Chapter 14: Epilogue

A/N: sorry guys I started a new full time job (pretty much my first "real job") but I've got RENT on and I'm channeling my inner fabulous gay here so I'm gna try and hammer this out for you. For decent followers of my work, I am now on AO3 because I'm admittedly simply waiting for to takedown my more explicit stuff. It's better and easier to use there anyway, so I suggest if this is you thing, you get an account there and follow me thusly. My name is the same, that's why I changed it here: MarisFerasi.

So there's…um…kind of blood play here. But duh, because it's about vamps, so get used to it!

Sherlock straightened from over the body he was inspecting with—what to anyone else would appear to be—a grimace hitched across his features. John could still see the strain in his face, an added wrinkle around his mouth that no one else would notice. Being around this much blood was still, even after so many months of strict dieting and monitoring by John, bothering him a bit. John knew he was in for a trip later today. But still, there was something to be said for his amount of control so early in his transformation. It spoke wonders of Sherlock's self-control as a person already. John smiled a wrinkly smile and waited by the crime-scene tape as usual for his beloved to tell Lestrade off and stalk over, hungry and irritable.

For once, Sherlock's appetite was always a distraction. And it was something he could not control by starving himself. It had to be sated or people that he'd normally try to save would be hurt.

"The man was shot and then dismembered, obviously by a relative. There is no sign of struggle so he had to either have been heavily drugged or trusted the person. The death was quick, one bullet to the head. Didn't even see it coming. Whoever it was wanted them gone signaling that they wanted money or something valuable out of having the person out of their life. Look for a younger relative, my opinion is that they're a junkie or maybe just unemployed. In need of money, either way. They'll be cashing in an heirloom or more likely, a life insurance policy, soon. Keep an eye out." Lestrade nodded and scribbled some notes, waving Sherlock away as the detective was already departing; he was making a beeline for John.

They needed to get to St. Bart's for blood bags. John knew that there was only one in the flat and that wouldn't fill either of them.

"Bart's?" he asked, sliding in beside Sherlock as the detective barreled past him, fitting his body in comfortably alongside the fluttering Belstaff.

"No, the one at the flat will do," he commented, whipping out a hand and catching a taxi immediately. Curse his magic. John made a face but climbed in behind him. "Calm down, John. I have a plan for it that will, I hope, and I think, distract you at least momentarily from your thirst." He tapped away at his phone after that, leaving John to daydream out the window for the few miles to their flat.

"OOOOOhhhhhhhhhh," John moaned, sprawled wantonly across their bed. He was on his stomach with Sherlock between his thighs behind him, pressing soft kisses and sharp bites all down his spine, with ones peppered across each side like falling petals. He couldn't predict where the next one would land, or whether it would be a bite or a kiss, and a minor jump came on the tails of each one regardless. Sherlock was smiling into his skin, enjoying the moment. He scraped his fangs lightly over John's sacrum and crawled back up as the shudder coursed through the smaller man.

The bag of blood lay semi-forgotten on the bedside, but Sherlock reached for it now as he bit lightly into the side of his boyfriend's neck, not puncturing, as he had retracted, but getting his attention all the same.

"John," the younger man murmured against soft skin, rubbing his lips across the knot where John's neck and spine met. The doctor shivered and turned his face sideways on the pillow to look at what Sherlock was doing. He'd bit into the bag in one corner—just a tiny pinprick to let the thick fluid drizzle out, and held it questioningly.

"Hmm?"

"If you're amenable, John, I'd very much like to use half of this to rub all over you and lick it off. You may do what you like with the other half." John tried to hide his snort of laughter in the pillow—because frankly, they had gotten past that insecure stage where laughter in the bedroom is a turn-off, and it was now instead taken as part of the game. Sherlock smiled and waited a second longer to see if there were any actual objections, and then proceeded to paint John's lightly tanned skin with thin lines of the still-chilled blood.

Tiny bastions of goose flesh marched obscenely over John's skin, following the trails of the blood and then being fought back into line with the rest of his skin by a hot tongue laving over the bright lines. Hot breath ghosted over his already heated skin, and John felt himself getting harder by the second; with each swipe of that sharp, irresistibly talented tongue, John's cock pulsed into the bed.

Sherlock trailed down each leg, up each arm, and flipped John over, using the blood sparingly, moaned as he nosed through the sparse hair on his lover's compact but sturdy chest and finally, lapping some out of the hollow of John's throat, brought his tinted lips up to meet the good doctor's in a heated and rather starved kiss.

"Sher-lock," he groaned, canting his hips up a bit to rub against Sherlock's thigh invitingly. The detective quirked an eyebrow but said nothing, nipping at John's bottom lip teasingly before reaching under the doctor's pillow or the bottle of lube he'd stashed there earlier. There was nothing that needed to be said. He and John could read each other so well now that questions were hardly asked anymore. There was no need but this one. Sherlock sat back on his heels, handed over the precisely half-empty bag of blood, and proceeded to slick up his fingers and work John open.

The doctor sucked down the nourishment quickly, trying to moan at the feelings he was having instead of the sweet taste hitting the back of his throat, cloaking the raw dryness with thick wet satisfaction. Sherlock smirked, reading between the lines of John's face as it happened and gave a particularly cruel twist of fingers to John's prostate, sending him near through the roof in shock.

Sherlock deemed his lover ready a few fingers and minutes later, having apparently become a pro at loosening his not-so-breakable-now lover up for his cock since his changing. He loomed over John, a wary but reverent emotion in place on his angelic features.

The change had been good for him, tightened his skin a bit, took maybe five years off. John had been alive too long, and his life had been tougher. He wasn't nearly so flawless-looking. Sherlock leaned in and bit his pectoral hard at the thought, as he saw the concern float between John's eyes, in that little wrinkle he got when something was bothering him. John flinched but looped his arms up around the younger man's neck, drawing him in for a kiss.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock smirked and pressed a kiss to his doctor's mouth.

Laying his forehead on the pillow next to John's. He sank the head of his cock n John's worked opening, pausing to let his adjust for a second before pressing on.

"I will love you forever, John Watson. Thank you."

okay loves, i'm going to send this one to AO3 as well, so you know...go follow me there and i hope you enjoyed it!