Visitations
A BBC Sherlock Vampire AU Story
By
Nana
Chapter 3
For the rest of his long, long life, John would look back on that night and remember only fragments of it— the delicate plaster roses on the elegant, white wedding cake of a ceiling and the antique crimson wallpaper making the hotel room look as though it were hemorrhaging around John. The red room triggered a distant memory for him, a piece of medical trivia fueling a crazed thought: six liters. An average, healthy adult human being possessed that amount of blood—just enough, actually, to paint the walls of a room this size.
John would recall that for one hysterical moment, he thought that he might actually giggle out loud at the thought, and that would have been so not good. How strange were the workings of the human mind and its infinite capacity for the absurd during the most extraordinary circumstances; and one must admit that having a vampire lover was one such circumstance.
Sherlock.
Most of all, he would remember Sherlock, seated beneath him and carrying on as though John weighed no more than a puppy on his lap. Sherlock, with his cock surging into John's body, his slender white hand around John's shaft and his mouth fastened to the side of John's throat, eager for the hot, rich nourishment that flowed in John's veins even as his fingers deftly coaxed John to orgasm.
In John's rapidly fragmenting mind, different sensations fused to form a new experience, never to be forgotten, of the deadly intimacy of it all: the heavy, musky scent of sex mingling with the sharp, coppery tang of blood as John's broken moans melted around the soft, hungry sounds of Sherlock feeding; the feel of the fabric of Sherlock's expensive suit sliding against the naked skin of his back, his thighs; the softness of Sherlock's curls brushing against his cheek contrasting with his sharp kisses.
John would remember feeling afraid, but what was a vampire courtship without fear, even terror? Yet fear would not be the reason behind John's sleepless nights. What worried him more was his own response to Sherlock's kisses and his hard, impaling flesh; how John could not get enough of him, and the fear only serving to bring an edge to what was already an abnormal attraction. He'd tried blaming it on the thrall, yet he'd felt this way about Sherlock from the start. Even at its height, the fear was not enough to drown out the pleasure that went hand in hand with the pain, blending to form an intense, unearthly ecstasy like nothing John had ever felt before. John would remember it as long as he lived, the feeling of coming alive and of breaking apart as he spilled into Sherlock's hand, striping white onto his fingers in contrast to the thin stream of red flowing down John's chest.
And afterward.
Afterward would always be a point of contention for John.
He supposed he must have fainted sometime after the bizarre post-coital conversation with Sherlock. Perhaps it was due to the blood loss. Whatever it was, it came as a small mercy that he would have no recollection of being carried to the bedroom and of the aftercare that followed. All he would remember were brief bouts of near-consciousness, like surfacing to the top of a deep, murky lake but never breaking through the water, before he awoke fully to find himself groggy and stiff, as though he had not moved an inch in his sleep, in a grey and empty- albeit lavish- hotel bedroom. As always, Sherlock was gone. To top it all off, John had missed two days of work and was sent off with a sore arse and a wildly throbbing neck that was heavily bandaged, with the attending doctor saying something to the effect that John had been lucky enough not to need stitches, though he would be taking quite a lot of prescription meds. And that was all.
Yet these incidents were not the worst of it.
The worst was to come in the days ahead, when John would think of Sherlock and feel the base craving that had taken root deep within him uncoil and tear at his resolve. The desire was overpowering, rampaging through his body and running through his bloodstream like a ribbon of fire. He thought he knew the feeling, but he was wrong. Nothing could describe the intensity of the real thing. To be enthralled to a vampire was to endure being devoured, body and soul, one part at a time. It was a kind of possession that gradually stole one's reason and ultimately oneself. It was beginning already, for at the back of his mind, John could sense Sherlock taking up residence, whispering to him in that voice, darkly seductive and sweetly promising: "It's alright, John, everything's going to be alright...move in with me...you're not going to die...if you will allow me to turn you."
The healing process hurt a lot less than he had anticipated. The bandages on his neck came off two weeks later, and John found himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror, running a finger lightly on the new scars on his neck and feeling a shiver run through him that was not exactly of revulsion.
Just remember to breathe, John.
The memory came from nowhere, those words whispered into his ear as Sherlock took possession of him, and John felt the long, slow burn of desire that pulsed through his loins. He rested his forehead on the cool, smooth surface of the mirror, and did as the memory bid—breathing in and out, slowly, in and out, as he wrestled with himself.
He stayed that way for a long time.
With very little recourse, John tried to resume his normal routine.
