In Vein Chapter 1, a sherlock fanfic

On paper, it seemed tactically sound. The casualty numbers from this part of the war were becoming increasingly unacceptable over the past twelve months and any type of assistance seemed preferable to wasting more lives on such a cursed, barren stretch of desert. It wasn't a hasty decision by any means. The topic was debated heatedly for months with specialists giving testimony and consultants running data analyses regarding potential candidates. The red tape of bureaucracy was flawless and impeccable.

It was the practical application that was utterly flawed.

Not saying that the candidate that they chose, one John Hamish Watson, wasn't the best recommendation. On the contrary, his character, a unique and potent combination of courage, stability, loyalty, and intelligence, placed him as the preferential candidate leaps and bounds ahead of anyone else vetted by the committee. Not only was he emotionally and mentally suited for the trial, but the fact that he was a Medic was also highly preferable.

So, while the paper-pushers signed their names with a smug flourish as a comment to their own genius, John Watson: Doctor, Soldier, and All-Around-Decent-Bloke, was assaulted, kidnapped, and killed…in a manner of speaking.

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Mycroft frowned as he glanced over the mostly-redacted file of Doctor John Watson. It was true that, while he only held a small position in the British Government, there were very few documents that he could not simply make a call and have the original, un-edited document on his desk within a few hours. However, this file was unbreakable and his contacts, carefully picked and nurtured of the entirety of his career, were unable to crack this level of security.

Mycroft was not wholly upset by this. The first eight years of Doctor Watson's military career were not confidential. It was only the last two years of service that was covered with thick, black markings making ninety-five percent of the document unreadable. The truly curious aspect was how much thicker the final two years of his service was compared to first eight. Despite this obvious gap, Mycroft Holmes was confident in the suitability of this man as a flatmate for his younger brother.

Mycroft set aside this little problem for another time. He still had that incident in Yemen to clear up and the arrival of the Peruvian delegation. Mycroft mentally filed the case of Doctor Watson far back into his cranium. When he had a spare minute or two, he would solve this little mystery but right now it was not of import.

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"Watson!" Murray screamed from behind an outcropping of rocks at the base of a small hill that was currently being peppered by bullets from all sides, "Get Sawyer!"

Watson didn't need to be told twice. He slipped from his current position in the branches of a stunted tree and slipped swiftly and silently through the landscape dodging the bullets with ease. He quickly located Private Sawyer and began to bandage the bullet wound that had pierced a lung causing him to drop like a ton of bricks before finding cover with the rest of his unit. Within fifteen seconds, the wound was secured and Watson had lifted Sawyer and made a beeline for the rocks to join Murray and the rest of the men. With all of the men accounted for, Murray began issuing a much-needed retreat having two men take Sawyer and ordering Watson to guard their retreat. Watson deftly checked his firearm and dropped back as the other men fell into the familiar habits of training operations. Watson was last, of course. Watson was always last now. It only made sense considering.

Inside of twenty minutes, the men were on the chopper and making their way back to base. Sawyer would survive; live to fight another day and all that jazz. The men cleaned up, grabbed some sustenance, and cleaned their equipment before falling happily into their beds to sleep off the adrenaline and stress.

Watson's routine was a bit different. After seeing that Sawyer was set up in the infirmary to his satisfaction, he stumbled to the portable refrigeration unit that housed their transfusion provisions. Signing the necessary paperwork, he pulled out three pints of A positive, exited the infirmary, crouched out of sight, and sucked every last drop from the bags.

"You really shouldn't go two weeks between feedings, love." A voice purred from behind him.

John jumped. He hadn't heard Henry arrive. Even with his enhanced senses, he never heard Henry sneak up behind him.

"There was no time." John said quietly. "Between looking out for enemy fire and caring for the wounded, I just haven't had time."

"You look out for them, love." Henry said crouching next to John and pulling him close, "But it is my job to look out for you. Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, Henry." John said feeling the words whisper past his lips of their own volition.

"I thought I told you to stop by my tent last night." Henry said simply.

"I'm sorry." John answered. "I wanted to check on the men in the Infirmary and I just ran out of time."

"Don't let it happen again."

"Yes, Henry."

"Come to bed, John." Henry breathed lightly into his ear letting the tips of his teeth scrape roughly against his temple.

"Yes, Henry." John sighed, feeling goose bumps of pleasure cascade across his skin. He let Henry pull him up and away from the Infirmary. John had his own bunk with the Unit but more and more frequently Henry was calling him to his own tent on the outskirts of the camp. He glanced at Henry after falling into step slightly behind and to Henry's right (as was proper, of course). Henry was beautiful. Tall and lean with golden skin and shockingly green eyes. He radiated power like the desert sun did heat. John was drawn to him like a moth to flame.

They had entered Henry's tent and John was feeling the pleasant feeling of warmth from the blood coursing softly through his veins. He undressed down to his pants quickly, hearing Henry do the same, and was about to slide into the sheets when Henry laid a hand on John's shoulder. Glancing at the Vampire that created him with confusion, he saw a dark light cross those already blown pupils and shuddered involuntarily.

"You belong to me, John." Henry said, "You're mine."

"I know." John said meekly.

"Do you?" Henry said pushing John down onto the bedding with force before crawling on top of him and pinning him with his knees. "You seem to confuse what you have to do and what I let you do."

"No," John said lying still on the sheets. "I'm just trying to do my job. You told me to do my job."

"You're job is to do as I say." Henry purred before gripping one of John's nipples with his sharp teeth and biting. John's gasp of pain went unheeded as Henry made little nicks and cuts up and down John's chest before licking the wounds clean.

"Yes, Henry." John answered dutifully. He couldn't control these responses. He never could. The compulsion placed on the creation of a Vampire was unbreakable. He had to obey. He had to do as Henry said. It wasn't ever a question of wanting to or not. There was only ever, "Yes, Henry."

"Tonight," Henry said nuzzling John's neck softly. "I'm going to make you mine in the most biblical sense of the word."

Henry shredded John's pants with a flick of the wrist and shoved him onto his stomach thrusting his legs apart and up roughly before getting into position with his suddenly hard cock pressed heavily against John's unprepared entrance.

"I'm not ready…" John wheezed through tight lips feeling panic rise in his throat. "You said that you would wait until I was ready."

Henry's eyes were crazed with emotion as he stared down at John with a gleeful smirk, "That was before you forgot your place, love. You're mine! It's time you fulfilled that role."

With his speech concluded, he roughly shoved John's shredded pants into his mouth to muffle the screams as Henry shoved forcefully into John.

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"John's mine." Sherlock said with a wry grin.

"What?" John demanded darkly, whipping around to face his flatmate.

Sherlock's eyebrows rose with the ferocity that was emanating from John, "I was just telling Lestrade that you're my doctor. Is something wrong, John?"

John felt the rage trickle away, "No, sorry. I'm just tired."

