John found himself dumped on the floor. He had shot his gun. He knew he had. Directly at Mycroft. Right at the smug bastard's chest and to hell with the consequences. Only Mycroft hadn't gone down. He'd hardly blinked. The bullet clinked from Mycroft's hand onto the floor, dropped like an annoying piece of fluff. The harsh blue eyes stared at John now, but not with anger as John would have thought. It was more like disappointment.
The tall man in the suit turned his glittering black eyes onto John. Regarding him with mild interest. He licked his lips slightly.
"So, who's hungry?" La Neige had released the grip he'd had on Mycroft once the bullets had started. Sherlock tried to raise himself off the floor, but found his legs seemed unwilling to support him. "This nice little snack followed you all the way here. But it's not you he wants." La Neige pulled John to his feet by the back of his hair. John shuddered, the gun had clattered to the floor, useless.
"Leave him alone." Sherlock spoke between gritted teeth, biting down the urge for blood, any blood that was surging through his veins.
"He's a soldier." La Neige sniffed and ran his tongue along John's exposed throat. "Warriors always taste so wonderful." Mycroft moved so quickly John didn't see it. He caught a partial glimpse of the fist smashing into the man who was holding him. There was a terrible crack, like rotted tree trunks being torn down. La Neige stepped back, letting John crash to the floor. John could see the veins in Mycroft's neck standing out against his pale skin, fists clenching and unclenching and for the briefest of moments John could smell something. Something rather like dark chocolate but with that smell you got just after thunderstorms. John scuttled across the floor, not bothering to stand, not trusting his legs, crawling to where Sherlock sat, shaking like a man de-toxing.
"Sherlock?"
"John. I'm sorry."
"You're alive?"
"No John, no I'm not."
"What?"
La Neige moved his neck from side to side before turning his gaze on Mycroft. And for the first time there was the slightest hint of fear. Behind the black beetle eyes, La Neige was afraid. The ring on Mycroft's finger had made a dent in the puffy grey flesh of the old vampire's face. Around them the others drew back, a wide circle of uncertainty forming.
"What are you?" La Neige spat, his brow furrowing. "What are you that can challenge me? I have looked upon kings, I have looked upon the son of the carpenter, for millennia, and I have never seen anything like you. What are you?" He repeated.
Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders and tilting his head back slightly. John looked up from the floor, seeing those bright blue eyes burning in the gloomy room.
"I occupy a minor position in the British Government." There was a certain elegance to that statement that in spite of his fear John Watson could not help but admire.
"More importantly." A new voice spoke. "He's my Lover. He's the one I love." Gregory LeStrade stood in a state of dishevelment, wearing jeans that were slightly too big for him. It would transpire later that they were actually Mycroft's. John looked from one to the other, the half smile that was now dancing across Mycroft's lips and the wide grin plastered on Greg's face. John realised he had done a disservice to them both in thinking they were just playing kinky games. He'd probably never seen two people more in love.
Greg moved to stand next to Mycroft. Somehow he was no longer afraid of La Neige.
"It seems, Monsieur La Neige, that we have a problem. How shall we resolve it?"