Chapter 1

It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. If one does not feel fear then how does one survive? The body's natural reaction when it senses its impending doom is to cause the heart rate to accelerate, the blood pressure to rise, and respirations to increase. All of this is to prepare the body for fight or flight. It is all normal and nothing to be ashamed of.

Perhaps that is why it took Sherlock by surprise when he sensed none on the man he had just swept off the street. He had been stalking him silently since the first day he had laid eyes upon the unsuspecting doctor just two weeks prior. Little did Sherlock know that fateful night would change his life forever. When he first caught eye of the doctor Sherlock had been leaving the morgue late one bitter frigid May night. At first the man looked like any other doctor leaving St. Bart's Hospital. The doctor's face was sullen and marked evidence of a long and weary shift. He was young, no more than mid-thirties and looked as if he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders. His hair shown in a bright golden hue under the street lights that revealed secrets of silver hiding underneath. He tugged his coat tighter around him as the brisk wind of the unusual cold spring plowed through the city. It was enough to show the hidden tan line that was beginning to fade that went no higher than his wrist.

"Afghanistan." A ghostly voice brewed from the farthest reaches of Sherlock's mind. Or was it the howl of the wind that was making him hear things? But why? Why indeed. Now his mind was curious.

In quick strides Sherlock drew near him in an instant, like a moth to a seductive flame. What was it about this man that called forth long forgotten memories as if they were just spoken yesterday? Sherlock watched the doctor as he walked down the pavement seemingly unaware that danger lurked right behind him. Sherlock often used this small talent to make easy observations and deductions while going unseen by others. Simply a shadow in the wake of the living.

From what he could gather at glance this strange man in some sense was familiar yet different. A duplicate yet not exactly the real McCoy. He was the same height, same build, even favoring his right hand to carry his briefcase rather than his left which was clearly the more dominant. He even had the same name which he read off the dangling I.D. badge clipped to the outside of his bag: Dr. John Watson. Sure it was a fairly common name. No doubt to be reused several times throughout history. But what were the odds? Here Sherlock believed the only thing that never changed was he himself. How wrong he was! Either way Sherlock had decided that this man was to eventually be his guest. Whether he wanted to or not. Now, after much waiting, it had finally come to chance that tonight was this night after careful preparation.

It didn't take long for John to arouse himself. After all Sherlock did very little harm in order to bring him to the small flat in which he resided. The steel eyes of the doctor drew from the depths of their clouded slumber as they took in the new surroundings he was in. No longer was he fighting the chill, but now was enveloped in warmth from the heat of a fireplace from the far end of the room. Looking around he realized he wasn't even in his own home but another's. Two chairs were nestled in front of the hearth, behind them bookcases filled with volumes of various subjects from floor to ceiling, and by the window a large desk littered with papers and manila folders.

"How did I get here?" John wondered as his hand brushed against his head trying to sooth the mild pain radiating there. "I knew I was tired but I would certainly remember if I went to my own flat. Let alone someone else's. Wait…no. I didn't I was on the street and.."

John immediately jumped from the reclined position he had taken on a sofa to a stock straight pose, clutching onto the furniture within an inch of its life. His vision now fixed on, what he assumed was, his captor. Though he didn't exactly look the part. John's version of a kidnapper was a burly man, which was no description of this one, as he looked too lean. He certainly had doubts he could've hauled him off the street. Perhaps he had help. He appeared tall in the small chair he sat in and had his legs draped one over the other in a relaxed manner. He was posh yet dressed darkly in a suit and a button up shirt to match. He had long pale boney fingers that he had intertwined together across his lap and a face was so still and angular John thought for a second he was a statue. In contrast to his pale features, ebony curls decorated his head with a gloss like sheen. However, what unnerved John the most about the man was his pale eyes. They seemed to penetrate right into one's soul.

John's heart roared to life than as he struggled to compose himself. Not through fear as one would normally do in a situation like this, but readying himself to put up a fight.

"You will have to forgive me," The deep velvet baritone voice of his captor resonated through the room as he began his introduction. "This is not the usual way I receive people into my home. Though I think if you are of open, conscious and sound mind then you may be comfortable in what I have to propose to you."

"Who the bloody hell are you and what do you want?! Where am I?!" John said through gritted teeth. He eyed his briefcase on the coffee table beside him and made a move to reach for it.

"Don't bother doctor. Your gun has been confiscated. No need for either of us to have a nasty accident." The man's word's had made John halt in his actions.

