London, England 1906 (15 years after the fire)

John Watson sighed as he stretched his arms skyward, attempting to alleviate the kinks that had built up in the strained muscles. As he stared at the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated on his desk, he felt his hand start to cramp at the thought of filling it all out.

The paperwork resting on his desk was really nothing more than files and current up-to-date insurance forms that needed to be completed for the accounting and personnel departments; nothing that couldn't wait until the dawn of a new day. But then again, filling out the tiny little lines on the forms was so tedious that John didn't really want to consider procrastinating the task. He would eventually have to complete it, and he'd rather do it now than later, since there really was no point in putting it off. He really didn't feel like being hounded after by his boss.

Except that today was his 30th birthday and the others at the hospital had planned to hold a small celebration at a local pub in his honor.

He gave what he felt was an insincere grin as one of the nurses, a young charming brunette named Carol, gave him a wink and a twinkle of fingers at him through the window. She was excited for his birthday party, as small as it would be, and had given him touches of flirtation throughout the day.

He found he could hardly muster the expected excitement about his coming into a new age of adulthood. After all, even though this date was his birthday, it was also the 10 year anniversary of the day he and his mysterious benefactor, Sherlock Holmes, had parted ways.

John, lost in his thoughts, turned to stare out his window at the fading sunlight, reminding himself painfully that this used to be the time when he would be eagerly awaiting the end of the day, for the coming of the night. For with the darkness of evening and the rising of the moon, Sherlock had often visited his small cramped room at the orphanage.

But that had been before the terrible fire had occurred.

And even that disastrous event had brought about a wondrous new path for his life. The fire had acted as a tool of change, ending one miserable existence and replacing it with one filled with light and friendship. For soon after the fire had occurred, Sherlock had come to the orphanage, swept John away from the sympathetic ministrations of the good Sisters, and introduced him to the world outside.

As he watched the setting sun of the present, he mused on the past. It had been a few weeks after moving in with Sherlock that he had first felt the tingling in his legs. From there, sensation had quickly returned to his long dormant limbs, eventually resulting in his regaining control of his legs. For the first time since he could remember, John had been able to walk, skip, jump, and play, just like the other boys at the orphanage. No longer a cripple, he was now physically complete and whole and could rejoin the rest of humanity in their taken for granted freedom.

The joy that had encompassed him after gaining use of his legs had leaked out to catch Sherlock in its embrace as well, the man sharing in his growing delight. There had been no explanation for the sudden physical change in John's body, no reasoning as to why he had no wounds from a fire he had been sure he had been burned by. No logical thinking could explain why his legs had suddenly grown strong enough for him to walk and dance.

At least no logical thinking on his part.

Sherlock had been strangely quiet and reluctant to discuss possible reasons for John's miraculous recoveries. He often quietly encouraged John to drop the subject, to chalk it up as some mysterious, unexplainable miracle of God, or whatever deity John chose to give thanks to. There were times that John could have sworn that he saw something lingering in Sherlock's eyes; a hint to the answers the young boy sought, as well as some dark, nameless emotion that John had never before been privy to. On rare occasions, John thought he saw guilt in Sherlock's eyes, guilt and fear. But those negative emotions were soon wiped away, if they ever existed in the first place, and those lovely silvery eyes usually became filled with light.

It seemed with every new experience that John tasted, Sherlock shared in his revelations and enjoyment. It once occurred to John that it seemed as if Sherlock was living, or reliving, something through John. Every emotion that John felt was amplified in the dark haired man, as if Sherlock had forgotten what it was like to be young and free.

But that of course was ridiculous since Sherlock wasn't that much older than John himself.

Even if something hidden deep in his eyes screamed the contrary.

And yet their happy time together was not to last for eternity it seemed, for all too soon they had parted ways.

John had never questioned why he only saw Sherlock during the evening. He never stopped to think upon the fact that his generous benefactor and friend would disappear with each dawn of the sun and only reappear at the onset of twilight. He had simply accepted it as fact and truth and had adjusted his own schedule accordingly, sleeping away the heat the day and awakening in the late afternoon to enjoy the last moments of the sun. While being able to run and walk in the sunlight was a joy to him, for some reason it had felt empty not being shared with Sherlock.

He filled his time reading medical and science books from the large selection that Sherlock had purchased, often dreaming of one day attending a university, perhaps getting a degree in the field.