He rose in the mornings, ate a dull breakfast and set off for work. In the evenings, he returned to an empty flat and set about making a brief dinner to be eaten in front of the telly, or his laptop. Afterward, he busied himself with a book or going online, trying to kill the vast, empty hours before bed, trying as best he could not to think, because then he would realize that he was waiting.
Waiting for him.
He tried not to look at his mobile every few seconds to check for messages in the same way he tried to keep himself from refreshing Sherlock's website on his laptop, hoping for a new entry, for any sign that Sherlock was out there, somewhere. Sherlock had not updated his site in over two weeks, and John's phone remained silent. What remained of his tattered pride forbade John to look up Sherlock's number from his text messages and simply hit the redial button, though he'd thought of it. He'd thought of it long and hard.
Fucking hell, thought John, exasperated with himself. This is worse than falling in love.
It took him a horrified moment to realize exactly what had just gone through his mind. He'd not meant it. Not that way, not really. Or did he?
He had not yet been turned, but John knew that he was no longer the same man as before. He had changed. He did not need his colleagues' reaction to his appearance on the day he reported back to work to tell him that; how they had treated him with sympathetic shunning ever since. His life had fundamentally, irrevocably changed from the moment he met Sherlock. Before long he would not know himself, and what frightened John the most was the newly awakened part of him that whispered back in dark delight: good riddance.
The queasy feeling of excitement was entirely unexpected, even shocking in its intensity as it clawed at John. He could not believe that Sherlock was serious with his offer to turn him, but the thing inside him, pervasive and urgent, could not be denied.
Was it even possible to turn someone past the age of thirty? John almost wanted it— wanted the adventure that Sherlock seemed to promise; that feeling of coming alive under Sherlock's touch. It was too good to be true, which meant that it probably wasn't. He'd heard all about the process of turning, of course, and fat chance it was ever going to be offered to the likes of him. It was reserved only for the best and the brightest among the herd: either one did brilliantly with the national exams when one turned eighteen, or one was somehow beautiful or stunning enough to captivate a vampire so thoroughly that one was not simply bled out and cast aside by the fiends in the secret floors. In short, one had to be outstanding, and that— if John were to be brutally honest with himself— was one description that he'd never heard people use when they spoke of him; which had him wondering endlessly what Sherlock ever saw in him, in the first place. And why was Sherlock keeping his distance now? It had been almost three weeks since their last rendezvous. Perhaps he was already having second thoughts.
Or perhaps he already had someone else. Perhaps there were others besides him, John.
Fucking hell. Listen to yourself, John thought, running a hand wearily over his face. Just fucking listen to yourself.
He tried to conjure the old sense of distaste, of distrust, whenever he thought of vampires, and he found to his relief that he could still feel these things for the creatures; just not for Sherlock. For Sherlock, he felt something...alarmingly different. It was not something he'd ever expected, this feeling of existing in a perpetual void his entire life and experiencing that grey haze lift, for the first time, to reveal that something in this painfully circumscribed life could be so interesting.
Of course, in more lucid moments, when the sun was high in the sky and there was work to occupy him, John could wrap a semblance of sense and resolution around himself like a cloak, but when night came and he was all alone in his flat, exhausted by his efforts to appease his body's raging and insatiable desires and struggling to sleep, the thought always came back to nag at him: where is Sherlock?
Despite his resolution not to seek Sherlock out, things slowly got the better of him. He wondered for how much longer he could keep this up. If he did not know any better, he would say that he was pining. It was so ridiculous that John finally decided that enough was enough.
It was Friday night, and he was going out. Not that he would be looking for Sherlock, oh no, and never mind that he'd not made plans with friends— he didn't really have a lot of those. The last time he'd been out with a friend for dinner was months ago, with his old mate Mike Stamford, who worked as a hematologist at Bart's. He remembered dropping by the hospital to visit Mike in his lab early one evening, only to find that one of Mike's vampire colleagues was already there, working. At the sound of the cold, patrician voice asking Mike for his phone, John had shut himself off and beaten a hasty retreat. He'd not even bothered to look properly at the creature, merely registering him as a lean, black-and-white figure, seated at the far end of the room before John slid his gaze away quickly and whispered to Mike that he would be waiting for him in the hospital lounge. An entire lifetime of restrictions had honed John's sense of self-protection, and this was his way of dealing with anything potentially unpleasant- banish them from the periphery of his vision to the back of his mind, pronto.
Now, John wondered whether he ought to give Mike a call but decided it was too abrupt. Mike was probably still working. It did not matter. He just needed some air. He did not need to be around people. Even a solitary stroll around the neighborhood would be fine.
He was almost a block away from his flat when the first of the public payphones he passed by began to ring.