"You kidnapped me off the street!," He huffed. "Forgive me for wanting to arm myself against a possible psychopath that may intend to kill me!"

"Apology accepted. Besides if I really wanted to kill you I would've done so already. Lord, there would be a body to clean up and that in itself is tedious work. In all honesty I mean you no harm." He said calmly as his hands raised up together to steeple themselves under his chin as though contemplating something only he knew. "All I want is a moment of your time to ask some questions."

John's heart began to settle down and the white knuckle bearing he had, had on the sofa eased up.

"Questions?," John scoffed and an eyebrow lifted in skepticism. "You kidnapped me to ask me questions? Why didn't you just ask me before all of this? Like a normal person."

"Well I can assure you the kind of questions I want to ask are not suitable ones to be asking so freely in public. One must learn to be discreet and my questions are in no way shape or form 'normal' in the sense."

John's features softened, but there was still a storm of confusion that swirled around him.

"I have some questions myself if you don't mind. If you didn't kidnap me to harm me then what do you want? I know nothing about you, who you are or where I am. And I'm not answering anything until you tell me."

"Of course, where are my manners? My name is Sherlock Holmes and you are currently at 221B Baker St. And as for what I want that is simple. I am in need of a flatmate and you will do perfectly."

Both of John's eyebrows rose at his confession and a nervous grin crept onto his face.

"A flatmate? You brought me all the way here because you needed a flatmate? Personally I don't see what is so abnormal about asking someone about a flat share. On the street. In public. Though I will say I do cross the line at being kidnapped by a potential flatmate. Any way I already have a flat so I hate to burst your bubble. Now, if I can have my gun back, I think I will be going. I've been here longer than I care to."

Sherlock's head tilted slightly to the side as he gave off an eerie smile of his own. John thought it looked too unnatural on his face as though the man didn't smile too often.

"Is that why you have been researching more affordable flats in the central London area despite your hospital job and army pension? Can you really live there even knowing you scrap by, living paycheck to paycheck? Please, stay awhile, talk. I know you are not scheduled for work tomorrow and there is no need for you to rush off. Trust me Dr. Watson. I will make this worth your while."

This time John's body stilled and the wavering perfume of fear was beginning to make itself known it sweat and perspiration. John was afraid.

"Have you been spying on me? Did you follow me home? God are you a spy?!"

"Oh no, much more than that. I know quite a bit about you. I know you are a military man invalid from war. You haven't been home long. I would say only a couple of months from the way your tan has barely faded and your hair recently started to grow out. The phone I inspected in your coat pocket is no cheap gadget. The man sitting here before me would not waste money on an expensive item if he is strapped for cash. It must be borrowed. So a doctor would lives in the costliest places in London, short on finances, surviving barely on an army pension turns down a flatmate? No offense, but if I was in your shoes I would take the help where I could get it."

Sherlock watched as John's face turned from borderline paranoid panic to pure awe. He was amused himself of his expression. Often, more than often, the people he encountered were put off by his bold statements. Leaning toward more the irritated side to the point where they could easily tell him to 'fuck off' in this day in age. However, John's face held the truth to his inner most thoughts like an open book.

"Bloody hell that was…amazing. You sure you're not a spy or something?" John breathed out.

"No. I'm a consulting detective with a touch of extra qualities so to speak."

This time a smile of anxious curiosity spread across John's lips.

"Like what?"

Sherlock rested his hands on the arms of the chair and looked down at the now interesting floor below him. To John he seemed nervous as if he was trying to ready himself to divulge a horrible secret. Sherlock took a steady breath and willed his eyes to look at John once more. Now with more will power and determination.

"Well, you see, this is part of the conversation that isn't suitable for public ears and may put you off. I…am a vampire."

The detective had said it with such a calm demeanor and with such purpose that John latched onto his every word. Until he repeated what the man had just said in his mind. A…vampire? John's brows furrowed and could see that this man meant every word he said. There was no lingering joke held over him that he was going to suddenly start laughing or cut up and say he was teasing.

"Right. Last I remember vampires don't exist," John treaded his words carefully. "I could recommend a psych consult if you need help. Don't get me wrong that was brilliant what you just did, but if you are having issues…" He trailed off.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, Dr. Watson, I am not having psychological issues, or a crisis or whatever people are calling it these days. Been there and done that a long time ago. You are a medical man. Examine me yourself if you like. In fact I encourage." He extended his arms out in hopes to clear up any perceived notion John was now cooking up in his head to try and normalize the current state of affairs.