Something had been brewing in him, feelings that he had never felt before. He had admitted to himself that Sherlock had become an important part of his life, a pivotal player who had stayed when so many had fled. At that time, he had not been sure what those feelings he felt meant, or how they had grown so strong in the few months he had been with Sherlock. But then he had known Sherlock had been watching over him for much of his life, Sherlock had said as much during that first meeting he remembered.

He was John's guardian angel.

After all, it had been Sherlock who had denied him his earlier attempt at suicide, taking away the bottle of poison which would have granted the invalid boy a quick, merciful death. And Sherlock had comforted him through his sorrow and his self pity, showing him that there were things in his life worth living for. Sherlock had been the one to whisk him away from the orphanage and the dull future that had awaited him there. And it had been with Sherlock that he had taken both his first aided and unaided steps.

However, in his walking alone, he had created a gulf that now separated him and his benefactor. In his walking unaided, his joy had been so overwhelming and encompassing, that in a rare fit of emotions, he had embraced the man and planted a small kiss on Sherlock's cheek.

He had thought nothing of it at the time, but obviously it had been the wrong thing to do.

It hadn't been obvious at the time, but looking back now John could tell that kiss had been the catalyst which had started to push Sherlock away. For some reason, unknown to him, Sherlock had started to distance himself away from John, becoming reticent and secluded. And yet, even though his actions had left John confused and slightly hurt, John had received the feeling that it wasn't something that he had done, necessarily, but rather, it was something that Sherlock had been AFRAID might happen or develop. John had never been able to fathom the reasons behind it, and a few weeks later, it hadn't even been a moot point.

On the evening of John's 20th birthday, Sherlock had announced that he had made provisions for John to attend a prestigious academy. Its discipline had been in the medicinal and science fields, it seemed that Sherlock had been paying attention when John had mentioned wanting to become a doctor. As excited as he had been to finally be able to attend a school with hopes of then attending a medical university, John had also dreaded having to go since it would mean leaving the first real friend he had ever made. A friend that he now admitted he had begun to feel romantically attracted to.

Yet, even though Sherlock was pushing him away, he had been careful to let John know that it wasn't something that John had done wrong. Rather, Sherlock had told the confused young man that he needed to mingle with others his age, to meet those who shared his common interests. But John hadn't wanted to leave Sherlock. He had been frightened at the very prospect. After all, Sherlock was the only constant in his life, the only security he had. But still, their separation had come.

In leaving to school, only a few train trips away from their current dwelling in London, Sherlock had announced he too, was leaving. Traveling, across Europe and Asia, leaving only with promises to write.

He received letters every Monday for several weeks. But when he had attempted to write back to the addresses that were post marked, his letters had always come back with the notation that the address was invalid.

And yet, his bank account, the one Sherlock had insisted on opening for him, was always full. John had felt guilty spending his money when he couldn't even acknowledge his generosity with a note of thanks.

For a short period of time John had refused to spend the funds, but when two months had passed with no withdrawal, he had received a short note from Sherlock on a random Thursday, urging, more like commanding, him to indulge himself.

The note was signed, Love Always, Sherlock. It was the only one he carried with him in his wallet.

The letters stopped after that.

Ten years.

John still couldn't believe how far he had come in ten years. How fast he took to his lessons, learning in months what had taken others years to accomplish. Impossible and miraculous it seemed, yet strangely right. He took to medicine like a fish to water, learning the biology and dynamics of his craft like the back of his hand.

Barely out of the university, he had been snatched up by a prestigious hospital right in the heart of London. Basically he was getting paid, quite well too, to do a job that he loved.

He had done all the things he had ever dreamed of, and still his life was lacking something vital. He wanted to see Sherlock. To show off the fruits of his labors and gifts. More than anything, he wanted to gaze into the depths of those haunted gray eyes, to hear Sherlock speak in his wonderfully smooth tone. Yet, more than anything, he yearned to wipe the elusive sorrow from those eyes, to make Sherlock smile, really smile; to see genuine happiness.

"John?"

John looked up startled as a voice pierced through his musings. He dimly noted in his peripheral vision that the sun had long set and evening had settled upon the earth's surface. His blue gaze fell upon the person who interrupted his thinking, questions in her eyes. Carol.

"I asked if you're ready to go?"

"Yes." John flashed a brief smile. He stood up, ready to join his fellow colleague just as soon as he tucked his paperwork safely away in his desk. It seemed he had wasted his time after all and the paperwork would have to be done tomorrow. Oh well. With that small task done, John and Carol left his office, heading to the local pub for his party.

