Visitations

A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 2

Special thanks: To wearticounts (Sher_locked_up) for her excellent beta, as always.

Author's notes: Please heed the tags and trigger warnings for heavy dub-con before proceeding. This fic is not for everyone as it deals with a lot of issues that some of you may find disturbing and uncomfortable, including themes of submission and servitude bordering on slavery as well as the peculiar state of mind attendant to these situations. The sexytimes at the end is directly inspired by Reapersun's amazing Vamp!lock art: reapersun-dot-tumblr-dot-com/ post/ 74595132516/ click-for-nsfw-vamplock-blood

Constructive reviews are welcome, as always. More author's notes at the end.

Most days, when the weather permitted, John cycled to work. When the weather turned truculent, he took the Underground. Not that the days mattered anymore to him. They were all one and the same now, whether fair or foul, rain or shine— vast, empty stretches of time; each hour stringing itself along to make up twenty-four in a day and the days melting together to form one long, monotonous blur.

During daytime, John did his job in the clinic, tending to his human patients, keeping busy enough not to think. However, the working days always ended at six in the evening and then he would find himself heading for home—a tiny, two-room flat that was more a bedsit than an actual apartment— to nights when sleep was a long time coming.

That was when the torture began, when John was alone with his thoughts. One by one the little, niggling memories would surface from the dark recesses of his mind to assail him: images of a rumpled hotel bed, and himself upon it. Memories of his naked, heaving body— bloody and dishevelled— a battleground where he'd lost himself to newly awakened and dark desires.

And then there was the vampire, standing by the bed; Sherlock, with his intense eyes and his beautiful, cruel mouth that had given John such unspeakable pleasure and had taken so much from him in return. Sherlock's face had been an expressionless mask as he studied John, who had to lie supine on the bed while the nurse attended to his wounds. John had watched as Sherlock shrugged into his coat and tied his scarf around his neck nonchalantly, his unearthly gaze never changing as he took in the look on John's face.

John had glared back at Sherlock then and willed himself not to look away first. Words of reproach would have been completely useless at this point, but John had thought them anyway as he stared at Sherlock: Look at me. Look at what you've done to me.

Between the coolly professional nurse and the dispassionate creature standing before John, there had been no room for feelings such as shame or embarrassment. Those would come later, when he was alone and safe from prying eyes. In that little pocket of time, it had seemed vitally important that John should not be the one to look away first.

Yet there were distractions. Turning his attention briefly to the nurse as she asked him a question while placing a pressure pack over his bleeding thigh, John had not seen Sherlock take his leave. He was simply gone when John had turned his head back to look at him.

Afterward, John did not know how he had managed to fall asleep, but he did. Exhaustion had settled on him, fog-like, pressing down heavily upon his senses even while the nurse had bustled over him. The wounds had been deep, and for the first time, John had felt pain. He had been given a draught that must have contained a soporific, because he had drifted off not long afterward.

They had let him spend the night in that luxurious hotel room, and in the morning, had given him a lavish breakfast, as if it were ample compensation for what he'd gone through. A doctor had examined him, giving him prescriptions for antibiotics, iron pills and, strangely enough, sleeping pills, with nothing more than a cryptic remark of "You will need it," before sending him on his way— back to his everyday life, as if nothing had happened.

Still, before he'd gone, John had asked the unthinkable: "When?"

When would he see Sherlock again?

He'd not been able to stop himself, but at least he'd managed not to pose the awkward question on the secret floor people. He'd decided to ask the doctor, as a fellow physician, who would be in a better position to understand his query.

"He didn't take much, probably just around 250 cc," the doctor had told him matter-of-factly. "Still, we've advised him not make another visitation until after a month, at least. He wouldn't want to burn you out so quickly, and hopefully, the effects of the thrall will have lessened by then."

That was what John needed to know. It was what he needed for reassurance that what he was feeling for Sherlock was nothing more than a curious physical reaction elicited by vampires while feeding on their human victims.

It meant that he wasn't going crazy.

It was nothing more than feeling the thrall— that sense of shared need that bonded a vampire to his human subject. It was a strange phenomenon, well-known but difficult to define. For John, who had an alcoholic sister, it was easy enough to understand: it was a kind of addiction.

It was obsession. Since that last encounter, John had scoured the Net hungrily for any information he could find on Sherlock. He'd not been able to help himself. Incredibly enough, he'd come across a website called The Science of Deduction, and he'd scrolled through the scant pages in a frenzy of curiosity, growing more and more bewildered as he read the contents posted. Contrary to what he imagined of the vampire elite and their occupations, Sherlock was actually a detective of some sort, delving into crimes related to human beings. It was quite outrageous, and nothing that John had ever encountered before. He would have mistaken the Sherlock Holmes in the blog for someone else entirely had it not been for the brilliant but biting, sardonic language on display to ward off the casually curious and the anonymous hecklers.

