A/N: Another chapter, at last! But first; I am so sorry about the formatting of the last chapter! I don't know what happened - but I think it may have something to do with the fact that I'm using a rubbish Microsoft Works program instead of Word, as my laptop needs updating. It's all fixed now - my humblest apologies!

And thank you to 'y' my anonymous reviewer for pointing out the problem!

Disclaimer: Still don't own, and after this chapter you'll probably be glad I don't…

If John had been expecting to open his eyes to something, it wasn't the faces of two guards, Sherlock, and Doctor Foster staring down at him like he'd just surfaced from the dead.

Then again - he supposed he had.

For some reason this thought was inexplicably funny, so he laughed, and once he'd started it was difficult to stop. One look at the confusion on their faces was enough to set him off again. He laughed until tears were rolling down his cheeks, and still he carried on. It got to the point where normally he'd have been forced to stop from pain in his sides, but now he could feel no such pain. He wondered briefly if it was the euphoria of being alive that made the pain stop - or if he just wouldn't feel it any more. He didn't really care.

He barely noticed when Mycroft came in, the man's presence registering only in a small corner of his mind; but as he came closer John could feel a change in himself. An unwelcome feeling in the pit of his stomach, a harsh undercurrent to the laughter. And suddenly he didn't want to be laughing anymore, and he didn't want to be anywhere near the man now walking so casually over to him - umbrella still in hand.

The laughing stopped as suddenly as it had started, and John focussed his remaining energy on trying to pull away from the leather straps around his wrists and ankles, wondering slightly at the burn that hovered at the edge of his skin - something in the leather. He missed the moment when the two guards faces disappeared, only to be replaced by Mycroft looming over him. And that's when he realised what it was in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't fear; oh no.

It was a challenge.

Mycroft had let his human disguise slip, and his eyes burned in his skull like hot coals. John could practically feel the heat radiating from them. His teeth were drawn and sharp, and the image of imaginary blood coating them too strong for John to dispel from his mind. He barely noticed his own body was reacting until the point of his new teeth made an uncomfortable new pressure against his bottom lip. He didn't need to be told to know that his eyes were burning red as well.

From the position he was in he knew that there was no way he'd possibly be able to win this battle of wills, but that didn't stop his new instincts from retaliating anyway. As soon as Mycroft reached a hand towards him he drew back into the table, then hissed.

It wasn't the hiss you'd expect from a cornered cat, this was more like a viper, willing and ready to strike. He had almost shocked himself that such a noise would come from his own mouth. Mycroft barely reacted though, merely withdrew his hand, and John realised seconds too late that he had played right into Mycroft's hand. He knew the man was just trying to test him; new reflexes probably, but he couldn't help the anger that swept through him. It was stronger than anything he'd ever felt before; stronger even than the anger he'd felt at Harry for slowly killing herself with alcohol, stronger than the anger he'd felt at Moriarty for putting him into a bomb vest, for threatening Sherlock.

He refused to be manipulated.

So when Mycroft smiled that infernal bland grin, he yanked his right arm upwards with all the energy he could muster, feeling the satisfaction as the bind holding it snapped. He relished the look of shock and fear on Mycroft's face as said fist went lunging towards him. It was an amazing feeling - knowing you'd outwitted your opponent, knowing you'd caused such fear.

It didn't last long of course, he hadn't been expecting it to. Before his fist had even reached it's target a hand had gripped onto his own, and was slowly guiding it back towards the table. He realised that it was pointless in trying to break free from the hold, his energy had been sapped as quickly as it had appeared, and he could already feel the faint blackness of sleep setting in. But before he closed his eyes he looked to the forgotten third party, the party who had stopped him from obtaining his objective, and the last thing he saw before he succumbed to the darkness was Sherlock's face, twisted in regret and, something a little like, fear?

And it was beautiful.

….

Mycroft knew the exact second something shifted in John Watson's brain. He watched, powerless, as the confused and slightly endearing look in the red eyes was replaced with something much more powerful. Much more dangerous.

It was like a switch had been thrown in the doctor's brain. He seemed to be enjoying the panic surrounding him, relishing in the attention and fear cast in his direction. It wasn't healthy, and it certainly wasn't like John.

