Molly's fever raged for just over a week before finally burning itself out; she was not going to be one of the unfortunate few who couldn't survive being Marked. That was a relief, and an unexpected one to boot. Sherlock wasn't used to allowing himself to care personally about anyone's well being, Human or Vampire, and to find that he was not only relieved but actively pleased that Molly was strong enough to endure what his bite had done to her unsettled him.

During the first few days, while Molly was still burning with fever, Dr. Morstan – Mary, as she insisted he call her – had apologetically informed Sherlock that his brother had instructed her to remove the patient's birth control implant during one of her visits, rather than waiting until she was well enough to go to a clinic. It was a generally painless procedure (at least, under normal circumstances) and not in any way to be considered life-threatening, but Sherlock bristled at his brother's high-handedness anyway. Mary had waited respectfully for his temper tantrum to run its course before saying anything else, and then was only, "I have your permission, then?" Because of course Molly belonged to Sherlock, not Mycroft, but the threat to Molly remained, a weapon he could hold over his younger brother's head indefinitely.

He'd snapped out a sullen "Get it over with" before leaving the flat, hoping for a murder he could assist Lestrade and the Yard incompetents with. There was nothing on, unfortunately, but when he saw John Watson finishing up his shift he hesitated a moment, then asked the man if he would mind taking a look at Molly. It might do damage to the tentative relationship he was building with the Human doctor, for him to discover that Sherlock had taken a Human woman and Marked her with his bite, but for some reason he refused to analyze, he was willing to risk that in order to be certain that Molly would survive her current ordeal.

John cautiously agreed to join Sherlock at his flat, although not without trading concerned glances with Lestrade first. "For God's sake, John," Sherlock snapped impatiently while the Human doctor hesitated, "If I wanted to feed on you I certainly wouldn't have to lure you to my flat first! This is strictly a medical matter that I can assure you will end with you taking a cab home as soon as you're finished examining the patient."

John had flushed – and yes, dammit, the scent of his blood was rather enticing, Sherlock made a mental note not to leave the flat in future without feeding first from now on – but gone along, his curiosity practically radiating from him. Once in the cab (the Human driver hadn't even flinched at one of 'The Masters' riding in his backseat, points to the fiftyish, divorced father of two who would one day die of the aneurism in his brain), he explained the situation to John. He left nothing out, speaking as emotionlessly as possible, from his brother's not-so-subtle arm-twisting to Molly's current, fever-ridden status.

John had said…absolutely nothing. Not one word, although his heart rate had certainly sped up. He sat ramrod straight in the seat, head and eyes forward, and gave no indication of his thoughts one way or another. Sherlock read disapproval in the rigidness of the Human's form, and began to regret his impulsive request for assistance, not to mention the fully detailed explanation he'd just given. However, once they arrived at Baker Street, John exited the cab along with Sherlock and followed quietly up to his flat. Points to the unmarried war veteran with one alcoholic sibling for exhibiting such quiet bravery as Sherlock rarely encountered.

When they arrived upstairs, Molly was lying on the bed she and Sherlock now shared, tossing and turning, the sheets tangled around her bare legs. She wore only a lightweight nightgown, which clung to her curves in sweat-dampened lengths, but at least she was somewhat decently covered. Mary was sitting on the chair she'd moved closer to the bed, head resting on one hand, but sprang to her feet as soon as Sherlock and John entered. She eyed the newcomer but only informed Sherlock that there had been no change.

"Good, thank you, Mary," he said, and she started to leave, knowing when she was being dismissed, but stopped and gave John a hard look first.

"Be careful with her. I know Sherlock didn't bring you in because he doubts my skills, but because he's worried about Molly, so I won't hover over you while you examine her. However," she added, narrowing her eyes threateningly, "if you do one thing to harm my patient, I swear to you, I will come after you personally."

Instead of being intimidated – no matter how petite Mary Morstan was, she was still employed by a Vampire clan and could realistically be expected to have the backing to make such a threat stick – John smiled at her. "I may be a pathologist, Doctor…sorry, I didn't get your name?" he asked, offering another smile, this one heavy on the charm.

"Her name is Mary Morstan and you can flirt with her after you've taken a look at Dr. Hooper, John," Sherlock broke in impatiently. Mary simply stepped aside, but he could feel her interest in John intensifying and made sure to hide his smirk of approval from the two of them. He hadn't intended to play matchmaker by inviting John here, but since the doctor was an inveterate womanizer he should have known he wouldn't be able to resist turning on the charm for Mary.

Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes only because he'd long since learned self-control when it came to his impatient reactions to the foibles of others. If John and Mary hit it off, it could work in his favor, of course, but that wasn't the main consideration at the moment, Molly was.

Molly Hooper, whom he'd known for less than a week yet fretted over now as if she had been in his life as long as Mrs. Hudson. Molly, who was burning with a fever he could do nothing to abate except bathe her brow in cool cloths and periodically immerse her body in tepid baths. He knew Mary was amused by his agitation, that she could see it no matter how he tried to conceal it, but was used to the doctor's pawky sense of humor and ability to see right through him and thus paid it no mind.

He did, however, notice when she gave his fingers a light squeeze before she left the room and it made him wonder; had Mary somehow developed some sort of affection for him in the years they'd known one another? Was she actually trying to comfort him?

It was something to ponder as he watched John checking over Molly's wound. He saw the other man wince at the sight of the damage Sherlock's fangs had wrought, and again it was only a near-century of iron control that kept him from wincing as well at the reminder of the damage he'd done to the young woman lying in his bed. All in the name of saving her life, of course, but that didn't mitigate his culpability. Molly could still die because of him.

"So your brother gave you no choice," John said quietly, his eyes still on Molly, assessing her condition while his hands reapplied the bandage – fresh, Mary must have changed it right before they arrived.