Yet the worst thing about the thrall was the craving, starting deep in his belly and flaring down his loins whenever John thought of Sherlock, of the things Sherlock had done to him; of the things he'd want Sherlock to do to him the next time they met. Never mind that John was not into blokes and had never been with one before. Lying in bed late at night, his burning cheek pressed hard against his cold pillow as he worked himself to an urgent but temporary release, all John could ever think of were Sherlock's words: Delicious John. There is so much to look forward to, with you.

Afterward, when his treacherous body was sated, guilt would set in, along with mortification and resentment.

Fuck Sherlock, John thought angrily and not for the first time.

He'd honestly believed that bastard when he'd said there would be no sex involved. He really did.

For maybe five minutes.

Relax, he told himself as he breathed in and out, in and out, until he was much calmer. There's nothing to get so worked up about. It's just the thrall…just the goddamned, fucking thrall…

For a while, it helped immensely to think of things that way— to attribute all blame to the thrall. It helped to be able to rationalize and compartmentalize his thoughts and feelings and to dissociate them from himself before they drove him completely mad. Yet when John found himself coming back home late one night with a particular DVD in hand, he realized that perhaps he was deliberately going one step too far.

There was simply no way he could justify owning that DVD.

Vampire porn— rather, humans pretending to be vampires and doing ridiculous porn movies about them— were nothing new, and the Net was saturated with the rubbish. If John didn't know better, he would think the vampire elite actually encouraged it as a way of perpetuating their mystique among their human subjects.

But this DVD that John had obtained was no ordinary vampire porn. It contained the real deal— actual footage shot of whatever went on behind locked doors in a secret floor (or so the seller in the seedy sex shop assured him). Needless to say, this made its legality instantly suspect. John did not need anyone to tell him that a hefty sentence awaited him if he were caught with it.

Still, here he was, turning the damn thing over and over in his hands. He could not believe the lengths he'd gone to just to get it, yet got it he did; after all that embarrassed fumbling in the sex shop, with his real intentions half-cloaked in mumbled excuses, until the bloke manning the counter had broken in tersely, "Just tell me what you want, mate, and let's get on with it."

Now that he had the DVD though, John found that he could not bring himself to watch it. He'd gone as far as popping it into his laptop late one night, but there he stopped, staring at the newly opened program window with the play button patiently waiting to be clicked.

What awaited him in that video that he did not already know? Even more important, was it going to help at all when Sherlock made his next visit?

John stared at the program window again, at the still shot of a young man backed against the wall, cowering before his vampire master.

Had he barricaded himself behind the sofa first? John wondered. Did they play cat-and-mouse around the room before the poor bloke got cornered against that damned wall?

Did John really want to know the answers to those questions and more?

Fuck this shit, John thought as he slammed the cover of his laptop shut and edged away from the desk. He pinched the skin around the bridge of his nose as he felt the beginnings of a raging headache coming on.

He'd hardly slept in over two weeks. It was time he remedied that.

John sank gratefully into oblivion when the effects of the sleeping pill finally kicked in. There were dreams— fleeting, fantastical and half-formed, never to be remembered once John woke up. All except one: In the course of the night, John dreamed that Sherlock came to visit him.

He dreamed that he came briefly awake to feel something nestled firmly against his feet. It yielded a bit when John nudged at it with one foot and, finally peeling his eyes open enough so he could look down the length of his body, there was Sherlock, seated at the far end of the bed with his back against the wall.

He still had his coat on and he wasn't looking at John. His attention was diverted onto John's computer, open on his lap. For one surreal moment, John gazed at Sherlock; at the pale, angular face bathed in the eerie bluish white glow from the computer screen. He wasn't feeling anything— not fear nor surprise— which meant this was all a dream and he was still safely asleep.

"This is completely inaccurate," Sherlock muttered without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. John could hear a series of low, distressing moans emanating from his computer. "Where on earth did you even get this, John?"

"Doesn't matter," John heard himself mumble. "I've not watched it yet."

Sherlock lifted a sardonic brow. "Good," he said. "We wouldn't want any bias tainting our little experiment, would we?"

"Suppose not," John said faintly, his thoughts already drifting away.

"I want you to move in with me." Sherlock's voice sounded as though it came from a great distance.

John yawned, his vision already dimming. "This is all a dream. You're not even here, Sherlock," he muttered before he turned to burrow his head into the pillow.

