Thank you for all the reviews! So glad I'm not the only person who finds this idea intriguing.
Chapter 4. Little bit of emotions at the beginning, and Mycroft, had to bring Mycroft in. John's POV:
I shut the door to my room and then I lean against it, using it for support. What the hell just happened? I stagger over to my bed and slump down on it. Closing my eyes I try to grasp the events of the past few hours.
So Sherlock's a vampire. That's a fact. He sucked out my blood in an alley. We're trying to go on like it never happened. And he loves me. That's also a fact. Sherlock Holmes loves me. How. How could this happen? I know how it could happen, but I don't want to believe that it's true. Or do I? No, John. This isn't right. He's a vampire. You can't be with him. He just wants your blood.
I hear a sound from downstairs. Mustering up my strength I go to the door and open it a crack. I can't believe what I'm hearing. It's Sherlock. He's crying. Why is he crying? Unless… it's true. What he said. It's not all a lie to get my blood. Why would it be? Sherlock Holmes has never confessed loving anyone, ever. And now when he says that he loves me I refuse to believe it because I'm scared, scared of him, but also scared that I might possibly love him back, despite what he is.
Is this normal? To feel these things? I know what it's like to feel like I'm in love with someone. I've thought I was in love before, I even was on the verge of proposing once, but what I'm feeling now surpasses anything I've ever felt. I want Sherlock so badly. I want to be with him. To have him to myself. To stare into those mysterious eyes of his, to try and tame those wild curls. But you're forgetting what he is. Why did this have to happen? Why does he have to be a vampire? We might have had a chance, but now.
My fingers drift absentmindedly up to my neck. I flinch as they run over the two holes. You can't be with him and you know it. Forget about him. Just continue on like you never felt anything, like nothing ever happened. Like you never felt those sparks when he kissed you, or that urge when he ran his hands through your hair. Forget all of that.
I shove my fists into my eyes and breathe, accepting the truth. Life will go on, even if I can't be with Sherlock. I just don't know how.
Surprisingly things do return to normal, for the most part, at least at first. We get another case and Sherlock immerses himself in it. He stays out for most of the day and night, which means that we rarely see each other. It's probably for the best. But I can't shake the fact that I still find myself looking at him and feeling those feelings. I try to be discreet about it, but it's kind of hard when you share a flat. It's not like I don't see his eyes dart up to watch me when he thinks I'm not looking. It's almost like there's an invisible barrier that's sprung up between us all of a sudden, and neither one of us knows how to deal with it.
Coming to grips with the fact that Sherlock's a vampire didn't take long. It seems like I knew all along, but didn't want to admit it. Knowing what he is, I notice things that I didn't before. Like how he uses his senses to solve the cases. I just assumed he was using them like any normal bloke would do, but I can see now that his senses are far superior to any normal person's. I also notice how his tongue runs along the inside of him mouth occasionally, like he's agitated by what's in there. And how he closes his eyes and just focuses on breathing, calming himself down.
Everything seems semi normal, until one day I'm walking outside of 221B and I see a sleek, black limo pulling up beside me. Mycroft. The door opens and I see a pair of legs, crossed casually, clothed in an expensive suit, a weathered umbrella at their side.
"Step into the car, Dr. Watson," Mycroft orders, his voice pleasant, as though it's completely normal for him to kidnap me in his fancy car, which it is. Normal for Mycroft. I slide into the seat opposite the older Holmes and then the car speeds off, taking some unknown course.
Mycroft looks down at me over his long nose. He annoys me so much, always making me feel like he's able to see my every fault, which he probably can.
"What do you want, Mycroft?" I ask, annoyed.
Mycroft purses his lips. "We need to discuss the matter of my brother."
I knew this was going to happen. Nothing escapes Mycroft, but I play along. "What about Sherlock?"
"I'm sure you are well aware of his condition," Mycroft says inspecting his umbrella.
"If by 'condition' you mean the fact that he's a vampire, yeah I'm aware of that. How long has he been like that, exactly?"
"About a year," Mycroft replies casually, "He was doing fine until you came along." He narrows his eyes.
"Oh, so now it's my fault that Sherlock attacked that girl," I say defensive, not admitting that I was also one of Sherlock's victims, even though I'm positive Mycroft knows I was.
"My brother is an interesting creature," Mycroft says looking outside, "Society, as far as we know, is unaware of his existence. His kind are few, it was unfortunate that he had to join their ranks. But we both know that there's no reversing what has been done. We can only prevent any future incidents."
