Sherlock struggled to get his phone out of his pocket as his hand trembled. He was bleeding from his neck, having been attacked while chasing a suspect for a case. This wasn't a normal attack, he wasn't beaten, stabbed or shot. Nothing like that, the man that attacked him had…bit him. It felt, as strange as this sounds, as though he was drinking Sherlock's blood. It was absurd, he knew, but that's what it felt like.
Sherlock applied pressure to the wound and with his other hand struggled to navigate his phone. He had lost a lot of blood, and his vision was blurring. It took him longer than normal, but he was able to scroll through his contacts to call the only person he had come to trust, John Watson. Struggling again Sherlock placed the phone to his ear. Shallow breaths were all he could manage, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he lost consciousness.
The phone only rang three times before John answered. Good, reliable John. Even though the man was currently on a date he still answered Sherlock's call. Sherlock could understand why. John knew he preferred to text. He only called when it was a real emergency. And this was an emergency.
"Sherlock," John sighed, "This better be important. I'm in the middle of something." He stressed. Sherlock knew that he had probably just ruined a moment between John and his date but this time he really needed him.
"J-John," Sherlock groaned as he adjusted himself against the concrete wall. He was in an alleyway sitting on the cold street trying to conserve his energy, "I n-need help," Sherlock got right to the point. He was going to insult John for his need for a shag but viewing his situation he didn't have time, "I've been attacked…I'm blee-bleeding badly. Not sure ho-how long I can stay conscious," Sherlock said slowly. Finding that speaking required a lot of energy.
He was starting to feel tired as he waited for John to say something. It seemed to take entirety before John spoke. There was a shuffle coming from John's end followed by a door opening then closing. John was stepping away from his date to speak to Sherlock without distraction.
"Where are you?" John asked, finally becoming serious.
"N-Not sure. I…I…" Sherlock's eyes were fluttering closed against his will. He was so tired. He had never been so tired, he just needed to rest his eyes for just a moment. Then he would be fine. He knew that was a lie, but it made him feel better about sleeping.
"Sherlock, are you there? Sherlock!" John called out but Sherlock paid no attention as his phone slipped out of his hand. The phone crashed to the ground, ending the call.
The line disconnected and John stared at his phone in a panic. He didn't even return to his date to let her know he was leaving. He just left, knowing that Sherlock didn't have time for John to be polite. He made his way to the road to hail a cab as he phoned Lestrade. The phone rang five times before John got impatient and hung up. He phoned Mycroft, knowing he would answer right away.
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft greeted smugly. John hated that he needed to call Sherlock's annoying older brother, but he didn't know who else to call.
"Mycroft, Sherlock has been attacked and I don't know where he is. We got disconnected before he could say. I need you to find him for me." John explained quickly as he climbed into a cab.
"You're not with him? Isn't he on a case?" Mycroft almost sounded concerned.
"No, he said he didn't need me, so I went out. I tried to ring Lestrade, but he didn't answer," He sighed feeling guilty that he wasn't with Sherlock.
"I will locate him and get back to you," Mycroft said and hung up before John could thank him.
Mycroft moved to his desk. Prepared to log in the CCTV system when his phone rang again. He was going to ignore it until he saw who it was from. Quickly he picked up the phone and waited for the man on the other end to speak.
"Mycroft," Lestrade's voice sounded distraught, "Sherlock he's…you need to get down here." He mumbled as he looked Sherlock over. He looked dead but Lestrade could see the man was breathing, but just barely. He knew that Sherlock didn't have much time.
Once given the location, Mycroft was there in a matter of minutes. It came as no surprise to Lestrade. For he knew what Mycroft was… a vampire. He was turned a few years ago and Lestrade helped the man adjust to the change. Lestrade wasn't a vampire himself, but he knew of them. Even dated one before Mycroft.
Mycroft slowly approached Sherlock. The smell of blood was everywhere and for a vampire it was an intoxicating smell. In this case it made Mycroft sick. It was his brother's blood that was filling the air. He couldn't help but make a face of disgust as he knelt in front of Sherlock. He could hear his brother's heartbeat slowing down with each passing second. He didn't have much time.
"Sherlock," Mycroft called softly. Sherlock's eyes fluttered open with a look of confusion displayed on his face. "Sherlock, I can help you, but I need you to give me permission." he said firmly.
"P-Permission, what are…you going on a-about?" Sherlock asked weakly. His voice came out in a whisper.
"You don't have much time. Just answer yes or no. Do you want me to save you?" Mycroft pressed impatiently. Sherlock was quiet for a moment, closing his eyes before jolting them open again. Forcing himself to stay awake.
"Y-Yes," He breathed, unable to manage a witty retort.
Mycroft sighed in relief as he took off his suit jacket, handing it to Lestrade. He rolled up the sleeve of his white button up and took his nail and ran it across his exposed wrist. Causing his wrist to start bleeding. Sherlock may have lost a lot of blood and could be hallucinating all this, but he was certain that this was real.
"I know this is strange, but you need to drink this," Mycroft brought his bloody wrist towards Sherlock's lips. Sherlock looked at his brother oddly but obeyed, nonetheless. This must be a weird dream, and he would soon wake up in Baker Street.
