**Sorry for taking so long to upload, loves! I've been busy with college and moving in and the stress has just been crazy. I hope you enjoy this chapter :D**
Chapter Nine
Late in the evening, John returned home from a night out with Stamford, tired and hungry due to the shitty bar food he didn't want to eat, but he was surprised when he found the flat entirely dark. However, the moment he reached to turn on the lights, Sherlock, lying on the sofa in the dark, jumped up and hid himself behind his chair, begging him to not turn on the light. Confused, John walked forward and glanced around the room to see if there was a body somewhere in the room drained of blood, but he didn't see nor smell any.
"Are you alright?" he asked and took another step into the room before Sherlock cried out and begged him not to come closer.
"I need you out of the flat until Molly can get me more blood," he said, his voice quick and filled with panic.
"Sherlock! You haven't had blood for over a week! What the hell is wrong with you-no, no, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry. What happened?"
"M-Molly ran out of donors. I swore off human blood and I don't want to start up again. I'm a disgusting creature when I have fresh blood...I don't like it."
John looked at him with a sympathetic expression, and his face fell as he tried to take another hesitant step towards him.
"Don't move!" the vampire commanded as he shielded himself further behind his chair, "I'm disgusting. Hideous creature...go away, John."
Something sparked in John when Sherlock told him to go away. Maybe it was the love for a dear friend, but maybe it was also his unhealthy attraction to danger and dangerous situations. Either way, John walked forward and flicked on one lamp, and he saw how horrifically pale Sherlock was. God he looked like a ghost. The vampire shrunk away from the light and tried to conceal himself in his coat, but it was no use. John had already seen the dark purple bags beneath his eyes and the long white fangs protruding from his mouth.
Then an idea struck him.
"Drink from me," he said, very sure of himself, but he didn't understand why, exactly.
Sherlock slowly raised his head and stared at John, his eyes narrowed as if he was playing a horrible trick on him, but he began to stand nonetheless. "You do realize this means I could kill you," he said, his words not really a question as much as a statement.
"Yes, but I trust you," John murmured, "I know you'll stop when you've had your fill."
Sherlock stared at John still, but no evidence of lying could be found on his flatmate, and so he rose to his feet and took two steps closer to John, approaching him with the utmost caution.
"You...trust me?" he asked, his voice nearly a whisper.
"Yes, of course I do. I have since you didn't let me die that one time..."
The detective couldn't help but laugh. "Since that one time...John, you do realize I haven't saved your life at all? You've been the one to save mine on multiple occasions."
"You did save my life, Sherlock."
"How?"
"You're my best friend."
It was very strange to hear those words, especially from John, but he could see (even in the dim light) that he meant it and he always would. After a long moment of consideration, Sherlock agreed to drink from John, but only enough to last him for another few hours or at least until morning. Both of them were nervous, but that wasn't going to help anybody, and it certainly wasn't going to help John keep his blood level down so Sherlock could drink properly.
John sat cautiously on the sofa and pulled off his jumper, leaving him in just a plain t-shirt, and Sherlock slowly approached him as he removed his own coat before sitting down beside him. He took a deep breath before picking up John's wrist, which felt warmer than usual, probably due to his ice cold hands, and he swallowed hard, which gave him just enough breath to jump up and close and lock the doors.
"Why are you doing that?" John asked nervously.
"Because if I don't, Mrs. Hudson might see," he said, "and I just don't know what will happen when we do this..."
"What do you mean-?!"
"John, it's nothing serious. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it."
John stared at him for a long moment, and at last sighed as he held out his wrist to Sherlock, trying to steady his heart and not be so nervous.
"Just relax," he murmured. Sherlock watched John for a moment, waiting for his pulse to quiet down, and after a long moment, he slid his tongue over the doctor's wrist to numb it before sinking his teeth into the soft, pink flesh.
It was like nothing Sherlock had ever tasted before.
John felt a strange sensation overcome his body, and his heart began to thud in his chest as he discovered he was scooting closer to the detective. Relax, he told himself, He told you to relax. It was strange, but not frightening at all to him to be doing this, and John was obviously now much more comfortable with his best friend than he had been in the past. But this sort of comfort...it didn't feel much like relaxation. Far from it, actually. That was when a moan escaped John's lips.