Even the relief that Sherlock had also noticed it didn't go far to ease the rising panic in his throat. The new part of John seemed to notice this hidden fear, and latched onto it - seeming to draw happiness from the raw emotions surrounding him. If it were anyone other than John Mycroft wouldn't have stepped away from the challenge sought by the fist that John flung towards his face. He may have been shocked by the unexpected change in John's demeanour, but that didn't mean that he wasn't still in full vampire form - and his borrowed blood sang for a fight.

But it was John, and Sherlock managed to stop the punch that could very well have meant an untimely end for a certain doctor. And it wasn't just the fact that Sherlock had sided with Mycroft against John that surprised the older Holmes brother; it was the look of confusion and betrayal in his eyes at John's satisfied smirk that had been cast in his direction before falling back into unconsciousness, and Mycroft knew his brother's brain was quickly drawing comparisons to the face he'd seen that manically happy look on before.

The face of a certain Jim Moriarty.

…..

They sat in a heavy silence for a few moments after John's outburst of violence and energy, each waiting for another to make the first move. In the end it was left to Doctor Foster to calmly shift everyone out of the hospital lab, leading Sherlock by his shirt sleeve as if he were a three year old human child, and not a vampire that could overpower him with a single touch. The action barely registered in Sherlock's mind - the cogs and gears of his brain working overtime to try and deduce what had caused John's unexpected behaviour. He knew, of course, that it all boiled down to one thing - but he wasn't willing to admit that he'd caused this horrible change in John.

It was strange, to look at his red eyes and know that a different personality now hovered behind them. One that was beginning to look remarkably familiar. He didn't want to draw comparisons, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Mycroft brought it up anyway. Moriarty.

John was starting to behave a little like the oh-so-lovable psychopath.

Sherlock wondered why the thought didn't bother him as much as it should. He barely noticed that his legs were numb, and that his vision was beginning to blacken around the edges. The general background noise was getting quieter, muffled as if he were listening from underwater, and the steady pounding in his head was growing to a crescendo. When his own vision blacked-out and his legs crumbled beneath him, his only coherent thought was one of slight surprise.

…..

It seemed that his lab-come-hospital was getting a lot more visitors than usual lately. It had been a while since he'd needed the extra gurney, but Doctor Foster wheeled it out without complaint - it was what he was paid for anyway. To look after those who had nowhere else to go.

He'd had a few jobs before this one. He trained to be a doctor in London, spent his uni years out drinking and partying like any other newly free student with a bank account full of loans to spend. When he had to leave uni accommodation and move to his own self-catered house with no money, he'd solved the problem by getting another loan, or called a favour. He lost track of his IOUs and promises of an immediate payback. By the time his course was finished he'd passed with barely a hiccup, but his accounts were in tatters and debts had risen to unbelievable levels.

He remembered his first job, a small clinic just north of the Thames. He'd done a month unpaid labour to get the experience, and then been instated as a full-time doctor. His most clear memory, however, was the feel of hard-earned money slipping through his fingers like sand. Every pay check he cashed went straight to paying off another bill, paying back another friend, another loan. And he still had to eat, still had to have clothes and water and electricity. So he borrowed more money, and then had to pay those back, so borrowed more… It was a vicious never-ending circle - and he was trapped in the middle of it.

He been stuck in a rut that he couldn't get out of for years. Nowhere else was willing to pay a young new doctor more money than he was already getting, and the work was becoming tedious when he knew that it was all in vain. Nothing he could do would make his life any easier.

And then he'd been propositioned. A man had walked into his office, sat in the patients chair, and calmly inquired whether he was looking for a new job for almost ten times the pay he was receiving. He had. Not only that, but he would be given free lodgings, food, and all his debts would be repaid within the first week. All he had to do was sign a confidentiality agreement. Nothing uncomfortable. The exchange was over in a matter of minutes, and he started his new job on Monday.

The second call came later that day. He'd been sat at home, watching the news on his grainy work computer and wondering if he'd be able to get one of his own in his new job; probably. His phone rang then - startling him out of daydreams of freedom, and he'd grudgingly gone to pick it up, grumbling about the lateness.

The voice on the other end of the line was new, and the caller didn't waste time identifying himself. He only had one question for Doctor Foster, and that was a question about his new boss; the man from the clinic.

