John knew soldiers that were once prisoners of war. He had heard of their nightmares when he treated them for malnutrition and the torture they endured. Things they dared not even speak of even though the evidence was written upon their bodies like a book to be freely read. Some would go on to recover while other's had their spirits permanently broken to forever relive the horrors for the rest of their lives. He now wished to God he had never heard their stories now. Though he had consented to move in, he felt a large heaviness in his gut, a feeling of sudden helplessness.

"You look exhausted," said Sherlock. "Why don't you stay the night here."

John did not want to tip him off that he felt uneasy at his request, but all of a sudden he had the urge to get away. However, the way the man loomed over him on the landing, he knew it would not be a good idea. The quickness of his movements was proof well enough that Sherlock could easily overtake him. Besides, if he did leave, who was to say the vampire would follow him home to make sure he would come back? As much as he wanted to believe that this arrangement was all a simple solution; John had no inkling that what he said was true and he would turn and harm him. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was persisting to make good on his word or get him to stay so John wouldn't change his mind.

"That's great and all, but I have no clothes here or anything else for that matter. It's all at my flat."

Sherlock's head nodded to the stairway to the floor above.

"There is a room upstairs already furnished and fully stocked in whatever you need."

John was taken aback by the offer and made a wary eye to the steps leading up to the extra room. So, he was prepared for him. Better yet what was it in the room that was 'furnished and stocked'? He tried pushing back images of gruesome devices and bondage that leapt forward in his mind, but he couldn't help it. That was a vampire's thing wasn't it? Blood and sex? At least it was in cheesy films. But what if he simply just had a spare room? A guest room like any other house if one were to expect company.

"Are you sure you weren't doing more than just…watching me for the past two weeks? Did you ever go into my flat?"

"What flat?" Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "I had the liberty of moving in your things while you was at work today and your lease terminated."

John's eyes widened and his briefcase slipped from his grasp onto the floor.

"Wait…What? How did you manage that?! They need notice and…"

"They did. Two weeks ago." Sherlock said frankly.

"You mean you did it…two weeks ago? Two weeks?!"

"Yes."

John ran his hands roughly down his face at the dawning of this new living situation. Not only had he prepared to have him stay, he bloody well planned it all out and brilliantly at that. The mere audacity! The fact he had made such a decision before discussing it with him first! He peered back at the vampire who, in all of this, was as calm as a dormant tide while the heat of the desert was beginning to boil under John's skin.

"Just last week I decided to look at a new flat. Yesterday I had it narrowed down to three. And you knew all of this because you decided I was going to be your new flat mate, today? Because you knew I would say yes to your arrangement? Decided all of this two weeks ago? How the hell did you know this?!"

"I believe I have already shown you my skills before not a half hour ago. Or has the haze of your 'kidnapping', as you so eloquently put it, still have a hold on you?"

Sherlock had a point. His excellent deduction methods had laid out his life before him, rooting down to his deepest secrets. John had to give him that. He was a master of his profession, one he carried with the highest regard and one could see the pride gleaming in his eyes as he performed his work. He had no idea how in depth his skills were, but if John had to guess he had it down to a craft. This man didn't merely play a guessing game to see if John would become his flat mate. He knew he would. He strategized it the moment he laid eyes on him to probably even down to the very conversation they were having now.

"I'm not even sure if I want to know." John dropped the subject.

"Good. Makes for unnecessary chit chat." He picked up John's briefcase and put it back in the doctor's hands. "Now, come in." Sherlock re-entered the flat, leaving John to stand there.

There was no force or beckoning call to pull John back into the flat. Sherlock had left it up to him to choose to come back in. Neither had he physically manipulated him. He was giving him an ultimatum. Either John could come in and take advantage of his now new room or he could freely make a run for it even if he had nowhere to go. With a sigh, John chose the latter of the two options and went back in.

Sherlock seemed to have busied himself resuming whatever work on the computer he had been doing prior to his meeting with John. For a brief moment he didn't look like a demon who couldn't be trusted, but like any other human doing regular human things. Sherlock gave him a quick glance before returning his gaze back to the screen.

"Before you settle in there is a few conditions I would like to discuss with you."