After a few moments, nothing was happening. What was supposed to happen? Sherlock wasn't sure, he just knew he still felt on the edge of death. Maybe this was his mind trying to find a solution to his death and it came up with this ridiculous scenario. Being saved by drinking his brother's blood. Right, because that was logical.
He was beginning to think that he was truly dead and none of this was real. Until his neck started to regain feeling, he had lost feeling shortly after the attack. It felt as though the skin was mending itself together. How could that be? The human body was not capable of healing that quickly. His mind became more aware of what was happening as he drank from his brother's wrist. This was real.
The realization hit him hard, and he pulled his mouth off his brother's wrist. Pushing it away from him as he scooted back. His brother…how could he have missed it? There was no way that Sherlock could not have seen what his brother was. How could he…? It was so obvious now. Mycroft Holmes, his brother, was indeed a vampire. It was the only logical explanation as to what just occurred. Sherlock started to breathe heavily, his transport shaking, and his forehead started to sweat. For a normal person this was a panic attack, but this was Sherlock Holmes. He did not have panic attacks.
"Did he drink enough?" Lestrade asked as Mycroft stood. His wrist was already healed from the cut he made and was wiping the remaining blood off.
"Yes, I believe so." Mycroft's tone was dull as if this was normal. He rolled down his sleeve and looked at Sherlock, "Don't tell me you are having a panic attack. Really, Sherlock, I would think that you would handle this better. Don't act so ordinary," Mycroft rolled his eyes and lifted his brother up by his arm with ease.
Sherlock's knees gave out slightly but didn't fall due to his brother's firm grip. He steadied himself on his feet. He started gasping for air as he stood next to his brother. He felt strange. Moments after being healed he felt strong and able to take on the world. Now he felt weak and was struggling to breathe again. What was happening to him? It was like he was dying all over again.
"Listen closely," Mycroft said, noticing Sherlock's struggles, "You are going to be in a lot of pain in a moment. It will feel like the air is being taken from your lungs. You need to stay calm. Do not fight it or it will only be all the more painful. If you do this it will be over soon," He explained tightening his hold on his brother's arm.
A rush of pain hit Sherlock shortly after his brother's warning. It felt like he was drowning. He gasped for air, but it did nothing to satisfy his lungs. They still burned and made his transport feel as though it weighed a ton. This lasted all but a minute before Sherlock passed out. Unable to even respond to his brother. He couldn't handle the intense pain that surged through his transport. He was fairly certain that he was dead.
"What do you mean I can't come see him?" John shouted into the phone. Mycroft had finally called John, three hours later. He was told that Sherlock was drugged and was being taken to a special facility to detox.
"Dr. Watson, I have already explained that it would be…unwise." Mycroft said vaguely.
"I'm a bloody doctor Mycroft! I think I can handle whatever is going on with Sherlock! Tell me where he is!" John demanded. He was pacing the sitting room of his flat. Not able to sit still.
"I can assure you Dr. Watson that everything will be fine. Sherlock will be back in a week. Until then you will not see him," Mycroft said firmly and hung up. Becoming tired of the ex-army doctor's demands and threats.
John nearly threw his phone against the wall. How could Mycroft expect him to just stay at home and wait for a week? He needed to see the man. To make sure that he was alive and breathing. For all he knew, Mycroft was lying to him and Sherlock was really dead! He already didn't believe the man about Sherlock being drugged. Sherlock told John he was bleeding, but Mycroft assured John that Sherlock was hallucinating.
It just didn't add up. If Sherlock was drugged, then it would have been injected into him somehow. Sherlock would be aware of the injection and would have told John he was hallucinating. Not that he was bleeding. The man was an ex-drug addict for Christ sakes! He would know what being drugged would feel like. If Mycroft honestly believed that John was that stupid, he was rudely mistaken.
John attempted to call Mycroft back several times, but he never answered. He even went as far as calling Sherlock himself, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Whatever happened to Sherlock must have been serious and John had to face the fact that he just had to wait. He would just have to take Mycroft's word that Sherlock was still alive. How alive is a different story.
Sherlock awoke feeling weak and lightheaded. He blinked a few times and lifted his head before taking in his surroundings. He was sitting in a metal chair, in a dark room but somehow, he could see perfectly, as if the light was on. He didn't recognize the room and tried to remember how he got there. He thought for several moments until he remembered the attack. Of course, he was attacked while chasing a suspect. They bit his neck. He lifted his arm to see if the wound was still there but had stopped short.
Looking down he found that both his wrists were handcuffed to the metal chair. The chains on the handcuffs only allowed him to lift his arm a few inches. He started to search for something to pick the locks. There wasn't much in the room, just the chair with an attached tray on his right, a bed in the corner and a toilet and sink behind him. It was a cell. Had he been kidnapped?
The door to his room opened shortly after. Sherlock heard everything. The doorknob being twisted and the door protesting with a loud squeak as it opened. Letting in a blinding amount of light. Sherlock winced and turned his head away. He heard someone walk in. Their footsteps sounded like a giant's. The door shut finally with a bang. A loud bang.