When John came abruptly to his senses with eyes flaring wide open and his heart in the vicinity of his throat, it was already broad daylight outside his windows. His mind still swimming from that strange dream and the residual effects of the powerful sleeping medication, he threw back the blankets and lurched to his feet.

Fuck, he thought incoherently. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

One wild glance around the room told him what he needed to know: Sherlock was not there and his laptop sat at its usual place on his writing desk, apparently undisturbed.

John let out a gusty sigh of relief. Just a dream, he told himself. Nothing but a dream…

That was before he emerged from his bedroom and saw the thing on his dining table.

John stared at the item on the small table for long minutes, feeling the hairs on his nape stand on end.

So it was no dream. Sherlock was really here last night. He'd paid John a visit and the entire incident with the laptop and the DVD was not a figment of John's dreams.

Bloody hell…

Sherlock had definitely been there the previous night and he'd seen the DVD, and John was never going to be able to argue his way out of this one. In fact, there was no way out, because Sherlock had apparently already decided that this was a thing they were going to do even before he had come to John's flat, uninvited.

John stared at the boxed item on the table and, turning away, marched out of the room. He opened the laptop in his bedroom, and of course, the DVD was gone from the drive.

Bollocks, thought John as he struggled to breathe.

What did Sherlock intend to do with it? Would he use it as additional leverage against John, to try to get him to cooperate in their future sessions? But that didn't make sense. Whether John liked it or not, he was now bound to Sherlock and coercion was not necessary. The vampire could easily destroy or discard him at a moment's whim.

There were so many questions without answers.

After a while, when John felt he could think and breathe easier, he came back into the living room and took the thing in hand, turning it around so he could read the instructions printed on one side of the box. There were words there, printed in bold letters— words such as COMFORTABLE, EASY TO USE, and EASY TO CLEAN.

If there was any proof that he now had a vampire lover, it was this.

Sherlock had thoughtfully left him a gift in preparation for their next meeting— a box with a muscular man on the cover and a label that read: Anal Douche.

John could feel panic fluttering at the edges of his mind. He quashed it before it could take hold.

It wasn't easy, especially when John's phone suddenly pinged with a perfectly timed text message: I trust you know how to use it, Doctor. -SH

John gulped in a breath to steady himself before he typed: "Where are you?"

Oh? Are you saying you'd like to meet now? Are you ready for our next rendezvous, then?

John glanced around his tiny, nondescript living room with slitted eyes before he replied: "You've placed hidden cameras around in my flat, is that it? You're tailing my every move now?"

I'm sure I don't know what you mean, John.

With the tip of his tongue set against his teeth, John typed carefully: "You know exactly what I mean."

I don't have to be there to know you won't be able to look away once you've seen my little present— the same way I know you can't put me out of your mind.

John bit down so hard on his tongue that he was sure he'd drawn blood. Oh, he could already picture Sherlock with that smug little tilt of his lips. It was a shame that John wasn't with him right now so that he could knock that smirk off his face. John glared at the tiny phone screen as he punched in: "You narcissistic piece of FUCK—"

Rage made his fingers clumsy. Before John could finish his invective-laden reply, Sherlock had texted the last word: Worry not. 14 February. The Chesterfield at 8 pm. Clean yourself at least an hour beforehand. See you then, John.

Of course, there was no question that John would heed Sherlock's summons. Even if his mind were to scream warnings at him, there was no stopping his body from feeling that sickly surge of lust that propelled him to his scheduled rendezvous with Sherlock at the Chesterfield on Valentine's Day.

At the appointed hour, John found himself standing in front of the hotel, looking up its imposing façade as he vacillated between entering or staying put outside. Until now he had not realized that he'd been waiting, seemingly endlessly, for this evening; for Sherlock.

John knew this was nothing but the thrall at work, yet it did not assuage the ghastly feeling of want coursing through him like a live current. The excitement roiling within him was a frightening, alien thing. Even the private humiliation of cleaning himself had not blunted the anticipation, so strong that John felt it as a force behind every step he took to get himself here.

This was what it meant to be enthralled to a vampire. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to give and give until he was bled dry, until there was nothing left of himself.

Run, a voice whispered in his mind, the first clear thought he'd had in weeks. Run away while you still can!

Obeying that simple command proved harder than expected. It took considerable effort for John to even turn away, and when he finally did so he found himself colliding against somebody behind him. For one confused moment, John's face was pressed hard against the dark, rough wool of a finely made coat. Then a gloved hand was on his back, pulling him away just enough so he could look up at the person he'd bumped into.

"Hullo, John," drawled Sherlock, lips twitching into a smile as he gazed down at John's slack-mouthed look of surprise. "I believe the hotel is the other way around."