They were standing inside a dimly lit corridor where the body of a pimp was sprawled covered in kitty litter and lacerations. It wasn't the strangest case that they had been called in on, but it wasn't normal by any definition of the word. The rate of absorption of the kitty litter was making cause and time of death hard to determine. Sherlock, of course, had deduced the details of the death with astonishing speed and pizzazz. John would have been more impressed if he wasn't starving and starting to perspire with need.

Lestrade's face remained neutral but his eyes fixed to John and he felt the entire exchange being recorded mentally by both the consulting detective and the DI. He'd been out of Afghanistan for three months and he still jumped at shadows.

"Right," Lestrade said evenly. "Well, it's three in the morning. We can finish up here unless there is anything else you have for us."

"No." Sherlock answered simply still keeping an eye on John. "Let's go."

They walked out of the rundown building into the night and Sherlock gestured to a passing cab but John stood hesitantly back, "You go."

"What?" Sherlock asked confused.

"I just need to clear my head." John stuttered. "Sorry. I'll see you back at the flat."

With that, John turned on his heel and walked into the rain letting the darkness of London creep into his bones. As he heard the taxi rumble off and he felt far enough away from the crime scene to be unnoticed, he broke into a sprint that would put Olympians to shame. He certainly wasn't the first vampire to be working for the government throughout the city. After he'd been discharged from the Army, they had shown him a series of access points for others like him throughout the city to accommodate his less than legal hemoglobin needs. Sherlock may have all of London memorized, but John could orient himself to any blood center by locating the nearest Tube station. Ten minutes and two pints of blood later, he was sated enough to let normalcy seep into his bones.

After he was sated, he felt the night calling to him. He wasn't ready to go back to the flat and try to explain away his irritability that evening. Sherlock may only be human, but his intelligence and attentiveness always made John feel a little exposed. Along with John's abrupt exit from humanity, he also had acquired a love of danger that bordered on the imbecilic. Living with a man like Sherlock, John was practically daring his flatmate to discover his secret and that sent adrenaline flooding deliciously through his veins. He wouldn't even think of what might happen to him if Sherlock figured him out. Sherlock was basically the only person he had. He wouldn't let himself involve his family into his shitty new existence for their safety, he hadn't stayed in touch with anyone prior to his deployment, and after everything with Henry…well, he was loathe to interact with any of his own kind.

Remembering Henry made John's stomach clench with panic. Painful memories lapped at his subconscious as he wandered aimlessly through the streets letting the city claim his senses. This part of London was crowded with people leaving plays, catching films, clubbing, etc. There were people eating, screaming, running, laughing, lounging, grinning. It was almost the entire spectrum of human emotions contained within a one mile radius. John was always struck by how much he yearned to be a part of these gatherings. Completely absorbed, yet completely autonomous. He wasn't human anymore, but that didn't stop him from wanting it so badly.

And there were so many things that hadn't changed for him. He could still eat what he liked (he just had to supplement his diet with blood every week), he slept when he liked (being "dead to the world" was just a bit more literal than it used to be), he was able to enjoy the sun (it just made his skin tingle a bit with prolonged exposure), and nothing had physically changed about him (minus a sharp set of fangs that made themselves known when he was particularly hungry). Despite his circumstances, John was more than willing to make the best of his situation and lead an abnormal, satisfying existence.

He didn't even feel particularly upset with the Army. While being asked to become an undead freak was preferable to how they actually went about it, John had saved so many more people as a Vampire than he ever could as a regular medic. He was faster, stealthier, and more resilient making it exponentially easier to get a wounded soldier from the front lines to a chopper and back to the base. No, he didn't hate the Army. Henry wasn't their fault. He had fooled everyone: the committee, the consultants, the experts, John. And when John really needed their help, when he was battered and bruised and broken, the Army had gotten him out. Out from under Henry's compulsion. Distance was all John needed. If John stayed far enough away, then Henry could never affect him like that again. He would never find himself unable to make his own choices or forced into situations that he had no chance of removing himself from.

Right now, right here, John was happy. Happy with this city, his job, his flat, his flatmate. He was happier now than he had been in over a year. He could live like this forever, which, for John, was a distinct possibility. Shortly after four in the morning, John found himself back at Baker Street. The tension that had radiated off of him like a tidal wave had faded and he felt nothing but full and sleepy as he let himself into his home and up the stairs to his room. He could hear Sherlock wailing away discordantly on his abused violin as he brushed his teeth, changed into pajamas bottoms, and crawled into his sheets letting a sigh past his lips as he dropped into sleep.

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"John Fucking Watson!" Bill Murray bellowed at the other end of the coffee house. "How the hell are ya?"

Bill quickly closed the distance between them and pulled John into a crushing hug. Bill Murray was his Unit Officer in Afghanistan. He was brave, intelligent, and incredible under pressure. That is where the similarities between Bill and every other Officer that John had ever met had ended. Bill was like a giant teddy bear, determined to fix every emotional qualm in any of his men with a bone-crushing hug and a fifth of whiskey. He was a giant guy at 6'5" with broad, heavily muscled shoulders and legs like tree trunks.

"Murray?" John gasped happily. "I didn't know that you were back! Why didn't you call?"

"Not technically back really." He answered finally dropping John back to the floor. "Just on a bit of an intelligence mission."

"I don't understand." John said trying to read the expression on his friend's face.

"I got promoted!" Bill said with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

"That's great, Bill." John answered confused by his reaction. "What is everyone else up to? I haven't heard from anyone in ages."

"They all got promoted." Bill said his voice a bit more subdued now. "After everything…well, everyone got transferred."

John felt guilt clench his stomach as the memories tried to demand his attention, "Oh, right."

"Everything?" A cool voice asked from behind him. Sherlock. Shit.

"Sherlock," John said, trying for a relaxed smile. "This is one of my old Army buddies, Bill Murray. We served together in Afghanistan before I was discharged. Bill, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes."

Bill grinned and held out his hand. "Cheers."

Sherlock returned the shake before repeating his question, "What exactly do you mean 'after everything'?"

Bill's face darkened a bit before replying evenly, "That's classified."

John watched as Sherlock's eye brows rose slightly before relaxing back into a bored expression. John turned back to Bill with a grin, "So, how long are you back for? Do you have time one night to catch a drink?"

"Can we talk privately for a moment, John?" Bill said glancing at Sherlock.

"Of course," John answered. "Give me just a second, Sherlock."

He followed Bill outside of the shop around the corner and into an alleyway. John could feel Bill's pulse increase as he turned to face him once again. Looking at Bill's expression, John's stomach dropped painfully.

"He came back." Bill said, his jovial voice gone. "I'm actually here to update you."

"He knows I'm in London?" John said feeling air wheeze in and out of his lips.

"No." Bill said firmly. "He went back to base in Afghanistan. He doesn't know where you are but he's looking. It was my job to come to London and let you know."