John had walked by three phone booths before he was convinced that the ringing phones were not a coincidence. He'd passed by the first one without giving it a thought, and he'd stared at the second ringing phone until some curious passerby decided to step in to answer the call, whereby the ringing abruptly ceased. Now here was the third ringing phone right in front of him, on the junction of a busy street. John glanced around him before he stepped into the booth and cautiously lifted the headpiece.
"Hello?"
"Finally," sighed a cultured male voice, entirely unfamiliar to John.
John cleared his throat, at a loss as to how to proceed, but before he could do so, the voice continued, "there is a security camera to your left. Do you see it?"
John frowned. "Who's this? Who is speaking?"
"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"
John glanced outside and saw one of the ubiquitous cctv cameras perched on the upper ledge of a nearby building with its lenses aimed at him. "Yeah."
"Watch."
John did as he was told, mystified, and watched the camera swivel away.
The man on the phone continued, "there is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"
John turned just in time to see the camera mentioned swinging away from his direction.
"And finally, at the top of the building to your right."
John watched as the street surveillance outside changed course, turning him invisible from scrutiny for the time being. He spoke warily into the phone, ""How are you doing this?"
And why?
As though reading his mind, the caller said, "get into the car, Doctor Watson."
John stared as a black car pulled in smoothly from the traffic to stop at the curb outside his phone booth. The door of the car automatically swung open, revealing a fraction of the posh, lighted interior as John debated on what to do next. He supposed he could make a run for it, though if this situation was what he thought it was, he wouldn't get far, probably just down the street before he was apprehended. A summons was a summons, whether the car was a bulky, military-style van arriving in the dead of night or a sleek, elegant Jaguar stopping to pick him up at a busy street intersection on a Friday evening.
There was very little option to choose from, so John emerged from the phone booth and gingerly got into the waiting car.
Of course, there had to be a beautiful woman sitting beside him, typing away on her phone. Ever since Sherlock, John found that he was quickly getting used to the surreal.
She did not look like a vampire. In the dim light of the car's interior, John tried not to look at her neck, which was partially hidden by her long, dark hair. What did it matter if John could not see any fang marks? It was obvious enough that the woman was a servant, which meant she was in the process of being turned. One had to be, if one were sent by vampires to do their bidding.
John could feel a thin thread of hysteria weaving through his thoughts, but it was not enough for him to forget his manners. Casually, as though he were seated at a park bench and not inside a strange car whisking him away to God knows where, he said to the woman, "hello."
"Hi," she replied readily enough, her gaze glued to her phone.
A heartbeat or two later, John asked, "so what's your name, then?"
The woman smiled but did not look up. "Erm...Anthea."
"That's not your real name, is it?"
The smile widened a fraction. "No."
There was still no eye contact. Feeling slightly foolish, John said, "I'm John."
"Yes, I know."
Of course.
"Any point in asking where I'm going?"
"Not at all..." The woman finally glanced at him, the smile tugging at the corners of her lips turning sympathetic. "...John."
God, he was so fucked.
In no time at all, they arrived at a warehouse on the outskirts of the City. A typical location, John supposed. He could feel himself bristle with tension.
"He's over there," Anthea said, nodding at a distant figure that John could barely make out through the tinted car window beside him.
John opened the car door and stepped outside. He suppressed a shiver that was not due to the cold of the warehouse. This set-up was all too familiar and reminiscent of the midnight interrogation that he had endured over Harry, except that the man a few paces away was overdressed and insouciantly leaning his weight upon a neatly folded umbrella. There was a chair in front of him.
No, John thought. Not a man.
The vampire smiled as John made his approach and gestured at the chair. "Have a seat, John," he said in the same cultured voice that John had heard on the phone.
"You know, I've got a phone." John's voice came out sounding all right. He was glad. "I mean, you're very clever and all that, but...erm, you could just phone me. I'm pretty sure you know my number."
There was no way John was going to give ground this early in the game by doing as he was told. He ignored the chair and continued to gaze steadily at the well-groomed and over-bred creature before him.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place."
John felt a stirring at the base of his stomach upon hearing the name. Sherlock. Of course, this had something to do with Sherlock. What had the git been up to?
John waited, tense, but the vampire took his time. He merely repeated his invitation: "Sit, please, John."
The words were polite but firm, and so was John's reply, "no, thank you."
It was clear the vampire was not used to being rebuffed. There was a short pause as he regarded John thoughtfully. "You don't seem very afraid."
The words were out of his mouth before John could stop himself, "you don't seem very frightening."
His companion laughed. "Ah, I see now why he likes you."
John frowned.