The long fingers digging into John's back tightened their hold as he began to struggle in earnest, sending him flush against Sherlock's chest, hard as granite. "Hush now," Sherlock murmured into his ear. "We wouldn't want people to stare at us here, would we? There's no telling who might be watching."

Sherlock meant the CCTV cameras, of course. The damn things were posted all over the place and nothing in the streets ever went by unobserved. For an instant, John remembered the vampire prison officer with the baleful face, and he stopped struggling in Sherlock's arms.

"That's my good John," murmured Sherlock approvingly, one unyielding hand moving from John's waist to the small of his back as he propelled him towards the hotel entrance. "No more scenes until we reach our room, yes?"

"Why would you care if people might see us?" John snapped, bristling at the feel of the hand on his back; placed any lower and it may as well be cupping his arse.

"You will learn that it would be best not to attract the scrutiny of certain people out there." Sherlock's bored tone belied the gravity of his words, but John's attention was diverted as they stepped into the hotel's lavish interior. In honor of the occasion, there were red roses everywhere in the lobby, elaborately arranged in vases.

Again, it seemed as though they were expected. A liveried escort quickly appeared to usher them down the hall to a private lift. "We've prepared the Red Room, sir, for you and your date," the man announced deferentially.

John gaped at the man then at Sherlock, who merely gave a curt nod of acknowledgement at the escort's words. The words were out of John's mouth before he could think them through: "I'm not his date!"

Being the professional that he was, the escort made no sign that he heard John's retort, and proceeded smoothly ahead of them. Likewise, the regal haughtiness of Sherlock's expression did not change, even though John felt those fingers suddenly biting into his back in unmistakable warning. The short walk to the lifts was an ordeal for John, made all the worse as he was steered relentlessly on by Sherlock.

John was painfully conscious of people glancing their way as they walked across the lobby. He could picture them imagining him and Sherlock as a couple, out enjoying a romantic evening together on Valentine's Day. The hand on his back would certainly reinforce that image, never mind that it was exerting enough pressure to bruise.

Perhaps the onlookers even knew that this was a secret floor arrangement, and far from being repulsed, they would have taken this as a mark of high favor- no matter how ill-fated the union, there was a certain glamour in the sight of a vampire with his current human favourite.

Well, they're not the ones who've got to part with some of their blood tonight, John thought bitterly.

The lifts finally came into sight. John waited for its gold doors to close. Once they were alone in the lift, he tore himself away from Sherlock. "We're not a couple!" he hissed.

Stripping his gloves languidly from his hands, Sherlock said, "Yes, we are."

A hot flush suffused John's cheeks as he burned with arousal and resentment. There were things he wanted to say, to let fly at Sherlock, but the words tripped upon themselves and dissolved into a meaningless puddle in his mouth as he stared at Sherlock's profile. The vampire was not quite smiling, but the lines around his eyes were deeper than usual which suggested that he was quite amused.

Fucking hell, John thought, aghast. He was done for. They'd barely started for the evening and he was done for.

"Don't touch me," John said shortly, arms raised before him defensively as the lift stopped and opened onto the secret floor of the hotel, where another member of staff waited to take them to their room.

If there had been any chance of escape, it would have been for John to have never come to the rendezvous at all. That would have meant disobeying Sherlock, and that, needless to say, would have led to a great deal of unpleasantness. No matter how hard he ran, in the end, there was nowhere for him to go. John would be caught and sent straight to that prison centre to be processed, and he'd never come out of there alive.

The same way he would not survive Sherlock's prolonged visitations.

There was nothing else to be done, so John squared his shoulders as he stepped off the lift, chin held high. He walked with firm steps, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides as he followed their escort through the winding corridors and Sherlock, in turn, trailed after him.

It would appear that Valentine's Day was something of a big thing for vampires as well, what with their elaborate rituals of courtship and the feast of blood that awaited them at the end. John suppressed a small shudder of revulsion at the thought.

The door to their suite was opened for them and there was nothing for John to do but enter the room.

As with all secret floor suites, the Red Room was sumptuously furnished, if a trifle gaudy. From the antique wallpaper, floridly Victorian, to the plush sofas, everything was done up in shades the color of blood, as though the entire room were blushing with the memories of various deadly intimacies to which it had borne silent witness. There was no need for crimson roses here: the blooms in the ebony vases were lilies of a pure, sinless white. There was a real fire burning in the pale marble fireplace and a sparkling chandelier overhead.

John gave the room a thorough once-over before turning to Sherlock, brows raised.