"How many people did he hurt, Bill?" John said softly.

"John…" Bill began.

"No!" John answered feeling his stability fray dangerously and his fangs descend. "How many?"

"Seven." Bill said avoiding John's gaze. "But once he realized that you weren't at the base, he left pretty quickly."

John began panting uncontrollably.

"You have to calm down!" Bill barked with authority. "You've vamped out. Get yourself together, Watson."

John began dragging heaps of oxygen in and out of his lungs to reverse his panic. Bill was right about one thing, he couldn't leave the alleyway like this. What Bill meant was that John's fangs were protruding from his top lip and his eyes had gone blood red from lid to lid. He looked like a monster…well, he technically was anyway but he preferred not to be reminded of it when he looked in the mirror. After several minutes of deep breathing, he felt calm surround him and he was able to revert to his usual facial features.

"John," Bill said gently resting a hand on his shoulder. "You should be fine here. The last place that Henry will look is London. We have eyes on him and we will be able to notify you if we feel like he is heading anywhere near the Island. Alright?"

"Alright." John said leaning heavily into Bill. "Thank you."

"What else is family for?" Bill said with a ruffle to John's fringe. "Now, tell me about this Sherlock bloke. How long have you been shagging?"

"What?" John reeled back. "I don't know what you mean. We're not. It's not like that…"

Bill gave him a knowing look and said smugly, "I may not be able to hear a pin drop from several blocks away, but I can feel the heat of attraction between two people."

"It's not like that, Bill." John said. "I can't…He doesn't…I can't do that to him."

"What are you on about, Watson?" Bill said confused.

"I'm dangerous enough to him as it is." John said wearily. "I could hurt him, Bill."

"John," Bill said firmly. "You are the most composed, careful vampire I have ever met. You wouldn't hurt him. Not ever."

"You can't know that." John said glancing away. "And I can't risk it."

"I want you to be happy, John." Bill said. "You deserve it."

"I'm a monster, Bill." John said wryly. "What I deserve is a stake to the chest and a desecrated grave."

"Don't talk like that." Bill said firmly. "You're one of the best men I know. You're not a monster."

Bill's phone suddenly trilled loudly and Bill flipped it open deftly. "Yeah. Of course. Be there in twenty."

"You're off then?" John asked.

"Yeah." Bill said with a grin. "Duty calls. I have to catch a flight back in a few hours."

"It was so good to see you." John said. "And thank you for updating me."

"My pleasure, John." Bill said once again pulling him into a tight embrace. "See you soon, yeah?"

"Hopefully." John said. "Take care, Bill."

"You too." Bill said with a wave heading down further into the alley at a jog.

John watched him go with a smile and whispered to himself, "Bill Fucking Murray."

He turned and headed back toward the shop and dropped down in the booth across from his flatmate.

"I ordered your usual," Sherlock said not looking up from his phone.

"Thanks." John said happily. "So, what are we doing at this particular coffee house?"

"The suspect comes here each day and orders a Soy Latte with a raspberry shot." Sherlock answered.

"And how do you know that it is this particular shop?" John asked.

"This particular shop uses a unique type of raspberry flavoring consistent with the small stain that was on the victim's tie. Obviously, considering the approximate distance of the attack from this location and the viscosity of the stain, the cup had a small dribble of the raspberry flavoring and brushed up against the victim's tie. Only explanation."

"Brilliant." John murmured into his coffee. John felt his heart stammer hurriedly as Sherlock glanced up and fixed him with a warm smile.

"John!" Sherlock called bounding up the stairs. "It's Christmas!"

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"It's April." John answered but smiled as well enveloped in his friend's contagious mood. He was fixing a cup of tea as Sherlock whirled around the corner to stand near him by the stove. The grin set firmly on Sherlock's face of sinful. He was effervescent like this, glowing with energy and warmth. John felt his pulse increase rapidly.

"Solved the case." He said gleefully. "That was the most fun I've had in ages."

"So, how do you want to celebrate?" John said.

Sherlock's gaze froze him against the countertop and John had to swallow heavily as Sherlock stalked closer, "I can think of a few ideas."

Before John could even take another breath, Sherlock's mouth had covered his firmly. The kiss was warm and soft but insistent. John shuddered lightly as Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip gently. John licked tentatively at Sherlock's upper lip and felt Sherlock shudder in return as their tongues danced happily against one another. Sherlock had placed his hands protectively around John's waist while John cradled Sherlock's head and played with the unruly curls at the back of his neck.

And John KNEW that he should stop this and he KNEW that it was dangerous. It had been weeks since his talk with Murray but the thought process was still the same. He could hurt Sherlock, reveal himself, vamp out in front of him, scare him. But the only resistance he put up came when Sherlock became placing a line of molten hot kisses down his throat.

"I thought you were married to your work." John gasped heavily.

"Marriage is over-rated." Sherlock growled softly pulling John closer until they were flush against each other. John could feel Sherlock's erection straining eagerly against his own. He bucked his hips unconsciously and heard Sherlock moan deeply into his collarbone. "Your room?"

"Oh god, yes." John groaned. He turned, flicked off the kettle, and practically ran after Sherlock up to his room. Their mouths crashed together as the urgency of their arousal forced them past the point of politeness. John practically ripped Sherlock's clothes off in his hurry to connect more fully to that warm skin. Sherlock wasn't much more careful with John's. Within seconds, they were down to nothing but their pants. Sherlock hovered over John as he lay on his back cradling his flatmate's hip.

"John," Sherlock panted heavily. "I want this. So badly. Please tell me you want this too."

"I do." John answered pulling him down to kiss him passionately. "I want this so much, but I'm not ready…for that…yet."

Sherlock grinned like a kid on Christmas and kissed him fiercely, "Whenever you're ready, John. Right now, I just want to feel you."

John felt a wave of tension leave his body and pulled Sherlock down against him grinding his hips in the process. Sherlock moaned with pleasure as John whispered in his ear, "Go on then. Lube's in the top drawer. I need you against me, now."

Sherlock reared back and whipped off his pants and then helped John out of his. He pulled the lube out and applied a little to both his and John's erection. They didn't need much; they were both leaking pre-cum pretty liberally at this point. John moaned heavily as Sherlock lay over him once more and began grinding in earnest. John felt his thoughts scattered as the warm weight in his lower stomach dropped lower and lower. All he could feel was Sherlock's skin against his own, the pressure of their lust grinding smoothly and quickly on his stomach. All he could smell was the wonderful combination of scents that was Sherlock and sweat and sex. All he could taste was Sherlock's mouth and skin. All he could hear was Sherlock's moans and groans as pleasure raced through him burning hotly. And all he could see was Sherlock. His blown pupils, his open mouth, his shuddering breaths, his face contorted in such bliss that it made John moan all the louder in response. Soon the rhythm of their movements became erratic and staggered. John came with Sherlock's name on his lips and Sherlock followed quickly shouting John's name before collapsing onto top of him and panting heavily.