John had barely shrugged off his coat when he had heard Sherlock's newest announcement.

"There's more? I thought we laid out all the terms and conditions."

"That is for our own private affairs. I am purely speaking within the flat itself."

"Oh?"

"I am a particular man. A man set in his ways and have been for quite some time and I am not fond of repeating myself." This time Sherlock's eyes flashed back to John, the computer lighting making his pale features luminous. "So please, heed my words with care and take them to heart. If you do it will make both of us living here much easier."

John's feet felt planted to the floor with his stare as he bore into him. He felt urges to look away but try as he might, he couldn't leave his face. He had been taught to be still and at attention when the time needed in the military and this felt like one of those moments.

"I do not care how you live your life or who you choose to spend your time with, but for all intense and purposes, me being a vampire should be kept silent as the grave. And any carousing of the fairer sex should probably be kept at their place of residence."

"No dates back to the flat and don't tell anyone your a vampire. Actually those aren't too hard to think of."

"That may be so. But my next one may strike you as odd or strain your curiosity too much, but nevertheless it is my most important rule. You should, under no circumstance, enter my bedroom, for whatever reason. If you need me simply knock on my door and I will come out, but do not enter."

John couldn't help but snigger and before he could control his mouth and realize who and what he was speaking to; let out the first thing that popped into his mind.

"What? Got a coffin in there?"

In that instance the staring spell was broken as Sherlock's frame pulled back at John's words. His face was no longer cold or indifferent, but something akin to remembering a memory one wants to readily forget because it brings them sorrow. His gaze turned away from John and back to his computer.

"There is a washroom down the hall from the kitchen, on your left. I laid out some towels and a change of clothes for you if you would like to freshen up before bed. The tub in there is deep. A hot bath would help your tired muscles."

Guilt crept up in John and thought perhaps he approached on a sensitive topic. After all, how does one joke and talk to one who is already dead without offending them? What exactly was the social etiquette? Deciding that it was best to keep his mouth shut instead of inserting his foot again he muttered a quick gratitude and made his way to the bathroom. He found it with ease, though noticed at the end of the hallway was another door. The dark wooden structure hung on its hinges in a sinister manner the way no light played upon its frame. Shadows clung to it like cobwebs and the door itself was closed tightly as if it was a jail cell.

"Must be his," John thought "And I have absolutely no desire to go in. He can rest assured of that."

He entered the bathroom and just like Sherlock had said there was a deep white porcelain tub that looked every bit inviting. Perhaps he was right. A hot bath would do to let him soak out his stress. John closed the door and locked it. He wasn't sure what defense it would have for him, but at the moment he chose not to dwell on it. He set his briefcase down by a lone chair by the tub that had the towels and, to his surprise, his own night clothes resting upon it. He shook his head and turned on the faucet of the tub, letting it fill of steaming hot water as he stripped down. And again Sherlock was right. The water was divine on his aching body as he sank down into the tub and little by little the feeling that was once heavy in his gut was soothing away. Although he made a careful choice to sit facing the door, just as a precautionary. He didn't want to let his guard down at such a vulnerable time.

In all of less than an hour John had been pulled off the street and rendered unconscious, brought to a stranger's home, performed a medical exam on a vampire, and now was moving in. All to find out he had been prepping up for him, waiting for the right time to take action, even moving him out of his own flat.

The steam of the water brought him out of his thoughts as his eyes drifted over to the niche in the wall to the side of the tub and found a familiar bar of soap and shampoo. The scents couldn't be mistaken. They were his own necessities. Now that he was aware of this new fact his eyes darted up to the sink and sure enough nestled in a cup was his toothbrush and toothpaste.

"The bastard thought of everything." John thought to himself bitterly. "He's gone ahead and already put my things away."

In some twisted point of view he could tell Sherlock was giving him his own space. He was trying to put forth a sense of normalcy, show him that this too was his home and he lived here now. To put on an air that everything was okay. But was any of it really okay?

There was no point in arguing with Sherlock about how he had just packed up his life and brought his things here. He agreed to this and now here he was. Suddenly the warmth of the bath no longer felt inviting but more of just another psychological motive on Sherlock's part. Take a warm bath, relax, and welcome to your new home. That's all this screamed. Calm your victim. Make them more compliant.