Sherlock sat at the back of the tavern, amidst obnoxious hooting and laughter of the energetic men and woman that dwelled there, soaking in their beer and cigarettes. Although he matched his neighbors in their youthful appearances, his own soul, if he still had one left, was considerably older. He stared blankly ahead, silently berating himself on what he was even doing here, musing on the circumstances of his life.

Ten years had passed since he'd sent John to the university. Ten years were but a moment in the life of a vampire, he thought ruefully, yet each day of those years had seemed their own eternity.

Once he had sent John away, the little things he had taken for granted had lost their appeal. He had found no joy in his existence with John gone from him, he had realized too late how much he had relied upon seeing the young man on a day to day basis. And yet, that had been one of the reasons he had sent John away, to protect him from this growing desire to keep the young blond by his side for eternity.

He had fed in spurts; having no appetite he had fed when the hunger had become excruciating, but not before. Only when it had grown unbearable had he slithered from his newly chosen lair to prowl in the night, hunting his sustenance. Each night he had lived on, the ache from missing John growing a little larger.

He had kept running tabs on his little beneficiary, proudly marking each new achievement made by John. He had felt pride and satisfaction at how well John had taken to his chosen field of study.

Ten years... John was now 30 years old, a man grown. He almost matched Sherlock in age, or the age Sherlock had been when he had crossed that gulf between mortality and immortality. But suddenly, Sherlock had known he had to see him again, just once. He wanted to see John in his new life, to see if he was truly happy.

And then Sherlock would go to ground and sleep. Sleep until John's life was over and he was eternally safe from Sherlock's hunger.

At least that's what he had promised himself. That's what he had sworn to himself when he had journeyed back to London.

He'd quietly see John.

Just once, and that was all.

Just once.

And that had been 14 times ago.

He was obsessed. He admitted it willingly to himself. He couldn't leave. He couldn't say goodbye. Even now, when he knew he should leave and never come back, he found himself drawn to wherever John was.

He watched John the first time a month ago, looking tired and quiet, as he left for home after his shift had let out. He was in white scrubs, a medical mask clutched in his hand. He had walked swiftly, Sherlock had admired his confident gait, before catching a cab and signaling to go home.

You've seen him, now go, the little voice in his mind commanded. Yet Sherlock could not obey, would not obey. He couldn't stop thinking of John and he didn't want to stop thinking of him.

He knew something had occurred between the two of them, ten years ago. That had been one of the reasons that he had pushed John away. He had tried to deny the attraction, to dampen the fuse before it could ignite the flames of passion, but he had been too late.

He desired something, someone, for the first time in countless centuries. And for the first time, there was a distinct possibility that the object of his desire also desired him. It was time for the vampire to act upon his whims and take a chance, before it was too late.

Sherlock stood at the window of the dwelling that he knew to be John's. The small flat was in a quiet neighborhood, the denizens content to keep the peace and respect the privacy of the others. All in all, it was a neighborhood that would have appealed to the human Sherlock had been, and did appeal to the quiet creature that lurked in his deepest heart. He wasn't surprised that John had chosen such a place to live in, this simple display of domestic bliss and harmony.

The vampire stood at John's window as he had so often stood on the balcony at the orphanage, watching him sleep. John had been beautiful as a young child, his youthful face had contained that characteristic sweet smile Sherlock had grown to love. As a young teen, he had been enchanting to look at, his features a brief glimpse of possibility and promise.

However, now, as a young man, his features had strengthened and matured into the sensual grace of adulthood. Confidence had given John a glow and an aura of self worth, a sense of joy that enfolded and attracted others around him, like moths to a flame. He was handsome, a prize bloom among undeserving thorns.

His once boyish, unruly blond hair was cropped short. His cheeks as smooth as ivory but delightfully tanned a golden hue. Those wonderfully deep, sapphire orbs that Sherlock felt he could drown in, moved lightly beneath their fleshy curtains, the lashes light crescents. Although his eyes were closed in repose, Sherlock could picture them open in his mind.

John slept under a light scattering of covers, the warm summer night providing more than enough warmth. Sherlock could see the muscles that lay dormant in powerful arms and legs, strengthened through faithful and diligent training. As Sherlock's eyes made a quick pass around the rest of the room, his eyes almost missed the tattered and worn bear that resided on the dresser.