"You're very brave, aren't you, John?" The vampire continued, gazing at him. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"
John felt a muscle working in his jaw, but he kept his mouth shut. The vampire's expression had shuttered as he asked bluntly, "has Sherlock Holmes really offered to turn you?"
The question caught John by surprise. He did not know why it should, but it did. "He...he's..."
The vampire raised his brows and politely waited for John's answer.
"Who are you?" John asked instead.
"An interested party."
"You're interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."
"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?"
John wasn't sure whether he ought to tell this busybody that he actually knew next to nothing about Sherlock, but it seemed the vampire had seen the confirmation on his face, for he continued, "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having. And then one day, seemingly out of the blue, he asked to have you."
John blinked. "What?" he said slowly, carefully.
"For his birthday, on the sixth of January. You were his 'present' in lieu of the knighthood he has eschewed, twice. He's never asked for anyone before— certainly not a human person. And now suddenly there's all this business about turning you. Tell me, will there be a happy announcement at the end of the week?"
The vampire seemed genuinely puzzled, and John could not blame him. He could not make heads or tails with what he'd just heard himself. He tried to pull back the threads of their conversation just before he lost his way: "Wait. So you're... his friend."
Another laugh. "Oh, no. Not in the usual sense, anyway. If you ask him, he'd probably say I'm an enemy."
"An enemy?"
"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask Sherlock, he'd probably say I'm his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."
"Well, thank God you're above all that," said John, pointedly glancing at the vast expanse of the warehouse around him.
He was rewarded with a frown, but before they could both continue, John's phone suddenly pinged.
Three weeks of silence from Sherlock, and suddenly: Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. -SH
"I hope I'm not distracting you."
"Not distracting me at all," John murmured, making sure to look up unhurriedly from his phone.
"Will you let him turn you?" There was a certain quality to the vampire's gaze that John did not like very much. "I hardly think anyone would ever think to turn down such an... opportunity."
How did he even know I've not accepted Sherlock's offer?
John was careful to keep his voice casual as he replied, "I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."
"It could be."
"It really couldn't."
The vampire reached into his coat and removed a small, leather-bound notebook. "If you decide to accept Sherlock's offer and move into two hundred and twenty-one-B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money to ease your way."
Startled, John said, "What?" Move into where? "Why?"
"Because you're not a wealthy man."
"In exchange for what?"
"Information. Nothing indiscreet," the vampire said smoothly. "Nothing you'd feel...uncomfortable sharing. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?"
"I worry about him. Constantly." There was that look again on the vampire's face that John found incomprehensible— as incomprehensible as the vampire's words.
John searched for something to say, and opted for more sarcasm. "That's very nice of you."
"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship."
John's phone pinged again. Sherlock was proving to be loquacious this evening: Could be dangerous.
"No," he found himself saying to the vampire before him.
"But I've not mentioned a figure."
"Don't bother."
"You are very loyal very quickly," observed the vampire in a tone that made John realize that in all this time, while they were talking, the vampire had been examining him, collecting data and learning all there was to know about him.
He was being probed.
"No, I'm not," John found himself saying as he resisted the urge to take a step back. "I'm just not interested."
"Aren't you?" The words were soft and full of meaning.
Before John could say anything, the vampire looked down at his notebook again. "Trust issues, it says in your official psychological profile, among other things," he said. He glanced back up at John from under his brows. "Trust me, there's a whole lot more there that makes for interesting reading, beginning with that spot of bother in your teens and a father who disappeared. You don't take to people easily, much less our kind. Yet Sherlock saw something in you, or else he would not bother; and could it be that despite everything, you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes as well?"
"Who says I trust him?" John countered, genuinely taken aback. He could feel the hairs on his nape stand on end. So they really knew all about him. He did not know why it came as a surprise, and the vampire was clearly adept at twisting words around.
"The cctv coverage of you has been most...interesting."
"Are we done?"
"You tell me." The vampire made to turn away, then stopped. "I expect that we shall be seeing more of each other again soon. I do hope that you would have reconsidered my offer by then. You will find that it will be for the best, for everyone involved."
When he finally got to the car, the woman calling herself Anthea said, "I'm to take you home."
"No," said John. "Take me to Baker Street."
The interview had unnerved him more than he cared to admit. Before tonight, he never even knew Sherlock's address.
He knew now.
It had been almost three weeks since their last rendezvous— three weeks in which Sherlock had kept John at arm's length. The beast within him, so long held in check, arose with unbridled anticipation at their next meeting. There were so many questions he needed to ask, so many things he had to know.
Yet there was a final act to the farce that had been playing out all night long. When John finally got to 221B Baker Street, there was only Sherlock's landlady to meet him.
