Okay, so I'm terribly sorry! I was so excited about the first draft of this story and then I got like five chapters in and the entire plot line just crumbled to bits. I've retooled all of it and am much happier with this story arc. Some of the story will remain the same, but most of it has been re-written or dropped altogether. I hope you like it better as well and I included a lovely little bit of Sherlock/John smut in Chapter 2 to make up for the inconvenience. I hope it's acceptable! Sorry again, and happy reading!

Mycroft glanced at his watch again and sighed taking a sip of his glass of wine. It was twenty-three minutes past the hour and he was still waiting on Sawyer. According to his assistant, he only had another twelve minutes to wait for the Corporal before he had to either go ahead and order or leave and head back to the office. He reached into his pocket and dialed the younger man's number and snapped his phone shut in frustration when it went to straight to voicemail.

He was quite positive that Sawyer hadn't forgotten about their dinner date. He'd been the one to instigate it after all. They didn't actually have a lot of time to spend together. He was busy with the internal workings of a country and the Corporal was the acting liaison for Mummy with the vampires. But they'd be able to see each other at least a few times a week catching up either at Mycroft's townhome or Sawyer's flat. This last separation had been for two weeks while Sawyer was working on some deal in Russia and had demanded that they go out to celebrate when he returned. Mycroft had already checked that Sawyer's flight had landed successfully and that he'd made it through customs without any problems. So the list of possible reasons for the tardiness was narrowed down considerably. It was mildly troubling that Sawyer would have his phone turned off but he often would take that extra security measure when making contact with Mummy. Mycroft picked up his phone again and dialed the number to his mother's office.

"Mycroft, dear." His mother said happily. "How are you?"

"Fine, Mummy." He answered politely. "And you?"

"Splendid." She replied. "What can I do for you this evening?"

"I was just curious about when Sawyer would be arriving for dinner." He said a bit huffy. "He was supposed to be here twenty-seven minutes ago. Is the briefing taking longer than usual?"

"Mycroft, whatever are you talking about?" She asked curiously. "I did a video briefing with the Corporal several hours ago on the flight over."

"He's not with you then?" Mycroft asked feeling a slight sense of unease settle over him.

"No, dear." She said mirroring his concern. "Let me see what I can do for you on this end and I'll touch back in five minutes."

"Yes, alright." He said. "I'll just see what some of my people can do here."

He sent a flurry of texts and his assistant appeared by his side within seconds.

"No sign of him at his flat, sir." She said quietly. "There is footage of him leaving the airport and entering a taxi, but the image was distorted and we can't get a clear image. The camera captured the image over two hours ago."

Mycroft continued the frenzied messages but felt his entire body thrum with tension as every lead and possible explanation evaporated into nothing. He picked up the phone when his mother rang back and felt all hope escape in a rush with his breath when her words met his ears.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft." She said quietly. "I'm afraid Sawyer has been taken."

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John stretched languidly feeling all of his muscles tighten happily as he threw off the last vestige of sleep. He glanced around the chaotically filled flat and felt a giddy, stupid grin cross over his features. It was early afternoon when he'd collapsed onto the couch needing sleep so bad he was stuttering incoherently with exhaustion. It was now full dark and he had their space to himself for a few more hours. He scratched lazily at his stomach as he petered around in the kitchen putting the kettle on and checking the fridge for milk. He shifted the container of blood bags aside and peaked around the severed head and felt a small giggle escape his lips at the carton hidden in the back corner. He grabbed the carton as well as a bag of B positive and leaned against the worktop waiting for the kettle to go. He was squeezing the last few drops from the blood bag when he heard someone climb the stairs to their flat. Discarding the bag quickly in the newest addition to their kitchen (the biohazard bag that Mycroft had so thoughtfully given John as a Get Well gift several months ago), he turned to see Lestrade jerk his head around the corner.

"Hey, Lestrade." John said grinning. "Tea?"

Lestrade made a frantic motion to the corner of his mouth and he wiped the small speck of blood away quickly and rinsed hurriedly with a glass of water. He was setting the glass down in the sink when he saw a troupe of Yarders stomp into the flat and begin knocking stuff off tables.

"Oh, come on." John said feeling his excellent mood dim a bit. "I thought we were past the drug busts already."

"Sorry, John." Lestrade shrugged apologetically. "After last night…"

"He didn't actually even start that fire." John said defensively. "How was he supposed to know that the boot of that car was full of fireworks and petrol?"

"Nevertheless," Lestrade said firmly. "He shouldn't have even gotten near the crime scene with that lighter."

"It was one lighter and he was trying to prove a point." John answered.

"The flames were nearly twenty feet high and burned off Dimmock's eyebrows."

John shifted over when the kettle went and promptly refused to offer anyone else a cuppa. He mixed his tea and collapsed in a chair out of the way as they ransacked the flat. He really didn't even think anything at all until he heard Donovan's snort of disgust as she opened the fridge.

