime again. John respected her privacy for a few minutes before knocking and entering.

"Laura, I know that your hand hurts. If you come back to the kitchen, I can make it better." He offered, and then left, leaving the door ajar. Only when Laura was sure that her expression would be flat did she go back out to the living area. The sight of the wrecked kitchen island made her wince a bit; she'd never lost her temper like that, and the sight of it was yet another reminder that her humanity was gone. John was doing something on a small gas range, and once he moved out of the way, Laura was delighted to see that he had a small kettle on to boil. He dug around the kitchen, and a few minutes later he was presenting her with a plate of biscuits and a mug of earl grey tea. He watched her with a sad expression as she soaked one of the biscuits in the tea before biting into it.

"Don't pity me; it only makes it worse." She managed after a full minute of John's morose expression. To her surprise, he shook his head vehemently.

"I don't- well, no. I do pity you; I won't lie about that. I'm just reminiscing. I miss tea and biscuits." He said wistfully, and Laura instantly felt a pang of regret. John had shown her nothing but kindness, and she had treated him horribly for it. To be fair, she was not even a day into her new, terrifying life, but that didn't mean that John deserved to be treated like shit. If anyone deserved that, it was Sherlock or even the mysterious Moriarty.

"I'm sorry," she apologized after a minute, once again wishing she could cry to vent off some steam.

"Don't be. You have every right to be like this. I thought Sherlock had finally stopped being reckless, but I guess not." John sighed, sitting on the other side of the kitchen island, avoiding the hole. "Can I see your hand?" he requested, and Laura extended it, surprised to see a black bruise forming on her now glaringly white skin. As John gently looked it over, she realized that he'd known her new sire for a long, long time, and that she trusted him enough to ask questions.

"You've known Sherlock for so long," She started, taking a sip of tea to hide her face as John glanced up at her. As she set the mug back down, she felt her words evaporate; she had no idea what to ask, or where to start. John let out a rueful chuckle, letting go of her hand.

"I really have. And yes, he's always been an insufferable bastard. His mind was built like a machine; so was his brother's. They've always gotten along poorly with other people. Mycroft is just a cold-hearted snob, and he keeps his emotions in check to continue to be the most brilliant and ruthless politician the world has ever known. Sherlock, on the other hand, has the opposite problem- he cares too much. He's got a heart bigger than mine, if you can believe it. Every time he's let that heart feel, it's gotten him in trouble and caused him pain, and so he acts just like his brother to try and keep himself safe. He claims that emotions just clog up his Mind Palace, but he's full of shit." John said with a hint of affection, tracing the hole Laura had made in the countertop. Laura considered what John had said for a moment, flexing her sore fist.

She couldn't believe it, but she was starting to sympathize with Sherlock. She could tell that he hadn't been lying when he said that he hadn't had any intentions on using her when he got to Moriarty Hospital, and she had seen the kindness in him that had offered her a quick, painless death. The truest comfort she'd felt in the past 24 hours, even with John being so kind to her, had come in Sherlock's arms after she'd been burned by the sun. Laura even understood John when he said that Sherlock hid his heart; he'd admitted it openly to her, and she'd somehow been brave enough to comment on it. The only thing she didn't get was why Sherlock had been so concerned with the fact that she was Hambre. A man with a big heart and an intelligent mind like Sherlock Holmes would have his reasons for being so upset, reasons she didn't understand.

"John…why was Sherlock so mad that I'm different?" She asked softly, slowly breaking a biscuit in two to avoid look at John. She felt absurdly like an unloved child that had been put off by an indifferent parent, and that she was now spilling every worried thought in her head to some other guardian.

"He's not mad at you." John said after a moment to gather his thoughts. "Really, he's not." He added, sensing that Laura didn't agree with him. "He's mad at himself for having to turn you. He's mad that he was careless enough to cause so much suffering in a person. If you were a 'normal' vampire, one that hadn't resisted the change so strongly, he might not feel completely overwhelmed by his guilt, but you aren't. Knowing that he utterly betrayed you is something he can barely live with." John gripped the edges of the bent granite in the hole and gave a brief, hard tug, managing to bend it back in the right direction. "He's also very scared, even though he won't admit it. I'm a bit scared myself." John added, pushing on the granite next to smooth it out the best he could. Each action was effortless, as if John was folding a newspaper instead of fixing granite with his bare hands.