"He's gone out," Mrs. Hudson said, "but he did ask me to let you in."
Baker Street was located in that quarter of the City that the vampires had made their own, which meant that it was a quiet, well-tended neighborhood with good buildings that looked venerable on the outside and with sturdy, special windows equipped with filters to block the sun's harmful UV rays.
"He says to make yourself comfortable, Dr. Watson," continued Mrs. Hudson helpfully as John stepped into Sherlock's flat.
Whatever John had been expecting, he'd not anticipated Sherlock's flat to look like a typical bachelor's apartment, slightly disheveled when it came to the papers on the desk and the magazines stacked on the floor, but otherwise kept in proper order. The fire had been kept burning in the grate, and there were two armchairs by the fireside. John's gaze ranged slowly about the room, settling briefly on the tinted windows and the leather sofa at the other end, as Mrs. Hudson bustled in with a tea tray.
"Thank you. That's… very kind of you," John said as he eyed the tea things.
"He might be a while," said Mrs. Hudson almost apologetically. "He does like to dash about, but you're more the quiet type, I can see."
John pushed aside the sinking feeling within him and said to Mrs. Hudson, "you take tea."
"Of course." Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised by John's words.
"So…you're not…" John made a vague gesture around his neck.
Mrs. Hudson gave a small tinkle of a laugh. "I'm well along my years, dear. Between what I have in my veins and liquid detergent, I think he might prefer to drink the latter," she said. She retreated, closing the door on John before he could think to ask further questions.
Curiouser and curiouser.
John sat on the more comfortable of the armchairs by the fire, contemplating Sherlock's living room as he tried to haul in the thoughts which threatened to run amok in his head.
He'd been invited over to Sherlock's abode (that this was his first visit was not lost on John), only to find him gone. And it seemed that Sherlock had a human housekeeper.
What did it all mean?
Obviously, he's playing with you.
That thought, sharp with resentment and suspicion, warred with an excited, almost jubilant, I'm here. I'm actually here, in Sherlock's flat.
Try as he might, he could not stop himself from feeling the curiosity that pulled at him from all directions. The beast within him was awake and sniffing the air. He waited until he was sure that Mrs. Hudson's footsteps had faded from the stairs before he launched himself from his chair to snoop.
John had absolutely no idea what vampires were like in the privacy of their homes. He'd expected something weird, an elegant little chamber of horror, perhaps, yet aside from the human skull on the mantelpiece, everything was quite understated: a vast selection of books on the shelves, papers strewn everywhere, a glass cabinet with some curios and science specimens. The few pieces of scattered furniture were made from sturdy, authentic dark wood and the florid wallpaper was old-fashioned; doubtless it was expensive, as were the lamps and the thick Persian carpet beneath John's feet that muffled his steps.
John glanced around, relieved and almost disappointed to find no traces of a massacre anywhere, before turning his attention to the kitchen.
Ah, the kitchen, which was probably more likely to give out clues of Sherlock and his appetites, yet John was surprised to find a high-grade microscope taking pride of place on the small table, cluttered with beakers and glass instruments. He eyed the refrigerator with its chrome surfaces and quiet hum. What lay within its interiors? A severed head? Body parts? At the very least, there must be pints of blood stashed away inside, given that Sherlock had not fed from him for over three weeks.
John backed away from the fridge, deciding he didn't want to know its contents, after all.
He was back in the living room when he saw the narrow, dark passageway that led to the back of the flat. The thought arose, unbidden: he has to sleep somewhere.
John could feel the thumping of his heart as he made his way slowly along the corridor, with the bathroom to its left and another door, resolutely closed, at the end. He could tell that this door was it. He licked his lips as he contemplated the knob, then slowly, he reached out a hand towards it. If he thought the door would be locked, or difficult to open, with melodramatically creaking hinges, he was proven wrong yet again.
The door opened easily and silently enough, revealing a sliver of dimly lit interiors.
Now, thought John, his heart in his throat. Now was the time for a slender white hand to flash out and grab onto his wrist to pull him into the room, with the door conveniently banging shut behind him.
Yet again, nothing happened. The door swung inward to reveal a lamplit, unoccupied bedroom. John eyed the bed with its dark, wooden headboard and creamy sheets with a mounting sense of confusion and, yes, outrage.
What was the point of Sherlock's invitation if he wasn't even here to meet him?
John stood at the threshold of Sherlock's bedroom, flexing and unflexing his hands as he struggled to contain his disappointment.
