"I wondered when you would be back." La Neige regarded his own filthy nails without looking up at Sherlock. "Is that beautiful brother of yours not looking after your needs? All of your needs?" Sherlock could feel his face burning with shame and disgust, partly for himself, partly for the man before him. If you could call La Neige a man.
"He keeps me safe."
"And that's it, isn't it. He keeps you. Like a pet." La Neige licked his dry lips. "No doubt he's too busy pleasuring himself with his little policeman to worry about you. Is that it? It is. Isn't it? You awoke from death to realise that all these years what you wanted most was your brother. He was the only one like you. And now you realise that you can never have him. And he tastes so divine."
Sherlock shuddered, still able to taste Mycroft on his lips, the only thing able to calm him and stop him ripping at his own skin was his brother's blood. Mycroft tasted of fire and ginger and Christmas and thunderstorms. In one of his lucid moments Sherlock had asked Greg what he could taste, and Greg had told him that Mycroft tasted of rich dark chocolate and ages old brandy. Sherlock couldn't agree. To him his brother tasted of God.
xx
Mycroft awoke with the cold blue light of early morning pooling on the floor by the bed. Pressed up close next to him, Greg slept on. For moment, whilst he gathered his thoughts Mycroft was in two minds whether to bring his teeth down on Greg's beautiful neck, or to slide his near permanent erection into the velvet depths of Greg's firm arse. But then he listened. There was almost an echo of Sherlock's thoughts in the room. And Mycroft knew. Sherlock had gone to La Neige. And that was not going to end well.
Mycroft looked down at the sleeping policeman. He kissed him gently. This was family business. And Mycroft, as everyone knew, was very good of taking care of business. He dressed quickly, pulling on dark blue jeans and a checked shirt, things could get messy and there was no point in ruining a good suit. And despite the whole not changing thing, Mycroft was sure his shoulder were a little broader than they used to be, his arms slightly more muscular, his waist slightly thicker. He smiled at the irony: only he could end up as the only vampire with weight issues! He grabbed his leather jacket from the cloakroom and opened the front door. The cold didn't bother him, but the smell did. The smell of London. Ages old and filled with death and lies and hate. And just on the top of it, the smell of his little brother's despair.
Unseen in the shadows, John Watson watched the tall elegant figure of Mycroft Holmes pause on his doorstep to sniff the morning air, before pushing on sunglasses and walking with purpose out onto the crunchy frosted pavement. John clicked the safety off of his revolver and followed at a distance.
xx
La Neige wasn't surprised that Mycroft had shown up. Not really. But he was surprised at how easily he had found them. And La Neige was also, almost, troubled by the sense of power he was detecting. It seemed that Mycroft Holmes was very powerful indeed. Although mercifully he was also unaware of it. Unaware of the dangerous combination of immortality and intelligence that pulsed in his veins. Unaware of something else as well.
"You've come to rescue your little brother, how sweet. Beautiful and honourable. That's a very attractive combination Mr Holmes. " La Neige stood inches away from Mycroft, his rancid breath pushing its way out of his mouth like air escaping from a tomb.
"I do suggest you don't stand in my way." The hand slinked down the front of Mycroft's torso. Mycroft made a mental note to burn the shirt when he got home.
"Why would I stand in your way?" La Neige stepped aside. Sherlock was sat on the floor, shaking, hollow eyed and sweating with his veins standing out like cords on his arms. Even in the worst ravages of his Heroin addiction, Sherlock had never looked so bad. So helpless. Mycroft looked down at his brother, Sherlock's reddened silver eyes meeting Mycroft's piercing blue ones.
La Neige snaked his arm around Mycroft, pressing himself into his back and tilting his head so that Mycroft's long neck was exposed.
"I want your blood." The finger trailed along the jugular vein. "So beautiful." La Neige drew back his lips to reveal his blackened fangs. "And I want to have you." The points scraped against Mycroft's pale skin.
"I'm sorry Mycroft. You shouldn't have followed me." Sherlock was crying. "You should have left me to die. It would have been better like that."
"I don't think so!" Everyone turned to see the bristling figure of John Watson levelling a gun at la Neige and Mycroft. "Now which one of you bastards shall I shoot first?"