"That's correct," Sherlock replied, wondering where this sudden conversation was going – and for once, not even attempting to make one of his lightning-quick deductions. He would much rather wait and see what John had to say, then go from there. He liked the man, might even consider him a friend someday, although he wasn't sure if it was something John would be able – or willing – to reciprocate.

Still looking at Molly, wringing out a fresh cloth to place on her forehead from the bowl of cool water resting on the nightstand, John continued: "I don't really know why, Sherlock, but I believe you."

Sherlock. It was the first time the doctor had used his name. Lestrade used it all the time, but it had taken him nearly a decade of acquaintance for him to lower his guard enough to do so. Sherlock had only known John Watson just under three years, yet he'd taken that step and made it sound as natural as if he'd done so all his life. "I appreciate that," he said, although now that John had spoken up a flood of deductions filled Sherlock's mind unbidden: He sees how careful I'm being with Molly, sized up Mary as not simply attractive but also good at her job, so he's aware that I am doing my best to ensure that Molly makes it safely through the process, and chooses to believe that it's because I care about what happens to her rather than it being a matter of expediency. I've never lied to either him or Lestrade and would have no possible motive for doing so now, another point in my favor; the only question is, how long will it take for the two of them to trust me enough to…

"You're doing it, aren't you," John interrupted his speeding thoughts, finally looking directly at Sherlock and offering up a wry grin. "Deducing me. Figuring out if I'm telling the truth or not."

"You are," Sherlock replied absently, although his eyes were once again fixed on Molly, whose breathing had eased somewhat. "You believe my story, improbable though it is."

John shrugged and stepped back, gesturing toward the chair as if offering a distraught relative a place to sit by the side of an ailing patient – not an incorrect gesture, under the circumstances, but an unexpected one. Sherlock moved to take the seat, noting that John's heart rate had slowed to normal, and that the faint odor of fear that had lingered during the cab ride had dissipated.

John Watson wasn't afraid of him anymore, even though he was in Sherlock's home, where the Vampire was strongest and most comfortable.

Interesting. That was one thing Mycroft had forgotten since his transformation; how very often Humans could surprise even a Vampire.

"What is your prognosis, Doctor?" Sherlock asked, reaching out without thinking to take Molly's hand in his as she fretted and tossed. She quieted instantly, and again he marveled at the fact that he didn't have to actively attempt to touch her mind with his in order for his presence to calm her.

He was young to have anything beyond the most basic of Vampire lures, and it was one of his most carefully kept secrets. However, he could foresee a time when he would have to tell Molly, or else be accused of unduly influencing her into accepting her fate and allowing him to Mark her. It would be especially important that he tell her this before the conception of their first child…

Wait, wrong, he was absolutely not contemplating some kind of domestic harmony with this woman! She was his property by Vampire law, and nothing more. Chattel. A vessel for bearing his offspring, his to feed on even to the point of death if he so desired. That was how his fellow Vampires treated their slaves, and it would be so much easier if he just did as his brother urged and followed centuries – millennia – of tradition.

But he couldn't. He'd barely known Molly Hooper for a week, most of which she'd been raging with fever; his humanity had supposedly been purged from him the night he'd been Turned, and yet somehow he'd managed to become the antithesis of what had been expected of him, of what every other Vampire had become. He'd considered that a strength, an advantage others of his kind didn't possess, and yet now he was beginning to wonder if it was a weakness after all. This fierce protectiveness that he felt at the thought of Molly being taken from him – either by his own hand if infection set in from his bite or at the hands of an enemy or worse, his own brother – it couldn't be a strength.

Could it?

John brought him out of his troublesome thoughts by giving a cautious answer to the question Sherlock had not forgotten about, in spite of his mind's wanderings. "I think Dr. Morstan's done as much as anyone could under the circumstances," he said. "Unless you allow me to administer antibiotics or even paracetamol, there's not much else I can do to make her more comfortable." He hesitated before speaking again. "This sort of thing…does it happen often?"

It was the question Sherlock had been waiting for, an opportunity for him to impart information to a vital member of the Human underground without suspicion of being fed false data clouding the issue. John had clearly registered Sherlock's real concern for Molly's condition, taken in the fact that he had another physician caring for her, and now was the perfect time to tell him the truth about the dangers of Marking. To confirm what many must suspect but no one knew for certain.

"Come into the parlor," he said, rising from his seat and reluctantly releasing Molly's hand. She made a fretful sound but kept sleeping, a good sign.

John followed him from the room, leaving the door mostly open behind them, no doubt to listen for Molly. Sherlock could easily hear her even if the door was tightly shut, but said nothing, pleased by the other man's professionalism throughout what must surely seem a surreal experience.

They joined Mary, who was chatting quietly with Mrs. Hudson. John's expression at the sight of the elderly woman was amusing, but Sherlock's admiration for the man only grew as he greeted her warmly rather than with the suspicion that anyone of her generation usually received from Humans. If she was alive it was only because a Vampire had requested that she not be put to death during the purges, and too many Humans would view the elderly woman as nothing but a collaborator. Not John Watson; Sherlock could practically see the wheels spinning as he tried to puzzle out why Sherlock would have bothered to save her.

"Ask me anything, John," he said, standing in front of the cluttered desk, hands folded behind his back as the other man's gaze met his. "I will answer any question honestly and to the best of my ability, and I give my word there will be no negative repercussions."

And so the seeds were finally sown that Sherlock had so patiently nurtured with his relationship with this man and DI Lestrade. A collaboration between Vampire and Human to bring a saner and more balanced world into existence.

A world where he and Molly, once she recovered from her fever, might actually be able to form a bond based on something other than fear and mutual physical attraction.


A/N: Thanks to Doctor WTF for helping out in a pinch.