John stared at Sherlock as if he'd just been told the biggest and cruelest joke that man could've come up with. That couldn't be true; vampires were just a creature of fiction, weren't they? John laughed nervously as the idea began to plant itself in his mind. Sherlock hadn't lied to him before about anything other than this…but this was something he really should've kept in the dark.
"No you're not," he said, his voice shaky.
"Yes I am," Sherlock mumbled, "I have fangs, I drink blood, I can eat human food, but I do not kill people…anymore…"
"Anymore?"
Any normal man would've jumped out of his seat and started his run for the hills, but John was not a normal man, and therefore he stayed put and stared at Sherlock in disbelief. He craved danger and living with a…a vampire who had actually killed people before was about as dangerous as it could get.
"I wanted to stop because my killings were leading back to my…my…so I asked Molly if she could keep a special cache of blood for me and she has been. That's what's in the drawer. These juice boxes also have blood in them. It's silly but it's the only way I can drink blood without being conspicuous or people wondering what else is wrong with me."
John stared at him, unsure of what to say, and right now, he wished he did. Sherlock looked at him like he was a child who had just confessed flushing his mother's jewelry down the loo. He had just told John his biggest secret after only knowing the man for a month and he wasn't saying a word.
The silence in the room was deafening, only interrupted by the rain beating the roof and the thunder in the distance. There was still so much Sherlock had to tell John and there were still so many questions John had to ask Sherlock, but this was just the beginning of all their troubles. John had no idea how much danger he'd put himself in just by knowing and even more by living with him.
"If I may ask," Sherlock said quietly, "I need your help getting the bullets out. You can't hurt me and I can't hurt you. Nothing will come out except the bullet and it will heal. Please, John."
"I…um…s-sure," he answered, his voice shaking, "Just, uh…let me get my medical…thing…"
"What's wrong? Your voice is shaking and you look pale. Would you like something to drink or lie down?"
"What's wr—Sherlock, you just told me that you're a vampire and that you drink blood and that you've killed people! What else could possibly be wrong?!"
"Maybe that I'm not dead…again, from being shot…?"
"Seriously?"
"Sorry…"
John let out a heavy sigh and carefully slid off his seat and walked over to Sherlock, looking him over and wondering what sort of horror film he wandered into. Just looking at him brought all the pieces together: not wanting to go out in the sunlight, secret drawers in the fridge, hardly eating, pale skin, and how dark his eyes were.
"Can…can I ask you something?" John said hesitantly.
"If you think you can bear the answer," he answered.
"When was the last time you fed on a human being?"
Sherlock hesitated, "About 1903."
"1903?!"
"Yes, John."
"You…you're over a hundred years old!"
"Obviously. Don't be so transparent."
"Sher—"
"I was born in 1854, turned in 1889 just after my 35th birthday. So I'm dead but I'm also not dead…sort of."
John pursed his lips in disbelief, the overwhelming flux of information making him feel as if his mind would explode at any second, and he knotted his hands in his hair as he turned from Sherlock, still not understanding how any of this science fiction could be real! He had to get his head together and keep his mind focused before anything else would have the chance to go haywire today. He was going to have to live with this, yet he didn't realize that he truly would have to live with it. He had absolutely nowhere to go, but he had absolutely no intention of leaving, either.
"Bullets," he repeated as he let his doctoral instincts take over to hopefully give his mind some time to wrap around this whole situation, "Bullets. We have to get them out and your wounds closed before infection sets in."
Sherlock nodded, not daring to argue despite his urge to correct John on the fact that vampires don't get infected by mundane diseases, and he turned towards the bathroom and marched in the direction John was practically pushing him. He knew he was in trouble and he knew that John would eventually start yelling at him all over again when it finally truly struck him that he was living with a monster, but for now, John just had to learn to trust Sherlock. Just because he now knew that he was what he was didn't mean Sherlock was going to treat him any different; he was just going to be a little more open about things such as his blood-drinking habits as much.
"Counter," John commanded when they got in the bathroom, "Coat off and shirt open, please."
Again Sherlock followed orders and ignored John's wince of empathetic pain when the detective's coat was shed and his shirt opened to reveal three bullet holes that were not at all bleeding. One was just off center in his abdomen, another through his ribs, and the last one almost piercing his heart. He knew they looked bad and he knew how his skin looked like broken rock around the wounds beneath his shirt, but he wasn't going to utter a word and he was not going to make a move until John finished.
John quickly shook himself out of his daze and went straight back to getting into his medical bag for the forceps and bandages. He quickly got to work with a flashlight in his mouth to see the bullets still lodged in Sherlock's body and was genuinely surprised that his friend wasn't dead…again. With careful precision and steady hands, John got to work at pulling the bullets out.
"This won't hurt you, will it?" he asked, "I won't cause any bleeding?"
"It shouldn't," Sherlock answered, "If it does, it'll be minimal. Not enough to kill me."
"Again?"
Sherlock looked down at John and sighed, "Again, yes…"
John noticed the look on Sherlock's face and immediately apologized as he resumed his work. The bullets were lodged deep in Sherlock's skin and at times, the vampire would wince and suck in a sharp breath of pain when John would hit a raw spot in the wound, but eventually, John got them out. There was very little blood and the bullets had partially broken inside Sherlock, but other than that, they were fairly easy to get out and the holes very easy to bandage.
