A few hours later, the roar of stagnant panic building up behind John's ears simmered down to a quiet rumble. The danger had finally passed. Or the worst of it anyway. Sherlock was currently propped up in bed sandwiched between about five thick duvets and an electric blanket. He was more awake and aware than he had been since John found him. The muscle twitches and sudden bursts of energy had all faded, leaving Sherlock exhausted but essentially himself again.

But he still refused to eat.

"What about Molly?" Lestrade suggested wearily from the fainting sofa across from the bed, already knowing how Sherlock would reply. Sherlock shook his head slowly, as thought it might fall off. "Why not?"

"You know why not." He barked, pulled a face. Lestrade took a moment to think before pulling the same face.

"Why? What's wrong with Molly?" John asked from his place against the doorframe. He'd been put on tea-brewing duty. Although Sherlock declined any offer off blood, he was still perfectly willing to drink tea. So they brewed it up by the pot. He'd drunk at least a gallon so far.

Sherlock shot Lestrade a warning glance, which he ignored. "Last time he tried to feed off her from the flesh she… got off."

"Oh." John tried to think of an occasion in which a woman's orgasm might not be welcome. He couldn't come up with any off the top of his head. "And that's bad?"

"Imagine you were enjoying a slab of burnt cow at a restaurant and the cook came up, asked you how you're liking it then ejaculated all over it." Sherlock illustrated, somberly. "It's bad."

There was an awkward silence as everyone in the room tried to clear their head of that particularly graphic metaphor. Feeding

"Mrs. Hudson then?" Lestrade asked, cutting the awkward tension. Sherlock seemed to consider it for a moment.

"Visiting her sister." John replied. "Why can't you just feed off Lestrade? You've done it a hundred times before."

Sherlock didn't answer. Just sucked at his teeth and traced the Chinese calligraphy on the far wall with his eyes.

"That is a very good question, Sherlock."

"You always leave." The vampire said under his breath, like a scared child. "You leave the first chance you get every time, staying as far away as one can in the meantime. Every moment I have with you is stolen using cheap antics such as inconveniently falling asleep on your arm. It's like you only bother to keep me alive because you don't want to be responsible for killing me"

The weight of the silence became too much for Lestrade. His gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm sorry, I-"

The teapot whistled. John made a start towards it, but Lestrade seemed more than happy to take his place.

Sherlock drew the blankets tighter around himself and shut his eyes. John would've liked to believe he was asleep, but knew it was only to gain some relief from the light streaming in from the hall.

"What about mine?" John asked after what he thought was a moment's consideration. In truth, he'd been considering it for the past few months. And not just wondering in passing why he hadn't been eaten alive. He'd been dying to know exactly what that must feel like. How long would it take? How much would he take? Would it be the same as that night after the kidnapping? Or would it be…. More.

"No. I can't ask that of you." Sherlock replied in the tone of someone who would very much like to. "You're too new. You don't understand-."

"I don't care if you're not asking, I'm offering." John clarified. "Although, it is a limited offer. Because eventually, I'm going to strap you down and shove it down your throat."

Sherlock laughed. But it didn't sound like any laughter he'd heard from him before. It sounded more like a very small jet engine than anything human and there wasn't much of a facial expression to go along with it. But somehow he could feel the amusement. It occurred to John that this must be what Sherlock's laughter sounds like when he didn't have the energy to act human. "You can try."

He slumped against the headboard, staring off into his own thoughts. "I accept." The vampire said quietly, almost mouthing the words. It came as surprise to both of them.

"Alright then. Good. I-" John started, unsure of where exactly to go from there. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that he hadn't expected it to go so well.

"But not like this. Leave. Let me prepare."

The door shut.

Sherlock nearly fell flat on his face in his haste to get out of bed. After stepping back and judging exactly how much strain his underused and undernourished body was willing to take, he shuffled to the closet, making a point of staying close to the wall.