"Do you know his aim?" The connection was bad, and the question interrupted by static. It took a while for Doctor Foster to understand, he thought he'd been asked about his employer's 'name' or 'age' at first, but when he didn't answer the question was repeated.

"His aim. Do you know his aim?" He answered that no, he didn't. He said that he'd guess it was to start a new clinic or get help conducting research at a biological lab. And why did the caller need to know? And how did they know?

The voice only laughed before the line cut off. Leaving the confused doctor with a few ambiguous words of warning.

"None of them are as they seem. And you are only a pawn in the greater game."

He hadn't understood then, and he still didn't fully understand even now. But Doctor Foster was willing to bet his savings on the fact that the 'them' referred to was Mycroft and Sherlock, as it was Mycroft who had offered him the job - and Sherlock his first patient. It had taken years of study to reach the level of understanding he now had about Vampires. Years of work on the two of them as his main and only companions, and he could still fit all his knowledge about their personalities on the back of a postage stamp.

He'd been with the Holmes brothers for decades, and he still didn't know what was meant by 'the greater game'. He had often wondered if the person who had called him that day was still watching, still waiting for the moment his riddle was solved, but it wasn't going to happen anytime soon. For all Doctor Foster knew, the 'game' was the research, in which case he had been playing this bizarre version of chess for years.

…..

Sherlock wondered if it should bother him that he could feel the sharp bite of restraints against his wrists and ankles. Probably. But he couldn't bring himself to care just yet. The haze around his vision had diminished, but the tiredness was still there, dragging at his eyelids and making them feel heavy. He didn't let himself fully give in to his desire for sleep though, as he could quite clearly feel a presence at his bedside, and there was no doubt who it would be.

"'m fine Mycroft. Go away." Sleep lay heavy on his tongue, making his words muffled and half-formed as they slid off his tongue.

His brother huffed. "Why did you not inform me that you were so weak?"

"S'not important."

"Your safety is important"

Even beneath half-lidded eyelids Sherlock's eye roll was seen by Mycroft's concerned gaze, and he tutted. "You must learn to be more responsible. What if I had needed you in an emergency, you would have been of no use to me like this."

"Is there an emergency?""No."

"Then what, exactly, is your problem?"

"You are! You and your blatant disregard for your own safe-keeping! You know that tiredness makes your control weaker Sherlock. And to be honest it's a little worrying that you've reached this point as it is. You are not lacking in… nourishment. And yet you're so weak you can barely stay conscious!"

Sherlock merely attempted to twist his body away from his brother, and when stopped by the restraints compromised by turning his face away childishly. Mycroft growled low in his throat.

"Don't test me Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored the thinly-veiled threat, opting to change the subject to something more in his immediate interests.

"Why am I in restraints?"

Mycroft glowered to show Sherlock that he hadn't missed the extremely un-subtle subject-change, but answered anyway. "Because we did not know what you would be like when you woke up."

"I've never done anything untoward before."

"You've never collapsed and woken up next to a newborn before either. It was a risk I was unwilling to take."

At the mention of John the remaining fatigue left Sherlock's body in a rush. He struggled to sit upright, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse of his flatmate.

"How is he Mycroft?"

"He is… fine."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He's fine. The changes have been completed, he is fully formed and currently sleeping off his earlier… exertions."

"That's not what I meant."

Mycroft looked into Sherlock's eyes, and the look of genuine concern there broke down his defences. "He's ok physically Sherlock. His body is in full working order, and he has enough sustenance to last him another couple of days at the most. We are, however, currently a little worried over his mental state… but Doctor Foster assures me that if he requires further help he will let me know."

Sherlock threw his head back down onto the table, his eyes squeezed shut and his voice shaky. "What's happening 'Croft?" The childish nickname took Mycroft by surprise, and made his heart yearn to comfort his brother. "Because that wasn't John.. That behaviour, that smile…" He shuddered visibly, "That wasn't my John."

"John's still in there, Sherlock, somewhere. We just need to try and help him find his way out." And this time, the comforting arm he placed on his brother's was welcomed.

A/N: And the plot thickens… So sorry this took so long! Let me know if you liked it, your thoughts, concrit etc. It all helps :D