The doctor's face flushed red and Sherlock's eyes had popped open, in turn causing him to remove his lips from the other man's wrist, though he didn't stray too far. John wouldn't look at Sherlock, but god did he want to. There was something about him now that was completely and utterly different in a very, very good way. His heart skipped a beat when their eyes met, John not knowing a single damn thing to say, but when Sherlock's eyes flicked to his lips, both men knew the other hadn't missed it.
"Have...have you drank enough?" John asked, his voice a little uneasy, for the space between them was getting smaller and smaller.
Sherlock hesitated when John asked the question and closed his hand over the punctures on his wrist to stop the bleeding, his eyes now locked onto John's lips. At last he shrugged when he could smell John's breath, and he answered, "I'm not sure."
Before John could stop himself, he tilted his head just so and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. It was absolutely electric; it only made him want so much more despite the taste of fresh blood on his lips. Sherlock, however, was completely taken by surprise, but he hid it well and simply kissed John back. Oh yes, he had drank enough, but not enough to satisfy his thirst entirely. It was only enough to create a blood bond between himself and John, and only enough to create another thirst that they both were wanting quenched.
Stop this, you idiot, Sherlock scolded himself mentally just as he deepened the kiss, You alone have done this to him. What if he doesn't want it? What if he's just under your spell? Stop...stop this before it goes too far.
By then, John had moved so their legs were pressed together now and sliding between the other's, and Sherlock knew in the back of his mind that he couldn't (and wouldn't) stop this now; not when John was being so intimate and bringing about the fire in his belly. He was scared, but the taste of blood was still fresh on his lips and it made him want more. And so, after a moment, Sherlock parted his lips from John's and moved them back to the bloody puncture wound on his arm and began to drink again. This time, John didn't hold back his moan, he let it go and he began to pepper Sherlock's neck with kisses and even a few shameless marks.
However the moment John's lips began to try and wander beneath his shirt, Sherlock licked a seal over the punctures and turned to bring their lips back together with a heated passion. He didn't care what anyone else would say, he didn't care if anyone would see them, and he certainly didn't care if John wore his scent around like this for the days and weeks to come. It may have just been their minds being clouded with the passion that the blood bond brought about, but that was what was supposed to happen. The imprint meant that they were supposed to be together, that they were soulmates. This was right. This was meant to happen.
"John," Sherlock breathed against his lips as his hands began to tug at John's jumper, but stopped once he decided to let the other man make the first move to show him he was comfortable with it.
"Go ahead," John hummed, something in him helping him to not feel so insecure or afraid of Sherlock touching him, "Please."
With John's plea, Sherlock did as he asked and laid the jumper on the coffee table neatly so it wouldn't wrinkle, and Sherlock let his hands wander over John's smooth chest for a moment, admiring the way his skin felt. It wasn't too fleshy, but it wasn't incredibly tight either. It was just perfect and just the way he had imagined John would feel.
Sherlock's hands continued to explore John's chest beneath his T-shirt and John's hand continued to tangle into his dark curls, soft moans escaping from the both of them every now and then, and soon, they were dying to get the rest of their clothes off. One by one went their shirts, one by one went their trousers, one by one went their shoes and their socks, but everything stopped when they were left only in their pants and breathing heavily. Their eyes trailed over the other's body, sometimes even their hands, and John was suddenly on his back on the sofa with his lips pressed heatedly to Sherlock's in a deep, passionate kiss. John's hands were tangled in Sherlock's hair as the taste of his own blood again became prominent on his lips, but if Sherlock stopped now, he had no idea what he would do with himself.
"Can...can we-" John began, but before he could finish, Sherlock had scooped him up into his arms and was carrying him back to the bedroom with grace. The vampire laid the doctor carefully upon the sheets as they kissed, and he quickly locked the door before he returned to Johns side and began to kiss all over his body, greedy in his choosing where to place kisses and where to leave marks.
That night went by in a blur for the both of them, every ounce of pleasure (and pain) taken happily with grace. Neither man cared what the world would think or what their friends would say or do, and they simply had each other with bliss. Unfortunately, neither man seemed to give a damn about the consequences.
