He could not remember a time he had ever been happier. In the past forty eight hours he had eaten Bacon, Steak, Chips, Ice Cream and a perfectly obscene amount of pastry, and was still the same weight as when he had started. He had had sex more times in two days than he'd had in the past two decades. His mind was on fire. Mycroft was blessed, or cursed, with the kind of brain that really didn't need to work too hard to get things done. But now it seemed he didn't have to think at all. Everything was there. Instant access. Sherlock would be so jealous.

But Mycroft couldn't help but think that sooner or later something had to give.

The whole transition was not without its issues of course. But they all seemed very minor. The sensitivity to sunlight. Easily passed off as Mycroft had never been one for sun bathing- he spent most of his time indoors anyway. And the umbrella came in handy as a nice sunshade. The car had tinted windows, his rooms had blackout blinds. The assistant formerly known as Anthea had, at his request, purchased a pair of very good, NASA approved Sunglasses. Not a problem.

Then there was the annoyingly persistent erection. Especially, it seemed, within a Square mile of Gregory LeStrade or if he passed a bakery that happened to be making Scones. It made his trousers uncomfortable. He had to excuse himself to the bathroom on a number of occasions. In fact Sherlock's little episode at the Palace had been a welcome distraction. Five minutes before Mycroft had discovered Sherlock and John Watson sniggering like schoolboys in the day room at Buckingham Palace, Mycroft Holmes had been frantically wanking in the Duke of Edinburgh's private bathroom. Sherlock had thought he was so clever, poncing around in his sheet, thinking himself wonderfully outrageous. Mycroft had simply glared at him. His little brother was clueless.

And then there was the smell. Or Smells to be more accurate. Sherlock, having mercifully washed himself, now had the scent of stale marmalade. John Watson, however, was more complex. Greg said he smelled of toffee. Mycroft was more convinced it was single Malt with undertones of jam doughnuts. But more than that. The whole city smelled. Whitehall stank of rotting flesh, school cabbage, and surreptitious farts. Perhaps it wasn't the people. More likely the building was steeped in it through the years. It made Mycroft feel slightly nauseous.

The Secretary General of NATO was no doubt saying something he thought was of vital importance. Mycroft couldn't hear him. The burning had started again. It had begun as a tickle in his stomach. A minor irritation. But now? Now it was threatening to consume his whole body. He could feel his veins throbbing. His body keening for blood. Anyone's blood. The Secretary General's Adam's Apple, bobbed up and down above his collar. It would be very easy to rip his throat out. Mycroft shook the thought from his head. He just needed to last another five minutes. Five minutes without starting a war. Surely he could manage that?

The car that was waiting for him outside was not the usual black Sedan. He realised why when the passenger door popped open and the warm smell of Gregory LeStrade floated out.

"Get in. Quickly." A pause. Mycroft tried to fasten his seat belt. His hands were shaking. "Glove compartment." One neat pack of blood nestled in amongst the driver's manual and the window chamois. It took the edge off his craving.

"How did you know?" Mycroft asked.

"I could feel it. Feel you. Your pain." Greg smiled, a little sadly. "I'm sorry. It's my fault."

"Yes it is. But I forgive you." They stopped outside Greg's flat.

"I've got more. In the fridge."

"Good. I'm still hungry. Are you hungry?"

"Yes. And I want you."