He smiles at me. I want to punch him. "That 'interesting creature' is your brother, Mycroft. So what if he's a vampire. He's your family, and my flatmate."
Mycroft's tone changes. "I am well aware of my brother's feelings for you, Dr. Watson, and of the fact that you reciprocate such feelings."
He smiles again as the color rises in my cheeks. "You better not be spying on us," I threaten. "If you've got cameras in our flat, I swear-"
"I have my ways," Mycroft interrupts, "Best not to go snooping about though."
He clicks his tongue once and says. "It has come to my attention that you wish to stay on as my brother's flatmate."
"Why should you care?" I say crossing my arms.
"I would advise that you find lodging elsewhere, to avoid the possibility of future problems." He motions toward my neck with his umbrella. I turn my collar up to hide the puncture marks that are still there.
"I'm not going anywhere," I tell Mycroft firmly, "Sherlock's my friend and I'm staying with him." It's not like vampirism is the only thing Sherlock struggles with. I try to think of it as another addiction, it fools me into thinking that it could possibly be normal for Sherlock to drink blood as if it were tea.
Mycroft uncrosses his legs and muses, "If you are adamant about staying with him, fine. But I will say this," he leans forward, "keep away from my brother. Think of it as a precaution. And do feel free to call if you need anything, anything at all." He smiles and the door opens next to me.
I take the hint and step out of the car. Turning around I say, "Thanks, Mycroft." I start go, but then I say, "It doesn't run in the family, does it?" I say motioning to my teeth.
"Good day, Dr. Watson," Mycroft says shutting the door. The cars speeds away and I turn around to see that I'm back on Baker Street. I stand in front of the door that leads into 221B, reflecting. Who's Mycroft to tell me what I can and can't do? If I want Sherlock, he's not going to stop me. Remember. Remember what Sherlock is. What he did to you.
I curse silently under my breath and then I head up into the flat. There are too many conflicting emotions raging inside me. Tea. A nice cup of tea will make me feel better, take my mind off things. Sherlock's usually out at this time, so it's a surprise when I enter the flat and see him lying on the couch.
"Didn't expect you to be in yet," I say walking into the kitchen.
"There was nothing of interest outside, so I'm here," he motions to the couch. I go about making us some tea.
"Got kidnapped again by Mycroft," I say putting the kettle on.
"Did you?" Sherlock answers, obviously unamused, "And what did my brother have to say this time?"
I move so that I can see him. "He told me to stay away from you."
Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at me for a bit before responding, "That's probably for the best. Shouldn't be that hard. It's not as though we've been intimate recently, anyway." He's silent. He's right of course. We haven't actually had any physical contact since that night. I know why. It's that invisible barrier. I suppose it is for the best, but I desperately wish it didn't have to be that way.
More time passes. Sherlock and I keep our distances. However, when he solves a particularly baffling case I give his hand a quick squeeze. He acknowledges it and I think that's the end of it. But later that evening while I'm doing our dishes Sherlock surprises me.
I'm washing a dish coated in something that looks like piss, when I feel thin arms slide around my middle. I jump and drop the dish into the soapy water.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" I say trying to pry his fingers apart. He doesn't answer. Instead he hugs me tighter and presses his nose into the back of my neck. I can feel his warm breath running down my back. God not again. You're not doing this again. I'm afraid that he's going to go all out vampire on me again, but he doesn't. He just sways back and forth slowly with his arms still around me.
He nuzzles the back of my neck, sending chills up by back. I take a chance. Turning around I put my arms around his thin frame and hug him back. We stand there in each other's arms. I'm clutching him like I never want to let go, which is true. He's hugging me back as though I'm the only real thing in the world.
We stay that way for what seems like hours. Just in each other's arms, making up for all the lost hours of contact between us. Finally Sherlock pulls away and then he's back on the couch and I'm finishing the dishes.
We don't talk about the hug, we continue on like normal. Everything seems fine, other than the fact that I want him so badly. Everything seems fine, until he does it again.
I'm woken one night by a sound in my room. Sitting up I rub the sleep out of my eyes and try to see in the darkness. There's a sound coming from the doorway. A soft sound, almost like breathing.
"Sherlock is that you?" I ask groggily trying to get my eyes to focus. There's no answer. "Sherlock?"
Suddenly I'm knocked over by something. Someone's on top of me, straddling me, holding my hands down by my wrists.
"Get off of me!" I yell at Sherlock, struggling underneath him. Not again. He's not doing it again. You can get him away from you John. I try to push him off me with my knees, but he just cackles and presses them down with his.