The following morning, John awoke to the bright sunlight breaking through his bedroom window, which was strange since the sun never shined on his face like this in the morning. The sheets even felt different, he was a little cooler, and he even ached a little as if he'd gotten into a fight the night before. It was only Wednesday, so why would he go out drinking? Stamford never went out on Wednesdays and he never went drinking by himself... He shrugged it off and yawned, curling into the body beside him.
Wait a moment.
Slowly, John raised his eyes to look upon the man who was holding him close with his arms wrapped around him almost protectively. But the man with whom he was sleeping just happened to be his best friend. Maybe he was dreaming? This would be one of his more extreme dreams, but the way he felt and the way the room was exactly as he recalled it the one and only time he was in there made it feel...more real.
John let his hand wander up his body to his side, remembering how smooth his skin felt and how interesting it was to feel his own body heat warming the vampire's. However with that thought, John pulled his hand back very slowly so he wouldn't wake Sherlock. This was all extremely strange, but at the same time, extremely uplifting. Finally, John thought, a thought which surprised him tremendously.
He swallowed the lump in his throat as he chose to take in the rest of the scene around him, secretly admiring the way the sheets hung dangerously low on Sherlock's slender hips. There was something completely and utterly strange about that, however, for the moment he noticed the loose sheets, he noticed the incredible amount of bruises and...where those teeth marks? Oh god.
The doctor's breathing picked up as he slowly began to remove the sheets and look over himself, but the moment he began to do so, Sherlock's hand grabbed his wrist, and he looked up at Sherlock as if he'd done all the wrong in the world; almost like a child who had been caught stealing the last biscuit from the jar. John again had to swallow the lump in his throat, but this time, it wouldn't go down, and he was quite sure his pulse was picking up with fear. His lips and throat went dry and he had no idea what he was going to say or do or anything at all.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, though his voice barely made it above a whisper.
The look in Sherlock's eyes was one to break a thousand hearts, but before John could do or say anything, Sherlock was up and out of the bed, backed against the wall faster than the blink of an eye. Apparently, with the way Sherlock's eyes were trailing over John's body, it was bad. That's why John felt so sore.
"Sherlock..." he murmured as he tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his hips had him on his back once more. Sherlock looked away as the realization became clear on John's face.
"I am so sorry, John," he said, his eyes filled with sincerity and sorrow, and even heartbreak if one were to look hard enough, "I couldn't control myself...I'm sorry, I didn't...I am sorry..."
John's eyes stung for a moment as though he were to cry, but he fought them back; he didn't need to upset Sherlock any more than he already was. He swallowed hard and forced himself to sit up again, finding that this time it still hurt, but not as much. Slowly, he started to pull the sheets off his hips to look at the damage done, following the bruises and bite marks (and even finger prints) until he could see his private areas.
"Oh god..." John whispered, but he did not mean to say it out loud.
Sherlock crouched down against the wall and felt his throat burn with the need to cry.
"I'm so sorry, John," he murmured, "I didn't mean to hurt you. That's why I was afraid to drink your blood..."
John was staring at all the dark, bruise-like marks along his thighs and the mess of white stickiness near his backside and over his stomach. He felt his neck and found that the marks he remembered being left there by Sherlock...oh. It hadn't been a dream after all.
"Sherlock?" he said quietly as he covered himself again and looked at the other man, waiting for him to raise his head to continue on, "Did...did you put some sort of spell on me to do this?"
Sherlock shook his head and looked John in the eyes with the utmost sincerity, "No, John. You willingly offered your blood and I promise you that every action the both of us made was not the effect of some supernatural spell."
It felt like an eternity before John nodded his head once and looked down at his wrist to find the two wounds that looked like they were healing very nicely and wouldn't scar. He sighed heavily and looked up at him with loving eyes, something he didn't know he would ever feel for Sherlock Holmes. As the sun broke through the curtains even more, Sherlock backed away from the bed and therefore John.
"Sherlock," he said softly, though his voice was firm, "Please...come here."
Sherlock shook his head like a defiant child refusing to own up to a broken rule, but John insisted. He gestured for him to come forward, yet the vampire still made no effort to move, his simply shook his head and watched John like he was a very, very fragile piece of glass that one gust of wind could break him.