He pulled the plug of the drain and got out of the delicious embrace of the water. He dried off quickly, put on his pajamas, gathered up his belongings and made his way out of the bathroom. Sherlock was still where he had left him and John had no intentions of disturbing him and made right for the stair case.

"Sleep well." Sherlock called.

John looked over his shoulder to the attention he was now receiving from him.

"I hope." John said softly.

"I won't bother you if that's what you are worried about. I'm quite busy tonight and I promise you won't hear a peep out of me."

John rigidly nodded.

"If you say so."

He proceeded his way up the stairs to his new room, securing the door once more with the lock of the doorknob. In some strange sense he felt like he was safe as he backed away from the door with uncertainty. He quickly scanned the room and found it quite spacious. Once again, true to the vampire's word it was already set up and furnished with all of his belongings. A dresser and the closet were filled with his clothes, a floor mirror sat in a corner, and his old army trunk was at the foot of the bed. By the window, draped in moonlight was his bed neatly made and ready to be slept in. In quick mental thought he went and checked the window finding it locked.

He wasn't taking any chances tonight. If this was to be his room then he damn well wanted the necessary protection. He couldn't help but curse himself mentally for not taking more interest in religion. He owned no Bible or cross for that matter. He highly doubted a vampire was stocked up on garlic of any kind. No point of going back downstairs to the kitchen and snooping. Sitting on his bed he felt a lump rise in his throat and forced it back down. Never had he felt so defenseless, helpless, clueless even. At least not since Afghanistan. All he had to go on to ensure he slept peacefully was the vampire's word and he wasn't sure how much weight his words actually held. So far he hadn't lied to him, he had been up front and honest, but he had also kept his own secrets from John.

Panic raced through him like a bucket of cold ice water as it dawned on him.

"He still has my gun. He never gave it back."

John's eyes darted to and fro. Now he truly was defenseless. With no way out, no home to return to, no weapon and a vampire lurking downstairs, what was he to do? His eyes drifted over to the end table by his bed and noticed a small note. Picking it up, on it was fine scrawled out cursive that had to have been made by delicate hand. The strokes of the handwriting looked so out of date he knew it could only have to belonged to Sherlock.

In the drawer

John's brows furrowed in confusion at the vague message. Carefully opening up the drawer of the table laid his gun. Relief flooded him as he picked it up and finding it loaded, ready and armed. It surprised him in some ways to find it just how it was and not loaded so Sherlock would have the upper hand. But as the vampire had said, even he had morals and even he would think someone an idiot if they did not think of their well being first while with him. He had to have taken his gun for something more than the excuse of John's safety. Perhaps his own. Was there something about John's gun that could possibly harm Sherlock or even the bullets? Bullets contain no silver, so that was out of his theory. Whatever the matter was he left it with John, armed, and even let him know its location. That in itself gave John enough motion to hide it under his pillow just for good measure.

Pulling back the covers he buried himself down into the sheets. A strange thought then came to him. He had about six hours till sunrise. That legend had to be true. If that was the case Sherlock would have no choice but find a dark place and stay till it was night once more. He wouldn't have to deal with him in the morning. He would be free to go and do as he pleased.

Though first things first. He would have to make it through the night.

The morning came stead fast for John. The rays of sunlight brought mind a realization of hope to him. He had made it through the night. In a sense of urgency he bounded out of his bed and made towards the full length mirror by his closet door. He checked his neck, arms, wrists, and the plains of his body. Every inch of skin he inspected for any sign of a bite. None was found. He breathed out a sigh of relief and went to the window to find it still locked. Even his door. All was as Sherlock had said. He hadn't bothered him. At least he was going to think that way. He hoped that the vampire didn't have some key to his room where he could come and go as he pleased. Or was that superstition now null and void since now John was the one who occupied and lived in the room? Would Sherlock be forced to be an uninvited guest in a part of his own home until John gave the word to let him in?