Sherlock's heart hitched as he saw the evidence that John still thought of him. The young man had kept the present Sherlock had given to him, more than ten years ago, though the bear's fur was now worn and matted, the ribbon in tatters, the nose and eyes dull with the ravages of time. Yet the poor condition of the bear was only symbolic of the amount of affection that John had placed upon the gift, having obviously treasured it since the day he had received it.

Sherlock's attention returned to John, and a deep ache rose inside of his soul. An ache that throbbed with the loneliness of over 950 odd years. A low groan rose in his throat.

950 odd years of solitude, of existing on the fringe of life, sustaining himself at the cost of others' blood. He had studied with the most brilliant minds of humanity and the ages, traveled the world, seen the rise and fall of countless kingdoms and powers. All without being a part of the world of men, of humanity, for more than nine centuries. Times had changed. People had changed, yet he remained the same. Always the same, yet always alone. So afraid to love and let people back into his heart. So afraid to trust...

And this one young man crashed through all those barriers he had once erected to protect himself, destroyed the illusions of solitude and security he had convinced himself he had.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock melded his mind with John's, and there, in the netherworld of sleep, he allowed himself to do what he yearned to do in reality.

He quietly seduced John with his thoughts, molding their dream bodies together and whispering his desire to the one who held his heart.

In the safety of shared dreams, he dared to love again.

John woke with Sherlock's name on his lips, his skin damp, his breathing labored. His whole being was filled with a languorous sense of warmth and fulfillment, a feeling that had eluded him for the past ten years.

John could feel the blush that burned his cheeks as the memory of his dream surfaced in his mind. He had been dreaming of Sherlock, not that that was something new, dreaming that the taller man had been making love to him.

Sherlock's hands had been hot and impatient as they caressed his body, his voice raw with desire. His lips had scorched pathways of liquid fire down John's throat, chest, and abdominal regions. John could remember the feel of Sherlock's teeth at his neck, the heat of his tongue as he laved the pulse at his throat. And Sherlock's eyes… they had burned with an all consuming fire, searing away all thought but the desire to please him and to be pleased by him.

All in all, it had been the most real, and the most provocative wet dream he had ever had.

Not that that had been a bad thing.

No, not bad at all.

John took a deep breath, meant to steady his jumpy nerves, when his nostrils were suddenly filled with Sherlock's unique scent, that tantalizing mixture of musk and twilight. A scent that he had not sensed for ten years, yet here it was as clear as day.

Startled, John bolted upright in his bed, clutching the sheet tightly in both fists.

"A dream," he murmured to himself, even as his gaze peered into the dark corners of his room. "That's all it was. A dream... not real."

Even as he continued to quietly reassure himself that the terribly erotic dream and the rioting sensations had not been real, merely a production of his deepest, forbidden fantasies, the doctor couldn't quite shake the feeling that Sherlock had indeed been there.

Not good. Very much not good.

Back at his current situation in the pub, this thought flew through Sherlock's mind like an arrow to its target. His gray eyes narrowed in consternation and suspicion as he watched a young woman lace her hands intimately around John's neck, giggling and acting more intoxicated than she truly was. In fact, Sherlock had observed her tipping her alcoholic beverage into John's, supplying him with more liquor than he knew he was consuming.

John seemed to be enjoying her company. She held graceful, impossibly long legs and a large bosom to boot. John seemed to be enjoying himself very much indeed.

The thought that John might be intimate with this mortal filled the vampire with a monstrous rage.

Every time they caressed or touched one another, he wanted to rip the woman's hands away from John's body, tempted beyond belief to tear her to shreds. He guiltily indulged in the brief, gory fantasies of clawing the flesh from her pretty young face until nothing remained.

As questionable as these impulses were, Sherlock knew in his heart that he wouldn't harm the woman, because of John. She was obviously special to John, though if the reasons were platonic or went deeper had yet to be revealed, and Sherlock would never do anything to cause intentional grief or sorrow to the orphaned doctor.

Even if it was killing him inside to watch a relationship bloom between the two mortals.

He could force John to love him. The knowledge was there, tempting and beckoning his darker side. He could hypnotize him with his Power, so that John would do anything he asked of him. The vampire could even take John's blood, binding the other to him for as long as John's natural life existed. John would be his slave then, a Thrall, mindlessly adoring, obediently doing whatever he asked. The young doctor would live for him, begging the vampire to take his blood; even willingly die for him, if Sherlock but said the word.

But Sherlock didn't want a slave. He could have hundreds, thousands, of those. He wanted devotion, love, freely given.

Sherlock was filled with his own disgust at himself, ashamed of the cowardice that ran rampant through his soul, keeping him from confronting his young ward openly.