So John took a long, deep breath and sat up to turn towards Sherlock properly, an action that caused a shot of pain to rocket throughout his hips. "Please come here," he said gently, "Darling-"
"Don't call me that."
The hiss that came from Sherlock's mouth almost fazed John. Almost. He was set on getting Sherlock back over to the bed to sit down and relax, no matter how long it would take him to do so.
"Why not?" John asked.
"Because you don't mean it. You're just saying it to get me to move and John Hamish Watson, I will not move until you can."
"I can move. See?"
John waved his hands and wiggled his toes and his fingers, even his arms and could only move his legs so much before it ached in his hips. He hid the pain as well as he could, but Sherlock still wasn't convinced. The vampire carefully moved around the room to avoid the sunlight and the bed, and he quickly closed the curtains before the light could burn him. John sighed as he laid back against the pillows and began to inspect the puncture wounds on his wrist.
"Will you come here?" he asked again, "Please? Sherlock, I'm not a bloody piece of glass. You won't hurt me. It's okay. I promise."
"John, I took advantage of you last night, I can't-"
"No you didn't!"
"Yes I did-!"
"Would you just listen to me?! Sherlock, you did not take advantage of me. I remember what we did and I know how I've behaved with you over the past...almost year, but believe me when I tell you that I wanted it. I wanted it last night, and I have no idea why, but Sherlock..."
Sherlock didn't want to listen anymore. He knew John was lying. He had to be, right? No sane man would want to have anything to do with this...this creature the world called a vampire. He was a monster and he hurt the love of his life more than he ever wanted to.
"I wanted it. I wanted you. Please believe me..."
"John..."
Again Sherlock shook his head, but this time, he crawled on to the end of the bed and sat there on his heels, not even caring about his indecency.
"If I'm wrong, tell me why I am," John demanded, "But I know I'm not, and I will not listen to your argument until you come here and sit with me. Please."
The other man hesitated for a long moment until at last, he gave into John's wishes, and he slid forward so their knees were touching. Sherlock covered himself with the blankets and refused to make eye contact with John. He was still ashamed of what he did last night, but he knew he had to tell him why it happened anyway. At some point in time, John would have to know, and better now than later, right?
"I had put off my thirst for so long because I thought it might help me cure myself," he began slowly, "but that's not the case. I don't know why I thought it would help. I suppose that maybe it would end my immortal life and make me mortal again but keep my age and live a long life with you. However, all it did was just make me a bloodthirsty monster and I hurt you."
He closed his eyes to theoretically allow himself some alone time, but John luckily interrupted him and took his hands to hold in his own.
"I told you that you could drink some of my blood," John murmured as he ran his thumbs over the back of Sherlock's hands soothingly, "I trusted you to stop when you'd had enough to sustain you, and I still trust you around me. I don't exactly know what happened last night, but I don't regret it."
The words sounded strange coming from John, even to himself, but he did mean every single word. He was happy to have been had by Sherlock. He was happy that Sherlock was the man he gave himself to. He was happy that he was here in his bed with him the morning after their first night together.
''Will you tell me what happened?" he asked quietly, reaching up to stroke Sherlock's cheek, and he was surprised that the vampire let him do that, "I felt...different. I felt more attached to you and more confident."
Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat, and he wore a smug smile for just a moment before it fell into a pitiful frown. "We...we formed a blood bond last night," he told him and quickly went on before John could ask any questions, "I felt our imprint the moment we met, but it didn't become prominent until I almost got you killed..."
John's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't move away from Sherlock, though he did lean forward a bit as if to ask him to continue on.
"Drinking your blood it's...it's like nothing else I have ever tasted before," he went on to say, "Just because I drank from you, it intensified our imprint and therefore created a blood bond. It means that once you're connected to a human or even another vampire, you're partners for life. You will do anything for them and you will do anything for their safety. Of course you would do that for the one you've imprinted with before the bond is made, but there's a difference in bonded vampires, or in this case, bonded vampires and humans."
"What is that difference?"
"The difference is...if one is in danger, the other knows and can feel it. If one dies or is killed, the other will not stop to avenge their death or find a way to commence their own. One cannot live without the other. So...when you die of old age, I will live on, but most likely not for long."
