Wow, I really fell behind on updates.

Don't worry though I've still been writing up a storm, I just... haven't gotten around to posting. I have quite a few of chapters back-logged which I will be posting over the next few days.


Sherlock hadn't left the sofa in days.

At first, John wasn't terribly worried as it fell within the parameters of caseless moodiness. Even when hours stretched into days, he considered it better than him going on a boredom-fueled destructive rampage. Besides, he was out of the apartment for a significant amount of time. So it was likely that Sherlock could have been up and about while John was out. Or in his room. Or sleeping. There was really no way to know for certain that he hadn't.

Then John came from work to the distinct, unmistakable smell of urine emanating from the sofa. Now Sherlock was quite blasé when it came to many aspects of cleanliness. It was in no way uncommon to find urine samples in the refrigerator, in his favorite mug or filling the bathtub with the help of an antique bear rug. But he was fairly meticulous when it came to his personal hygiene. There were only so many circumstances involving bodily fluids and his clothing that he tolerated for extended for significant amounts of time. And even then, not happily. So, when John found that his friend lying on the sofa had soiled himself and done nothing to remedy the matter, his first instinct was to call an ambulance. Then he got a grip and called Lestrade.

A hum filled the space behind his ears as he listened to the dial tone. A sickly, coarse vibration. John called it stress and forgot about it as Lestrade picked up.

"It's Sherlock." John said immediately, the second he picked up the phone. "Something's… the matter with him. He hasn't moved from the sofa for days."

"How long?" Lestrade groaned, his voice clinical. "Is he awake?"

"Four, five days? He's… entirely unresponsive. Eyes open, but glazed over." John listed as he examined Sherlock. "He's barely reacting to physical stimuli. Occasional muscle twitches. What is this, an overdose?"

"I'm afraid not." There was a pause, a rustle of static as Lestrade juggled the phone. "Try to get him conscious. Or as close to it as you can. I'll be there in ten."

"Ok." John sighed, hitting the end button. He looked down at the twisted, crumpled body sprawled facedown across the sofa. "…ok."

He nudged Sherlock's shoulder, not expecting a reaction but unsure of where exactly to start. As he expected, nothing happened. He pressed a finger to the vampire's neck to measure his pulse and proceeded to swallow a panic attack when he found it to be roughly 10 beats per minute.

"Not human. Right. I keep forgetting." The doctor muttered to himself. The moment he began to pull his hand away, Sherlock bolted into some facsimile of wakefulness, grabbing John's hand and gasping like a fish left out to dry.

"Hurts. Oh god it hurts." Sherlock panted, his eyes squeezing shut. "Please. Please don't go."

"It's alright. I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere." John reassured the delirious vampire, placing his free hand against his back to calm him. "Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"Don't… leave." Sherlock groaned, his grip on John loosening. "Father, please."

John knelt down. Whatever burst of life that Sherlock had gained seemed to be fading quickly. "Sherlock. Can you open our eyes for me? Just a little."

He did. They were unfocused and heavy, but it showed he had some measure of awareness and that was enough. The humming shifted to a shrill screech, like a mosquito buzzing around between John's ears. He took a deep breath

"It hurts." Sherlock whined, squinting against the already dim light of the lamp across the room. He sounded suddenly so much like a lost child, it was frightening. Like witnessing a demonic possession of sorts. It was entirely characteristic of Sherlock to act childish. But this was something else entirely. "Father, I'm afraid."

"What are you afraid of?" John asked, just to keeping him talking.

"The eels. It hurts." He gasped, his voice cracking. "Cut them out. Please."

"You'll be ok, someone's on their way right now." John, deciding to play along with Sherlock's delusion, put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You'll make it through this."

Sherlock's eyes drifted off past John's shoulder, then fluttered back closed. John shook his shoulder, but the only thing that came of it was John's hand falling out of his grip. "Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up. Can you hear me? Come on, Sherlock."

It was a good minute before Sherlock regained consciousness. This time, though, he seemed more lucid. "John. Please tell me you didn't throw out all the morphine."

"I'm not giving you morphine, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes, secretly pleased to have the old Sherlock back.

"This is serious." He breathed, rolling onto his back with some effort.

"Yeah. From what I've been told, so is your addiction." John took a seat on the edge of the coffee table, as his bad leg was giving him hell. "Lestrade will be here any minute now."

"I'm sure to prescribe me with an ample dose of morphine."

John scoffed. "Could you at least tell me what's wrong?"

"Too much pain, not enough morphine." He grunted, sinking deeper into the sofa. One of his hands reached up and clutched at the armrest he was using as a pillow, the muscles in his arm twitching worryingly.

"Can you tell me what's causing the pain?" John spelled out carefully. His relief at getting Sherlock to his usual state fading by the second. "Or the location of the pain?"

"Everything. Everywhere." He replied in short gasps, determined to be difficult.

"Sherlock."

"Fine! I'm starving. I can't stand the thought of drinking another drop of damned frozen goat's blood and now my body's devouring itself from the inside like a salmon. My muscles have been sapped of too much blood to allow me to walk straight, the pain won't allow me to think straight and every piece of evidence points to my very slow and agonizing demise. So if you would do me the courtesy of putting me out of my misery or, at the very least, leaving the room before I start vomiting up my internal organs, you would have my thanks." The vampire shouted in a burst of fitful energy, raising himself up on one arm just to collapse back into the sofa, gasping from the effort exerted. He curled into himself, imitating a massive, blue salad shrimp.

"You…" He began again, speaking quietly to his knees. "You're a soldier. Accustomed to packing quickly. Take anything you need. My account's fairly dry, but the chemistry equipment should sell well."

"Sher-" John gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to slap his flat mate.

"Costume departments have been after my clothing for years. They-"

"Shut up." He growled with definitive finality. "You can just shut up right now, because I'm not listening. I'm not selling off you're clothing. I'm not leaving. And you're not dying. I'm not going to let you. Do you hear me? I won't listen to another word of your damn theatrics. So you have two options. Tell me how to help you, or sulk like a fucking child. What will it be?"

Sherlock gaped in stunned silence even as the door flew open.