"Noticing the changes I see," Mycroft said. He sounded like he was yelling. Sherlock groaned wanting to cover his ears but was unable, bloody handcuffs. He snapped his head in the direction of Mycroft and glared.
"What's going on? Why am I chained to this chair?" He demanded. His own voice hurt his ears as he spoke.
"Do you remember what happened?" Mycroft asked, ignoring Sherlock's questions.
"I was attacked," Sherlock said vaguely.
"Yes, well obviously, but I was hoping you would go into a little more depth than that." He said casually as he tapped his umbrella on the floor. Sherlock groaned at the sound and Mycroft immediately stopped.
"It was real, wasn't it?" Sherlock spoke carefully. He knew what happened. His brother turned him into a vampire.
"Afraid so," Mycroft stepped forward and placed a bag of blood on the tray to the right of Sherlock. "You'll need to drink this from now on. After a few weeks you will be able to consume human food once again, but not too much. Just enough to appear normal, at least by your standards. I will assist you in controlling your thirst, so you don't go attacking people. I will also provide you with blood, so you don't draw attention to our kind by hunting. You will not feed off someone unless given permission. Otherwise, it will be extremely painful…for them." Mycroft explained as Sherlock eyed the bag of blood.
Sherlock took Mycroft's words thinking that all of this was nonsense. Of course, at first, he thought it possible. Then when his mind started to actually function normally-he must have hit his head-. He realized it was all too unlikely. For him to even believe that vampires were real was completely illogical. This must be some pathetic joke of Mycroft's. Trying to get Sherlock to believe his story only to laugh at him later for being so gullible.
"This is ridiculous," Sherlock locked his gaze with his brother, "Vampires aren't real. They're made-up creatures, created by people who didn't know how the human body varies on decomp depending on the environment, originally. Then turned into a movie monster for dull minded people. If you honestly think I believe that you are a vampire and turned me into one. Then you are just a stupid as everyone else." Sherlock said bitterly.
"I can assure you this isn't a joke. I understand your doubts. I had them myself when I turned, three years ago, but they're real. Everything that happened to you last night was real. You were attacked by a vampire. You lost so much blood that you almost died. I am a vampire, offered to help you and you agreed. Thus, turning you into a vampire as well. I wish I did not have to turn you but there was no other choice. You would have died otherwise." Mycroft said bluntly.
Sherlock sat there stubbornly not believing what his brother was telling him. How was it even possible? Quickly, he reviewed his transport. Noting any changes he may have. If Mycroft was telling the truth, there would be signs. First off, he checked his teeth. If stories of vampires were anything to go by, he would have fangs. Running his tongue along his teeth he felt no change. Of course there was no change, because all of this was utterly absurd.
Then he recalled that his hearing had improved a ridiculous amount. He could see in the dark perfectly, so his vision had improved as well. Thus far, those have been the only changes. Nonetheless it wasn't enough for him to determine anything. There wasn't enough data.
"If what you say is true," Sherlock started, "What am I to expect?" He raised an eyebrow. He decided to go along with the childish story, for now.
"I'm sure you noticed some changes. Most of the traits portrayed in books and movies are true." Mycroft said dully, "Your senses are improved as well as your strength and speed. You will be sensitive to light, but you will adjust to it over time. Your body will heal quickly unless the wound is severe, then you will need blood to compensate for the wound. You possess the ability to hypnotize people, unless they are vampires themselves. Telepathy is a possibility as well, but not many vampires possess the ability. Your need to feed will be hard to ignore. You can't just put off eating like you have in the past. If you do that you will risk attacking a human. As I said before, we do not want to draw attention to our kind." He said firmly as he shifted his feet, "You will also need to be careful that Dr. Watson does not touch you. He will notice right away that something isn't right with you. Your skin will be cold, like a dead body, and you no longer have a pulse." He added as an afterthought. Sherlock scoffed at his brother's words.
"Do you hear yourself? You must have hit your head, or I have. This is insane, release me so I may return to Baker Street. I have a case to finish, and this conversation is making my mind rot." Sherlock grumbled.
Mycroft just sighed and picked up the bag of blood. If Sherlock wouldn't believe his words, he would just have to show him. He could just display his abilities, but this seemed like a more entertaining idea. To see Sherlock lose control of himself will be a sight to see. He untwisted the cap on the bag and watched as Sherlock's nostrils flared.
Sherlock was caught by surprise when he could smell the blood. He felt his transport tense, his mind race, his mouth started to water, and his k-nine teeth extracted. What on earth was going on? All his senses were telling him that he wanted that blood. Needed it. His arm snapped up before he even thought about it. He snatched the bag from Mycroft's hand with ease. He quickly brought it to his lips, with a little difficulty, but managed it.
It wasn't until it was gone that he realized what he just did. He dropped the bag in shock. Not believing that he just drank it and… liked it. His transport felt stronger now. He no longer felt lightheaded. His fangs retracted and his transport relaxed. He stared at Mycroft for a long time. He had a smug look on his face knowing that he had proved his point. Still, Sherlock had his mind think of any other reasons for his actions. He found none.
"So," Sherlock started finally getting over his shock, "I'm a vampire, interesting."