"It was the only room available when I made the reservations a month ago," Sherlock replied, shrugging out of his coat and untying his scarf, "after going through five different establishments. God only knows why the hotels are all packed tonight."

Was this bastard fucking with him? John wondered.

"It's Valentine's Day," he pointed out and, when Sherlock stared at him blankly, continued incredulously, "you know? The day of hearts, love— that sort of thing?"

"Oh. You mean one of those nonsensical human customs," drawled Sherlock, his tone flat, "and one loaded with more sentiment than usual. Tedious."

John stared at him with pursed lips. Was this bloke for real?

Impossible as it would seem, Sherlock appeared to be genuinely ignorant of the holiday. Out of sheer perverse curiosity, John queried, "what did you think all the roses are for?"

Sherlock rolled his shoulders in a small, indolent shrug. "I thought it's a day for red roses."

John stared at him askance. "That's… just ridiculous."

"Can it be any more ridiculous than having a day for celebrating hearts?" countered Sherlock, scoffing.

"So you...you didn't set this up as some sort of date?" John asked hesitantly.

Here, Sherlock's gaze turned sly. "Why?" he asked. "Were you expecting to be wooed, John?"

John said nothing, merely gave him a withering look.

"I should have brought you flowers, damn," said Sherlock softly, and John knew he was being mocked.

"You really don't have to," John replied, lips stretched in a thin smile, "unless you want them shoved down your throat."

Fuck, that was absolutely the wrong thing to say. John did not know what possessed him to say it, but having accomplished the task, John willed himself to return Sherlock's gaze, enduring that pale scrutiny for endless seconds. Then, much to John's surprise, Sherlock gave a low, throaty chuckle.

"This is what I like about you, John," Sherlock said as he came slowly forward. "Others would have been mindless with terror by now, but not you. You're not a bit afraid of me, are you? Not since the first time I saw you in that hospital and most certainly not now. That's the thing that bothers you, doesn't it? The fact that you can look at me and not feel the same way as any ordinary human being in your situation might feel."

"I don't know what you're talking about," John bit out, his face suddenly as red as the room.

"Yes, you do," said Sherlock. "You love this as much as I do and this is what terrifies you. Not the thought of dying in my hands, but this. You've never felt more alive than when you're with me and you miss it every single moment we're apart. You missed me."

"I suppose arrogance is a trait inherent among your race," muttered John, tamping down hard on the cold dread that rose within him at the vampire's uncanny words. Apparently, either Sherlock was telepathic, or else he, John, was exceptionally easy to read.

"You wouldn't be wrong there," Sherlock agreed.

John shook his head as if to clear it. "No," he said. "This— this is nothing but the thrall. The doctor in the last hotel said—"

He stopped short as Sherlock let out a soft sigh of exasperation, accompanied by a brief eye roll.

"What?' demanded John, irked.

"That's the trouble with assumptions," Sherlock replied impatiently. "Never make the mistake of assuming anything without sufficient data."

When John merely gave him a blank stare, Sherlock continued, "The doctor saw you in the aftermath of our last encounter and assumed immediately that we've… consummated our relationship."

John froze as the meaning of Sherlock's words sank in. "So…"

"So what you're feeling right now is not the thrall. Not yet, but soon," said Sherlock. "As soon as I've made you mine."

Close. So close. How had Sherlock got so close to him? John felt as though a net were closing in around him as the vampire murmured, "Have I got your full attention now, John?"

Once again, Sherlock's words did not make sense. They were like pieces of a puzzle that did not present a complete picture. Try as he might, John could not reason out Sherlock's words—not when he was so close. John could almost feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, so steady and calm against his own trembling frame.

"I must admit, I am flattered that you would have feelings of your own for me. How nice," Sherlock murmured, his voice a low purr. "Very well then. You may kiss me."

At those words, John wished he could say that his head had emptied itself of all thought. He wanted to say that the hunger he'd desperately tried to keep in check had simply overcome his defenses, surging heavily into his loins and in his head to obliterate all reason.

The truth, as always, was far more complicated, because Sherlock was right. John may have passed the better part of the previous month in a trance-like state while he ached with need and unfulfilled desire deep inside, but now he felt as though every fiber of his being had awakened from a deep freeze as he gazed at that beautiful, lethal mouth, obligingly lowered towards his own. Here in front of him stood the most dangerous being John could ever encounter and John wanted him.

He wanted Sherlock— that much was terrifyingly obvious. John wanted him as he'd never wanted another in his entire life. For a moment, he imagined himself already devouring those full lips and he wondered how they must feel against his own.

Soft, John thought, remembering the way those lips had touched his body the last time. They would be soft but firm, and wet— a perfect, wet ring of flesh as they encircled his cock...

