Author's Note: This chapter contains mentions of drug use. Please avoid the middle section if you are worried about how this might affect you.

On an unrelated note, thank you all so much for all the response this fic has been given so far. It means a lot.

Chapter Six

The change began when the clock struck midnight.

John couldn't see what time it was, of course, but he could tell when it was about to start. Ever since he had been bitten, it had felt as though the Wolf had made a home somewhere in John's mind. It wasn't always active but it was always there. It would awaken when he was angry, or when he was afraid, and as the full moon grew closer, it would wake more easily. It felt as though it could influence him, influence the way he responded to different situations, and the closer to the full moon it got, the harder it became to ignore. Now, as the moon rose into the sky, it felt as though the Wolf was pacing in his mind, growing stronger, more restless.

John could tell when the change was about to begin, because inside his mind, the Wolf howled, and the pain started less than a minute later.

When the bullet had torn through his shoulder in Afghanistan, it had hurt. It hadn't at first, for a moment; he was in shock, and it wasn't until he heard someone yell his name that he realised that he had been hit. He had seen the blood on his leg first (not his, but he hadn't known that at the time) and he had gone to move, to cover the wound in a rush of adrenaline. The pain had started the moment he realised why he couldn't move his arm. It had been excruciating. His shoulder burned as though it was on fire, and he was sure that he was going to die, begging a God that he wasn't sure existed to let him stay alive. It had been all he could think about – he hadn't noticed the sound of footsteps racing towards him, hardly registering the pain of a bite.

At that point in time, it was the worst pain he had ever experienced. It was nothing compared to shifting.

John could feel every bone in his body breaking and reshaping, twisting and contorting into unnatural shapes and positions. He could hear each snap and crunch, over the sound of his screams and cries in the silence of the basement. Each shout echoed off the walls, ringing in his ears; every sound seemed too loud, too overwhelming. His skin pulled and stretched over the reforming bones, itching as fur began to lengthen and grow. When his spinal cord snapped, he let out a yell, and then, for one blissful moment, there was nothing, no pain below the break. Then the bones joined together again, and the pain started afresh.

It felt as though he should have been weak, when it finally finished. It felt as though he should have collapsed on the cold basement floor without the strength to get up, every muscle in his body burning as if he had run a marathon the day before. At very least, it felt as though he should need at least a few minutes to recover, to lie there and pant until the pain of changing faded away.

None of this happened. The Wolf was alive, and awake, and did not want to be trapped in a basement where he could not run free.

Then he inhaled through his nose and was struck by the overwhelming scent of one pale, dark haired vampire, filling the basement prison with his mark, and that made the Wolf very, very angry indeed.

OoO

September, 1888

"You really must be more careful, brother."

Sherlock pulled away from the neck of the young female he had chosen for that evening, blood running down his chin. The woman had scarcely enough blood left in her body to stay conscious, and she swayed even in Sherlock's grip. Granted, she hadn't been particularly steady on her feet to start off with. Sherlock had been able to smell the heroin in her system before he'd let his fangs extend from his mouth; it had been what drew him to her to start. By now, she would be riding the waves of pleasure from his venom, regarding she was still conscious enough to experience it.

He lifted a finger to his chin and wiped up the blood that had spilled from his mouth, glaring at his brother as he did. "I hardly need to do anything, brother," he replied, spitting the word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. He let go of the human, letting her collapse onto the cold pavement, and he lifted his finger to his lips, sucking the blood off.

"You're being careless, Sherlock," said Mycroft, glancing down at the nearly unconscious woman before looking back to his brother. "You're risking exposure, not to mention the damage you are doing to yourself."

"Well, that's your problem." Already, he was beginning to feel the pleasant buzz of heroin. It wasn't the cocaine that he craved, but it was definitely satisfying. "If you are so afraid of exposure, you can clean up my mess."

"It's not simply exposure that I am concerned for." Once again, he glanced down at the woman, and Sherlock followed his gaze. It appeared that he had not taken as much blood as he usually did – she was unconscious, but he could still see the shallow rise and fall of her chest, and he could still hear her weak heartbeat.

"She's hardly worth your concern, Mycroft," he said, even though he knew that was not what his brother had been talking about. "She won't remember any of this even if she does survive the night. She will blame the heroin; she was near to falling into unconsciousness before I approached her."

"I don't believe that was the heroin."

Sherlock frowned, staring at his brother in confusion. Was his mind working slower than usual? Why was he failing to make sense of what his brother was saying? Mycroft was giving him a knowing look, and Sherlock couldn't understand what that meant.

Was the ground getting closer?

"Oh, you bastard," he spat as his side hit the footpath. He tried to push himself back up again, and found he didn't have the strength.

