John wasn't sure how it happened. He didn't remember ever actually agreeing to move in. He never signed a lease. The landlady never even asked him to. It's been over a month and he still hadn't even officially moved out of his shitty bedsit.

And yet, this morning John woke up in a room he immediately recognized as his own. He couldn't remember the last time he did that. John sighed, nodded his approval at the patch of sunny sky out his window and walked downstairs, pausing for a moment when he realized that the act was utterly painless.

When he reached the kitchen, he found a cup of hot tea waiting for him as it always did, but this time in the hand of his flatmate.

"Sugar?" John shook his head, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table. It briefly occurred to him that he pulled out the same chair yesterday and the day before and if he kept going on like this, the chair was in danger of becoming his. He brushed the thought aside when Sherlock set his mug in front of him.

"Thank you." He sipped at it, the warmth of it immediately spreading through his chest. His eyes fluttered shut at the sensation. "Mm. That's lovely." He opened them to find Sherlock studying him intently from over the rim of his own cup. The vampire's gaze slid aimlessly off to the side, as though it was a mere passing glance, but John wasn't fooled. Still, John let it go for now. He was in the mood to let things go.

"You drink tea?" He hadn't seen his night-dwelling flatmate very often since he more-or-less failed to reject his offer to live together. When he did, the strange man always seemed to be busy. Sometimes he was busy with one of his visitors, other times he was busy staring at the bits of paper gruesome photos pinned all over the walls and mumbling to himself. He didn't know which was more surprising, the fact that he was up this early or the fact that he hadn't demanded payment in blood thus far.

"Mm. Most liquids, actually. But, to be fair, it has got a drop of Molly in it." John giggled, despite himself. In the morgue, the man had seemed so sharp and dangerous, but here, in the cluttered little flat with the quaint wallpaper and skulls scattered about like morbid Easter eggs, he seemed almost normal. It was impossible to think of him as the subject of a thousand black and white era horror movies when his eyes were dull and crusted and his hair was ruffled.

Mrs. Hudson came in with a platter of breakfast foods nearly as big as she was. "Good morning, John. And Sherlock! Oh, I do hope your case went well. That was a long one, wasn't it? From the way you looked yesterday, I was sure you wouldn't be up and about until next week. I had a boyfri-"

Sherlock raised his bony hand to halt our landlady's relentless onslaught of polite conversation. "Mrs. Hudson. Don't take this the wrong way, but your mindless drivel could wake the dead then bore them back to death immediately after. And, in my current state, I honestly don't think I could survive it."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot you're not a morning person." I really didn't think there was a good way to take that, but Mrs. Hudson found it anyways. She turned back to me, whispering as she laid more food out in front of me than I usually eat in an entire day. "That one's got a tongue as sharp as his fangs, but don't let it get to you. "

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, letting his head hang over the backrest. It was the very picture of dramatized exasperation. "Gawwwd, I don't even haaave fangs."

"Yeah, I can see that now." John's paranoia that his flatmate might sneak into his room and suck him dry in his sleep disappeared. And it had little to do with Sherlock's dental arrangements. "Thank you Mrs. H. You really didn't have to."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. It's nice having someone with a working stomach to cook for." She chirped as she left the kitchen.

John took a deep breath as he sunk his fork into his mountain of pancake. If he didn't know otherwise, he'd be afraid that the lovely little old lady was attempting to fatten him up for thanksgiving dinner.

Sherlock rose and threw open the fridge door in a whirl of motion and satin. "Don't worry about not finishing it. She's usually too high to be offended," He commented as he sat back down with a plastic bag labelled 'Lestrade' in his hand. He opened a valve at one end of it and began sucking it as he settled back in his seat.

"High?" John wasn't sure how he still had the capacity to be baffled. Then again... that would explain the massive quantities of food. And the endless patience. "On what?"

"Only marijuana these days," Sherlock mumbled through the corner of his mouth that was not occupied. It became very clear that talking time was over when the vampire became engrossed in the rather expensive phone that had materialized in his hand.

After finishing the pancakes and nibbling at the eggs, John pushed aside his various plates. He glared at the french toast, bacon and sausages for daring to still look delicious when he seriously couldn't eat another bite. But forgave them when he realized they'd probably still be just as good at lunchtime.

The army doctor sighed and hauled himself to his feet, feeling about ten pounds heavier than e did when he sat down. He picked up a few of the dishes and headed for the fridge. What he found in it nearly caused him to drop the bacon.

"Hands," John muttered, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "There are hands in the fridge," He announced to the vampire at the breakfast table.

"Just move them aside." He muttered, not looking up from his phone.

"There are about a dozen of them. Left hands." He waited for some sort of answer but got none. "Why do you have a dozen left hands in your fridge?"

"I was hardly going to keep them under my pillow, was I?" He snapped, momentarily lifting his mouth from it's place on the blood bag. "Measuring the muscle definition of left hands for work."

"What work?" As John rearranged the gruesome into a sort of heap, he tried to think of what kind of career would require one to keep a dozen left hands. The only conclusion he could come up with was 'mad scientist'.

"Mmm. Tired now," Sherlock mumbled, his speech slightly slurred. The now empty blood bag fell from his mouth to the table. "Tell you in an hour or so..." He pulled himself to his feet with some effort and swayed like a drunk to the couch, where he collapsed into a blue satin heap.

"Of course," John sighed, shoving the various plates haphazardly into the safest parts of the fridge that he could manage. The army doctor then took his laptop from where it was charging on the coffee table and opened it as he settled into a chair by the fireplace. Now was as good a time as ever to write up a blog entry.

And this time, he might actually have something to write about.


*please excuse my unconventional spelling of the word 'god' I couldn't find another way to elongate the word without making it look like 'good'

*Also, most vampires in this universe do have fangs. Sherlock just had his removed as a kid (They grew in wrong)