A vestigial sense of self-preservation finally kicked in before his mind could veer further off course. John screwed his eyes shut as he remembered that scene in the DVD, frozen in time, of that young man cowering in front of his vampire master moments before he was taken.

Just as Sherlock promised John he would take him- own him.

Sherlock must have sensed John's struggle. John felt long arms winding themselves around him, and hands— inhumanly strong and hard, capable of breaking his neck in one, deft twist— restraining him.

Sherlock whispered, "Still so stubborn. Ah well, the night is young."

"That DVD," John suddenly asked, his voice a hard rasp. "There's something there that you don't want me to see."

"John, John," Sherlock said softly. "There is so much that you do not know about us. I'd like you to learn properly."

John started as he suddenly felt a hand trail down to touch him through his clothes.

"You see, you're ready for me already," Sherlock murmured, pleased, as he cupped his hand against John's erection, trapped in his jeans.

An involuntary sigh left John as he felt those fingers brush against him fleetingly. All thoughts of breaking away were rapidly deserting him, but John held himself rigidly against Sherlock's hold as he remembered yet again the image of that young man backed against the wall. No matter what happened, he would not run away, but neither would he let himself be harried into a corner by Sherlock.

John did not harbor any illusions. He knew he would have to give in sooner or later, and he'd decided it may as well be later. He'd make sure not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of him yielding too quickly.

He could feel Sherlock's lips by his ear: "You may hide your feelings from me, John, but your flesh has betrayed you. Almost from the very start, it has acknowledged me to be its rightful master."

Balling his hands into fists by his side, John fought to keep himself from reacting. It was not good that he had to bite back a groan of disappointment as he felt the pressure of those fingers lift from his groin.

Swallowing thickly, he looked down just in time to see those long, nimble fingers deftly unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zipper down. This time, John could not hold back a strangled cry as those teasing fingers glided over his clothed erection once, twice, before slipping inside his briefs to take him out, to take him more fully in hand.

"Look at you, John," whispered Sherlock.

Much to John's mortification, he found that he could not look away at that slender hand on his cock; the things it did to him. He said nothing, merely balled his hands into tight fists by his sides as Sherlock caressed him, setting a languid pace that refused to quicken even as John felt the urgency build inside him.

John knew he ought to be horrified at himself for not actively resisting, but what good would that do? He was losing this fight in the subtlest of increments as his body gradually started to respond to Sherlock's skilled ministrations and he could feel the humiliation mixing with the strong pull of desire, but there wasn't enough of it. It would overwhelm him once the sex was over and he'd lost a quantity of his blood yet again to this monster, but right now, the mortification was nothing compared to the hunger that Sherlock had stoked to life within him.

John looked up to glare at Sherlock, conveying as much resentment in his gaze as he could. It was the least he could do. It was a mistake, he was quick to realize as he caught sight of Sherlock's face; the way he was looking at him as though he, John, were the most fascinating creature in the world.

"Marvellous John," Sherlock said, an odd note in his voice.

John watched, transfixed, as Sherlock's lips formed one word: "Strip."

When John hesitated, Sherlock added, voice hardening: "Now."

Slowly, as though he were in a trance, John moved to obey Sherlock's command. It was impossible to focus on the task at hand, yet John felt the loss of Sherlock's touch keenly as that slender, white hand left his distended shaft to glide over his chest, newly bared.

John was hardly breathing as he felt Sherlock's exploration of his flesh, his movements leisurely but thorough. Gradually, that hand drifted to the thick starburst scar on John's left shoulder— a souvenir from his teenage years during the Troubles, those unprecedented episodes of rebellious violence in the City that were quickly suppressed, when John had been caught in the crossfire one fateful afternoon.

For a moment, John thought he ought to explain. He always had to, when he had his physical examinations done by different doctors who were not familiar with his history. Yet John did not see a query in Sherlock's eyes; merely that look of fascination intensified a hundred fold.

"You got in the way of that bullet to shield someone," Sherlock said in that startling way of his, as though he'd read John's mind yet again.

Or perhaps he's researched me, John thought bitterly. Either way, he decided he wouldn't explain and instead focused on undressing: a difficult task as his hands were shaking so much.

Sherlock's next question caught him by surprise: "Don't you even want to know how I know?"

There was something in Sherlock's voice— intense frustration, perhaps even anger— something momentous that again eluded comprehension.

It took a moment for John to respond. He finally shrugged and tried for nonchalance as he fell back to an automatic reply: "What does it matter?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, gaze narrowed.

Something's changed, John thought. He felt it and Sherlock knew it.

