Disclaimer| I do not own any of the characters, all rights go to BBC and their fabulous writers!

A/N| A Vampire AU. I know it's been done, but I had too.


My first though is to throw him out the window.

The second is to break his neck until his bones twist, and the third is to try and control myself under an emotionless veil. For obvious reasons I choose the latter. Mycroft's dark eyes dart up to me and

then back to John, who is still lying pale and and sleep deep in the sea of thin white hospital sheets. I make a mental note to bring him a better blanket later on tonight. With a tap of his umbrella Mycroft

stands, and, walking past me gently closes the door. The commotion out in the hall becomes a muffled buzz of quiet noise. I don't move out of his way and I can feel his irritation roll off of him in waves. My

eyes don't leave him. I account for his every move.

"What are you doing here?" I ask finally and Mycroft returns to the uncomfortable hospital seat before answering. When he does he's studying the dark city outside the small square windows.

"He needed a blood transfusion." His head tilts in John's immobile direction. I remain cold. I try not to feel much of anything. It's working better than I expected. Somewhere in the distance a siren wails.

"So why are you here?" Mycroft sends me a glance, his eyes loaded with unspoken words. I find myself moving unconsciously to John's side, staring down at the IV in his arm. I did this. I caused John to be

here tonight. This is my fault. I cannot express the overwhelming guilt I feel.

"I returned the blood to the hospitals. Jim Moriarty has become weak, I found no reason to listen to his ravings." I breathe. In and out. Don't attack- just breathe.

"You're the weak one here, Mycroft." I hiss and he stiffens in his chair. There is a span of tense silence before Mycroft stands. He walks to the door but doesn't open it.

"Have you remembered, Sherlock?" I raise my hand and let my fingers play with the veins on the top of John's hand. His blood account seems to be stabilizing. How much did he loose? The feel of the good

doctor's hand keeps me calm and I am thankful that my voice doesn't catch.

"Some." I respond and I don't dare to look at Mycroft.

"What do you recall?" He presses and I breathe in a deep inhale of hospital air.

"The people I killed. In Dublin. Human memories before I was cursed…" I turn my head to Mycroft then and I know my eyes portray me. I am so afraid. "Why is it, Mycroft, that you took a weak,

broken human under your wing just to let me loose half my soul?" When he doesn't answer I continue: "I can hear his voice, Mycroft, the demon inside of me. He's always there." My brother's gaze remains

steady as he turns to face me fully. He raises his head some, looking down at me through the bend in his nose.

"You were interesting…for a while. And I-"

"Was lonely." I finish for him. He nods. Mycroft seems to be contemplating something before he steps closer eyes flickering to John.

"He's weakened the demon in you." He states, and I don't bother to speak. I just continue tracing the lines of John's hand. "Sherlock, I am not sure if this curse can be reversed, but you know what

you must do, don't you?" My throat tightens, catches raw and I have to swallow twice to be able to speak.

"I have to kill Moriarty, and…" My eyes glance to John's face. He looks so broken amid all the IV's and white sterile bandages still stained slightly with blood. I feel like I'm going to throw up. "I have to leave."

Mycroft sniffs and sighs, a hand coming up and running through his hair.

"I ran you to him. I am sorry." I'm shocked by Mycroft's apology and I turn to give him a stare as he prepares for the door again.

"I still want to kill you." I whisper, but my voice just sounds hopelessly hollow.

"I know." He humors, his hand hesitating on the door's small knob. He twists and opens it up, the noise in the hallway drifting heavily back in. Before he leaves fully he stops. "Fix this, Sherlock." He says,

"The other's are becoming worried." His words carry an immense threat, and only when the door to John's room clicks shut do I let myself fall to my knees. I take John's limp hand in both of mine, and I rest

my forehead against his smooth skin. I will myself to stay strong, if not for me than for John, but I can't handle these overwhelming insights of horrific feelings.

"I am sorry, John. I am so sorry." And I'm not only apologizing for what I have done, but for what I'm about to do, for what I have to do. I can't stay with him. I was stupid to think I could, stupid to

believe that for once in my life I was allowed some small inkling of happiness. But the universe doesn't work that way. It never has, and it never will. I feel John's hand tighten around my own and I snap my

head up, surprised to see John's glassy blue eyes staring down at me. He's smiling softly, and he looks unbelievably tired but I don't hesitate to rise up and plant a deep lingering kiss to his chapped lips. He

returns it weakly, his hand still tangled in my fingers. His other hand tries to come up but the IV tugs sharply and he lets it fall down again on the hospital mattress. I pull away when his heart beat spikes. I

try to memorize his face, the lines of his forehead, the dip of his chin, the swell of his cheeks, the thickness of his neck. I will miss him.

I am crying.

For the first time in my life I am crying, and the tears trickle down the rise of my cheekbones and with mocking accuracy hit John's cheeks. His face is overridden with concern and he leans himself up to lay

small light kisses under my eyes, wiping my tears away with his lips. But this just makes it all the more worse. I suddenly don't bother to care about how weak I must look, or how foolish, or so utterly

human, the feelings of relief, anxiety, depression, grief, love all weigh down on me like a thousand pound weight. I fall into John, my face buried between the junction of his shoulder and neck, and his left

arm comes up around me. He can't really move his other hand so he just murmurs soft comforts into my ear, his breath tickling my hair. I try to memorize his voice, the gentle caring of it. I will miss him. I

will miss him. I will miss him.

"John…" I gurgle, my strangled voice muffled slightly by his hospital frock. "John." I say his name over and over and over again, relishing in the way it rolls off my tongue. "Forgive me, John." I repeat this a

lot too. And he remains quiet only trying to soothe me and hold me close, and after a moment I am calm, I am collected, I am so wonderfully destroyed. Because this is the last time I will see this beautiful

man's face, hear his voice, feel his presence, his upending warmth. And that realization hurts more than I can bear. But I stop crying, I sit gently on the side of John's bed (it's too narrow to lay down beside

him or else I would) and I talk to him in a quiet drone as the night ticks on. He asks me about my past life, what it was like. I tell him I used to have a mother and I don't remember a father. I let him ask the

questions because I want to get these individual weights off my chest. And this is working.

"What was your favorite color?"

"Blue. I don't have an exact one now, I can't understand the usefulness of it."

"It's just something to have an opinion on."

"I already have too many opinions."

•••

"Were you happy as a child?"

"No."

"Why?"

"It's hard for one to find happiness when there is no joy."

•••

"Where was your favorite place to go?"

"The river. At sunrise."

"What about at sunset?"

"It feels to much like an ending. I like the sunrise."

"I do too."

•••

"Have you ever fallen in love, Sherlock?" I hesitate under the spontaneous pressure of the question. Have I? I don't answer immediately and as I'm thinking John falls asleep, holding my hand tightly

in his. I watch him for a while, just studying the rise and fall of his chest, before a nurse comes in and tells me visiting hours are over.

I lean down and kiss John Watson one last time.

I smile sadly down at him, and gently pry his hold on my hand away. His touch still makes me warm. I decide to finally answer his last question:

"Yes."


So I saw The Hunger Games yesterday…all in all it was good, true to the book but there are some things in the film that just drive me crazy. The ending for one. I hated it. And I wish they had built up Katniss and Peeta's relationship a bit more. It felt rushed. I also thought that at the beginning Katniss should've been more dirty, more hollow, so that when they made her pretty for the chariot rides and the interviews that it was shocking.

Reviews would make my day. (:

More reviews=me not quitting this story.