"Why? You're both old and experienced and strong." Laura blurted out, and John grimaced.

"Well, there's a couple of reasons. I've never sired a vampire and until now, neither had Sherlock. Being a sire, as I'm sure you've noticed, is kind of like being a parent, and if you aren't ready for that kind of thing it can start off messy." John started, giving the granite one last push. It wasn't completely smooth, but there was no longer a gaping hole. "Also, as Sherlock failed to explain, vampiric society is very…political. There are a lot of social rules, and the older the vampire, the more judgment he seems to dole out to others. Sherlock has just made a very powerful enemy out of Moriarty, and everyone will know by now that he broke in to his property. The smarter, more powerful ones will know that he was forced to sire; Moriarty will have passed that information around to his allies."

"So he's afraid that someone is going to come and pick him off now because they think he's weak for siring an Hambre?" Laura asked, and John shook his head.

"No, Sherlock is afraid they will come to pick you off. A vampire can gain popularity and social power by killing a vampire's children. As a sire, he feels duty bound to protect you, and the idea that other people see you as an easy target makes him worry. He could care less that people will see him as a 'bad parent' because you have a light scar and are Hambre." John corrected firmly, and Laura took a sip of tea, pressing her bruised knuckles against the hot porcelain, relishing the heat.

"If I'm such an easy target, why bother protecting me?" Laura asked, and John twitched, as if hurt by her words.

"Laura, I am not your sire, but trust me when I say that you are worth protecting and that you are not an easy target. Vampires only get stronger with age, and yet you managed to punch through solid granite at not even a day old. Just because you are 'vegan' compared to an 'omnivore' doesn't make you weak." John said quietly, reaching across the island to grasp her free hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Despite the pity he still obviously felt for her, Laura felt a rush of gratefulness. She could tell that John had such a gentle nature that he couldn't help but pity her, but now she didn't mind it as much. If he hadn't been nice enough to answer all of her questions and explain her situation to her, she would be completely alone. John wasn't even compelled to protect her like Sherlock was, he wasn't her sire, and yet he still obviously cared.

"Thank you," She whispered, squeezing his hand back. Before he could reply, the door opened and Sherlock appeared at the top of the steps, looking irritated. Laura hastily let go of John as a vampire appeared behind him, expression smug. He was almost as tall as Sherlock, with gingery hair and a hawk-like nose. His black eyes and speed gave him away as a vampire, and she could tell by scent that this was Mycroft, Sherlock's brother. In an instant, thanks to John's advice, she knew why he was here. If Sherlock felt unsure of her safety, he would enlist the help of other, powerful vampires. Sherlock shed his coat in tight, angry movements and threw it on the nearest couch, telling her that he hated his brother quite a bit; he wouldn't even look at Mycroft as the vampire stepped in, removing his coat calmly and hanging it up.

Sherlock leaned against the cabinets once more, but kept his eyes fixed on his brother instead of the floor in a challenging stare. Every inch of his body language was a warning to his sibling, which Laura noted with increasing apprehension. Did Sherlock expect Mycroft to be a threat? "Laura, is it? My name is Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft introduced himself smugly, offering a hand for her to shake. As soon as she shook his hand, he twisted their grips so that he could examine her knuckles. "Hmm," he noted, his eyes traveling from the black bruise to the fixed granite. He took in the tea and biscuits with a displeased frown, as if the presence of human food made him as sick as blood made Laura.

"Nice to meet you," Laura managed, pulling out of his grip, already uncomfortable. She turned to face John again and Mycroft let out a disappointed sigh. Seconds later, a cold hand was suddenly gripping her chin, making her gasp, but Mycroft's grip was firm.