In his own lair, a small complex that he had recently purchased in the London, he would restlessly and endlessly prowl through the nearly empty rooms.

He had sent John away from him, in order to make a life for himself, and that is what his ward had done. John had dreamed of being a doctor, to help those in need, to cure, to aid, to heal.

He had a flat of his own, friends, and a young woman who obviously cared for him on some level.

What need did John have for an ancient, bored-with-life, vampire?

John smiled as he said goodbye to his rugby mates and co-workers, his bright eyes shining with the residual traces of adrenaline remaining from his buzz from the alcohol and energy of the pub.

He allowed his gaze to scan over the heads of the enthused patrons; his mind moving a hundred clicks per minute even as he continued to smile at Carol, her head canted to the side as she looked at him in confusion and hurt.

She had invited him back to her flat, none too subtly, as she rubbed her thigh against his, flashing her perfect teeth. He had begged off, stating tiredness and an early morning and she had back off quickly, face blushing red with embarrassment.

It wasn't entirely a lie. He was tired. He did have an early morning. But he was still thinking about his previous nocturnal experience; his vaguely disturbing, yet highly arousing, dream. He had awoken in a sensual haze, his lips and flesh eager to feel true caresses from his phantom lover.

Reality had been a cold dose of water, waking alone in his darkened bedroom with nothing more than a lingering hint of twilight and musk on the airwaves. The spring breeze had obviously tempted his senses; inner desires previously hidden were becoming unearthed once more. After all, Sherlock couldn't be in London, right? He was in Asia, or possibly the Americas. His guardian was surely beyond his reach, hightailing it around the world in the far reaches.

Just as that thought passed through his mind, John's gaze fell upon a shadowed figure that danced just on the horizon of his vision. His eyes widened in recognition as he caught a brief glimpse of a long, woolen cloak, snaking out the back door.

He was drunk. He knew this. And he blinked disbelieving. It couldn't...It wasn't...

His body moved involuntarily forward, as if gravitating towards the fleeting image of his absent guardian.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Sherlock's mind screamed at him even as his body disobeyed its direct orders. He was keeping to the shadows, moving quickly away from the pub, finding himself several blocks away. With a streak of stubbornness he inherited from his mortal father, his mind continued to rant at him though he heeded it not.

He might have seen you, it taunted him. And you won't be able to convince him of any lie.

"Oh do shut up," he mumbled under his breath, not stopping for a minute to ask himself why he was verbally answering his own mind.

And here I thought the entire point of this visitation was to clear your system of him.

"I am clearing my system of him."

What were you thinking when you invaded his dreams like that?

That question stopped Sherlock in his tracks, bringing his progress to an abrupt halt. He straightened his posture as he mused on his inner debate.

"I don't know. I just had to see him. After all, it's been ten years."

A ten year separation that you desired, if you kindly remember.

"I'm allowed to change my mind, aren't I?"

Not without a good reason. Deduce why.

Sherlock floundered within himself, trying to come up with an excuse that would satisfy his heretofore-unknown split personality residing in his mind. Unfortunately for that part of himself still denying his heart's calling, no reason came to mind except the truth.

"I need him," he whispered, as if spoken louder that tiny declaration would bring forth the wrath of the heavens upon his cursed head.

And?

"And... and... I... I want him," he finished, finally admitting his desire to himself.

You finally admit your desire?

"Desire? No, not just desire. Desire, yes, and lust, oh definitely lust, but also want, and need, and-"

As the wind shifted directions slightly, his keen, inhuman hearing caught sudden distressed cries that were faint and weak, and quickly muffled.

His heart started to pound as he recognized the voice that was uttering the aborted cry.

John!

John slipped out the back door of the pub, only getting a quick dirty look from the disheveled, grimy cook in the back. He stumbled only slightly, the fuzziness from the alcohol was starting to hit him hard and his vision swam in his head.

He came upon the alleyway, eyes scanning for what he had thought he'd seen. Tall. Cloak. Curls. But there was nothing and no one. He blinked away the disappointment, berating himself for thinking he'd seen Sherlock. It was just a drunken fantasy.

With that, he started walking home alone, though luckily the night was pleasant enough to be in, and the route home should have been well lit. However, being alone, he was left with nothing but his own thoughts for company. And sadly, his own musings weren't very entertaining since they kept circulating in a futile whirlwind of thoughts that always came to rest upon one subject, Sherlock.