Sherlock rolled over and off him before placing a kiss lightly to his temple. He reached down onto the floor and wiped them off using his pants. Sherlock curled around John protectively and pulled him close. John dropped gratefully into unconsciousness feeling his flatmate's pulse gently against his chest.

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John woke up alone several hours later with a slight feeling of panic tugging at his brain. He just had a mutual wank and grinding session with his flatmate. Not just any flatmate either. An overly observant flatmate with sociopathic tendencies and a penchant for getting bored easily. He remembered what Sherlock had said before they completely bared it all, "I want this. So badly". But people said all kinds of crazy things when overwhelmed by horniness and erections. It was entirely possible that what Sherlock really meant was that he wanted someone in his bed because he was horny but didn't want anything other than a one-off. John felt his cheeks flame with embarrassment. God, all of the noises he had made. He was almost nauseous with the idea of encountering his flatmate today. But the idea of not seeing Sherlock today was worse.

Now that John had gotten a taste of his outrageous friend, he wanted him again. He wanted him so badly his heart ached. He needed to feel those warm hands caressing his hips, needed his hair tickling his chin, and his pulse beating lightly against his chest. He needed to feel Sherlock's arousal against him and, surprisingly enough, in him. He never thought he would want to go there with a man again after Henry and John wasn't saying that he would be comfortable with it anytime soon, but the urge was still there. The desperate need of it pushing against his bad memories and anchoring itself in his mind. But for any of that to happen, Sherlock actually needed to want it in return.

He sighed finally and pulled himself out of bed. John had always been brave and he wasn't going to stop now. He'd meet this new development head on, that is, after a long shower and armored protectively in a warm jumper. Within twenty minutes he was making his way slowly downstairs to the common area, he glanced around finally realizing that Sherlock wasn't actually in the flat.

John often kept his extra-sensory perceptions locked up tight. Like everything else about being a Vampire, it was relatively easy to separate out his new abilities with his old. With a thought, he could contain almost everything extraordinary and regain his average, pre-Henry life. Ninety-five percent of the time he chose to be completely normal, completely ordinary. It made him feel grounded and whole. He just shut everything else off. Today, however, curiosity got the best of him. He took a deep breath and shed his humanity. By scent, he knew that Sherlock had been gone for at least two hours which meant that he had left John just a half hour after they had both come: Slipping from his bed, showering (the smell of Sherlock's shampoo was overwhelming), and leaving within ten minutes.

He locked his senses back up tight and felt something burrow uncomfortably in his ribcage. Yeah, definitely a one-off.

He needed air. He grabbed his jacket and disappeared out into the twilight that was surrounding London. He needed to disappear for a while.

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Sherlock grimaced as he closed the door to 221b Baker Street. Mycroft had to contact him now of all times. He had to ask for the favor from that particular incident now, just minutes after being with John. That utter prat. Sherlock did let a smile flicker across his features as he remembered John's face and body wonton and aroused beneath him. He'd been trying to stifle those particular desires for months now but the need had been too much standing in their kitchen that afternoon. His heart swelled as a sense of peace washed over him. He wasn't sure what to expect when he kissed John, but the enthusiastic response in return was like music to his ears. Sherlock was unsure of the future for him and his flatmate. He didn't know what John would want or expect, but Sherlock had come to the conclusion as he felt John tense around him as his orgasm crashed through his body that this intimacy was something Sherlock would want to experience again and again.

He pulled out his mobile and looked at the text again.

Time to pay up, brother dear. Dr. Watson doesn't need to be woken up for this. Regent Park. 40 minutes. MH

Sherlock hurried toward the park. The sooner he was done playing errand boy for his insufferable brother, the sooner he could get back to John and the wonderful sounds he makes as he comes.

Sherlock found him sitting on a bench surrounded discreetly by seven different security personnel.

"Brother dear." Mycroft said, as Sherlock sat next to him on the bench.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"You'll receive a call from DI Lestrade in about twenty minutes." Mycroft began without preamble. "Messy business, really. I just need you to turn a blind eye on a few footprints on the south side of the house."

"You want me to protect a killer?" Sherlock asked.

"Goodness, no." Mycroft said with a chuckle. "The footprints aren't of the killer. They're of the man who killed the killer. We just don't want that particular knowledge to be found out. You'll no doubt easily identify the actual killer, but, unfortunately, there will be no trace of him. Fled the country most likely."

"Can't you clean up after your spooks yourself?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"He's not one of mine." Mycroft said. "It's a favor for a friend. I won't put any of my own people in danger, but having you conveniently not notice will clear everything up quite nicely."

"And why couldn't we discuss this over the phone?" Sherlock asked.

"Because then Dr. Watson would have accompanied you to the crime scene."

"So?"

"He may not be intelligent like us, but he is still observant enough." Mycroft said evenly. "No, your Doctor must sit this one out I'm afraid. It shouldn't take you more than a day to get it all cleared up."

"And then we're even?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Yes," Mycroft said with a grin. "Completely even. Problem?"

"I'm a bit surprised is all." Sherlock said. "Doesn't seem like an extremely big favor."

"Well, it's what I need."

"Fine. Done."

"Thank you." Mycroft answered. "Have a good day, Sherlock."

Mycroft left quickly after that. Sherlock watched as his security fell back and away from the park. He decided to wait at the park for the call from Lestrade. He was just about to send a text to John about returning later when Lestrade phoned.

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Sherlock dragged himself up the stairs approximately twenty eight hours after he had left the flat the day before. It was close to midnight so he was 73% sure that John would be in bed already. He had a quick shower and decided the only thing he wanted to do right now was curl up against his flatmate and breathe in his scent. He went to his room, changed into a pair of bottoms and a light t-shirt, and crossed the hall to enter John's room. He froze in the doorway as he looked at the empty bed confused. He had sent John several texts over the past day. John knew that Sherlock would be returning tonight so why wasn't he in the flat? He decided to sleep in John's room anyway. If it was anything truly important, John would have sent him a text. He drifted to sleep curled in John's sheets.

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"Ah, look." Mycroft said happily. "All healed. You can go now. I've taken the liberty of replying to Sherlock's many inquiries for you. Please be sure to read them over before returning home."

John grabbed his t-shirt and jumper dressing quickly before grabbing his phone and practically running from the building. All he wanted to do was go home, but he had to make a stop first. The procedure had drained him of blood and he wanted to take care of the ache in his belly before heading back. He thought about the past twenty-four hours as he headed for the nearest blood center.

John walked for about an hour before a black car slid to a stop in front of him. Anthea got out and motioned for him to enter. He slid into the car and watched the city as they wove through traffic. It was almost ten in the evening but London rarely ever slept. There was always so much going on. They pulled up outside a squat building in one of the sketchier parts of town. Anthea escorted him into the building and down a dimly lit hallway. She motioned to a door on the left and he entered it carefully. Mycroft was there sitting at a conference table. He didn't notice the square of pure silver before the door clicked behind him acting as the fourth side of the square. He felt the familiar tingles run up and down his spine as the metal throbbed at his presence.

