very short but at least it's out and full of interesting plot. more soon, dearies! sorry it's rather uneven in the updating, I have a wackadoo schedule just now. review and tell me what you think the evil plot is!?

Ch10

"For the last time, I do not care how you do it, but you will sit the hell down, shut the actual fuck UP and give your brother your blood or I will rip off a body part that oozes a bunch for you and do it myself. Got it?" John was fuming. That is, he was really fuming. Not since Sherlock jumped had he felt quite this level of anger well up inside of him. Mycroft actually sat down in surprise or terror, or both. John couldn't care less. He paced back and forth through the door-hole he had created when he came rushing back into the complex with Sherlock's lifeless form in one arm, wrenching each door completely out of the wall and leaving a warped, twisted metal chunk in his wake as he rushed to get information (blood type and then a blood donation) out of the elder Holmes.

Sherlock now lay unconscious on a gurney, his pale skin glistening with sweat in the cold white lights. He was ice cold and clammy to touch. John was shaking, trying to keep his anger at himself under the current rate that he was feeling for Mycroft's sluggishness, but it wasn't working too well. He had the terrible urge to make sure Sherlock made it out alive and then move on.

He would never…would he?

A soft cough from Mycroft let him know that he was ready to begin, long thin arm outstretched, waiting for the needle. He'd get what he could take out of Mycroft, warm and fresh, and fill him up with old frozen bags, which he had to go search for next. John slid the thick extraction needle into Mycroft's arm, fully aware that there were ice-blue eyes fixed on his face as he did so. The elder Holmes was dying to ask him questions. John stood up and checked the line going into Sherlock's body.

"What will you do if this transfusion doesn't take?" Mycroft surprised him, asking the question John himself was trying to ignore as it rolled around inside his head. "Would you…change him?" John winced. "Could you?"

"I don't want to have to make that choice, and I don't think I should be the one to make it. It would be the ultimate selfish act," he drifted off, taking a good sniff to make sure the blood was transferring. "But no, although I don't think I could actually live without him anymore. He would hate me for it, for a time. Possibly forever. And that would be so much worse than losing him now. It's by my hand either way, isn't it?" Mycroft nodded solemnly. John sighed and stepped away from the bed before disappearing down the corridor to find where they would store the blood pouches.

John found them a few rooms down, in a massive fridge that seemed to him more like a meat locker. He had sniffed them right out, following his nose despite the trouble that exact plan had recently caused. Never again, he chided himself. He'd never so much as lick Sherlock's skin again. The temptation was too much. It would be blood bags and strangers, the way it should have always been.

Suddenly, another wave of pain hit. Would Sherlock make him leave after this latest near-death experience? Probably. John's knees nearly buckled as he gathered bags of B-Positive blood in his arms. He couldn't even bear the thought of a life without Sherlock, let alone have the man send him away personally. Maybe he'd have to leave before that could happen. Save them both the trouble and the heartache. Deep in his heart John knew he could never leave, not really. Maybe he could move out, but he'd always be around Sherlock, always keeping an eye or an ear out for him, waiting in the shadows.

As one of his kind should only do. Stick to the shadows. Always. People get hurt if you don't play by the rules.

John straightened and walked back toward the room where the Holmes brothers were. Mycroft was watching John with measured eyes, waiting for something to happen undoubtedly.

"John," he started. The vampire could already hear the tiredness of his voice, the caution…and he hated it.

"Don't," he snapped. "Sherlock will be…fine. He has to be."

"John you know that three bags of blood and the bit I could give him will not be enough. You depleted too much. He won't wake up from this. The best you could do is hope to put him in a coma." John squeezed his eyes shut at the information, refusing to let it sink in.

No…Sherlock would be fine. He always was. He was the inhuman survivor, who put his body through enormous amounts of strain and lived and thrived against all odds. No sleep, food deprivation, dehydration, all in the name of science and utter laziness. Sherlock would survive because he had to.

Because John wouldn't make it without him.

Mycroft watched with intent as his plan unfolded, his arm stretched out with the blood in the clear plastic line. Luckily John was too worried to notice a pinch in the line just under Mycroft's hand, where his fingers closed off the circuit of life-giving aid to his little brother. He smiled and watched John prep the bagged blood, biding his time.