Lost in his bout of self-pity and consternation over his obsession with his missing guardian, John never heard the series of footsteps falling in behind him.

Just as he was walking past a dark alleyway between two tall buildings, John's hearing finally heard the footsteps, but it was too late. He was literally jerked from his thoughts and his footing by a rough shove, his body propelled into the dark area. As he floundered for a bit before he regained his balance, his assailants blocked off his only escape from the dead end alleyway.

A round of rough laughter, accompanied by a few leering cracks and comments assaulted John's ears as he regained his equilibrium. He raised shocked eyes to confront a group of five older men, a few holding weapons clutched lightly in their hands.

"Well, well, well, looky now. A plump pigeon, right for the plucking," mocked a grease-slicked man, the unspoken leader of this gang.

One of the men, lightly thumping a solid looking crowbar against the palm of one large hand, leered at John. The lust in his eyes was barely illuminated by the poor light seeping in from the streetlights, but it was obvious to John, who was growing more alarmed with each passing minute. "Heh, I wouldn't mind keeping the young man company!"

The men were slowly advancing in on John, closing ranks to ensure the younger man would be hanging around for awhile. John slowly backed up with each step they took, trying to edge away from them.

He swayed. The alcohol swam in his system, but now the spark of fear and adrenaline coursed swifter, sobering him. His fists were unconsciously curled into tight fists, ready to defend himself should one of them get too close. However, although he knew how to take care of himself in some situations, there were far too many for him to take care of by himself. And they had weapons, whereas he only had his two fists and feet.

Swallowing his fear and taking command of his situation, John demanded, "What do you want?!"

The leader, smirked at the shorter man, "Why, we want nothing more than payment from you."

"Payment for what?" John asked, belligerently.

"Payment for your protection. These streets can be dangerous at night and lone birds like yourself need to be protected."

As John backed up another step, he suddenly found the brick end of the alley against his back. The gang in front of him had managed to back him to the end of the small space, far enough from the street that their actions could go unnoticed, especially considering the lack of human traffic out.

With more bravado than he really felt, John said, "I don't need protection, especially offered by the likes of you." His eyes darted nervously around the five men, looking for any weaknesses and finding none. "Besides, I don't have much money on me, so this is a waste of your time."

The five men suddenly burst into laughter, their voices harsh and cruel.

"We don't want cash payment, little bird. We only take payment in the form of flesh, and what we want is yours."

John growled under his breath and prepared himself to fight. He snarled, "Over my dead body!" He was prepared to go down fighting, even if it resulted in his death. And it looked like it just might. These men were serious in their intent and John was not the best equipped to defend himself. His life in the orphanage had been sheltered from such violence, and his current fitness schedule had yielded some self-defense training but not much.

"Now that wouldn't be any fun at all, at least not for us," one of the thugs taunted.

John didn't know who moved first, his attention having been concentrated on the thug in front of him, but he was aware of a sudden amount of movement to his left. The surprised man suddenly found himself being thrown to the side, his head smacking against the wall of the alley with a sickening crack.

John slumped to the slightly damp concrete, his head spinning and dizzy. He was vaguely aware of raucous laughter in a loud din, barely concealing a low moaning. He was shocked to realize that he was the one moaning, as pain continued to spike through his head. Disoriented and shell shocked, John could taste blood in his mouth, could feel it trickle slightly out of the corner of his lips.

The blow to his head had been hard enough that black spots were fading in and out of his vision, even as he tightly clenched his eyes shut to close out the world. He was barely aware that the gang of five was above him, surrounding his kneeling body in a loose circle.

A small sense of self preservation was screaming at him to get up, compelling him to try and move. However, as the stunned doctor tried to gain his feet, one of the gang members decided to kick him in the gut, causing a sharp stab of agony to pierce through his belly.

As he curled inwards on his body, trying to alleviate his suffering, John could feel rough hands on the rest of himself. Somebody's fingernails were digging into the flesh of his arms, holding him down to the dirty ground, as another pair of hands roughly tore the front of his shirt, splitting the seams.

A sweaty palm was brought down over his mouth, muffling a cry.

Desperately trying to block out what was happening to him, he tightly clenched his eyes shut, his mind screaming internally for help.

Somebody help me please!

Dimly, in the background, the leader was aware of a low growling noise in the distance. Guttural and low, it almost sounded like a mongrel dog's snarl, but with a disturbing, almost human-like quality. Dismissing it as unimportant, he blocked out outside distractions, focusing on his now-quiet victim.