Now that it was morning it meant Sherlock had to be asleep, stove away somewhere hiding in the darkness. John could move about freely in his new flat. He unlocked his door and carefully made his way down the stairs, trying to be easy on the creaking boards. He reached the bottom of the landing and saw that the door of the sitting room was open. Just like he suspected this level of the flat was quiet with no hints of life bustling about. Suspicions so far proving to be correct.

The sitting room had a wave of renewed life within it now. Darkness no longer bathed in every corner and crevice. Strange commodities of dead things framed behind glass would've gave the cold chill of dread to any if it were still night. However, in the lit room they no longer held such power. Now they were scientific fascinations decorating the mantle of the fireplace and shelves for all to see. Beetles, bats, botany of mushrooms and other fauna. They were life and death together in harmony. Glass jars and chemistry materials lined shelves in a display cabinet along with other knickknacks that even piqued John's interest as he looked at them all. This no longer felt like the den of a vampire, but a flat of a detective who had an interest in the mechanics of life and science. He was about to go into the kitchen when he heard the shuffle of feet and turned to meet the figure of his new flatmate.

"Good morning." The vampire popped out of the kitchen to greet John who was startled out of his skin, not expecting him to still be awake. His appearance seemingly had transformed over night. No longer did he look like walking corpse with ivory skin and tired eyes. The sun caressed his skin and gave it a youthful glow. Pale dusk lips were now rosy. Dark hallow eyes now shown in radiance. He had also changed his clothes to a more brighter display of a lilac button up dress shirt and black trousers. Even a silk maroon robe adorned him. The only theory John could come up with to Sherlock looking more alive was that he had to have done something recently. A meal. He did say he was going to be 'busy' last night.

"Oh…uh, good morning." John's eyes flitted to the open drapes that was letting in full scales of light into the room and back to Sherlock. Apart from his shocking metamorphosis John was wondering how he wasn't bursting into flames. Obviously he had a lot to learn about what was fiction and what was real regarding the detective's unique lifestyle.

A kind smile graced Sherlock's lips that looked more natural today instead of the strained one from last night.

"I trust you slept well?" he asked as he turned away from John and back into the kitchen, flipping on the kettle on the counter.

"Yeah…yeah I did. Not too bad."

"Splendid. I have a good English breakfast for you here on the table. Eggs, beans, toast, sausage. You know, the works. I know you must be hungry."

Making a glance towards the table there sat a singular setting of the steaming hot breakfast and condiments to compliment it. The act struck a chord in John's heart and once again he was feeling guilt. Here he had been thinking the worst of him and the vampire had actually put forth the effort to make some sort of peace offering. He stepped in and took a seat at the table, watching as Sherlock bustled around the tiny kitchen in preparation for the morning tea.

"How?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned to meet his confused expression.

"You cook? Don't take this the wrong way it just kinda of surprises me. I wouldn't think you need much use or need for cooking when you are…well," John cleared his throat. "What I mean to say is I wouldn't think you would need the skill if you don't ever have any company."

"Au contraire. Quite the opposite. As a detective I get all kinds of company. There are plenty of people in need of my services."

"So you do cook?" He picked up his fork, taking the first bite of food.

"Oh no, I don't cook. Set too many fires to this damnable place that I have been banned from even touching an oven. Mrs. Hudson cooked your breakfast." He said as matter of fact as though it was given knowledge.

John swallowed.

"Mrs. Hudson? Who's Mrs. Hudson? Is she a one too?"

"No, she is no vampire. In our respective roles she is playing as my landlady. When in truth she is my housekeeper. She lives on the floor below."

"And she knows you're.." John trailed off.

"Yes."

"And she's ok with it?"

"I believe so. She seems content."

John thought this was interesting. He wasn't the only human living in the building. Why didn't Sherlock tell him this last night? It certainly would've put his mind more at ease if he knew he wasn't alone. Or perhaps it was more of a matter of Sherlock wanting John to trust him with his life that he had so maliciously set out to change.

"So what is your deal with her?" He continued on with his breakfast.

"No rent if she could be my housekeeper," Sherlock paused as he poured tea into a RAMC mug he had plucked out of the cabinet. Another thing of John's that he had settled in under his nose. "Now I may not know how to cook, but I do know how to make a proper cup of tea."