Skepticism was now radiating off the doctor. He was torn on wanting to be cautious of a potential dangerous delusional man yet almost itching to prove him wrong. That this way of thinking and admitting he was some dangerous fictional creature was all in his head. John reached over to his briefcase and retrieved his stethoscope and with only slight hesitancy he approached his captor. He set about his examination as he would with any other patient. Placing the diaphragm of the stethoscope over the fifth intercostal space of the man's chest he listened through the eartips.

There should've been a thrum of a heartbeat. The lull of lub and dubs of the organ. The swishing of blood that was the driving force of life. But no matter how many times he adjusted his instrument or listened to a different section of the man's body, it was silent. There was no airy intake of drawer breath to fill the lungs or and an exhale escaping them. In fact he was so engrossed in his concentration he had failed to notice that there was no rise or fall of the man's chest cavity. The only indication that he truly wasn't breathing at all.

John's eyes widened in realization and flicked up to the man's face who in return was observing him in interest, watching his every move. John took his stethoscope out of his ears and draped the device around his neck. Determined he wasn't completely losing his mind this night, he grasped the man's right wrist. It had an unnatural coldness to it that he noted mentally and pressed two fingers into the inner portion; glancing down at his own watch. It wasn't the absence of the radial pulse that made John loose his grip, but in fact it was the time he read.

11:35pm.

He distinctly remembered leaving work at 11:20pm. How long was he out before he awoke here? He had been talking with this man, to him, it felt like no more than ten minutes. If that was indeed the case, how had his captor get him from St. Bart's to Baker St in no less than five minutes?

"What are your findings doctor? Am I in perfect gleaming health or do you need a second opinion?" Sherlock's voice jostled John from his thoughts which made him jump slightly and take a step back.

"No, I don't think that will be necessary. However, I think with your absence of pulse, lack of oxygen intake, and no findings of normal sinus rhythm I would say you are, without a doubt, quite dead."

Sherlock smiled up into John's disturbed face and let out a light laugh.

"Glad to see you still have a sense of humor left after your diagnosis. And I am quite glad nothing has changed for me since my demise."

John swallowed thick and ran a hand over his forehead nervously.

"Speaking to one who feels like they are suddenly about to become this evenings dinner."

Sherlock waived a hand of indifference at John's comment and adjusted his suit jacket.

"Rest assured I know exactly what that feels like. To feel concreted to the earth in paralyzing fear, unable to move, unable to think of what to do next because you don't know which breath will be your last. I did not bring you here to do that to you. I brought you here to ask you to be my flatmate. Ease the burden of your everyday life. All I ask is an exchange."

John's thoughts screeched to a blinding halt and pupils widened a fraction. An exchange? Of what? In any other normal circumstance the exchange for rent would be money. But this wasn't any normal situation. He was dealing with a man, a very dead man. A dead man that was a vampire. Of course how stupid could he be!

"You mean live here and…in exchange I…" His voice faltered as his hand drifted over his wrist.

He most likely didn't want money. Why would he need it if he was wanting to 'relieve' John of finance burden? He must want blood instead. His blood in leu of rent. Why else would he want to 'relieve' him of any financial burden? Why hunt for your food if you could have a live in snack? God, he would have to conceal bite marks, treat himself for blood loss, not to mention it would literally drain him.

It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised at the misinterpreted offer. His eyes flicked from the doctor's gesture to his face.

"Heaven's no! Even as a vampire I do have morals. I mean for you to supply me with blood from the hospital as rent payment."

"Oh." John let out a shaky breath he didn't realize he was holding in. His shoulders eased up from the tension he had built up for himself. Another thought occurred to him. If he was a detective and a vampire, why not hunt the criminals? Then again did he really want to ask? Let alone how…no. A snorted laugh came from him unexpectedly.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"It just seems like an oxymoron to me. You being a vampire and a detective. How do you handle crime scenes with the blood and all?"

"Years of patience and practice. Now what have you to say on my offer?"

John was dumbfounded for a moment. It would be risking his career stealing blood from the hospital. Though the prospect of living rent free would be easier on his wallet. But what would happen if he got caught? More or less what would happen if he didn't bring anything home?

"I can tell you are thinking too loudly. A moral crisis no doubt. Either you are accepting or refusing? Which is it?" Sherlock interjected again.