Here they were, standing face to face in the most pornographic of confrontations: Sherlock, still fully dressed and John, naked as the day he was born.

Yet something had shifted between them.

John wondered whether Sherlock might touch him again, but the vampire had other ideas. He turned abruptly and sat down on the plush, rose-red sofa.

"Straddle me."

It felt like a small eternity for John to get to the sofa. All the while, he could feel Sherlock's gaze upon him like a brand. His heart hammering wildly in his chest, John moved to straddle Sherlock's slender, powerful frame as the vampire pulled him into his arms. John folded his legs beneath himself gingerly as he settled into Sherlock's lap.

The entire position was awkward in the extreme but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. John shifted his weight uncomfortably. He could feel the hardness of Sherlock's cock underneath those expensive trousers, yet all Sherlock did was lean into John's neck as he breathed him in. John braced himself for the first bite.

It did not come. Instead, John felt Sherlock's hands gliding over his back. His touch was light, insidious, as it explored the texture of John's skin. John could feel Sherlock's breath against his collarbone, but there was no hint of teeth as Sherlock trailed his mouth leisurely down John's neck.

In an effort to stall, John licked his lips and said, "Don't you want me to bathe first?"

"There is no need for that this time," Sherlock murmured against his skin. "I want to learn your scent as it is. You smell so good, John, so ripe. Besides, I know you've cleansed yourself where it matters. Let's see if you've done a good job, Doctor."

John did not see Sherlock take out the bottle of lubricant in his pocket, but he heard the brief snap of the lid being opened. Sherlock did not waste time, and John had to breathe in deeply as he felt a finger, slick with lubricant, teasing his hole for a few seconds before sliding into his body without hesitation, without apology.

Rectal exam, he said to himself briefly, gaze averted, as he adjusted to that long digit gliding slowly, steadily, in and out of his body. He kept his hands fisted on the sofa behind Sherlock's head to steady himself.

Despite his bravado, John grunted aloud as he felt another finger joining the first. The peremptory fingers were anything but comfortable and he found himself making small, protesting noises.

Sherlock ignored him. "Touch yourself," he said.

John eyed him sourly, feeling too disgruntled to comply with Sherlock's command. The feel of those fingers inside him suddenly changed as Sherlock slowed down his strokes.

"Touch yourself, John," Sherlock crooned softly. "It's going to feel so good, trust me."

Oh god, he was right. John stifled a gasp as his fingers closed around his shaft, the light friction contrasting with the deep pressure of those fingers buried inside him.

John watched as Sherlock lowered his mouth to lick at the scar on his shoulder before nipping lightly at the hardened skin. John could feel himself break into gooseflesh.

"Delicious John. I want to see you take your pleasure," growled Sherlock before he took John's nipple into his mouth.

A low groan escaped John's lips as he tipped his head back, unthinkingly exposing his throat. His hand was moving quickly around his shaft now, speeding up his own rhythm even as he felt Sherlock's hand snaking up his throat, lightly encasing the slender column with his fingers to feel John's quickened pulse. Sensation swamped John and he refused to consider what he was doing and what it meant. Now was not the time to speculate how much this will cost him.

Don't think, John reminded himself. Just take what you can.

"Kiss me, John," he heard Sherlock say again.

Panting, John brought his gaze down on Sherlock as the vampire reclined with his head tossed back on the sofa, his curls wild and his eyes hungry. His mouth was open slightly, and John shook his head. No, he wouldn't be kissing him for now, but he did lift a tremulous hand to touch those lips, soft as velvet.

A rumbling growl of approval issued from Sherlock. He licked at John's fingers with the tip of his tongue and for a moment- just for one, tiny moment- John saw the fangs.

A chill went through him at the sight, but before he could react further, John felt Sherlock's fingers withdraw abruptly from his body. He felt hands upon him yet again, deftly turning him so that he was facing away from Sherlock.

"Sherlock-"

"You're ready," Sherlock said, and John realized that Sherlock meant to take him from behind.

"Sherlock, wait!"

Strong fingers held him bracingly. "Just remember to breathe, John."

There was no way John could prepare himself for the pain when the moment finally came— such a deep, burning pain lancing into him, as though he were being split in two. For a moment, his body rebelled, fighting to keep that shaft, so huge, from going any deeper, fighting to pull away, until John felt Sherlock's arms around him and his breath on his back.

"Breathe. Just relax."

Wincing, John took in huge gulps of air as he tried to let go of the pain. He felt Sherlock slide in to the hilt and his body slumped back against Sherlock. Together, they waited for long seconds as John's body gradually adjusted to Sherlock's length, so deep inside him.

"John."

