I watched Only Lovers Left Alive about two weeks ago and I've been completely in love with it ever since. So, of course, I had to write a Johnlock AU. Johnlock AUs are how I express my love of a thing.

I guess this would still make sense if you haven't seen Only Lovers Left Alive. It's not a copy of the exact plot, but more the type of vampires that Adam and Eve are in the film, mixed with my own married!Johnlock headcanons and vampire headcanons. So yeah, if you haven't seen the film, feel free to just treat this fic like any old vampire AU. Only Lovers Left Alive was just the inspiration.

Oh yeah, and the 'zombies' in question are what Adam and Eve called humans in the film, which I quite liked so I kept that in. In case there was any confusion.

Anyway, reviews would be lovely. It's the only way I learn.

And I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor the movie Only Lovers Left Alive. Obviously.

Together

I played my violin in a bored and listless sort of way. The sun had just set, plunging the room into semi-darkness, but I hadn't slept at all during the day. Contrary to popular belief, sunlight was not fatal to us. It's a misconception that we have promoted over time, along with all that garlic and holy water nonsense. The less actual facts those zombies know about us, the better. It makes it easier for us to hide in plain sight. Of course, some of their mythology is based on truth, but it's all been muddied with fiction. We don't burn in the sun, and we certainly don't sparkle like in those God awful films. Daylight just makes us lethargic. It slows us down, weakens us. We function better at night, so we sleep during the day. But I don't like to sleep. Not without John.

I dropped my violin on the sofa when I felt my phone buzz in the pocket of my dressing gown.

I want to see you – JW

Curled up on my armchair, I switched on the laptop and, after a bit of tinkering, John was looking at me on the screen. My John. He'd clearly just woken up, but he was still as beautiful as always.

"When are you coming home?" I asked.

John smiled, shaking his head at me. "Hello to you too, my love. I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"When are you coming home?" I asked, more firmly this time.

"Soon," he said. "Tomorrow night, hopefully."

"I don't understand why you had to leave in the first place." I was probably pouting like a child, but I didn't care.

"I already told you, love," he said patiently. "Harry's in a bad place right now. She needed me."

I rolled my eyes, barely holding in a groan. "Ah, Harriet Watson... the perfect example of how a zombie can waste away their entire existence."

"Sherlock, don't be cruel. That's my sister you're talking about."

"She's not your sister, John. Or your half-sister, or whatever you've told her she is to you."

"She's my last living relative, Sherlock..."

"Yes, you're great-great-great-great-grandniece or something."

John let out a long-suffering sigh, a familiar sound muffled by the shitty speakers of the laptop. Webcam conversations were a poor substitute for the real thing.

"You look tired, love," said John. "And you're more irritable than normal. You haven't slept, have you?"

He didn't expect me to answer, but I shook my head anyway. He frowned at me.

"Have you had anything?" he asked.

"Not without you," I whispered.

John became very stern. "Sherlock, it's bad enough you not sleeping. I am not coming home to a moody old grouch who can barely lift himself out of his chair. Have a little bit, even if it's just a few drops. Just enough to keep you sane until I get home. Promise me, Sherlock."

"Promise," I said, after a despondent sigh. "We're running low on fresh supplies. I'll go to Bart's later, maybe pick you up a 'welcome home' gift while I'm out."

John smiled, his concern for my wellbeing still clear in his eyes. "Thank you. I'll see you soon."

"I love you, John."

"I love you too, Sherlock."

I drank a little bit, as John requested, and slept restlessly through most of the next day. It was nearly midnight, as I played a mournful tune on my violin, when I finally saw a black cab pull up outside. I stopped playing and moved closer to the window to watch as John stepped out f the cab with his suitcase, paying the driver before finally looking up, his eyes catching mine behind his sunglasses. It was like a weight had been lifted. My John was back. The world made sense again.

I rushed out of the flat and down the stairs, eager to meet John at the door. Finally we stood face to face, the night air stilling around us, the sounds of London dulling to nothing. My John was the only thing in the universe. We moved closer together, John removing his leather gloves and offering his hands to me. Touching hands was the most intimate of gestures for our kind, more intimate than a kiss. So to have my John's hands in mine again, after so long apart, was just... perfection.

We didn't linger for too long outside. Even at this hour of the night on a weekday Baker Street was busy, zombies in cars and buses and cabs, zombies walking passed us, looking back curiously at us for wearing sunglasses at night – a necessity to hide that glint in our eyes that said we weren't quite natural.