"Has the freak gone so completely psycho that he's bathing in blood now?" She sneered. "He has to have close to twenty bags in here. That has to be against regulations."

John's entire body froze with realization and he cursed himself seven different ways to Sunday at how stupid he'd been. He glanced over at Lestrade and saw him gaping like a fish uselessly. Perfect. They were both complete tossers.

"Of course I have a permit." A cold voice said calmly from the doorway. "And what I do in the privacy of my flat is none of your business, Donovan."

"I was right." She huffed. "You have gone completely around the bend. Sir? This isn't right. Only a complete and total monster would keep this much blood around."

John flinched and settled lower in his chair as Lestrade finally huffed in irritation and turned a withering look at his subordinate. "Sally, if he can produce a permit, then it's totally legitimate. We really don't need your social commentary."

"But sir," She continued. "These blood bags could be going to people who really need them. Kids who need transfusions. Not sitting in the fridge of some freak getting used for his own personal amusement."

"And that badge you're so proud of could be used by someone with the intelligence to be worthy of it." Sherlock snapped back. "But I guess neither of us will get what we want tonight."

Sally huffed angrily before striding out of the room and down the stairs. Sherlock strode through the flat angrily as he nudged his way through the officers who were enjoying the show over to the fireplace. Ripping the knife out of the wood work, he riffled through the papers and practically threw one of them at Lestrade.

"There." Sherlock growled. "Now get out."

Lestrade gave them both an apologetic look before glancing at the paper and nodding to himself. He jerked his head over to the men and had them almost running out of the flat at his dark glare. Within seconds, it was only the three of them in the flat. John stayed silent in the chair as Sherlock glared at Lestrade like the man had just smashed his favorite skull.

"These little break-ins will no longer be tolerated, Detective Inspector." Sherlock growled.

"I am sorry." Lestrade said. "I didn't even think about what they would find in the flat. John was so careful before."

"John shouldn't have to be careful in his own flat." Sherlock sneered. "You want to get back at me then you find another way but this is no longer an acceptable way. Have I made myself clear?"

Lestrade turned a spectacular shade of red before he glanced over to John and nodded. "I am sorry, John."

"It's fine." John said. "It didn't even cross my mind about possible drugs busts."

Lestrade left quickly after that and the flatmates glanced around at the mess disappointedly. John rose and placed his drained mug in the sink before beginning to reorganize the toppled stacks of papers.

"John…"Sherlock said hesitantly from behind him.

"Maybe Lestrade was right." John said quietly. "Maybe we shouldn't keep any in the flat. It was nice of Mycroft to set up the delivery service and everything but I doubt people won't notice."

"Don't be an idiot, John."Sherlock said reorganizing his chemistry set. "This is your home. It's completely ridiculous to expect you to wander two miles away just to obtain sustenance."

"You don't think it would be more logical to keep any incriminating evidence out of the flat?" John asked raising his eyebrow.

"Oh, please." Sherlock shrugged. "Any 'incriminating evidence' as you put it can easily be explained away."

"So why the big fuss tonight?" John asked curiously. "If it's so easily explainable, why demand that the drugs busts stop?"

"Because it was causing you distress." Sherlock said quietly. "I won't have that."

John felt something settle firmly in his throat and he swallowed past the lump several times before he was able to nod absently and return to his work. They worked in silence for the next half hour or so quickly putting the flat to rights and collapsed next to each other on the couch. John relaxed back into the worn out leather and sighed heavily.

"I was going to make dinner." John said absently.

"Special occasion?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"It's one year today that we moved into Baker Street." John said. "I thought we should celebrate, but the impromptu drugs bust seems fitting anyway."

Sherlock grinned ruefully and settled back against the couch. "It does seem poetic, doesn't it."

"I'm too knackered to even consider fixing dinner now." John sighed.

"We could order a take-away." Sherlock sighed. "But I'm not particularly hungry anyway."

John let out a smothered giggle and felt his chest swell with affection. The giggle turned into a manic sort of shaking mirth that had the consulting detective eyeing him curiously.

"Sorry." John said laughing. "I'm sorry. It's just so domestic."

"What is?" Sherlock asked still a bit confused.

"We're sitting at home on a Sunday evening having a completely legitimate conversation about dinner." John smiled.

"So?" Sherlock asked.

"A genius consulting detective and a vampire doctor." John answered. "It's almost like we're normal."

"You do realize what other, normal couples do." Sherlock said silkily. "Don't you?"

John felt his brain switch gears quickly as the genius splayed his knees open suggestively. He felt his pulse jump happily at this change in topics and smiled as he shifted to straddle the taller man's legs.

"I am sorry that normality is so tedious for you." John said leaving a light trail of kisses down Sherlock's throat.

"I think I'll survive." Sherlock said roughly as he ran his hands possessively over John's hips. John felt his heart flutter as Sherlock moaned loudly when John began sucking lightly on his earlobe. They played lightly for several minutes taking pleasure from the moans and gasps that they elicited from each other. Sherlock was just reaching to open John's fly and free his hard-on when the doctor heard someone fumbling with the downstairs doorknob.