"I've made an interesting discovery, John." Mycroft said rising from his chair and stalking toward the ex-army medic.

John said nothing as the purifying silver began to leech at his energy. This small amount of silver would take awhile to drain him completely of energy but it still felt like a thousand needles against his skin.

"Your service file was an interesting read." Mycroft continued. "It took some huge favors to get the original documents but I must say that it was worth it to find out the truth about you."

"What do you want?" John asked quietly.

"You're a monster, John." Mycroft said simply stopping right outside of the silver. "A monster that is sleeping with my brother. What do you think I want?"

"If you read my file, then you know exactly what happened to me, Mycroft." John said tiredly. "It wasn't my choice."

"I'm aware of that." Mycroft said. "I know all about your change, your success rate, your control. That's exactly why I haven't just had you beheaded and burnt."

John jerked his head at that last sentence.

"Yes, John." Mycroft said with a dark grin. "I know all about your kind. You're not the first vampire created for the use of the British Government. I have been aware of your kind for decades actually. Vampires are such an open secret, aren't they? Almost everybody knows. But the truth is the amount of vampires is woefully over-estimated. Turning a human is extremely difficult fraught with danger and the success rate is under 2%. That lower birth rate and the amount of infighting and power games that your kind enjoy so much mean that there are actually less than 10,000 vampires in the entire world. Hardly anything to start a war over that's for sure."

"So what exactly am I doing here then?"

"It's like I said," Mycroft continued. "You're not the first vampire under the control of this country. You are, however, the first monster to have any contact with my brother let alone live with him. You can see why I would be concerned."

"I would NEVER hurt him." John said loudly.

"Forgive me if I don't take the word of a monster as gospel." Mycroft said tightly.

"So, what?" John said. "You're just going to make me disappear?"

"No." Mycroft said evenly. "My brother would no doubt try to find you. He is rather fond of you."

"I'm sorry," John began. "I really don't know what you want from me."

"It's simple really." Mycroft began. "You want to stay with Sherlock. He wants you around. And I want a guarantee that you won't ever sink your vicious little teeth into him. If you want to stay with Sherlock, John, you have to do something for me."

"What's that?" John asked feeling light-headed.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and held up a capsule about the size of John's pinkie finger. It looked like it was made of clear plastic with a silvery liquid inside. "This is my insurance policy."

"Care to elaborate?" John asked again.

"It is a smart little invention." Mycroft said with a fond grin. "It is liquid silver nitrate encased in a specially designed casing. It is filled with enough silver nitrate to paralyze you for seven hours. More than enough time for any of my team to find you, retrieve you, and decapitate you."

"I'm supposed to swallow that?" John asked confused.

"Of course not." Mycroft scoffed. "It will be surgically embedded at the base of your spinal cord. If at ANY time, I feel like you are a serious danger to my brother, this handy capsule will be activated, crack open and release the liquid into your spinal column."

"I get to stay with him?" John asked hopeful. "You implant that and I get to go home?"

"Of course." Mycroft answered. "You don't sound too worried."

"I'm not." John answered simply. "Like I said, I would NEVER hurt him so I have nothing to worry about."

"Well, then." Mycroft said typing something on his phone. "Based on my estimation, it should take you around 23 hours for the wound to heal. We better get started."

Mycroft had been completely right. At twenty-three hours, the incision site was completely healed without even a trace of a scar. Vampires didn't scar. Healing was quick and the only objects that ever scarred a vampire's skin were White Ash and silver. That didn't mean the surgery didn't hurt like a bitch. He'd vamped out as they peeled the skin off his lower back and secured the tube to his spinal column. He'd never seen Mycroft Holmes so much as blink disconcertingly, but he couldn't help but smile when he thought of Mycroft's stunned face when his eyes got all red.

He finished off the pints of blood and made his way back to Baker Street. He was tired and sore. All he really wanted was to curl up with Sherlock and sleep for days. He entered the flat but didn't hear Sherlock in the living area. He took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, shaved, and walked quickly to his bedroom. He stopped in the doorway as he stared at the figure curled up in his bed. Sherlock looked so peaceful when he slept. John didn't second guess this opportunity to curl up against his friend. He changed quickly without rousing the consulting detective and slid slowly into the bed behind Sherlock. He pulled him close against his chest and breathed in the scent letting it ease all the tension in his muscles. Sherlock stirred at the contact and turned to face John.

"Hello." Sherlock said sleepily pulling John close for a chaste kiss.

"Hi." John answered happily.

"I have questions." Sherlock said trailing kisses down John's throat. "But I would much rather ask them tomorrow."

"That sounds like a plan." John said. "Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

With a final kiss, Sherlock turned back over and let John pull him close once more. They were asleep within minutes.

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Sherlock never enjoyed sleeping. Well, it wasn't exactly sleeping that he didn't enjoy, it was the waking up. It took him forever to throw off the smothering weight of sleep. He always felt slow and muddled. Ever since he was little, his mind would betray him in the first few minutes of consciousness. He would confuse the time of day, the location he was in, and what was reality from what was in his dreams. He was at his most vulnerable when he just woken up. So, when he woke this morning being held by someone his first reaction was to jerk away with a large degree of success. He jerked so suddenly that he elbowed John roughly in the stomach before losing his balance and falling off the side of the bed. Oddly enough, this didn't wake his flatmate, but as Sherlock's brain restarted and began functioning at full capacity he realized not only what had woke him up but also why John was still asleep.

John's face was tight with pain and fear. His body was covered in sweat and his features were pale and clammy. John didn't thrash about but he shuddered repeatedly and twitched roughly. As soon as Sherlock had pulled away, John had collapsed further into himself forming a tight cocoon in the duvet. John mewled softly and tears tracked down his cheeks. Sherlock lurched back onto the bed and stroked John's face gently calling out to him.

"John!" Sherlock said. "John. You're having a nightmare. You have to wake up."

John thrashed a bit against this contact but didn't pull away.

"John." Sherlock said firmly. "Wake up."

"I'm not ready." John wheezed. "Please, Henry. I'm not ready."

Sherlock tucked this knowledge away for further study before raising his voice and grasping at John's shoulders.

"John!" Sherlock called. "Wake up! Now!"

"Yes, Henry." John answered, his voice changing to a haunting monotone before he gasped loudly and lurched forward.

"John," Sherlock said softly, once again stroking John's cheeks lightly. "John, you were having a nightmare. You're fine."

John pulled away from his flatmate and raced toward the bathroom. Sherlock heard him retching and vomiting for what seemed like ages. He heard him stumble against the sink and brush his teeth three separate times. Sherlock sat huddled near the headboard waiting for him to return. He heard him walk drunkenly back to his room holding onto door frames, side tables, and walls on his way back. He didn't look Sherlock in the eye when he entered just collapsed onto the opposite side of the bed and curled into a tiny ball.