John watched him with interest. He had saw his skills last night and was curious to put them to the test again. There would be no way Sherlock could narrow down how someone took their tea and wondered if he could stump him.

"And I'm supposing you know how I take it too?"

"Of course, Watson. Earl Grey, no sugar, and a splash of milk to taste." The answer rolling off his tongue as if he knew it all along. John's mouth gaped at him slightly as he set the mug down beside his plate and seated himself across the table.

"How did you know that?"

"Lucky guess." he shrugged.

The subtle clack of heels came from the stairs and soon a elderly woman entered the kitchen. She was dressed in a floral blouse and skirt and tucked in her hand was a newspaper.

"The paper for you dear." She handed it over to Sherlock and he took it graciously.

"Ah, thank you. Mrs Hudson this is Dr. John Watson. Doctor, Mrs. Hudson." He introduced them both as he set about unfolding his newspaper to his desired page.

John reached out a hand and shook hers briefly.

"Nice to meet you. Breakfast is lovely by the way."

"Oh, thank you!," Her face lit up at the mentioning of her cooking. "But just this once. I'm not your housekeeper."

"She takes her acting role very seriously." Sherlock piped in not bothering to look at either one of them.

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips and dropped her bubbly face.

"Someone has to with all the sorts you get to the flat and your strange experiments." She remarked giving him a sideways glare before returning back to John. "I'm going to the market. Is there anything I can pick up for you?"

Her kind disposition made her demeanor seem more like a mother hen looking after him. And she seemed not to be put off or pay no mind that Sherlock was a vampire and talked to him as she saw fit. Fussing about the lifestyle, more namely the profession, he led. John instantly took a liking to her. Maybe he could learn a thing or two from her about this mysterious man.

"I trust whatever you get. Anything would be great."

"Very well. I'll be back in a few. Nice meeting you dear." She left out the kitchen door and made down the stairs. "But like I said, just this once!"

"Not the housekeeper." John smiled as he mumbled her little saying under his breath and continued with his breakfast. "How long has she lived here?" He asked Sherlock.

"A few decades now since she has returned to England from Florida. Helped her with her husband's death penalty."

John blinked up in surprise.

"You helped her husband get off?"

"Definitely not. I ensured it."

John took a quick drink of his tea so he wouldn't choke on the information he had just received. Ensuring death. Sounded like a very vampire thing to say. Hopefully there had to be more to the story than what Sherlock let on. Did Mrs. Hudson, knowing what Sherlock was, have her husband off'd? Maybe she was now living here at Baker Street because she was indebted to him?

"Please John don't be dull. I can practically hear the grinding gears of your thoughts. No, I didn't kill him. He was abusing and exploiting her. She said she would give me all the information on her husband's drug cartel if she could live out the rest of her life peacefully. And now she does under my employment." He folded back up his newspaper to its original state and set it on the table.

"Good God." The words escaped from John's lips.

He was protecting her. She lived here with no debts, no obligations to him if all she did was a little cleaning. And she lived, however she wished, downstairs in her little flat and he let her fuss over him. It was almost endearing. So what did he see in him? What was so special about him that he uprooted him in just two weeks and moved him right here into his flat.

Sherlock arose from his chair and slid off his robe, opting for his suit jacket that was draped over his desk chair.

"I must be off as well. The Yard wants me to take a look at a frozen waiter. Make yourself at home and don't wait up on me. And remember John, under no circumstances should you enter my room. I will know if you have even touched the door."

Sherlock reappeared by the kitchen entrance again. This time in a long black coat and blue scarf draped around his neck.

"What…what happens if I do?" John treaded cautiously, all cheerfulness from their previous conversations had completely vanished.

"Let's not dwell on darker thoughts shall we? It will give us both a peace of mind." With that Sherlock turned on his heel and made his way down the stairs.

"Fuck. He's always fucking right. Now I want to know." He thought as he looked down the hall to the siren calling door. Sure he had no notion of wanting to go in. That was invading privacy. But the fact he was warning him, heavily warning him, had to mean something. What skeletons was he keeping in his room? Especially if John was threatened with pain of death.