Prophecy on the Rooftop
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: Sherlock confronts a vampire, and John resists a heady temptation.
Rating: T (language)
AU for obvious reasons
Disclaimer: Characters and Sherlock do not belong to me, but to Moffat, Sir A.C. Doyle and all associated thus. I am responsible for creating the alternate universe, the OCs, and the storyline only. Please do not take and use or post elsewhere without my permission.
xXx
Their first encounter with the mysterious "other vampire" is unexpected and devastating. The vampire, who calls himself "Prophecy", grabs Donovan right off the street and holds her captive. Prophecy screams about power, and glory. He rants and raves to them about how he's going to take over the world.
Naturally, Sherlock scoffs at this. "And you're going to do this from behind Sally Donovan?" he asks, askance. "I wouldn't want to be behind her period, let alone to take over the world." He doesn't look toward Lestrade, whom is slowly and carefully approaching from the other direction.
When Prophecy becomes more insistent, he's only ridiculed more by the consulting detective, and in a fit of fury he throws Sally Donovan away from him. Lestrade frantically catches her as the crazed vampire lunges toward Sherlock, whose eyes widen in surprise. But then there's John, between them, Prophecy's sharp nails digging into the tender flesh of his shoulder. He drives John to his knees, growling about how he'll punish the "pacifist" for his transgressions.
That's when Lestrade puts a bullet through his neck. Prophecy chokes a moment and takes off, leaving John to fall to the rooftop floor weakly.
Sherlock is at his side in seconds. "John? John?! Are you okay? John!"
John chuckles wetly. "Is that... worry, I hear? I thought you were above that lot, Sherlock," he teases, struggling to sit up.
"Yes."
There's a long minute of silence, during which John just gapes at the consulting detective. He doesn't need to think much to know what the other man is saying, and he can't believe it for a second. "You're an idiot," he declares, and passes out right there on the roof.
"Who's the idiot?" is Sherlock's bitter response.
xXx
Later that night, when John wakes, he finds himself in Sherlock's bed. Sherlock is passed out in the living room, hunched over a pile of papers – some police file – on the table. For a moment, John stares at him from the darkness of the hallway. He stares at that pale, tender throat, just visible beyond the rumpled collar of Sherlock's shirt. He thinks about that single word, and the meaning behind it.
Not just the permission given, but the emotion, the care. They've barely known each other a day yet, and already Sherlock is willing to be his victim. What does that say to him? It should say something like "dinner," but frankly John has never been very good at being a predator. No, he prefers consent and memory loss to struggling and pain.
He swallows, a step taken without his will, without his knowledge. And then, another, another, and suddenly he's standing over the consulting detective. He's leaning over him in a moment of weakness. His throat convulses, tongue eager for the taste, mouth opening already. His teeth are inches away from that vulnerable spot, so easy, so full of life and blood...
He stops, pulls back, and drapes the afghan from the sofa over Sherlock's shoulders. And then he's gone.
Sherlock starts awake seconds later, fingers lifting automatically to the sudden weight, brushing the rough fiber of the blanket. He looks around, alarmed, and searches the apartment. Nothing. John has left.
xXx
There! Longer than the last one. Review!