"John," Sherlock began quietly. "Are you alright?"

He noticed that John tensed before responding, "I'm sorry. They haven't been that bad in ages."

"There's no need to apologize." Sherlock said awkwardly. "It's all fine."

John smiled lightly at the use of the phrase before sobering again. "Did I hurt you?"

"What?" Sherlock asked confused. "Of course not. I'm the one who should be asking that question."

John looked confused before Sherlock continued, "I sort of elbowed you in the stomach when I woke up."

John rubbed his stomach absently but didn't acknowledge the statement. A silence filled with tension descended on the two. Sherlock took the time to pull out that knowledge he had gained from the experience and, with little tact and no sense of appropriateness, asked the question that was plaguing his thoughts, "Who's Henry?"

Sherlock did not honestly think that it was possible for John to become any paler, but he definitely managed it. John's face flickered from confusion to anger to fear within seconds and finally settled on abject desolation. For a long time, Sherlock didn't think that John would answer but after a few minutes John did.

"He was someone I met in Afghanistan." John said evenly.

"Were you close?" Sherlock continued.

"Very." John answered honestly. There was no reason to hide this from him. He had obviously heard enough to form an educated guess.

"He doesn't sound like a very good type of person, John." Sherlock managed between clenched teeth. He wasn't sure where this anger was coming from, but he felt it deep in his chest smoldering darkly.

John smirked painfully but didn't actually reply. He didn't need to. Sherlock could read it on his face.

"Is that why you weren't ready the other night?" Sherlock asked trying to be discreet but desperate for the information.

"It's complicated, Sherlock." John said quietly.

Sherlock felt that anger boil hungrily in his gut. He knew (he was a consulting detective, of course he knew) what that man had done to John. He could read it in John's face and body language and lack of communication.

"Where is he now?" Sherlock said unable to mask the rage.

John glanced up startled at the question and the emotion behind it. "I honestly have no idea. I haven't seen him in five months."

"I could find him, you know." Sherlock said feeling the roots of a plan take hold in his head.

"Sherlock, no!" John snapped loudly. "I never want you to ever come in contact with Henry ever, at all!"

Sherlock blinked back surprised which made John deflate quickly and continue, "Henry is a part of my past. I don't want him in my future and I certainly don't want him in yours. Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed heavily and let his plan die untended, deleting the information quickly. He scooted close to John and laid a hand on his knee. John moved closer as well and soon they were facing each other crossed-legged on top of the duvet. John reached out and stroked Sherlock's cheekbone gently letting an echo of his normal, wry grin play across his features.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Sherlock asked.

To answer, John pulled him into a deep kiss wrapping his hands around Sherlock's neck and running his fingertips through his hair. Sherlock sighed gently and leaned back pulling John on top of him. Instinctively, he knew that pining John to the mattress wasn't the best idea right now. He let John lead spending his time mirroring his flatmate's movements with his hands resting gently on John's hips. For a long time, they simply kissed. John felt anchored to the present when letting his senses analyze everything about kissing Sherlock. Finally letting the memory of Henry fall back into his subconscious, he began to kiss more urgently, letting his passions and arousal come to the forefront and smiled as he felt Sherlock respond enthusiastically.

Leaving a trail of kisses in his wake, he quickly had Sherlock out of shirt, bottoms, and pants. Sherlock was panting heavily responding to John as he swirled his tongue deliciously across his nipples. Sherlock erection was full and hard as John's lips finally teased the sensitive skin where his hip met thigh. Moaning deeply, Sherlock tried to form a coherent sentence, "John…you don't…if you don't want…it's fine."

John slid up against his skin letting the rough cloth of his shirt slide against Sherlock's penis causing him to growl from the friction. John kissed him fiercely and pulled away grinning, "Sherlock, you have no idea how much I want to do this."

Shimmying back down Sherlock's body, he wrapped his hand around his penis lightly and lapped at the head warmly. Sherlock's hips jerked roughly, but John had already pinned them down with his other hand. Sherlock threw his head back and yelped as John traced a wet line from the underside of his erection to the very tip before taking as much of him as he could in his mouth. Sherlock wasn't going to last and he knew it. He hadn't had a blow job in years and he was already turned on by the extended make out session. Clutching the duvet with one hand and using his other hand to cover John's hand on his hip, he felt a deep warm weight settle in his stomach. His mind went into pleasure overload as he felt John swallow him down and suck loudly.

"John…I'm going…to…John…JOHN…OH JOHN!" And with those words Sherlock's entire body shuddered and bucked wildly as his orgasm tore through him setting every neuron on fire with pleasure. John pulled every pulse from him and gently let him go as the over sensitized flesh ached with feeling. Sherlock panted, struggling to control his breathing as John pulled his pants back up and kissed him lightly on the forehead before curling against his side. As soon as he had his body back under his control he turned to John and kissed him fiercely.

"I need to taste you. Now." Sherlock said as he traced kisses across John's jaw and throat.

John felt his thoughts fly away as the thought of Sherlock going down on him sent sparks of arousal to his already swollen erection. Sherlock did away quickly with his clothing and traced his chest with his hands before settling gently between John's thighs.

"I've never had…" John panted with want and anticipation. "I've never had a man…you know…"

Sherlock felt something dark flutter in his stomach before being washed away with pure joy. He was going to be the first man to take John this way. Determined to have it be a memorable experience, he placed a series of moist kisses from the base to the tip as John writhed beneath him. Sherlock fondled his balls while swirling his tongue against the head listening to John's breath hitch and groans issue from his gorgeous lips. John's balls were already molten and pulling up with the tension of John's impending orgasm.

"Sherlock…" John moaned. "Holy fuck. Sherlock, I'm going to…"

Sherlock took him deeply into his mouth and hollowed out his cheeks just before John's hips jerked and he flooded Sherlock's mouth with come. Sherlock lapped up any escaping fluid and slithered up to cradle John to his chest.

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"It's fine. It's all fine." John said firmly to his reflection in the mirror.

He'd received the text message an hour ago from Bill. Apparently, they had tracked Henry as far as Nepal before they lost him. They still felt that John was as protected as possible in the heart of England but they wanted to keep him informed just in case. He took in his own features as he tried to regulate his breathing once more. His mouth was a tight grim line with stress wrinkles radiating out. His skin was pale and clammy with dark bruised skin sagging from beneath his eyes which were bloodshot and droopy.

