"I don't want it." Sherlock arched off the bed, his veins standings out in terrible relief against paper white skin.
"Sherlock, don't be silly." Mycroft said it with the patience of a parent trying to get their child to eat their vegetables.
"Leave me alone. I hate you." Sherlock sobbed.
"Yes. I know. Now be sensible and drink." Mycroft held out the bottle. Like a baby's bottle, except that the contents was bright crimson. Sherlock clamped his mouth tightly shut, eyes flicking around the room, a wild animal caught in a trap and preparing to gnaw his leg off to escape.
"Get away from me!" One arm broke free of its restraint and slammed into the side of Mycroft's head. Mycroft didn't flinch, although there was a flicker of disappointment that crossed his eyes for a moment. He caught Sherlock's wrist before he hit him for a second time.
"Do as you're told Sherlock."
John Watson was unable to watch any longer. Unable to watch this torture. And he was scared of Mycroft Holmes now. The man he had once said didn't seem all that frightening had managed to make him more scared than he had probably ever been in his life. And he still wasn't sure why. But the tiny part of John that wasn't scared could see the plea for help in Sherlock's eyes.
"What's the matter with him?" John took a step into the room.
"He needs blood. And he's refusing to have any." It was amazing how quickly the macabre had become normal.
"Who's blood is it?"
"No idea. It comes from the bank."
"The bank? From the staff?"
"From the Blood Bank, John." Mycroft sounded wearily patient.
"Yes. Of course. The blood bank."
"Sherlock is under the impression he can ignore his need for blood in the same way he ignored his need for food. Sadly this is not the case. If he carries on like this then he'll go insane."
"Not ...a...monster. I won't drink it." Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth.
"Could we do a transfusion?" John had moved a little closer. "You wouldn't be drinking it then Sherlock, it would be a medical procedure."
"That might help with the physical symptoms, but it won't stop the hunger. And that's what drives you mad." Mycroft said it with a sad resignation.
"What about you? Are you hungry? All the time? You seem fine. Calm even."
"I think with me it's different. I have other things to satisfy me."
"Yeah. I heard. And saw." John looked faintly nauseated.
"Does it disgust you Doctor Watson? Does it offend your Alpha Male sensibilities?" Mycroft's eyes had flashed that dangerous bright shade of cobalt. Sherlock collapsed back onto the mattress, no longer pulling at his restraints.
"No...I mean...seriously I have no problem with it. It's just... well, it never even occurred to me that Greg might be...you know. I mean you were pretty obvious... other than the whole..." John made a vague gesture with his hands.
"Obvious?"
"All the manicures and eyebrow grooming and carefully folded handkerchiefs. Bit of a giveaway."
"I'll take your word for it." Mycroft seemed miffed. And that was just what John needed. The vampire in charge of the world was angry with him. And that was about as bad as it got without involving broken bones and death. And something else was niggling at the back of John's mind as well. Because he had noticed how nice Mycroft smelled. Sort of like when you first opened a tin of Quality Street at Christmas. And he'd never really noticed before just how broad Mycroft's shoulders were, or what a nice shade of red his hair was.
"Doctor Watson!" John looked up. He was standing an inch away from Mycroft looking him square in the chest.
"Erm..." John swallowed. "Sorry?"
"John." Sherlock croaked from the bed. He didn't even have the strength to lift his head from the pillow. "Please...not him..." His eyes went blank.
"What? Sherlock? What can we do to help him?"
"Very little if he won't drink. I don't think he will die, end, whatever you want to call it. I think it might be worse than that."
"Right." John paused for a moment, taking two steps back from the rather erotic scent of Holmes number one. "Do you think he'd drink from me?"