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Walking into the kitchen, John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock. He looked haggard, his cheeks fallen in and his eyes rimmed by dark purple bruises.
As John watched, the detective opened the fridge and grabbed one of the blood packs that John had deposited for him there. Sherlock didn’t even seem to have noticed that the older man had entered the room.
John cleared his throat and Sherlock jumped at the sudden noise. John frowned. Sherlock was one of the most observant people in the world, for him to not notice another person’s presence something had to be really off.
“Sherlock, I think we can both see that this isn’t working.” John’s voice was gentle, as if talking to a scared animal that might bolt any second. From the way Sherlock’s eyes seemed to frantically search for an escape route, the comparison was pretty accurate.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, everything’s fine,” he retorted, trying and failing at nonchalance.
John shook his head. He had watched this long enough. Something had to change or Sherlock was going to die on him – for real this time!
He thought back to the day their life had changed so dramatically. It had all started quite normally. A woman had come to seek their help for a case, swearing there was a nest of vampires living in the old house she had inherited. Sherlock had scoffed at the notion, but after receiving a little more data, been curious enough to take on the case.
He had gone there with John and they had collected evidence, with Sherlock growing more and more agitated the whole time. John had tried to get to the bottom of his agitation, but in typical Sherlock manner, the detective had snapped at him and told him to stop bothering him.
In the end, their little argument had culminated in a full-blown fight, with John walking off to sleep at Patricia’s for the night and Sherlock sulking on the couch. In hindsight, John cursed himself for not having been the better man that evening. Things might have turned out very differently if he had.
At a few minutes to midnight, he had received a distressed text from Sherlock, telling him that he was at the house they had been to earlier and to bring a stake of all things.
John hadn’t been quick enough. When he had reached Sherlock, a vampire had been poised over him, drinking blood out of his jugular vain.
John hadn’t hesitated. It may have seemed ridiculous, impossible even, but seeing someone drain the life out of Sherlock didn’t allow time for hesitation. He had rammed the stake into that vampire’s heart and that had been that.
Only it hadn’t really been, because apparently Sherlock had ingested the vampire’s blood at some point and therefore turned into a creature of the night as well.
Their life had changed completely from that point. Sherlock had been convinced that John would do best to ram that stake into his heart too, to end him and keep everybody else safe, but John wouldn’t hear of it. He had lived without Sherlock once; he would never do that again, especially not willingly.
So he had nicked some blood from the surgery and taken it home, hoping it would be enough. Looking at Sherlock now, it was obvious that it had been a poor substitute to drinking from a live human being. John didn’t have to be a doctor to see that the detective was slowly starving to death.
“Drink from me,” John commanded, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. He was terrified, really, but what else could he do? Watching his best friend die wasn’t an option he would ever consider.
Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock and he moved back as far as he could, his back hitting the fridge.
“Absolutely not. John we have no idea if I’d be able to restrain myself enough to stop. It’s too big a risk.” He sounded miserable. Silently, John marvelled at his restraint. If anybody else had been this close to starvation, they wouldn’t have thought twice about the offer.
Steeling his shoulders, John put on his best ‘soldier’ voice.
“Sherlock, look at me.”
When the detective finally, hesitantly, complied, there was pure panic in his eyes. Slowly, never breaking the eye contact, John walked up to him, putting his own hand on top of Sherlock’s, which was trembling on the kitchen counter. The detective started at the touch, but didn’t move away.
John took the blood bag out of his other hand and laid it on the counter. It obviously wasn’t helping Sherlock, so they might as well stop pretending.
Still keeping his eyes fixed on the other man, John slowly grabbed a kitchen knife, bringing the blade up with the intention of cutting his arm. He reasoned that if his blood were flowing already, it would probably be easier for Sherlock. But before the metal could touch his skin, an ice-cold hand was holding his wrist in mid-air.
“No!” Sherlock growled. “You will not do this to yourself. I am the monster here, I will not have you die because of me!”
“Oh, you get to choose that, do you?” John was getting a little angry now. It was easy for Sherlock to say he would rather die than hurt John, but he obviously refused to see that the opposite was true as well. John didn’t want to live in a world without Sherlock ever again. He had done it once and it had nearly broken him. Not again. Not ever.
Something of his determination must have shown in his eyes, for Sherlock’s grip suddenly lightened, though not enough to allow him to cut himself.
“Please don’t, John.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, pleading now. “I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you. We can find another way, I’m sure we can.”
His trembling had gotten worse. How could this man ever have thought himself a sociopath? Here he was, starving himself in the attempt to keep John safe from himself. John licked his lips and made his choice.
“I trust you, Sherlock,” he began and, seeing that Sherlock was about to protest, quickly continued, “I’m not going to argue with you about whether that’s a good idea or not. Remember when you jumped off Bart’s roof? You were trying to keep me safe back then, but remember how that turned out? I’m sure you do. If you die now, the same thing is going to happen again. What will that gain us? Please, let us try this. You won’t kill me, I’m sure of it. Please.”