"Slow acting sedative," Mycroft explained as he struggled against the exhaustion already pulling at his muscles and his eyelids. "I knew you would be likely to feed from her, and I knew I could not inject you with it directly. Admittedly, I feared that you might smell it on her, but I doubted you would recognise the smell over the heroin."

Sherlock tried to spit another insult, another cuss word, but found his mouth would not co-operate. He hadn't experienced exhaustion since he was human, when he still required the occasional night's sleep to operate properly. Darkness licked at the corners of his vision, and he tried to force his eyes open, to glare at his brother, who was staring down at him.

"It's for your own good, Sherlock," Mycroft said, and then the darkness consumed him.

OoO

Sherlock had no idea how much time had passed when he finally woke up again, muscles feeling stiff and unused. His face was pressed into cold, hard ground, and he thought for a moment that he was still on the pavement where he had fallen, before he realised that it was too quiet for him to still be in the streets. He blinked several times as his eyes focussed to the dull light, and he let out a slight groan as he tried to move. He managed to turn his head so that his cheek rested against the ground, and he found himself face to face with a pair of familiar, shiny, black shoes.

"You drugged me," he slurred, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.

"Stating the obvious, Sherlock," Mycroft replied in that condescending tone of voice that Sherlock had always despised. "You must still be coming around."

"You had no right to drug me."

"As I said, brother dear, it's for your own benefit. You certainly aren't going to lower the amount of blood you drink by yourself."

Sherlock let out a humourless laugh. "So this is your way of making me do so? Sedating me so that you can lecture me while I am unable to run away?"

"Of course not. You'd not listen to me regardless of whether or not you can leave. No, Sherlock, I believe I need to wean you off of it."

Expression caught somewhere between a frown and a scowl, Sherlock managed (with some difficulty) to push himself into a sitting position so that he could properly take in his surroundings. He didn't recognise the room that they were in. It was completely bare, except for what looked to be chains, attached to one wall. The door was sealed shut. He looked back at Mycroft and said, incredulously, "You're planning on locking me up?"

"It's the only way I can ensure you won't feed more than I allow you," said Mycroft. "You will get your next meal when the heroin is completely out of your system."

He walked past Sherlock, heading towards the door. The younger vampire watched him go, watched him unlock the door with a large key, and saw the long, narrow hallway behind it. This was good – it wasn't a maze that he would have to navigate. Pushing past his brother would be easy, and then he would be free.

He pushed himself to his feet suddenly, and did not manage even a single step before he found himself back on the floor. Mycroft glanced over his shoulder.

"You'll have your strength back in another hour or so," he said. "However, you may be weaker than usual while your body becomes accustomed to feeding less than you're used to."

The door fell shut behind him, and Sherlock could hear the sound of the lock clicking, trapping him inside.

OoO

Present Day

John's entire body ached when he came around the following morning. He knew what had happened, of course – there was no moment when he woke, still groggy from sleep, when he didn't remember where he was or why he was there - but the memories of the night were fuzzy and unclear. He could remember feelings - the physical pain, and the emotional rage – but other than that, the night was a black spot in his memory.

He groaned as he pushed himself upright so that he could survey his surroundings. Aside from the pain in his muscles from the shift itself, he could see his body was littered with bruises and scratches. It took him a moment to work out how they had happened – the scratches on the walls told him that he had tried to escape, and he had probably pushed himself against the wall or the door in an attempt to do so. He could remember feeling trapped, almost claustrophobic, which came as no surprise.

His shirt had not survived the night – he could see pieces of fabric strewn about the basement everywhere. His trousers were torn at the bottom of one leg, and the other had one messy tear that looked like it had come from a sharp claw, but they were still wearable (not in public, certainly, but at least he could preserve some of his dignity when Mycroft's assistant came to find him). He put them on with difficulty, groaning with pain as his muscles protested. He picked up the shreds that were once his shirt, glad he had thought to wear one that he wouldn't mind losing too much, and then he collapsed back onto the floor and leaned back against the wall.

The time it took for Mycroft's assistant to come down was long enough for John to begin to drift off again, and he started awake at the sound of the door. The woman stepped in – John felt so worn out, he couldn't even remember her name – and handed him his clean pile of clothing. She turned away while he dressed, and turned back when he told her he was finished. Now that he got a better look at her, he noticed that she looked paler than she did yesterday, and with an oddly serene expression on her face. John could remember what Sherlock had said yesterday about vampire venom, and he wondered if, beneath her hair, the marks on her neck were fresher.

"I'm to take you home," she said. "Ready to go?"

John nodded his head weakly, and followed her back up the stairs.