It was a pity, for if he had been paying attention, he might have been able to save his own life.

Red.

Blood.

Their blood.

That was all Sherlock wanted at the moment. A dark streak of menace within the vampire was welling up within his soul, urging the immortal one to satisfy his immediate wants. He had the sudden desire to feel the crunch of human bones; to feel hot, rich blood welling up from its warm container and flood his mouth with its metallic presence.

Such desire to kill and feast upon his prey was a foreign thing to the vampire, his discipline having long contained his darker urges. However, such was not the current case, the situation before him dispelling all thoughts of civilized behavior.

The horrible scene before him was laid out in its gruesome entirety, Sherlock's vibrant gaze catching all the details. John, his John, was pinned to the ground by five much larger thugs, each wearing the clothing belonging to their kind of garbage. Greasy and unkempt, the portrait they made was perfect if in the seedy underbelly that London could hold.

Sherlock's eyes could pick out the details, even with the poor lighting in the alley. He could see tatters of John's clothing, both lying limply on the man's small frame and torn away, scattered on the damp, dirty ground. The small amounts of light fell onto patches of John's bare skin, revealing his vulnerable state.

Sherlock's extra perceptive nose could detect the faint trace of blood on the air, tainting the space with its metallic appeal. However, it did not belong to any of the five men who were infuriating the vampire, but rather to the young mortal who held his heart.

His vision went crimson, undeniable rage bursting forth in a ruby tinted tide. His lips curled up in a fierce snarl as his gaze fell upon the disgusting man who was currently nestled between John's outstretched legs. The most immediate threat to John became his first choice of targets, a low growl beginning in his throat.

After all, it was only proper to give your prey a small warning before pouncing.

He didn't know what happened.

One minute, he was allowing his leader first dibs on their prize. The next minute, the self-same leader was hurtling through the air to ram against the alley's walls with a sickening smack.

A black blur had rushed past their kneeling forms and launched itself. He heard the cruel snarl right before the man went flying.

His shocked mind had just enough time to focus in on a dark shadow with glowing eyes before pure panic set in. The remaining thugs lurched away, abandoning their victim, as they sought to rescue themselves. However, it was a case of too little, too late.

One by one, the black shadow caught them, throwing them with a vengeance against the walls of the alley. The bricks provided and unyielding force, although some of his friends were being thrown with enough power that their bodies indented themselves into the hard surface. He felt adrenaline rush through his veins as mindless panic continued to spike in his head. Gibberish spilled from his lips as he gave one brief shriek of prayer before it was his turn.

A grip, icy cold as death and strong as steel, closed around his neck, crushing the bones in his throat. He had no time to fight back before his neck collapsed, no chance to defend himself from his terrifying executioner. Mercifully, by the time his killer had tossed his body against the alley's wall, he was already dead.

Sherlock resolutely forced himself to calm down, to dispel the red haze back from whence it came. There was no movement in the alley, no sound save for his harsh breathing and the shallow breaths coming from the figure sprawled on the alley's floor. Sherlock closed his eyes, catching his breath, forcing his rage and blood lust to dispel before facing his fallen love.

Kneeling on the ground, uncaring about the maintenance of his dark clothing, Sherlock quickly assessed John's situation. His quivering nose still caught the scent of blood, but a quick examination revealed it was trickling from John's mouth and was not coming from lower areas, as he had originally feared.

Sherlock stared into John's wide eyes, noting the dilated pupils indicating shock. The watery eyes, floating in sockets. Indeed, John's skin was pale, his breathing shallow and rapid. To Sherlock's vampiric hearing, John's heart was beating abnormally fast, though Sherlock knew that his pulse would be weak.

He quickly unfastened his cloak, sweeping the heavy black fabric around his ward's body. The immediate concern was to get John warm and into a safe place.

"Sherlock…" A small breath of air, and the vampire stilled.

He knelt down further, a hand on John's shoulder. John's eyes were wide, mouth slightly parted. His brow was sweaty, hair damp. He was still in shock, still swaying from the adrenaline.

He reached for Sherlock, reached for his mouth, eyes narrowing.

It was only then that Sherlock realized his fangs had descended during his blood lust.

With a Power he usually only used when feeding, Sherlock began to quickly cloud John's mind. He wanted to protect him. Erase the memories of the attack. Erase the memories of him. Of his fangs. Of the blood. To guide him into a gentle sleep.

"Don't… Don't do that…" John murmured, waving his hand clumsily in the air as if trying to dispel the unknown force, shaking his head slightly in discomfort.