He ought to just leave. He knew that, yet he knew that he would never be able to bring himself to do it. His pride was no match for the thrall that held him captive. Sherlock knew this, too, of course. Everything had been calculated, right down to bringing John over and abandoning him to sift through his apartment. John could not understand him; he could not begin to understand his ways, including Sherlock's baffling decision to choose him, of all people. And for what?
Very well, then. He would stay. He'd come this far and he would stay until Sherlock came back. It was only later that he realized that he should have been afraid.
He'd fallen asleep.
It was so anticlimactic, but he must have dozed off sometime after two in the morning— he distinctly remembered the time when he'd last checked his phone, perhaps for the millionth time that night. Sometime after midnight, he'd caved in and texted Sherlock, who had never answered back, and finally, John had fallen asleep on the comfortable armchair in front of the dwindling fire.
Now he came abruptly awake as he felt himself being lowered onto a smooth, firm surface. For a confused moment, he could see nothing but shadows all around, with a darker shape looming over him.
Instantly, John felt his body tense, his hand shooting out and encountering the rough wool of Sherlock's finely made coat, still cold and a little damp from outside. If Sherlock felt John's alarm, he gave no sign of it. He merely stretched and settled down partly on top of John, placing his head on John's chest, like a giant cat. John's legs were pinned beneath Sherlock's torso. He felt Sherlock shift again and finally grow heavy as he relaxed onto John. Any moment now and Sherlock might start purring.
A moment passed in which John's heartbeat was loud in his ears. Then, he said in a tightly controlled voice, "I can't breathe, Sherlock."
Sherlock lifted his head briefly and shifted it a different angle on John's chest. "Tired," he merely said, his voice a low rumble of sound, vibrating through John.
He was here, at last.
Now was the time for John to ask questions, if only he could remember them. Sherlock's proximity was making it difficult to string two thoughts together, let alone words. Before he could open his mouth, John's attention was caught by the sudden glow of a mobile phone screen situated a little bit below his prone form. Sherlock had begun to type out a text message with one hand even as he continued to lie on top of John's chest.
"Hey, that's my phone!" John exclaimed.
"Mine's dead," replied Sherlock as he continued calmly to type into the mobile. After a moment, he tossed it over to John. "Here. Thank you."
John fumbled with the phone and resisted the urge to take a fistful of the dark curls so near his fingers. Instead, he craned his neck, trying to get his bearings as he scanned his surroundings. For a moment he thought Sherlock might have carried him into his bedroom, yet they were in such narrow, cramped quarters, and John could see tall, curtained windows a few feet away with a slash of gray dawn filtered through their tinted surfaces. Living room. They were still in Sherlock's living room, both of them were sprawled on the sofa that could barely fit one person, let alone two. His hand fumbled for the lamp that must be within reach. He found the switch, and warm, rosy light filled his vision, making him squint. He was just in time to see Sherlock look up, his skin the colour of warm ivory and he was close enough for John to see the pupils in those pale eyes constricting in the sudden flood of light.
"Where've you been?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Out on a case."
"A case," repeated John, frowning.
"Initially, I thought I'd bring you along."
John was careful to keep his voice neutral: "Why did you change your mind?"
"Because it could have got too dangerous for you," Sherlock replied. "I've not fed beforehand."
The answer was entirely unexpected. It felt like a stab through the heart as the words sank in. He could smell the faint, metallic whiff of a blood meal on Sherlock's breath and he was suddenly, illogically angry.
Stupidly enough, he'd assumed that Sherlock would content himself with blood packs in the fridge; he'd not thought that Sherlock would derive his nourishment from fresh prey as he, John, recovered from his visitations. He'd been so caught up with Sherlock, so enthralled by his extraordinary attention that it had not occurred to John that he was probably not the only person bound to this particular vampire.
Sherlock's cut-glass accent deepened into a drawl as he queried, "problem?"
John shook his head stubbornly. "What makes you think there's a problem?"
"Oh, I don't know; only that your heart's suddenly about to burst out of your chest."
"There is no problem," John said brusquely, trying and failing to dislodge Sherlock from him. "You're not the only one who's had an interesting evening. I just met a friend of yours."
"Friend?" Sherlock sounded incredulous.
"An enemy."
"Oh." John could feel Sherlock relaxing back onto him. "Which one?"
"Your arch-enemy, according to him." Despite his anger, John could not help being a little intrigued.
There was a sudden glint in Sherlock's eyes as he studied John. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"
"Yes."
"Did you take it?"
"No."
"Pity. It's the least you can do to inconvenience him. Take it from him next time."
"Who is he?"
"The most dangerous being you've ever met and not my problem right now. Have you thought it through?"
"Thought what through?"
"My proposal."
