Anthea smiled to herself, watching from the car as the two men, one tall and dark haired, one shorter and blonde, walked out of the club - they were very close together. Sherlock raised a thin hand, using the other to stop himself from wobbling by holding John's shoulder, and quickly hailed a taxi. Anthea reached for her ever present phone, sending a quick text.

Dr Watson and your brother have left the club. He's very weak. A

Take the blood to Baker street. Supervise the first feed- they'll need you. MH

She slipped the phone into a hidden inside pocket of her tailored jacket and leaned forward to tap the driver's partition with a neatly manicured red fingertip. He twisted to get the address before smoothly turning around in the busy street and setting off swiftly in the same direction as the taxi.

After making quiet small talk with Mrs Hudson for a minute or two, mainly to give the pair some time to settle in and for Doctor Watson to find his feet in the flat and get used to Sherlock's particular brand of 'tidy', Anthea walked swiftly up the stairs, knocking once on the open door before entering.

''Mr Holmes?'' She paused by the door to the kitchen, listening to the familiar sounds of a kettle being boiled. Sherlock appeared from the kitchen, thin arms full of test tubes and chemical bottles. ''Huh? John? Oh- you. Did Mycroft send you? Did you bring blood for me?'' He whirled around and dropped the glassware into a cardboard box, where it clinked and tinkled itself into silence as he shifted pieces around to make it all fit. Anthea held out the vial of blood, and he grabbed for it with both hands, pupils dilating at the sight. His eyes flashed to her neck, to the scars, before he pulled himself together and fixated back on the bright red blood in his pale hands.

''What is- is that a bottle of blood? Did you rob a blood bank?'' The doctor's eyes switched rapidly between Anthea's face and the bag of blood in Sherlock's hands.

''No. Blood bank blood has chemicals in that make it undrinkable. You're a doctor, you should know that. This is her blood.'' Sherlock explained absentmindedly as he wandered back into the kitchen to grab a cup. He thoughtlessly tipped the teabag out of Dr Watson's cup onto the counter, pouring the blood in to it and taking a long drink, almost draining the cup. His shaking stopped almost immediately and the fidgeting went back to normal levels- just holding the hem of his worn t-shirt rather than pulling at it and stretching out the thin cotton. Anthea noticed the seams of his shirt were on the outside to stop them from rubbing his skin- a sign that Sherlock was over stimulated- usually one of the signals that he was weak from lack of nutrition and didn't have the emotional resilience to put up with the slight irritation.

The doctor's eyes slammed back to Anthea at the mention of her blood, who lifted her hair to the side to more clearly reveal the pale scars on her neck, the older ones just think white scars, the fresh ones dark bruises. ''I don't mind it. Doesn't really hurt anymore.'' She smiled a little, remembering the first few times, the sharp pain before the rush of endorphins from Mycroft's fangs. John picked up on her words.

''Anymore? It hurts?'' He took a step away from Sherlock, his hand flying up to protect the unbroken skin of his neck.

Sherlock stopped in his attempts to tip the last few drops of blood out of the vial at the sound of the panic in his donor's voice.

''Only a bit. Like a scratch. An injection. And then- my- there are chemicals, I make chemicals to make you feel better about it, it'll make you tired and calm... sort of a relaxant. It's difficult to measure.'' Here he subsided into mutters, frowning down at his mug at the idea of an unknown, especially one related to his own physiology.

Anthea interrupted his thoughts as he frowned back at the empty vial again. ''You're still thirsty?'' He nodded at her a little, absently, before going back to his pacing.

''Isn't that what I'm here for?'' John looked a little unsure, but determined to go through with the job he'd been hired for. Perseverance and bravery- more characteristics to tick off on Anthea's mental list. Sherlock spun on his heel, dark curls bouncing as he fixed his gaze on the soft skin of John's neck. Anthea interrupted as he took a step forwards.

''Maybe not while he's stood up?'' The admonishment made Sherlock blink for a second, before he grabbed John's wrist, careful to avoid placing his fingers over the radial artery and the blood thrumming under the skin there, an old vampire taboo that even Mycroft ignored now. He led the way down the hall, past the bathroom, and into his bedroom. Taking a moment to move the debris of scientific equipment and random articles of clothing from his bed, he turned down the duvet and top sheet and crawled gracelessly across it, leaving room for John to sit down. Sherlock shuffled around a little on the Egyptian cotton sheets, biting at his thumb slightly to begin the flow of the numbing chemicals that would allow John to feel as little pain as possible.

Once Sherlock was settled and ready on his bed, Anthea instructed John on how best to lie to allow access to his pulsing jugular, and explained where the bite would be. She stepped to one side to allow Sherlock to curl in close to his donor, his long body hunching down over John's neck, and listened to the sharp inhale of shock that accompanied the first bite through the tanned skin.