Dark and quiet like a grave. Heavy blackout curtains at the windows and double insulated walls for sound proofing. And of course the air conditioning, keeping the smell of the city out whilst he slept. That was how Greg liked it. Of course it wasn't like in the films where the sun would turn him to dust. He was already dust. But the sun bothered him. Hurt his eyes. Under the carefully applied fake tan, he was milky white. Paler than Sherlock. He could go out in the day, but he preferred the night.
The night was quieter. Less people around. Less distraction. Fewer questions asked. Easier access to blood.
No. He'd never taken blood from anyone who didn't deserve it. He wasn't a monster. Or if he was he was a monster with morals. Sooner or later they would make the connection. Maybe even trace the dots back to him. The three. Now four drained bodies, because they would probably find the fourth one today, would eventually betray him. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock solved the puzzle. The cold cases. Each and every one of the drained men was a murderer. A murderer who thought they had got away with it. Until Greg had found them out.
In a way he told himself he was just doing his job. Making London safer. Catching murderers. But he had a nagging feeling at the back of his head that whilst he thought he was protecting the citizens of London from the things under the bed, he was actually a thing from under the bed.
And now there was this new problem. He looked up at the ceiling. Watching a fly struggling in a spiders web. No point in struggling, it only meant you got stuck faster. He could still taste the rich chocolate at the back of his tongue. Even the three pints of blood he had gulped down when he got home (murderer number three, tasted like cheap whisky and coal tar soap) had not drowned out the flavour of that brief gulp of Sherlock's big brother. Mycroft.
Mycroft Holmes.
And what kind of man was Mycroft Holmes? A big black car with anonymous number plates. A rich, well spoken voice. A pair of startling blue eyes. Pale skin like Sherlock's? Did he look like Sherlock? Sherlock said he was fat. But then Sherlock even made Greg look fat. And why did he smell like that? In all his years Greg had never smelt anything like it. Anything so alluring. Anything that made him lose his ability to function. Anything that, as he thought about it, gave him a hard-on that reached past his belly button. He reached a pale hand down and began to stroke himself. Picturing those blue eyes looking at him. Pale hands replacing his own. Breathing deeply and smelling the glorious scent. Biting down on his flesh. Blood spilling onto his lips.
"Mycroft!" Greg whispered into the darkness as he came. His last thought before he fell asleep: If the man smelt that good, what did he taste like?