His voice faltered. They never talked about the day that Sherlock had come back from the dead, finding John in the bathtub with his wrists cut open. It was too much for either of them. John had felt anger at first. He had almost taken his life for crying out loud and the git had been alive the whole time! But anger soon turned into guilt when he realised how much the detective had sacrificed in order to keep him safe. And he had almost thrown away the reason Sherlock had faked his death in the first place.
But what he had told Sherlock a moment ago was true. If he died, especially with John standing next to him, being perfectly capable of providing the nutrition he needed, John wouldn’t outlive him for long.
He tugged at the hand still holding his wrist suspended.
“Alright,” Sherlock sounded choked up, “But not your wrist.”
He didn’t have to say why. John knew. Sherlock would never be able to see his wrists bleeding again without being thrown back to that day. Understanding, John nodded and Sherlock let go of his wrist at last.
“How do you want to try this then?” John’s voice was surprisingly steady. He had made up his mind; there was no time for second thoughts now.
Sherlock’s eyes roamed over his body for a second, settling on his neck.
John couldn’t suppress a giggle.
“A bit cliché, isn’t it?”
Sherlock’s lip quirked up a little, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. He was obviously too worried to find anything humorous at the moment.
Taking Sherlock’s hand once more, John guided him to the living room. It was a bit stupid, but he didn’t feel comfortable with being in the kitchen while Sherlock bit him. The kitchen seemed to enforce the notion that John had turned into food.
“Eat!” He instructed Sherlock, as he had so many times before when the other man had gone for days without nutrition. It was so familiar that John smiled again.
This was alright. Even if it went horribly wrong and Sherlock did end up killing him, his biggest worry at the moment was how Sherlock would cope afterwards. He had decided a long time ago that he’d die for Sherlock Holmes. If today was the day it happened, it wouldn’t change his conviction.
Sherlock met his eyes once more, ascertaining that this really was what John wanted, then he ducked down and placed his lips on John’s neck. They felt cold against his skin, just as the rest of Sherlock did. John couldn’t suppress the small shiver that ran through his back.
The detective sucked in another breath, obviously steeling himself. Then, without any more warning, John’s skin was breached by sharp teeth. For a moment, pain blossomed, but it was quickly replaced by something else. Being bitten actually felt good!
John felt his arms snake around Sherlock of their own volition. He wanted to melt into Sherlock, feel as much of him as possible. Their clothing seemed a ridiculous barrier between them.
Apparently, Sherlock was thinking the same, for he started ripping at John’s jumper, hard enough to tear it. John helped by lifting his arms for a moment, so he could slide the offensive item off.
After a couple of more minutes of frantic pulling, they were both naked. Both their cocks were hard and when they brushed, John let out a loud keening sound. He wanted Sherlock more than he had ever wanted anybody before in his life. When the detective’s lips crushed onto his he opened his mouth to the invasion. Sherlock tasted of coppery blood, but somehow it wasn’t disgusting to him. It tasted wonderful.
John’s blood seemed to have warmed Sherlock up too, for he felt lovely and warm on John’s skin.
“Bedroom!” Sherlock panted, steering John’s pliant body towards his room.
When they got there, the detective pushed John’s naked body onto the bed, grabbing lube from the bedside drawer and coating his finger, before sliding a long digit into John’s quivering hole.
Under normally circumstances, this might have scared John. He had never been with another man, always considered himself perfectly straight. But the bite had done something to him, addled his brain somehow and all he felt was lust and happiness at the intrusion.
Sherlock added another finger, but John’s body was so relaxed that the preparation was almost unnecessary.
“More,” John groaned and Sherlock complied almost instantly, coating his cock with more lube and pressing into him.
Again, there was no pain. John wasn’t even sure he would still be able to feel pain. As Sherlock began moving, they both groaned in unison. It was different from anything John had ever felt before, much more intense. He held on to Sherlock’s body for dear life, chanting his name amidst gasps of pleasure.
“Mine,” Sherlock growled several octaves deeper than normal and that was all that was needed for John to become undone. He cried out Sherlock’s name and spilled his seed over the other man’s stomach.
Sherlock followed only a few seconds behind, pushed over the edge by John’s clenching hole.
With a grunt, he fell on top of John and they lay still for a moment, spent and satisfied for the moment.
“John?”, Sherlock asked, tentatively, after a couple of minutes. Awareness had slowly crept back into their minds, chasing away the hormones that had been released during the bite and their frantic coupling afterwards.
John wasn’t ready to reply yet. On the one hand, he felt wonderful, having just had one of the strongest orgasms of his life. On the other hand, he was having a bit of an identity crisis. Even right now, with the hormones obviously leaving his body, he still felt no desire to move away from Sherlock. Instead, he snuggled closer. Maybe this had been a long time coming anyway.
Sherlock still felt warm against him, his skin no longer gray and sallow but sporting a healthy glow.
They were going to be alright.