That reminded John that he was angry with Sherlock. "Who did you feed from tonight?" he asked abruptly. It had come out before he could stop himself.
"Ah," Sherlock said, his voice turning sly.
John hated the thrall, hated the words tumbling out of his mouth, the beast within him breaking though his control. "How many of us are you actually seeing, stashed away in one secret floor or another?"
"Why, John," Sherlock said, and this time his voice actually came out sounding like a purr. "You don't mean to tell me you actually care?"
"No, I'm j— what the hell are you doing?"
John's exasperated tone quickly evaporated as he felt a hand slide down his stomach. He began to struggle in earnest as he felt fingers deftly working on his belt buckle.
"So you do care. I'm touched," whispered Sherlock. " We can do it now, you know. It might be a bit too soon, and we're not on a secret floor assignation, but if we're careful—"
John resisted the effect of Sherlock's hand on his clothed erection and ground out, "why me?"
Sherlock spared him the agony of elaborating as he drawled, "my dear John. Why not you?"
Because these things don't happen to me. Before you came along, nothing ever happened to me.
John couldn't say it, of course, because of everything it implied. What Sherlock meant to John— it was too weird, too alarming to be put into words; a jagged, brilliant thing that tore at John's heart and mind.
John felt Sherlock's hand move over him again and he felt his thoughts rapidly deserting him. He was tired of fighting it, fighting himself. For a moment, he almost gave in, but then he remembered what he'd meant to ask. He mustered enough distaste to show in his voice as he said, "I was supposed to be your birthday present?"
"Hmm. Birthday, yes. Birthdays are boring without a proper present."
"He said something about your never asking for anyone before." It did not come out well. It sounded too hopeful. John did not know what to make of the contradictions staring him in the face, and Sherlock had made it clear that he was not going to help. He'd done away with John's belt buckle and had pulled down John's trousers before John could think to hold Sherlock off, before he could twist away.
"Look, I— don't." Spoken in that tone, it was nowhere near convincing, not even to John.
"Don't you?" Sherlock's voice was teasing as he closed his fingers around John's shaft. "Yet I recall saying it could be dangerous, and here you are."
"We...we can't," breathed John. "Not outside a secret floor— Sherlock!"
John felt his protests dissolve at the feel of Sherlock's mouth enveloping his cock in a warm, wet prison. He gasped as Sherlock bent down to take in his entire length, coating it generously with saliva before drawing back up in one long, leisurely glide that had John arching helplessly into Sherlock's mouth.
Then quite suddenly the delicious contact was gone as Sherlock eased his mouth off John's prick after one, last suction around the head— the sound of it surprisingly loud in the quiet confines of the flat, and filthy.
John shoved a fist into his mouth to keep his startled objection from bursting forth. He froze as he felt Sherlock move in, his lips close to John's ear.
"Kiss me, John." Sherlock's voice was honeyed, as persuasive as his hand moving slowly over John's moistened shaft.
There was that, again.
John threw back his head and groaned aloud as he tried to shut out that voice. He was so close. Once again, he'd lost his way with his arguments as he felt his body yield to Sherlock's will. He tried to tell himself that this didn't matter— the flesh was inherently weak, but the battle did not lie there. A few more strokes and he let his body go, giving in and spilling onto Sherlock's fingers. Yet his gaze was fierce as he opened his eyes to regard Sherlock.
"After you've had me," John said, his voice flat, "then what?"
Beats of silence as they stared at each other as desire cooled and seeped away.
"How many have there been before me before they were discarded?"
"You don't believe me, then," Sherlock sighed as he pulled away. "Still so stubborn, like the first time we met. I suppose it matters very little that you've got no choice in the matter."
"Why can't you just tell me?"
"You know your way out, John."
John stared in disbelief as Sherlock abruptly got up and walked away. A minute later, he heard the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door closing at the far end of the flat.
It took a small eternity for him to sit up, to do something about his state of dishevelment. Already, he felt the acute sense of loss— deeply, achingly familiar— digging in. Self-castigation was already settling in. He couldn't believe what he'd just done. Was he mad? Yet for the first time, he realized that he actually wanted something from Sherlock. He wanted only one thing, and it was not something that Sherlock was likely to give him.
He must leave. Now. Or else he might find himself outside Sherlock's door, begging to be let in and mindlessly agreeing to Sherlock's conditions as he set about turning John into his creature.
John surprised himself when he finally stood up and took a leaden step, then another, and another, until he reached the door that would lead him downstairs.