John hadn't been this stressed in his entire life. Not only was he receiving disturbing intelligence about that douche-nozzle of a Vampire, but he was also trying to juggle his job, the heightened surveillance from Mycroft which meant an increase in friendly kidnappings, his cases with Sherlock, and his complete confusion regarding his current relationship with his flatmate. It was a photo finish for which stressor claimed the number one spot for most likely thing to drive him completely batty. He'd have to go out again and get some more blood soon. His body was burning through the hemoglobin like water on a hot day. This was the fifth time in two weeks that he needed to replenish. No time like the present and all that. He finally turned away from the depressing sight and hurried back to his room to grab his wallet before heading out into the fair spring weather.

It was a gorgeous day unusual for London this time of year. Partially cloudy with a light breeze. Deciding to walk to the nearest station as opposed to using the Tube, he let his mind percolate on some thoughts that had been nagging him for weeks. Of course, it was all about Sherlock.

He thought long and hard about the physical intimacy that had sprung up between them within the last few weeks. He still had no clue what had provoked Sherlock to initiate that kiss despite devoting hours upon hours of time trying to rationalize several scenarios. He ran through them like a film reel in his head: boredom?, excitement?, adrenaline?, attraction?, genuine affection?, love? He wasn't complaining, of course, but he really couldn't find a motivator that fit for all of the facts. The information just didn't add up.

John wasn't a consulting detective by any means, but he would give it a go if it meant that he would give himself a bit more peace of mind. The facts were as follows:

Sherlock had in the past four weeks initiated physical intimacy twelve times ranging from a modest snog to rutting on the couch to mutual blowjobs.

Sherlock never initiated intimacy outside of the flat.

Sherlock never spoke about his "feelings" during the acts. He would declare that he needed John or wanted something but it always involved a physiological component.

Excluding the night of Mycroft's little procedure, Sherlock had never slept with John through the night.

John never caught Sherlock glancing at him from the corner of his eye, invading his personal space more than he usually did, or being more considerate of the flat's up-keep than normal.

Sherlock certainly hadn't reined in that sharp, caustic wit of his either.

Sherlock liked to hold John's hand as he came. He practically demanded it. In the last few seconds before his release, he would scramble around on the sheets to grasp John's hand, sigh heavily, and relax into pleasure.

No matter where they ended up collapsing in post-coital bliss, Sherlock always shifted to John's right side so as not put pressure on John's hurt shoulder.

In the few seconds before John drifted to sleep after their romps, Sherlock would kiss John lightly on his right temple.

John was still no closer to forming a coherent theory when his mobile buzzed.

Case from Lestrade. Will send address shortly. SH

John had enough time to go to the blood center, buy a pack of gum, chew seven pieces at once, and drown them with a bottle of soda before Sherlock sent the address.

He caught a cab to a swanky part of London and was shown through by one of the officers. He was headed back toward the kitchen when he heard Sherlock's voice, "There's nothing to be particularly embarrassed about, Donovan. Sexual release is a biological imperative. Now choosing Anderson as your bedfellow, now that is embarrassing."

"At least I have someone, Sherlock." She said angrily. "Nobody would ever actually care about you."

"Fucking is just fucking, Donovan." Sherlock said coldly. "Caring about the other person is irrelevant and unnecessary."

"So, you don't care about the people you sleep with?" She said sounding completely astounded.

"Of course not." Sherlock answered firmly. "That would be idiotic."

John felt something twist painfully in his gut and was just about to retreat when Lestrade came up behind him, "Watson, we're in here."

John schooled his expression expertly and entered the kitchen. Donovan had apparently exited the kitchen through another door because the only occupant of the room was Sherlock. Sherlock seemed a bit startled to see him.

"John!" Sherlock said glancing around nervously. "When did you get here?"

"Just now." John said evenly. "I made great time."

"Right." Sherlock answered attempting to read his face and failing. "Excellent. Cause of death?"

John ran through his medical analysis quickly before turning to his flatmate, "Despite the multiple stab wounds along the neck and shoulders, he definitely died of strangulation. All of the stab wounds were post-mortem."

"Thoughts?" Sherlock said still sounding a bit out of it.

"Probably inflicted the wounds to hide some sort of identifying characteristic from the strangulation." John said simply.

"Right." Sherlock answered finally pulling a sarcastic grin. "Why don't I fill you in on all of the things that Scotland Yard missed?"

"Actually," John said cutting him off. "I was shopping when you texted. I have some perishables outside. I have to get them home. Recap later?"

He glanced at John again but nodded slowly.

"Right." John said. "Bye."

John didn't care that Sherlock knew he was lying. He would never have this conversation with John in front of the Yard and he would never stop his investigations to manage any uncomfortable social situation. This gave John at least another hour before Sherlock would return to the flat. John needed some time.

He caught the Tube back to Baker Street and began processing this new information. The hardest realization about all of this was that he wasn't surprised. Hurt? Yes. Disappointed? Yes. But, surprised? Not really. John let a pained grin settle along his features. This was always possibility. The facts had never alluded to any actually feelings on Sherlock's part. Just a biological inevitability. Get horny. Have sex with flatmate. Sherlock would probably be able to pontificate for hours on the logical selection that he had made when finding sexual release with John. Given the proximity, the mutual trust, and ease of access, John was the most rational choice.

No, Sherlock didn't care about John. It seemed John was destined to be the sexual plaything of heartless men. No, that wasn't fair. He couldn't compare Sherlock to Henry. Sherlock didn't understand emotions enough to always understand the implications that his actions might have. Henry liked it.

Physiological motives aside, John was going to have to stop things with Sherlock. John was just broken enough to not want to leave Baker Street, but still had enough self-respect to demand reverting back to their previous state of being. Friends. They would just have to go back to being friends. John wasn't okay with viewing Sherlock as a convenient outlet for his horniness, so Sherlock would have to find someone else. They could go back to normal. It would be fine. It would all be fine.

By the time he came firmly to this conclusion, he was off the Circle Line and walking back to Baker Street. The lights were on in the flat upstairs but he assumed it was Mycroft coming to gloat loudly and with an impressive vocabulary over John's stupidity. With a sigh, he unlocked the door and made his way to the first floor. It wasn't until he threw the door open a little harder than expected that his senses snapped to awareness.

"Hey, love." A voice said from near the fireplace. "It's been a while."

John threw open that cranial door that held his senses locked down and began to shift quickly to run when the compulsion that he had run from before, the compulsion that he'd been free from for six months skittered sickly across his nerves, "Don't even, love. Get in here and close the door."

"Yes, Henry." John said, practically choking on the words. He glanced at the vampire and felt the bond between them stitching itself back together. Henry looked exactly the same. Those eyes gleaming with triumph and madness. His skin was flush from recently feeding and his smile was predatory.

"I've had a lot of time to think about things, John." Henry said prowling around John as he stood fixed to the center of the room like a statue. "And I've decided to forgive you. I can't really blame you for that horrible little incident in the desert, can I? You hadn't even been informed of what was going to happen until it was too late. That doesn't, however, mean that there won't be consequences for your actions."