John and I retreated back up to our flat, John leaving his suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. The second the door was shut and locked behind us, we removed our sunglasses to look at each other properly. I had missed looking at John, it was one of my favourite pastimes. In all the time we had been together he had never lost his humble nature. Whenever I told just how beautiful he was – his steady hands and strong arms, his face so sweet and yet so handsome, his eyes that were bright blue and still held the slight warmth of his long lost humanity – he always smiled bashfully and shook his head, like I was only saying it all to be nice. You would think after centuries together that he would realise that I never say anything just to be nice.

I offered him both my hands and he took them gladly, letting me pull him closer until I had to tilt my head down to look him in the eye. John looked up at me with a fond smile.

"It's good to be home," he said.

I leaned down and pressed the lightest of kisses against his lips. "It's good to be together again. I don't like it when you're not here."

John let out a quiet chuckle, wrapping his arms around my waist to hold me closer. "I was only gone a week, Sherlock. And I was only in Brighton. We've been further apart for much longer, and without the technology to still speak to each other every day. You're getting awfully sentimental in your old age, my love."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes at him, which only made him smile wider and kiss me on the cheek. John let go of me and sat down with a grateful sigh on his usual armchair opposite mine. Our flat hadn't really changed since we had first moved in back in the 1880s. We had lived in many places, in a variety of different countries, but this was our most beloved residence, the one we had lived in for the longest. We had never really redecorated, just culminated more and newer possessions around all the old things. As such, every room was a mess, cluttered mostly with my books and files and experiments, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. It felt like living in a quiet little cocoon in the middle of a bustling city. Just me and my John in our own private heaven.

"So what special 'welcome home' gift did you get for me, my love," John asked, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket.

"Ah, yes," I said, making my way to the fridge.

John always said that our fridge looked like something out of a horror film, and I suppose he was correct. It was filled with bottles of the freshest, cleanest blood I could find, extra blood bags in the vegetable crisper, and whatever body parts I happened to be experimenting on. But no actual food. There was no need for that. The cupboards also contained flasks of blood for emergencies. Sometimes fresh supplies could be difficult to obtain, but we managed.

I picked out the special bottle I had acquired just for John, along with two small glasses, and poured out a measure in both.

"Join me on the sofa, John," I said, walking back into the living room with our meal.

John heaved himself out of his armchair and came to sit next to me, taking the glass I offered him. He smelt it, and his mouth split into the most gorgeous grin.

"O Negative," he said in awe.

"Your favourite. It was rather difficult to come by, but I've tested it myself and it's clean and pure. Molly Hooper has outdone herself with this one, I think."

"Speaking of Molly Hooper, I still don't understand how she isn't... you know."

"Alarmed?"

"I was going to say suspicious, but that too. Doesn't she think it's weird, you popping round to the morgue every couple of weeks for a few pints of blood?"

"It's not like I go there just for blood, John. I'm not stupid. She thinks it's all just for my experiments. As well as the fresh O Negative, I also picked up a cancerous liver, a severed hand and a few jars of stomach acid."

"Lovely," John laughed, inclining his glass. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

We clinked glasses and raised them to our lips, knocking back the shots of blood in one gulp. The effect was instantaneous. I fell back against the sofa, eyes closed and fangs exposed, the blood spreading through every inch of my body, warming me even though it had come straight out of the fridge. I felt it fill me all at once, a sharp shock to my system, like electricity, like poison. I felt sleepy and sated, but overwhelmed with adrenaline all at once. It left me breathless, full to the brim but still desperate for more. But it was unwise to have too much at once. It would be like drinking an entire bottle of Absinthe in one sitting.

I managed to open my eyes and look over at John. There were few moments when he looked more beautiful then when he had just drank, and this instance was no exception. He had also fallen back against the sofa, eyes closed and fangs exposed, his empty glass sitting loosely in his hand. He was breathing deeply, blood staining his lips and I yearned to kiss him, to kiss the taste of fresh O Negative out of his mouth. His empty hand reached out for mine, and our fingers entwined and he turned to look at me with a blissful smile.

"Delicious," he whispered happily. "Thank you, love. We should save that bottle for special occasions."

I shifted closer to John on the sofa, resting my head on his shoulder, and sighed contently when he pressed a kiss to my forehead. The silence and semi-darkness of the room was comforting. Nothing put my mind at ease like being with my John in our flat, just the two of us, the way it should be.

"Do you ever miss it?" John suddenly said.