"Really, Sherlock? Less than twenty four hours in to being a sire and your child is already Hambre, bruised, and bears a light scar?" Mycroft noted loftily, increasing his grip when Laura went to pull away.

"Let go of her, Mycroft." The voice that came out of Sherlock was so cold and furious that Mycroft let go more out of surprise than anything else, and Laura turned to look at Sherlock with equal surprise once freed. Her sire appeared to be literally bristling, as if he was holding himself back from attacking Mycroft.

"And the bond is strong; of course it is," Mycroft drawled, pulling out a bar stool and sitting next to Laura, utterly indifferent to her now that he'd met her. She wasn't his to be concerned of, and was now just another mess of Sherlock's to clean up.

"I did not invite you into my home to threaten my child and antagonize me. It is bad enough that I require your help; do not make this more repugnant than it has to be." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. Mycroft briefly raised his hands in mock surrender, ignoring the dirty look John sent him.

"Only my most trusted children know that you are now a sire, and will keep the information secret for as long as possible. It appears that Moriarty has only told his own children, with orders not to share the news until he deems it the best moment for his plans. I will have your apartment put under surveillance, and I will monitor Moriarty's children and associates. If any plans form, I will inform you at once." Mycroft said, tone now very serious. "While you still have time, I suggest that you train her in our ways and prepare her for the road that lies ahead. If she is smart, dangerous and loyal, Moriarty will have a harder time picking the both of you off, and public opinion of your child will be much higher." Mycroft continued, turning to analyze Laura with an intense stare. For some odd reason, Laura felt a rush of defiance, and she turned to meet Mycroft's stare with a hard look of her own. After a minute of staring each other down, Mycroft looked away first, face utterly indifferent.

"Does Agrippa know?" John asked, and Sherlock made a noise that sounded like a hiss.

"Agrippa has not contacted me, and if she has not contacted you then she is waiting for you to make the first, appropriate move, Sherlock. You did not ask her permission to become a sire, but if you can win her favor your child will be much more protected. If you manage not to screw this up, as you have everything else, you will have much better chances at defeating Moriarty." Mycroft said loftily, and Sherlock let out a growl, turning to pace, tugging a hand through his curls in frustration. "And you," Mycroft continued, turning to look at Laura. "You know nothing of the world you have been reborn into, and if you want to live to attempt to understand it, you will do as your sire and John say. You could very well destroy my brother with your ignorance and stupidity if you do not police yourself." Mycroft said threateningly, looking pointedly at the patched granite.

"Get out. I won't have you talking to her that way." Sherlock had moved so fast it looked as if he had teleported to the door. He opened it wide in an impatient, angry gesture. For a moment, Mycroft looked at him with a type of bombastic disappointment before he stood, donned his coat, and left. Sherlock slammed the door behind him and resumed his pacing. Laura watched him with wary curiosity. He had rushed to her defense twice, and wholeheartedly, which was a complete turn-around from his comments earlier.

"You should finish those biscuits, Laura. They'll help the bruise fade; the more you eat, the quicker you'll heal." John said quietly, and Laura nibbled on the edge of one to satisfy him more than to heal herself. Her mind was buzzing with questions and concerns thanks to the conversation with Mycroft, and she had more pressing concerns than her bruised knuckles. "For god's sake, Sherlock," John interjected after Sherlock had been pacing in silence for a few more minutes, "if you don't pull yourself together and explain what just happened and what will be happening to your child you'll kill us all." John's voice was unexpectedly harsh, and it pulled Sherlock out of his pacing. With one final tug more on his curls, Sherlock stopped and pulled up a barstool next to John and sat down across from Laura.

"I am sure that John has answered quite a few of your questions already, and I am sorry that I was not here to answer them myself. I will be as patient as I am capable of; ask any questions you have." Sherlock said in what sounded to Laura like a forced calm. Taken aback by his openness, it took Laura a moment to decide which question she wanted to have answered first.

"Who is Agrippa?" she asked, and Sherlock's face morphed into a scowl.