"Did you lock the door after the Yarders left?" John groaned.

"I may have forgotten." Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Someone's coming up." John said shifting to get off Sherlock's lap.

"If it's Lestrade, I'm getting your gun." Sherlock huffed getting off the couch to go fiddle with his chemistry equipment.

"John?" A hesitant voice said from the doorway. John felt his entire body freeze at the familiar voice.

"Harry!" John said shocked turning to take in the sight of his older sister. She and John were often mistaken for twins when they were younger and it is painfully obvious how similar they still are in features. She had bobbed, mousy brown hair and big blue eyes framed in a warm face. She was also drunk. Fantastic.

"Oh my god, John." She sobbed practically tackling him to pull him into a hug. "Fuck. I missed you."

"Harry?" John asked again pointedly not looking at his flatmate who had left the kitchen to watch the exchange between the siblings. "What are you doing here?"

"I went to your old place." She slurred still crying as she clung to him. "And you weren't there. The landlord gave me your new address and I had to see you. Why didn't you tell me that you'd moved?"

"I don't know." He answered lamely.

"Don't you care about me, John?" She cried. "Don't I matter to you at all? It's like you don't even care about me. Your only sister and you couldn't bother to call."

"Forgive me if I'm wrong." Sherlock drawled sarcastically. "But I've been reliably informed that road goes both ways, Ms. Watson."

Harry stumbled away from John a bit but still clung to his forearms to counterbalance her drunken swaying. She slowly took stock of John's tall genius and seemed to settle on suspicious dislike as her immediate impression.

"Who the bloody fuck are you?" She practically growled.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said with a ridiculous flourish, which was made even more strange with the beaker of cow's eyes in his hand.

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" She asked rudely.

"I wrote about him on my blog." John explained. "I sent you the link."

"Right." She slurred. "That ridiculous thing your daft therapist has you doing? Sorry sweetie, I've just been too busy to get a chance to read it."

"Yes, alcoholism does take up much of your time these days." Sherlock growled.

"You're going to let him talk to me like that, are you?" Harry huffed, obviously offended.

"Sherlock." John said tiredly. "Don't. You too, Harry."

"And what did I do?" She asked, getting hysterical. "All I've done is come visit my only brother who hasn't the decency to even send me his own address."

"Harry," John said in warning. "Just stop. If you'd read my blog, you'd have known that I'd moved out of the bedsit."

"Well, I'm sorry that I have to rely on some stupid website to get any information from my only family." She said gulping through sobs. "Honestly John, I have a life and a job. Not everything is about you. I should have to spend time scouring the internet. You should have called!"

"Harry." John said firmly. "I'm not doing this at midnight and I'm certainly not doing this while you're drunk. Now, do you want me to call you a cab or do you want to stay the night?"

She pulled back to level a calculating glare at her younger brother dropping the sobbing sister act quickly. She stared for several seconds before leaning into him and begging to stay the night. He helped her up to his room and fought with her to get her coat and boots off. After two large glasses of water and a well-placed bucket, John left his sister to sleep off her night in his bed. He wandered back down to the common area to find Sherlock back at his chemistry set.

"I'm sorry." He said quietly. "She…well…she was in fine form tonight."

"If it wasn't for your obvious physical similarities," Sherlock huffed not glancing up from his work. "I would declare that you two are not related in any way shape or form."

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"She's absolutely nothing like you." He said quietly.

"Should I take that as a compliment?" John asked.

"Take it however you want it." Sherlock said. "But, in addition, I would like to point out that even with you being a vampire she has a more venomous bite than you."

"Right." He said smiling. "Compliment then."

He walked forward and wrapped his arms snugly around the detective leaning his head forward to make contact with that wonderful heartbeat that seemed to calm him just by continuing its normal pattern. He felt Sherlock relax incrementally as he held on for several minutes.

"Did you want to take my room?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"No," He sighed. "I'll take the couch. I wouldn't want to deprive you of your bed."

"We could share the bed…" Sherlock said quietly.

John felt his insides wither a bit. Of everything that had happened over the past few months, he was still uncomfortable sleeping in the same bed with his genius. They'd tried it, but it always ended with John shifting awkwardly, jerking awake the minute he fell asleep, and breaking out in a cold sweat during the night.

"Still not ready." He answered quietly, his face buried in Sherlock back. "The couch is fine."

"Alright." Sherlock answered, but John could hear the hint of disappointment in his tone. "Goodnight John."

"Goodnight." John said placing a gentle kiss between the taller man's shoulder blades.

John stripped down to his undershirt and pants before lying down on the uncomfortable couch and pulling a few throw rugs over him. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift away, falling asleep to light tinkling sound of beakers knocking against each other gently.

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Better? Worse? Help! I'm full of writing angst right now. Sigh.