"What would you do? If I did refuse?"

"Considering the weight of your words I see you are concerned for your well being. And rightly so. Any man would be an idiot if he did not think of his well being before considering my offer. If you were to refuse you are free to go home and live out the rest of your days without any inference from me."

John nodded and mulled over his words.

"And if I do agree…blood is your only requirement for rent?"

"Depending on what market you sell blood it can run the average cost of today's rent with two or three pints. I say its a fair trade."

John brushed a hand through his hair in contemplation.

"How often do you need it?"

"Usually once a week or a week and a half. A fortnight is the absolute longest I can go without."

John was nearly convinced that this whole conversation was taking place in his mind in a dream like fashion. This was insane. Absolutely insane, but it was reality. Here this corpse of a man was promising something only people would only think up in macabre stories. A vampire taking on a mortal to live with them in hopes of giving them the world. Deep down though John knew not only his job but his life would be at constant stake. Years of practice and patience against bloodlust or whatever he called it could easily go down the toilet. In the darkness of John's mind he couldn't help but wonder what would finally set him off, make him crack in order to break his abstinence.

"I'm…I'm sorry. The offer is tempting, truly. A very nice gesture and I can see you thought it all out, but maybe someone else could help you." John backed away and grabbed his briefcase off the coffee table in a hurry. His mind forgetting about his confiscated weapon.

If Sherlock's heart could still beat he would've felt something akin to panic that his plan was going south. He hadn't anticipated this outcome. He thought his plan had been flawless to the 'T', but once again there had been an element of surprise from his guest. And he should've known better. He watched as the doctor made his hasty retreat towards the door and he scanned him quickly to think of something, anything to make him stay.

"I know by your left hand you don't want to go." Sherlock blurted out.

John came to an abrupt stop as he neared the landing of the stairs and turned to face him again. This time his face was tense. A secret nerve had been struck.

"My what?" John asked in a authoritative voice. This was no longer the kind meek doctor. The solider had come out to play.

In a swift motion Sherlock was in front of him in an instant. The fluid movement made John flinch at the fact he hadn't seen the man move from his chair to stand before him. Just more proof that this man was supernatural indeed.

"Your left hand. Show me." Sherlock commanded as he held out his own, waiting for John to submit to his request.

With caution he put his hand in the vampire's. the shock of contact between warm and cold was instantaneous. Sherlock carefully turned the doctor's hand this way and that way in keen interest as if he was looking for something.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its stress. Fire her. She has it the wrong way around. You are under stress right now and your hand is perfectly still. You're not haunted by the war. You miss it. It's the A&E that gives you the coverage you need. Its the thrill."

John quickly withdrew his hand.

"How? How the hell did you know that? I have never talked to my therapist not once about the war let alone…this." He gestured to his hand.

"I noticed it after your shift tonight," Sherlock admitted. "The adrenaline high of the A&E was wearing off and when you left it started acting up again. Along with a suppressed psychosomatic limp. You often flex your hand either out of habit or there is underlying nerve damage at your shoulder. You are trying to regain feeling. Certain medications could help with sensation and reduce pain flare ups yet you forego to use them. Perhaps due to their side effects which would cause you fall out of practice in your line of work. The limp is a simple fix. Working in a trauma unit you are constantly on your feet and can work it out by consistency. So the A&E has been both your cover up and your medication in a sense."

John stood in awe again at the deduction this man had brought forth from the deepest darkest crevice he had buried.

"Damn," John blinked back his stupor. "Maybe I should fire her. God this is crazy. Absolutely ridiculous! You are right though, this offer I mean, it would be stupid to refuse but you have to know I taking a giant risk. Seriously if anyone found out.."

"No one will find out. I promise."

John sighed and dropped his gaze.

"If I say yes…I have one condition."

"Yes?" Sherlock probed.

"If you ever catch yourself failing to stay away from or to try and…drink…from me, will you let me know?"

"Of course," Sherlock could hear this uneasiness in John's voice. "You don't even have to interact with me if you so choose. All I require is blood. Nothing more."

John nodded.

"Alright then. Maybe not as crazy as invading Afghanistan, but whatever. Hell we already know the worsts about each other."

"As potential flatmates should."

"Afghanistan." The ghostly whisper played in Sherlock's mind once again. He knew then that this wasn't chance. That the universe indeed was not lazy. That this was not coincidence. Or maybe he was just being too hopeful.

"Very well. Then welcome home Dr. Watson."