"There's one in my leg you've forgotten," Sherlock said quietly and tapped his knee, wincing slightly in pain.
"Oh…right," said John, "Where is it?"
"Just below my kneecap; it shouldn't be too hard to get out."
John nodded and watched Sherlock turn the bullets over in his hand as he knelt in front of him, making the taller man sit on the counter while he tried to dig it out of his leg. He rolled up his pant leg and grimaced at the wound, this one slightly larger than the others since it was at such close range. Surprisingly, this one would've been more difficult to get at than the other ones, but he would manage, though not without a wince or gasp of pain from Sherlock. John would continue to apologize every time he would cause his friend further pain, but at last, that bullet was also removed and he was able to bandage it easily.
"Better?" John asked as he got to his feet and began to sanitize everything and put it away.
Sherlock hopped off the counter and buttoned his holey shirt, slinging his coat over his arm and testing the bending and folding of his body to make sure he was good to go.
"Better," he answered with a tiny smile, "Thank you, John. I don't know how—"
"I've still got questions."
Of course he did. Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded, "Let me change clothes first, please."
John nodded, and with that, they exited the bathroom and Sherlock turned immediately to his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. As if he wasn't angry enough, John stood straight as a pin and walked to the sitting room where the streetlamp was shining through the cracks in the curtains, joined by bright flashes of lightning at times and creating an eerie scene. He took a seat in his usual red chair and sat there in the dark silence.
A vampire. A vampire, of all things. This was just a dream; it all had to be a dream, didn't it? John had no idea how any of this could be true, he had absolutely no idea how his reality was turning into a science fiction novel, he had no idea how Sherlock was even real. Was he on drugs? Did John get himself into some hallucinogens? No…no that wasn't it. He felt fine. His pulse was normal and he wasn't seeing unicorns at the fridge, so there's that. But a vampire? Weren't they only real in horror novels and films and sappy teen movies? John almost laughed at himself to think that Sherlock would ever sparkle, and very, very glad he didn't.
John was startled when Sherlock's door slammed again and the detective walked out, dragging his feet, and kindly sat across from him in his leather chair. Silence fell between them. It was a deafening silence and John silently begged for it to be lifted, but it seemed it did not wish to be remedied, and neither man seemed to want to make eye contact. There were hundreds of questions running through John's mind pertaining to Sherlock's…state of being, and the things involved with it, yet he couldn't find the right words to really figure out what he wanted to ask.
"John, please slow your thinking it's giving me a migraine," Sherlock said flatly after what seemed to be an eternity.
The doctor nodded and looked down at his hands in his lap.
"Please ask your questions. I would rather get this over with sooner than later. Do it quick, like pulling off a Band-Aid."
John took a deep breath and didn't dare raise his eyes to meet Sherlock's brilliantly bright blue ones.
"How are you able to stand to be so close to humans?" he questioned, hesitant, "How is it that you've resisted killing me or Lestrade or even Molly?"
"I've trained myself very thoroughly for the past century or so to keep myself calm around things that bleed. That's why I decided to study corpses and become a detective. My senses far exceed that of average humans and therefore the cases would be solved much quicker. Though, if I do need blood, I usually ask Molly to keep a small cache for me, as I've told you before. I keep from drinking from humans by choice and practice. More practice than you can fathom."
"Right…okay…"
"Next?"
"Um…do you burn in the sunlight?"
Sherlock grinned. "Like a sunburn unless I'm out there longer than necessary. Then my skin turns black and if I remain in the sun, I will burn up and turn into a shriveled up corpse. If treated in time, it will only leave a scar."
"Do you have any scars from this?"
Sherlock thought for a moment, but decided he had none and shook his head.
"No. Next."
"Are you ever tempted to feed on a human?"
"Rarely. Next."
John glared at him but he didn't make anything of it.
"Are you fast? Strong?"
"Yes. Yes. Next."
"How strong?"
"Strong enough to haul myself up and over buildings. Next."
"Really?"
"Yes, John, now please ask me anything else you can think of."
"I can't really think of anything else, to be honest."
"I'll give you a few ideas: no, I do not sleep in a coffin, too tedious. No, I do not hiss at sunlight. No, I do not secretly sleep in the basement and call it my 'lair'. No, I do not hypnotize people to let me drink their blood or to lead them to their death. I don't have that power."
"Who does?"
Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his eyes unnervingly bright, and said, "Not one who deserves it."
"Who holds this power, if I may ask?"
Sherlock's gaze turned deadly and his eyes bore into John's.
"A spider, a spider in the center of his immortal web of monsters and he knows exactly how each one twists, turns, screams, and thinks. He abuses them mentally, emotionally, and sometimes physically. He is…no more questions. I'm going to bed."
"Hang on—"
"Please, John. I've never asked you about your scars, don't ask me about mine."
Before John could utter another word, Sherlock was up and out of his chair and back in his bedroom with the door locked. He had answered all of John's questions, but had arisen more than he ever expected, and not ones he ever wanted to ask or maybe even know the answer to. He wondered what had happened with the man with the power and Sherlock to make him not want to say another word or answer anymore questions.
As John gathered his thoughts and deemed it best to get to bed, he stopped and stared in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. He'd forgotten to ask the most important question he desperately needed the answer to: was he in more danger now than ever before?