Being dead was not the blissful and painless silence that John had always expected.

It wasn't bad at first: he had been floating in a borderless darkness that felt warm, safe, and comforting. Grief had stabbed at him for awhile as he realised that he was leaving Sherlock and his close friends behind. Would he ever encounter Sherlock Holmes again, in any place or time? Vampires didn't have souls, did they? Then his mind went quiet and he waited for whatever happened next.

Suddenly pain seared him from head to toe. He had a body again: he could feel it warming up with lava-hot blood, each new red cell intensifying his torment. Nerves were firing into each other, each connection a shock that made him want to scream. At the same time, horrific visions played through his mind like one of those brainwashing films that terrorists used to turn themselves into killers. John could see screaming people, rivers of blood running down dying skin, pleas for mercy that were abruptly silenced. To his alarm, the sounds were more exciting than repellent.

What's happening to me?

Someone must have witnessed his turmoil, for he could hear a deep yet anxious voice coming at him from far away.

"Hold on, John, it's nearly over."

What is?

When the pain and images disappeared, John's eyes opened.

He looked around the room, which was cold, white, and clinical. The door had no window, the walls were empty of decoration, and even the sheets on his metal-framed bed were stiff and colorless. As his gaze glides across everything, John saw as never before. Every detail was as sharp as day, nearly painful in its clarity.

Sound was just as distinct. He could hear the rub of a disinfected cloth over steel instruments in the next room, the harsh clatter of a metal stray being set on a surface. And voices: they were so numerous and clear that he felt as if he were in the heart of a crowd, hearing everything and understanding none of it.

Bewildered, John tried to rise, and found that he couldn't. Looking down, he saw that padded steel shackles secured his wrists and ankles to the bed frame, and wide straps that looked like nylon but felt a hundred times stronger extended across his chest and thighs, pinning him to the mattress. As he tested the restraints, an angry growl rumbled in his chest. The noise was so raw and rabid that he froze.

The door opened with a soft click, and Sherlock stepped in.

"John," he said.

John stared at his friend's face. The vampire's ghostly white skin bore no traces of the fight with Moriarty, and his crisply pressed black suit was neither bloody nor torn. How long ago had the battle been? Where were Mycroft, Lestrade, and everyone? What had happened?

Then more visions hit him. Sherlock holding his body as he convulsed on the warehouse floor, slicking it with his blood. Mycroft on his mobile. A black ambulance. Needles and a gurney and this room.

He remembered the horrible stomach wound, and looked down. Although a hospital-style T-shirt covered his upper body, he knew there were no stitches and bandages. How was that possible? If he was alive after that type of damage, he should be swaddled in surgical-grade bandages and on fucking life support.

Then, like the headlights of the Glasgow bus that had saved John's life before the hunting began, the truth hit him, and he sank back onto the mattress.

"Sherlock," he whispered, voice raspy. "What have you done?"

The silence that followed was actually deafening. When Sherlock finally spoke, his answer did nothing to calm John's agitation.

"I'm not positive."

"What?" John tried once again to rise. The bed's iron frame gave a warning creak, but the restraints still held tight. "How can you not bloody know? I think it's fucking obvious. You turned me!"

Molly and Mycroft Holmes appeared in the doorway behind Sherlock. "Technically, he did not," the elder Holmes said. A livid bruise covered much of his left temple, but he was otherwise none the worse after the Surrey bloodbath. "Can you really not hear your own heartbeat, John?"

John stared at him. Then he closed his eyes and calmed down enough to listen. Sure enough, his heart still worked, its pulsing weak and erratic. But it had not yet stilled. Lying back on the mattress, he attempted to breathe, but his lungs refused to expand.

"I'm not breathing," he said. "So I can't be alive."

He remembered how Sebastian Moran, although clearly a vampire, had experienced a weak but discernible heartbeat after being turned. With his typical uncanny ability to read thoughts, Sherlock said, "Moran's heart stopped beating before the night ended. You have been in a state of transformation for three days."

It was all too much. Overwhelmed, John let out a sob but his eyes remained vampire-dry. "What the fuck am I?"

"An anomaly," Mycroft answered. "And, might I add, one that we are guarding closely."

"Guarding me? From who?"

"The Elders who assisted us -Markus and Elisheva- believe I simply turned you into a vampire," Sherlock said. "If they knew your actual situation, they'd want to destroy you."

"What are you talking about?" After trying -and failing- to rise for a third time, John wriggled his wrists. "Would someone please undo these?"

Sherlock turned to Molly and nodded. When she approached, John was instantly alert. Her smell was irresistible, especially the ripe warmth of her blood. He stilled and stared at her, nostrils quivering.

His reaction made her freeze and cast an inquiring look over her shoulder, at the Holmes brothers. Sherlock gestured for her to return to the doorway and came closer.

"You want blood."

John closed his eyes. His senses were buzzing like power lines, urging him to demolish the restraints and then demolish Molly. But no. No, no, no. He shook his head violently and felt the impulse recede.

"I'm all right," he managed. "I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting that."

"Yet you stopped yourself," Mycroft said. "All the same, I'm going to insist that you be under controlled conditions until you are more acclimated."

John nodded. He opened his eyes again when he smelled blood once more, this time from a white ceramic mug that Sherlock was holding to his lips. His head jerked off the pillow and he drank deeply.

He heard Mycroft and Molly leave, but their departure was insignificant compared to the hot, vital, and divine taste of the mug's contents. It spilled down his cheeks and chin as he gulped, relishing the warmth that spread through his chilled and restless limbs. Once it was empty he flopped back against the pillow, earlier distress dulled by an afterglow that reminded him a lot of sex.

John heard Sherlock move and felt the restraints slip from his body, but he was too sated to move. Then those deft fingers touched his chest, and the afterglow exploded into something that felt like sex indeed.

He was still overwhelmed and distressed. But Sherlock's touch and the words that followed shoved all uncertainty away.

"I can't hurt you any more, John. We are free."