Sherlock's cheeks went a dark red and he curled up into a ball to hide his face from John. Unfortunately for him, John didn't want him to hide, and so he unwrapped his arms from around himself and scooted closer to Sherlock to lace their fingers together. This was strange, but something about this whole experience made this...not strange. He felt like he'd known Sherlock his entire life, and he felt like he knew this was going to happen one way or another (at least the relationship aspect...wait, were they even considered to be in a relationship now?).
"I can't live without you, John," he whispered as he raised his eyes to meet the human's, "Please don't ask me to...please..."
John shook his head and rested their foreheads together as he rubbed his thumbs soothingly over the back of Sherlock's hands, hoping to calm the both of them down at least a little bit.
"I won't ask you to," he murmured, "I'm sure I can't live without you either. I know I can't. Not now. We've been through too much together."
Sherlock smiled shortly and let his eyes fall closed as he became lost in the intimacy shared between himself and John, the man he never thought he would be allowed to love; the man he never thought would return the love he felt; the man he had fallen head over heels for the first day they met, and yet here he was with the most amazing human being in the entire world, holding his hands and wanting so very much to just lie in bed with him and hold him until the sun went down.
"We had our first kiss last night," said John, seven words he never thought he would hear from him, "But in all honesty, I can't quite remember how it went..."
Sherlock could feel John's pulse pick up when the question was asked, and he couldn't help but smile a little at that.
"It was soft and sweet," he told him as John reached up to cup his neck, "A little heated, but that was alright."
John laughed softly and pulled back slightly to look up into Sherlock's eyes, smiling and still surprised at how calm he was. Maybe it was because Sherlock was his best friend before all of this happened. Or it could have been because of the bond they now shared (or always shared, by the sound of it).
"That's not what I meant," said John, his smile widening.
"Oh? What did you mean, then?"
John smirked this time as confidence waved through him, yet as their lips neared, his smirk fell and he became solemn and even a little bit nervous.
"I meant to show me again."
With those words hanging in the air between them, Sherlock sucked in a deep breath before he allowed John to seal their lips in a soft, gentle kiss much like the one they shared the night before. It wasn't at all like John expected it to be; it was more intimate and felt...right. Their lips meshed almost seamlessly, and the soft sound of their lips parting made his heart skip a beat, though it was something he didn't want to end. The kiss was to perfect for it to be ended so soon.
"I think that was better than last night," Sherlock murmured, "What do you think?"
John nodded and kissed Sherlock again for a short moment, "I think it was better than last night."
A blush crept up on Sherlock's cheeks when John kissed him a second time and even more so when he said it was better than last night. Of course, a part of him knew that if they were to...you know...again, maybe it would be better than this time 'round caused by bloodlust. He felt foolish, but at the same time, completely and utterly blissful. John was Sherlock's, Sherlock was John's, and they both seemed to know it, and they both seemed to be entirely okay with it. At least for now. Sherlock had no idea how long the effects of the bond would last, at least since his last feeding. Still, it was strange how the two of them were okay with being completely naked in bed together after having...never mind.
"Sherlock?" John asked after a long moment.
"Yes?" he answered and sat up a bit more so he could look at John more comfortably, if he were even able to.
However, John wasn't able to speak after a moment when the realization completely set in at what they had done and who the both of them were. Rumors would be spread all over the place if anyone saw the marks all over their bodies (and John was almost certain he had marks all over his neck), but God take him if anyone had heard them. John hated the feeling that he had for Sherlock, but at the same time, it felt absolutely amazing. At that very thought, John's face turned a blood red and he covered himself once more and sank back into the bed.
"U-uh...I would like to...to dress," he muttered, "Uh...w-would you be able to...to turn around?"
Sherlock felt his chest drop and his mood fall entirely through to the ground, but he did nod and hastily crawled out of the bed to give John his clothes before he hastily left the room. The man ran upstairs to hide himself away, unsure what he could do or what he would do, but all he knew was that he was in love with a man, a soldier, that seemed would never truly love him back.
"He's afraid of you, you fool," he growled to himself as he curled in a tight ball on John's bed, "It's your fault he's in this mess, and it's your fault he's in pain. He was only supposed to lend you his blood, not his heart..."
Sherlock shook his head shamefully and began to draw circles in the sheets and hum to himself woefully, the pain of the absence of tears burning his eyes. Oh John...