He rifled through the clothes in his closet at a speed comparable to that of John's typing. It was agonizing. He knew exactly what items he was looking for and their location in closet, if only he could make his body get to them faster. His legs shook lightly, likely to give out in roughly five minutes. Which was fine. After he'd gotten all of the things he was looking for, he'd no longer need them. Everything he needed would be delivered to him, perfectly wrapped in a warm, wooly jumper and a biting smile.

Sherlock shook his head, stopping his mind from wandering too far. He had less time than he'd originally estimated. Better skip the pants.

The vampire tossed the small pile of clothing onto the antique fainting couch nearby and began pulling them on. The trousers and jacket were just a matter of strategic maneuvering and patience, but the shirt… the shirt might as well have been a bloody riddle made by Dolce & Fucking Gabbana. But it was necessary. It was a part of The Uniform and The Uniform gave him authority. It made people trust his judgement and follow orders without question. Or at least John did.

Lord knows he didn't like being the figure of authority in times like these. But John, being a soldier, might find some comfort in following orders. Sherlock fumbled through the drawer of the nightstand conveniently within arm's reach, pulling out a narrow wooden box and a cheap lighter. With a practiced flick, he lit a stick of incense already set up on the nightstand. Japanese. Wisteria scented. Much too sugary for his tastes, but most humans find it calming.

Then the finishing touches. He arranged himself in the center of the couch. Legs crossed just so, hair lightly ruffled, back straight- or would it be better if he were sitting back? Yes, definitely. He's in his own home, not ballet practice. He should be relaxed. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried his best to look living.

"John!" He knew he wouldn't have to shout very loud, thankfully. He could smell the human standing just outside the door. Along with Lestrade and another pot of rapidly cooling tea.

The door opened and John stepped quietly inside. He was sweating. Nervous? What a strange thing for John to be.

Lord, did his sweat smell delicious.

"Sherlock, where are you?" John asked, fumbling at the empty bed. Sherlock could've slapped himself. It was dark. He spent a solid five minutes doing up a button-down when he could've been wearing a sodding lace negligee and John wouldn't have known the difference. Decreased mental capacity must be setting back in.

He reached over to the lamp on the nightstand, switching it to the lowest setting. "Come, sit." Sherlock gestured to the raised end of the couch.

John did, licking his lips fretfully as he tried to make himself comfortable. "Something smells amazing. Is-"

"Yes. Incense. To calm the nerves."

He chuckled. "I'm surprised you didn't break out the candles and rose petals."

Sherlock blinked. "If it would help, I have a few candles in the closet in case of emergency."

"No. No, it's fine. So, how-"

"Like this," Sherlock announced before cradling John's jaw and leaning in close.

"Woah, what's happening?" John jerked away, just before their lips met.

Sherlock bit his lip in frustration. Why did humans have to make such a fuss about every little thing? "My saliva contains a strong painkilling agent. This is the easiest way to administer it."

John wriggled his way out of Sherlock's grasp. "I think I'll survive, thank you."

Sherlock rubbed at his temples, already missing the warmth of John's skin. "It really isn't for your benefit. I can't feed off you if you're in pain. And honestly, if you can't handle a kiss then you are not ready for the intimacy involved with… this." The vampire sighed, turning away from the harsh light of the lamp. "Get out. I'll… manage. Somehow."

"Sherlock." John prodded, causing Sherlock to look up just long enough for him to weave his fingers into the curls at the base of his skull and haul him into a soft introductory kiss. "Relax a little, alright? I'd just like a little warning. If you haven't noticed, I'm kind of in the dark here."

It took a second for the detective to process exactly what John was saying, as the fingers gently caressing the nape of his neck were making his vision go a little blurry. But eventually, he caught on. "Warning. Yes, good idea. Well, be warned. I'm going to kiss you until your head goes foggy. Then you'll take the knife from this box, use it to pierce your flesh and I'll… do the rest."

John smiled. Sherlock snogged it off him.

A/N: Yes, this takes place in some strange alternate dimension where everyone actually talks about their feelings.

There are some pretty strict guidelines in vampiric tradition to feeding. A few are societal, most are just internal.