Sherlock's unnecessary breath hitched in his throat as he pulled back from his ward, startled.

"You're here."

"I'm here John."

"My room… the other night… Was that- Were you there? Was that you?"

Hesitation. "Yes."

John's eyes drifted around the alley, taking in the carnage. "They… they were going to…"

"They're dead now. You're safe."

"You killed them."

It was said in a tone of utterly disbelief, hushed in the darkness.

Sherlock's eyes met John's. "Yes."

"I've missed you."

It was a simple phrase. Entirely out of place given the circumstances and Sherlock was caught off guard.

Their eyes met, and a single heart beat of time passed by.

They clashed. Both reaching for each other at the same time, hurried and nearly frantic.

They kissed. Passion, energy, fear, adrenaline.

John tasted of thickened blood, as it trickled out of his mouth from a cut inner lip. Sherlock moaned. John tasted of iron, whiskey and chocolate, richly velvet and warm. His pulse thrummed hard now in his throat as Sherlock brought a hand to it, thumb against the throb, drinking it all in.

"I've missed you. I've missed you. I've missed you." John repeated as he had pulled away, dropping a kiss on Sherlock's face with each sentence.

The cloak slipped from John's shoulders as he shifted in the alley, and Sherlock began to shake with awakened panic, beginning to pull away.

"Hush…" John breathed softly. He threaded a hand through Sherlock's hair, the vampire nearly curling up. So long. So long without touch. So long without John.

"I know." The young doctor whispered, his arm reached around him. Sherlock let him. Let himself be held.

Fingers brushed against his mouth, his fangs. The vampire recoiled. John held tight. "Hush… It's fine. It's all fine."

He breathed in John's scent, head tucked into the gentle curve of the man's body.

John knew. Knew what he was entirely. And he held him. Rocked him as he trembled like a new born pup. Tangled fingers in his hair. Murmuring, "It's alright. Hush. It's alright. I've got you."

"Ten years." Sherlock breathed, as he managed to still himself finally.

"Yes."

"It could be more. So many more together John. We could be together, for always."

John smiled. "Let's just begin with tomorrow, love."

London, England 1952

"Forgive me, Sherlock," a whispered plea uttered by one preparing to leave the mortal coil.

"What's there to forgive, John?" A brave smile from one whose sun is eclipsing and losing its light.

"For not being strong enough to stay with you. For not having enough courage."

A desperate grasp, hands meeting hands, eyes searching eyes. Tears gleamed in eyes that had vowed not to show sadness. Sherlock's lips frantically rained kisses over their joined fingers, trying to entice his lover to stay, if only for a moment longer.

Please. Just one more moment.

Just one more.

"No, my love. You have more courage than any other I have ever met."

A sad smile, terrible in its finality.

"But I'm leaving you alone to face the world."

"I have faced it before. I am not afraid to do so again."

Blue eyes, faded with the curse of age, searched eternally vibrant silver. "Then promise me one thing, Sherlock."

"Anything."

"Find someone else. Don't live in the shadows any longer. Fall in love with another and continue to live. Embrace the night as you must, but never surrender to the day."

A fervent shake of a dark head. "Never. I will never love another. I cannot give my heart away when it's no longer mine to give."

A sad, but resigned smile, born from knowledge that his request would be answered thusly. Pain in the chest made speaking hurt as time crept in. Breathing became harder for the invalid lying in bed, the lure to surrender the struggle becoming more enticing with each passing moment. But the urge to reassure his lover overrode his desire to rest, to slip into his eternal sleep. His love was strong, strong enough to strengthen his will to hold on, if only for a brief moment more.

A smile, wiping away the sadness, crept across the aged face. Eyes sleepily closed, as strength ebbed and faded away. In a soft whisper, as fragile as the passing wind, he gave his lover a promise.

"Then Sherlock... I will just have to find my way back to your side."

One last breath, slow and futile, as an elderly heart stopped. Life ended for the mortal, a quiet passing for time well spent. A soul fled the scene, headed for heavens forever denied to the immortal being left to mourn.

Tears finally escaped their gray prison, streaking their salty paths down pale cheeks long unused to the sun's rays. Eyes closed in sorrow and pain as the vampire laid a final kiss on his lover's empty shell. His own promise was whispered into ears no longer capable of hearing.

"And I shall wait for as long as it takes John. Forever."

Author Note: Onwards to present day Sherlock/John!

Please review :)