"So big," John could not help but gasp.

"There's no turning back after this, John."

As if he had any choice in the matter, John wanted to tell him. Instead, he cried out as Sherlock started moving, as he began their savage little dance. Fucking would have been a sophisticated term for it. This was mating at its most primitive: John, spread out on Sherlock's lap as the vampire had his way with him initially with short thrusts, gradually lengthening to longer, fuller penetrations. The pain slowly gave way to a strange, perverse pleasure, unearthly and intense. It was like nothing John had ever felt before. Tears sprung, unbidden, in his eyes as the pained pleasure rose within him like a gigantic wave, ready to overwhelm him.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John from behind and began, impossibly, to thrust deeper. "My wonderful John," he whispered into John's ear as he ran his hands down John's heaving body, moist with sweat.

John cried out as he felt a hand wrap around his stiff, throbbing cock. The feel of that hand circling around him was perfect, setting off the same rhythm that he felt inside as Sherlock drove into him. With his hands hanging limp by his sides and his body resting fully on Sherlock, John began to let go at last. After just a few more strokes, he felt himself on the brink of the precipice.

Please, John thought, unable to voice it aloud. He felt the tears trickle down the sides of his face and he could not stop the moans that escaped his slack mouth. It was no longer his, this earthly body that he inhabited. It belonged to another.

"Come, John," said Sherlock, licking a hot, wet stripe up John's neck. "I want you to come for me."

Close. Indeed, he was so very close, yet John held off. He tipped his head further back against Sherlock's shoulder— an open invitation— and for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the white, immaculate ceiling and the stem of the chandelier encircled with an intricate pattern of delicate plaster roses.

Sub rosa, John thought dimly as the sight of those roses overhead triggered a distant memory for him, gleaned long ago from history books. He'd never tell anyone about this fatal passion he'd developed for Sherlock. Sherlock himself would never know. It would be John's secret, never to be uttered, locked away safely in his heart and never to be given any power over his person—

John's mind stopped working altogether as Sherlock suddenly bit down into his neck, hard.

He never remembered screaming though he thought he must have done so. All he remembered was coming; coming endlessly over Sherlock's hand as it stroked him to completion. He remembered shuddering in wild relief as the spasms overtook him. Cradled by Sherlock's body with his cock still buried inside him, John felt himself shatter into a million pieces. Blood ran in a single stream down his chest even as his come spurted out to coat Sherlock's fingers and spatter on his trousers, and still, he felt Sherlock's mouth, fastened greedily on his neck, drinking him in.

John slowly came back to find himself draped heavily over Sherlock.

"Don't move," Sherlock warned as he pressed two fingers into the bite on John's neck, and John felt the soreness spread as he shifted uneasily over his lover's lap. Sherlock had come, spending himself inside John just as he had lost himself in the throes of his violent orgasm. With their bodies sated, the aftermath lay before them— a messy, sticky reality.

John had never imagined defeat to feel like this. He felt Sherlock's arms tighten around him as he tucked John's head into his shoulder. For a moment, everything was quiet as their breathing slowed back to normal.

The wound on John's neck throbbed. Soon it was going to be quite painful.

"It's all right, John," murmured Sherlock, dispelling the fear and panic before they could take hold. "It's going to be all right."

Liar, thought John, though he wisely said nothing. John watched as Sherlock glided his fingers down that trail of crimson on his chest and lifted his hand to lick at his long, bloodied fingertips like a seasoned gourmand.

"Move in with me, John," Sherlock purred into John's ear.

He must be hearing things, John decided. Utterly exhausted and out of breath, he said, "You won't believe this, but I really don't want to die just yet. That was why you took away that DVD, didn't you? That bloke... he died in the end, didn't he?"

A note of impatience crept into Sherlock's tone. "You're not going to die."

John turned his head slightly so that he was looking at Sherlock in the eye. "I won't last a week with you," he said.

Sherlock replied, his voice perfectly calm, "Of course you will, if you will allow me to turn you."

Author's Notes: The theme of imprisonment in the Red Room is lifted from Charlotte Brönte's Jane Eyre.

The Latin phrase, sub rosa, literally "under the rose" is used to denote secrecy or confidentiality. The rose as a symbol of secrecy has an ancient history. In the Middle Ages, a rose suspended from the ceiling of a council chamber similarly pledged all present (those under the rose) to secrecy.

I find it curious that any mention of anal douching is left out of most slash fanfics. While it's not surprising as it's far from remotely sexy, nevertheless, its necessity cannot be underestimated. For those wanting to know more, here is an interesting (and funny) link: www-dot-bryanboy_le_superstar_fab/2007/03/douching_101_