"Miss what?" I said, holding his hand tighter.

"How it was in the old days," he said. "Actually going out and hunting, drinking straight from the source. Do you miss it?"

"Sort of, sometimes. I miss the thrill, the risk."

"Yeah, me too. But the risk is why we had to stop in the first place though. Back in the day the most we had to worry about was waking up with a hangover after drinking someone who'd had one too many. Now there are so many drugs and chemicals and diseases to worry about. The good stuff's good, but the bad stuff's lethal."

"I know. It's getting harder and harder to live forever. Not that there's much reason to."

"Don't you start," said John, nudging me so I'd sit up and look at him. "I'm not having this conversation with you again, Sherlock."

"What conversation?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock, you're terrible at it. Every decade or so you get like this, all 'woe is me', and I had enough of that from Harry. I just got home and I want to spend my night with my happy husband, not my clinically depressed husband."

"I'm just saying," I said with a reasonable shrug. "We're getting so old that I'm actually starting to forget exactly how old we actually are. We've both done so much in our lives, we've contributed as much as we can to this world. You can't possibly blame me for not seeing the point anymore. It's not like we're even the predators we started out as. We're just... you and I."

John sighed, as patient as ever. "Exactly, Sherlock. We're you and I. I'll admit that on some nights living this long isn't all it's cracked up to be. Some nights I'm just like you; I don't see the point in it all. But you and I are the point. I keep on going for us. Because I would be nothing without you, and I know by now that the feeling is extremely mutual. I couldn't bear to leave you, Sherlock. And I couldn't bear it if you left me. The very point of our existence is to be together."

John brushed his hand through my hair, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth, and I relaxed into his touch as always. He smelt of clean blood and home, and I turned my head so that I could kiss him properly. Hundreds of years, thousands of kisses, and yet kissing my John never felt anything less than perfect.

He was right, of course. John was right more often than I cared to admit. The point of our damned, cursed lives was each other, just like he had said in our wedding vows so long ago; you and I, together until the stars burned out, together until there was nothing else left.

We eventually retired upstairs to our bedroom. It was still early, the sun wouldn't be up for hours, so there was no rush. We were unhurried in our movements as we undressed each other, touching what we had already touched a thousand times, kissing what we had already kissed a thousand times. But making love to my John never become old and boring. Lying back on the bed with John on top of me, our naked skin pressed together, my legs around his to pull him closer still, never stopped being the single greatest feeling in the world. John's steady, skilful, lube-slicked fingers working me open with medical precision and care never stopped feeling anything less than amazing. Having John buried inside me, thrusting his length in and out in a slow grind that had us both groaning never made me feel anything less than complete.

As we made love I held John close to me, legs wrapped tight around his hips and hands in his hair, kissing and nuzzling the scar on his shoulder. The scar, which John thought was ugly and unsightly, had come curtsey of one of the last real vampire hunters we had ever come across. The hunter had been tracking me, not John. He had had no idea about John, which was unsurprising. John could blend in with the zombies so much better than I could. The hunter had had a bullet specially made to kill me, made of the very densest wood so it would actually pierce my flesh. But he had been too sure of himself, too sure that it would only take one attempt to kill me, and that I was the only one. He hadn't counted on my John, who had pushed me out of the way just in time. But the bullet had gone right through his shoulder as a result.

That had been nearly twenty years ago, but the scar hadn't faded. It would probably take another century for it to heal properly, and it still ached him sometimes. Every time we made love, I paid special attention to that scar, the reminder of how close I had come to losing him. And as we made love now, I gently touched and kissed that scar, thinking of John's words from earlier – I couldn't bear to leave you, Sherlock. And I couldn't bear it if you left me. The very point of our existence is to be together

Our climaxes came at once, a slow build that turned into a volcano, pleasure spreading through my whole body like fresh blood.

"Bite me, John," I begged, shaking from my orgasm. "Please, please..."

John sank his fangs into my neck at once, not drawing any blood, but just letting the pain bring me to completion. He licked the wound clean, kissing me hard before he rolled off me. He pulled me onto his chest, kissing the top of my head and wrapping his arms around me. I felt so much better, complete and whole and right.

"I love you, John," I whispered against him, holding him tightly. "I love you so, so much."

"I love you too, Sherlock," he murmured, stroking my hair. "Always, until the stars burn out, until there's nothing else left."

I sighed contently, so happy to be in my John's arms again, wrapped in his love, together.

Hope you enjoyed, Humble Readers.

xxx