The sun was already rising when he let himself out of Sherlock's flat. The street outside was empty and all the houses were shuttered. Everything was shrouded in a thin mist that played tricks on the mind's eye along with the early morning light. John imagined Sherlock emerging from that mist as he strode towards home barely an hour ago, his figure tall and dark and his coat swirling about him. John turned one last time to glance at the building behind him, at the thick, heavily tinted windows of Sherlock's rooms above his head, as he told himself that by emerging intact from his latest encounter with Sherlock, he'd actually won a little victory, even though it did not feel like it.
Perhaps it was the mist, or wishful thinking— a powerful remnant of Sherlock's hold over him— yet, for a moment, John thought he saw the curtains flutter faintly through the windows upstairs. An illusion, he decided, which was about as real as the fancy daydream he'd woven around Sherlock's reason to turn him.
It took another day for John's resolution to crack.
He was a fool— a complete idiot. Oh, what had he done? Nothing much, except he'd merely turned down the one offer that other people would kill for on the basis of some muddled principle of staying true to oneself.
He'd not been thinking straight inside Sherlock's flat. Despite the overpowering force of the thrall, he'd clung on to a set of obsolete scruples, and for what? What would others care except for the opportunity of being turned? But no, John had to want something more. Something unattainable.
It was clear that he was going mad, and when he got back home, everything was made worse by the realization that he had the entire weekend to dwell in his misery.
This evening, he thought as he lay curled into a tight ball on his bed, not bothering with breakfast or lunch and feeling colder than he ought to be. Tonight, he was going back, and he'd beg Sherlock to take him, if it came to that.
Yet the afternoon was barely done when he heard his doorbell ring. The caller would not go away, and when John finally answered the door, the lines of his face pulled into a dark scowl, he was surprised to find Anthea, smartly dressed as always, with a tart expression on her face and a suit bag slung over her shoulder. She had also brought along an RSVP invitation to a cocktail party laid out in a gilt edged card inside a heavy, cream envelope.
Attached to the card was a note paper from the desk of one Mycroft Holmes, with the words elegantly scrawled across the expensive stationery making the hairs on John's arms stand on end: It is apparent that my brother has not been successful in convincing you, Dr. Watson. Time is not on your side, therefore, please allow me to help you make up your mind. I look forward to seeing you tonight. Sherlock will also be attending.
P.S. Kindly leave your collar undone until I've seen you.
The name of the establishment where John was dropped off was entirely unfamiliar— The Diogenes Club.
He'd not wanted to come, not when he'd been issued a threat in the guise of an invite, and he had gone to the length of calling the phone number on the invitation to decline, but here he was at the stroke of eight.
"Ah, Dr. Watson," Mycroft Holmes said as he advanced smoothly into the room into which one of the valets had deposited John. "So glad you can join us, after all."
As if I can refuse, John thought resentfully. He kept his chin up, but he was unable to muster a retort now that he knew who this person was. Needless to say, the shock had been great when John first saw his name on the note paper.
Mycroft stopped a few paces away from John, surveying him with a quick glance from head to foot and back. The vampire had a pleasant smile, his face arranged in placid lines. He looked almost friendly except for those eyes, which were of a darker shade of blue than Sherlock's but so much colder, critically assessing as he ran his gaze over John.
John could do nothing to curb the acceleration of his heartbeat, the quickening of his pulse, blood thrumming through his veins and warming his face in a light flush. He was sure these physiological changes were not lost on the being standing before him, yet his face was his own and he had full control over his expression. He kept his gaze steady and resolute as he returned Mycroft's look. The strike was coming any minute now.
Yet Mycroft's smile merely widened in approval as he said, ""The evening clothes become you."
"The collar—"
"Yes, thank you for not doing up the collar as I asked. I do have my reasons, as you shall see. I'm sure Sherlock will approve, if he bothers to turn up. I did mention to him that you were coming."
John paused as the words sank in and he fought the dismay that threatened to rise. So he may not even be here…
"Oh, and before I forget." Before John could even react, Mycroft was suddenly in his space, stepping up to him and fastening the thing around John's neck before John could think to pull away. John had not even seen it in Mycroft's hands. He'd never seen them move like this, so fast and sure.
It was a collar. It was a fucking metal collar, two or three fingers thick, cold and heavy against John's skin as it encircled his neck snugly.
"Consider it as protection, Dr. Watson," Mycroft explained as he stepped away. He was already moving towards the door. "You've not even been initiated into the process of turning, and this is your first invitation to a drinking party among our kind. We wouldn't want any accidents to happen now, would we? Think of all the drama when Sherlock learns that somebody else has claimed you for their own tonight."
Mycroft paused by the door and glanced back at John, who stood unmoving at the center of the room, one hand on his throat. "You can do up your collar now, John."