A shaft of daylight had pushed its way in through the gap in the curtain. The hastily drawn curtains of the previous night. Normally they let nothing through, the thick blackout linings saw to that. From Greg's vantage point, pinned to the bed by the long and surprisingly heavy form of Mycroft Holmes, he could see the early morning sunlight dancing across Mycroft's shoulders. They were already pink. He needed to cover him up, the sensitivity to light was one of the more annoying side effects. Not that Greg imagined for one moment that Mycroft would have been a shorts and flip-flops kind of guy any way. But it had never occurred to Greg until that moment, how very few red-heads there were in the little community of the Un-dead of London. He had a fleeting image of Mycroft as a small boy being lathered in sun-block by his mother, no not his mother, his Nanny!

"Mycroft?" No reply. The chocolaty smell was subtle this morning. Quiet. As though even Mycroft's sensuality was snoozing. "Mycroft." Greg tried to push him off. Christ he was heavy, a literal dead weight. "MYCROFT!"

Greg found himself being dumped unceremoniously on the floor as he took the top of Mycroft's head to the chin. That was another thing they never got right in the films. The whole immune to pain thing. He shook himself and climbed back on to the bed where a very confused looking Mycroft Holmes was rubbing his sore, sun kissed shoulder and blinking at the tiny amount of daylight seeping in to the room.

"Where am I?"

"At my flat."

"Oh." A pause. A faint scent of Dark Chocolate. "Did we have sex last night?"

"Yes."

"In the mortuary at St. Bartholomew's Hospital?"

"Yeah." For some reason Greg was ridiculously pleased about that.

"I'll need to get the CCTV tapes for that wiped before any one sees it."

"Er. Not really necessary. I...We...we don't show up on CCTV. Or any type of film. No one will know we were there." There was silence whilst it sank in.

"I drank blood. Someone's blood."

"Yes you did. You needed it. After I bit you. Sorry."

"Well as long as you're sorry. That's fine then isn't it?" Mycroft inched away from the sunlight.

"I couldn't help myself. I wanted you. I still want you." Greg reached out a trembling hand to stroke Mycroft's pale face, feeling the tingle of sensation as their skin touched.

"I'm dead."

"Not exactly. You are just no longer living. You'll stay like this forever." Greg waved a hand over Mycroft's body. "You'll stay beautiful for the rest of time."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. The way Sherlock narrowed his eyes when he was working out something devious in his head. Obviously a family thing.

"I won't change at all?"

"No. Fifty years from now you won't look a day older."

"And how will I explain that? To everyone? To my darling brother, who notices everything?"

"You don't. You let The Family take care of it."

"The Family? Am I to understand there is some sort of Vampire Mafia?"

"Pretty much. Yeah." Greg thought Mycroft was really taking it well.

"Can I eat normal food?"

"Yes. You can eat whatever you like. And the really good thing is you never put on any weight. I've been twelve stone three since 1888!"

Mycroft looked Greg straight in the eyes and smiled.

"If I am no longer alive, I assume I no longer have any circulation?"

"That's right. That's why your skin will get sore if you spend too much time in the sun."

"If I have no circulation, how do you explain this?" Mycroft moved the sheet to one side, revealing a straining erection. Greg smiled.

"Just one of those things that has no explanation." He breathed in deeply. "Do you know you smell of Chocolate?"

"Chocolate? You smell of freshly baked scones." Mycroft ran his tongue over Greg's chest. "But you taste of Liquorice Allsorts."

Mycroft leaned forwards and Greg found himself being pinned to the bed by the immortal, minor government official. Perhaps forever wasn't going to be so bad after all? He was just surrendering to the sensation of Mycroft's large cock probing between his legs when his phone rang. He didn't need to see the caller ID, the ringtone (Kaiser Chiefs, I Predict A Riot) was enough.

"Oh Shit. Sherlock!"