John felt a shudder pass through his entire being at the mention of punishment. It had only ever been that one time that Henry had forced himself into John. After that night, John was meticulously careful about obeying every command, suggestion, or compulsion that Henry gave. If John behaved and proved his devotion, Henry was gentle, even loving. John never protested again and was always willing to prove his love. But the memory of his first time, made him green with nausea. The idea of that happening again was almost enough to break John. To turn him back into that mindless pleasure toy from before.

"What do you want, Henry?" John said quietly.

"You left, love." Henry answered. "You could have looked for me. Located me easily, but you didn't. That hurt. It makes me question your devotion."

"I…" John began.

"Save it." Henry snapped. "I really don't care to hear your pathetic attempts at a lie. I've come to the conclusion that you need an incentive. A reminder as to what's at stake if you decide to attempt disobedience again."

"Henry," John began. "I was wrong…"

"Your flatmate seems like a delicious fellow," Henry said changing the subject. "I wonder what his scrumptiously pale skin would look like bathed in scarlet."

John felt his blood run cold. The threat was so obvious that if Henry had beaten him over the head with it, it wouldn't have been easier to read. Of course Henry would know. The minute they were in the same room together, he would be able to pick up John's feelings for Sherlock easily. He was probably mentally flicking through John's exploits with the consulting detective at this very minute. John could practically hear the click of his cage sound around him meeting Henry's gaze, "What do I have to do?"

"You're mine, love." Henry said finally closing the gap between them to grip John's neck with both hands. "Prove it."

There was no compulsion this time. It was John's decision to make. He could turn away and begin running for his life dooming Sherlock in the process or he could commit to spending the foreseeable future with Henry. Of course, for a man like John Watson, there wasn't even a choice at all.

He rose up to kiss Henry tentatively on the lips. Henry pulled back with a dark grin, "I said 'Prove it', love. That's hardly a resounding 'yes'. Perhaps I should get Sherlock to show you how it's done?"

John felt something shrivel in his chest as he once again closed the gap between Henry and himself. He gripped Henry's shoulders and pulled their bodies flush against one another before claiming Henry's lips with his own. He felt Henry growl heavily as he responded with force. He shoved his tongue into John's mouth and wrapped an arm strongly across John's hips tilting him back painfully. John fought to simply keep up as Henry attacked him with his teeth, tongue, hands. He was reeling from the moment when he heard someone bounding up the stairs.

"John!" Sherlock called throwing open the door and then freezing suddenly.

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Sherlock froze in the entryway to their flat, his mind whirring with the sight before him. John was just breaking apart trying to extract himself from the embrace of his friend? with a spectacular shade of red spreading across his features when Sherlock's gaze was drawn away.

"You must be Sherlock." The man said with a jovial grin. He was gripping John at the waist in a very possessive gesture before stepping toward Sherlock to shake his hand.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the hand; letting a cold, hard expression settle on his face, "And you are?"

"John," the man admonished lightly. "Aren't you going to do a proper introduction?"

"Yes." John answered, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Sherlock, this is my ex, Henry. Henry, my flatmate, Sherlock."

Henry either didn't notice or didn't acknowledge the anger that flickered across Sherlock's face as he laughed openly and pulled John close again, "Not ex for much longer, love. I fully intend to remedy that."

Sherlock felt something deep and dark rise from the pit of his core at the sight of this man nuzzling John affectionately in their flat. This man who had done awful things to John. And John just let him do it. Like his admission about Henry meant nothing. Like the past few weeks meant nothing. Like Sherlock meant nothing.

"Well," Henry continued. "I had better get going. I'll pick you up tomorrow for lunch around noon. You're welcome to join us, Sherlock. Walk me out, John."

"Yes, Henry." John said oddly before following him out of the flat and down to the ground floor. Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat as he heard a very enthusiastic parting from the two downstairs. He tossed his coat into the corner before collapsing onto the couch sprawled out like a mummy in wrappings.

Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium…

Sherlock began listing all of the elements in his head to rein in his emotions. He let his mind process and compartmentalize the last twenty minutes of his life and was more than ready to deal with the situation when John decided to join him back upstairs. At least he thought he was until he saw John's kiss-bruised lips.

Rage boiled in his gut as he turned his caustic temper on John, "He's a bit out of your league, John. You must be a spectacular lay to have kept him satisfied."

John visibly paled at Sherlock's attack and leaned heavily into the doorjamb, "Sherlock, please…"

"It's a compliment, John." Sherlock said with bite. "Your arse must be akin to Valhalla for a man like that to ever want something like you."

"Stop." John said forcefully, brushing away moisture that was threatening to pour down his face.

"No." Sherlock said angrily. "If you're going to make stupid choices, then I reserve the right to comment on them as I see fit."

"You don't even know what you're talking about." John said vehemently.

"Oh, please, John." Sherlock said dryly. "I'm a fucking genius. I always know what I'm talking about. It's your intelligence that I seemed to have over-estimated in this case."

"Just. Stop." John said, pacing across the floorboards.

"He hurt you, John." Sherlock said angrily. "If you want to be just another statistic in that sad stereotype, then go for it. I'll look forward to solving your murder when he inevitably kills you."

"You don't even care, Sherlock!" John shouted finally. "You don't even fucking care. I heard what you said to Donovan. You don't give one flying fuck about me, so please don't pretend to be affronted on my behalf."

John turned and raced up the stairs slamming the door to his room behind him. In his haste, he was unable to see the expression on his flatmate's face. Sherlock was riddled with guilt at this announcement. He had rationalized that John couldn't have overheard their conversation. There was no way that Sherlock wouldn't have heard him coming down the hallway. He threw his head back in frustration against the armrest of the sofa and felt something sick settle in the pit of his stomach.

Everything that he had said to Donovan had been one hundred percent true. Sherlock had never cared one iota for anyone he had fucked in the past. They were all just useful warm bodies for his inevitable sexual urges. So, he wasn't technically lying to Donovan. What he had conveniently left out of their conversation was how John was different. He hadn't actual fucked John so the statements still stood as factual, but everything that had happened with John felt more…personal. He was more than just physically attracted to his doctor. He was mentally and emotionally attached as well. Hell would freeze over before he would ever admit that to Sally Donovan, however.

But John had overheard and was hurt because of it. So, when his abusive ex-boyfriend just conveniently showed up to reclaim his affection, John apparently jumped at the chance. One abusive dick was as good as another. The only difference between him and Henry was the means of abuse. Henry's was physical, but Sherlock's was emotional.

Sherlock would fix this. He had too. He had to show John that he cared. Truly cared for him. Sherlock couldn't say what exactly he wanted out of his new relationship with John but he knew that it went beyond just sexual release. He needed John.

With that settled, he began rummaging around the flat for his forceps and mouthwash. John wouldn't be willing to talk for at least six hours and Sherlock always thought better when multi-tasking. Besides, Sherlock's experiment with body fat disintegration in mouthwash solution was due for a check-up.

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