He's towering above me, his red eyes glowing in the darkness, and his fangs glittering. Get away, John. Get away. Sherlock leans down and puts his face close to mine. He's just staring at me, his demonic eyes boring into mine.
"Get away from me," I order, attempting and failing to remove Sherlock from me. He stops pressing my hands into the pillows so that he can unbutton my night shirt. I use the momentary freedom to sock him hard in the jaw.
He sits back and growls, holding the side of his face. I think I did it, he's stopped, but I'm wrong. My attack seems to urge him on. He falls on me, pressing me deep into the bed which creaks dangerously. His keen fingers work their way into my hair and he starts making those noises again, those moans. Then he kisses me again, hard and long.
There's nothing I can do. I'm completely crushed under him. He rocks his hips back and forth on mine and I can't help but feel that want, that need. He must sense that my heart beat has increased because I can feel him grinning as he's kissing me.
Sherlock moves down to my neck, and I stiffen under him. No. You can't let him do it again. The thought of him biting me again and his hot breath against my neck makes me panic and somehow I manage to squirm out from underneath him and sit up. I back away from him, pressing against the headboard of the bed.
He's crawling toward me with an evil smile on his face. His eyes glint dangerously. God, he's going to do it again. Get away John. I try to get off the bed, but Sherlock lunges at me. He pins me between his legs and stares down at me, deciding what he wants to do with me.
He undoes a few more of my shirt buttons, pulling the shirt open slightly. He places a chilly finger on my chest and then delicately traces my collar bone. I squirm beneath him. His fingers move up to my throat, they hover there for a second and then Sherlock tips my chin back. Stop him. You can stop him. He's leaning down toward me now, slowly. I see his mouth open. I can see the tips of his fangs, lowering, getting ready to bite into me.
You're not going to do this to me again. I somehow find the strength to wrench my hands out from where he's pinned them at my side. I bring my knees up under Sherlock and I manage to push him off me.
He falls over the edge of the bed and I bolt to the door. The door won't open; my fingers are shaking so much that I can barely attempt to turn the knob. I can hear Sherlock getting up behind me.
Suddenly strong arms grab me around the middle. A deep voice hisses into my ear. "No use running. You're mine."
Sherlock lifts me up and throws me back on the bed, then he jumps in next to me, lying on his side facing me, keeping me in place with those hypnotic eyes.
Sherlock inches closer to me, his legs tangle with mine. He pulls me close to him, running his hands up and down my back. I try to push against him. Resist him. You can get away, John. I'm trying, but I'm not strong enough.
He turns my head painfully to the side, then he runs his tongue over my neck a few times, making me shudder. He bites me again. I gasp in pain as his fangs slide into my neck, reopening the wound that he had made that night.
I muster up what little strength I have left and I do whatever I can to get him away from me. I pull his hair, push against him, claw at him, but nothing works. He just grabs my wrists in his hand and holds my arms above my head, forcing my hands into the pillow. He slips his legs around me and pulls me closer to him, sucking away at me all the while.
I don't know how much blood he takes out of me that night, but I manage to stay conscious through the entire feeding. He bites me in more places this time. I feel his teeth in my shoulder and on other areas of my neck.
Throughout all the pain I keep telling myself that I can manage, that everything will be all right, because despite the pain and the fact that I'm basically a food source for Sherlock, I don't want him to let me go. I want his legs around me, to feel him pressed against me, his hands in my hair and on my back. I want to enjoy this moment without having to think about the fact that Sherlock is slowing draining the life out of me.
However, as soon as it started, it stops. I feel Sherlock's fangs retract from my neck and then he pulls me close to him, pressing my cheek against his chest. I clutch at him, breathing slowly trying to stay awake despite the fact that I feel like all my strength is gone.
Sherlock strokes my hair gently. What am I to him? A list of possible titles runs through my foggy brain: flatmate, friend, partner, personal food supply. The last one seems to be the truest. Why did I stay? I knew that this would happen again. I knew that Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist. I know what he is, and yet I never want to leave him. I want to stay with him. Stay here in his protective embrace.
I make a decision that night. No matter what happens, no matter how many times Sherlock sucks my blood, I'm not leaving him. I'm not giving up on him.
I bury my nose in his shirt, trying to ignore the fact that it's soaked in my blood. He presses his nose into my hair, breathing slowly as he holds me. I curl up against him, my cheek pressed to his chest, and it's then that I realize he has no heartbeat.
And there you are. Next chapter coming soon...