The ecstasy from feeding on Mycroft, of drinking him dry, of watching the moment of panic turn to an exquisite expression of lust, followed by the slow dying of the light behind his eyes. The ecstasy lasted for half an hour before the panic set in. Before Detective Inspector Gregory LeStrade felt the empty weight of Mycroft's rapidly cooling body pinning him to the bed. Before he looked in to the dead blue eyes. The same eyes that had looked upon him with bright sparks of lust in them an hour previously. And then the full enormity of what he had done hit him.
He hadn't just killed Mycroft. It was so much worse than that. He had destroyed him. He was a not only a murderer. He had moved up a level. Greg LeStrade was now officially a monster.
A monster with a dead body on his hands.
There was a moment when Greg was tempted to run. Leave the body and hide. He had plenty of practice. And not even Sherlock Holmes would be able to find him. But there was something, even now, which made him hesitate. It might have been the faint smell of Dark Chocolate that lingered in the air. It might have been the few drops of blood flowering on the bed sheets. It might have been remains of Mycroft's Orgasm, becoming tacky on Greg's stomach. Or it might have been the strange burning that was beginning to trickle through his veins. This was different. Different to all the other times. And Greg was scared. Not scared that he was about to end. Scared that something was about to begin. He needed help.
He had no choice but to make the call.
...
"Oh well done Gregory. He is rather beautiful, isn't he?" The dirty fingernail scratched its way along Mycroft's pale, still torso. Greg felt nauseous. He was sweating. He didn't sweat. Ever. "And you drank all of his blood?" The finger dabbed at a few spots left on Mycroft's neck. "An interesting flavour, I must say." The cruel mouth drew back into a smirk, showing bad teeth. Greg shuddered. Which did not go undetected. The smirk widened.
"You find this whole thing disgusting, don't you Gregory? And now you're burning." Black beetle eyes glittered in the pale face, the delicate web of veins subtly changing as he spoke.
"Why am I burning?" A cramp was working its way up LeStrade's torso forcing him to bend double.
"Because whilst you may have taken all his blood. You have given him something of yours. And the burning is the price you pay. He will be turned. And he will be yours. But he will burn the heart out of you." He moved closer. Greg could smell him now. The clothes were beautiful, but underneath Greg knew there was three thousand years of dirt. It wasn't a smell that existed anywhere on earth. Monsieur La Neige smelt of corruption. The hand clamped around Greg's wrist and a one of the sharp, filthy talons scratched deeply above his heart. Bright Crimson welled out of the wound. La Neige licked his lips.
"It only takes a drop." And he smeared the blood onto Greg's lips. "Now wake your handsome prince with a kiss."
Greg closed his eyes, the blood on his lips tasted sour, like overripe fruit, as he lowered his head to kiss Mycroft's lifeless body.
"I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this." He whispered.
A few moments. That was all it took. Before Mycroft Holmes was sitting bolt upright, looking confused, then angry, the downright furious as he processed the information.
"What the hell have you done?" He shouted at Greg, his voice raspy and sore. He stood on shaky legs, naked, the sheet falling away from his long pale limbs as he advanced towards LeStrade, only to find his path blocked by La Neige.
"Oh Yes. Quite beautiful, Gregory." The hand scraped down Mycroft's jaw line, continuing downwards to caress the planes of his body. "Quite beautiful. Goodbye."
Mycroft looked at Greg, fuming. The blue eyes burning in to him, piercing him and making the churning in his body a thousand times worse. Then they narrowed into sharp slits, as his brain registered a new sensation.
"I'm Hungry."