Chapter Text
"But you should have told me it was the blood donor we were after," John scolded as he shut the front door of 221 Baker Street against the bright, blustery Halloween night. He was still grinning like a fool, high on the thrill of the chase, the rust-crisp smell of autumn leaves, and the bite of cold air in his lungs. And, as always, Sherlock. "Funny."
Sherlock gave his long, red satin-lined cape a flap. It made a sound a bit like an offended laugh whilst Sherlock transitioned his proud little smile into a smirk. "Why else would I have chosen such a ludicrous costume?"
"Because it suits you, and you know it?" John gave Sherlock an appreciative once-over. His traditional vampire costume was of course perfect in every detail, flamboyantly Gothic, rich fabrics and a sweeping fall of cloak for Sherlock to swirl about. Even a collar to turn up. It really should have been ludicrous, overstated as it was, but on Sherlock it just sort of…worked. "Because it's sexy?"
Sherlock paused in stripping off his white gloves, looking genuinely surprised. He ran one hand down the front of his crimson velvet double-breasted waistcoat and wrinkled his nose. "You think this is sexy?"
John shrugged the quiver of arrows off his shoulder and dropped it gently onto the hardwood floor. "You have seen yourself, right?"
"How?" Sherlock lifted a coy eyebrow. "I cast no reflection."
The smug little smile re-appeared when John snorted a laugh. "Funny and sexy. Bloody hell, Sherlock, if I wasn't much help with the case tonight, it's your fault. You. In…that. Very distracting."
"I wouldn't worry, John. You're rarely that much help."
John pursed his lips and nodded. "I'd tell you to bite me, except I'm going to need you to put your teeth back in first. And we're going to need to be naked."
"You're serious, aren't you?" Sherlock gave him a sidelong look as he draped his gloves over the side of the banister. "You really find this absurd costume…sexually inspiring. A walking corpse that can only be held in its grave by a stake driven through its heart. Isn't that a bit macabre?"
"Says the man who keeps severed heads in the fridge."
"Not because they're sexy," Sherlock said primly.
"Sherlock, everyone thinks vampires are sexy."
"Do they? Why?"
"Well, you know," John shrugged. "Beautiful. Predatory. Mesmerising. Impossible to resist. That sort of thing."
"But that's me already."
"Modest," John added softly, grinning at the floor.
"This, on the other hand is just…ridiculous." Sherlock fluffed his billowy white sleeves. "Affected. Ostentatious. Far too dramatic."
"Mm, you're right. Now I think about it, those aren't qualities I find attractive at all."
Sherlock gave him the suspicious glower that meant he wasn't quite sure whether or not John was taking the piss.
John rubbed his nose, hiding his smile, and pushed away from the door. "You were amazing tonight."
Sherlock drew himself up and gave his curls a shake worthy of the most romantic of wind-kissed heroes, accompanied by a blatantly insincere casual shrug. "Yes."
"Come here."
John swallowed his chuckle at the little flourish of cape that accompanied Sherlock's ready movement into his arms. He slid his hands up Sherlock's velvet-covered torso and pressed up for a kiss. The tip of Sherlock's nose was still cold from the chilly walk home, but his mouth was as warm and eager as ever, and the welcome John found there made his toes curl with satisfaction.
Even through an awkward and tentative beginning, even through snits and melancholy and bad temper and the occasional anatomical malfunction, Sherlock Holmes was the most attentive, incredible, ridiculous whirlwind of a lover John could ever hope for. Any suggestions John made or wishes John expressed were diligently catalogued, researched, and applied with all the enthusiasm of a new experiment. Of course John had learnt to rile him out of his own brain, often wildly so, and took great pride in each and every occasion where Sherlock had let go of his precious control. In fact the best part of sex with Sherlock was that he so often seemed utterly overwhelmed by John's simplest touch, the sound of his voice, his kisses. It made John feel ten feet tall and made of molten gold. It made him feel loved. Even if Sherlock never said the words, John felt adored.
Even so, he often had just the shade of a doubt that Sherlock was still holding a little bit of himself back in their lovemaking. John thought he made Sherlock as happy as Sherlock made him. He wanted to give that adored feeling back to Sherlock tenfold, thousandfold…all the folds. He wanted his Sherlock without any vestige of caution, without any restraint. He wanted him to know nothing he might desire of John would break him, would break them.
Perhaps it was time, John thought as he dug his fingers possessively into the firm muscles of Sherlock's shoulders, to try a new experiment.
"I mean it, you know," he muttered against the corner of Sherlock's jaw. "I want you to wear the costume."
"I'm already wearing the costume."
John pulled back far enough to give Sherlock a look.
"Oh." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I see. You mean…?"
"It would be a shame to let it go to waste."
"You want me to have sex with you."
John drew Sherlock's hips toward his own, pressing himself against Sherlock's thigh. "That's news to you?"
"As a vampire."
"Yes. God, yes," John growled. He tipped his face up for another kiss, but Sherlock was frowning over the top of his head with a distracted expression. "What's wrong?"
"No," Sherlock shook his head, gave an airy little wave of one hand. "It's fine."
John sighed and sank back onto his heels. "What is it?"
"I'm just reviewing the rules. For obvious reasons, I've retained minimal information on the topic. It wasn't necessary for the case."
"The rules."
"Of being a vampire. For example, how did I get in?"
"What?"
"Vampires have to be invited, don't they?"
"Let's just say I let you in."
"Knowing I'm a vampire."
John shrugged. "I think I mentioned impossible to resist."
Sherlock frowned down at John's attire. "And do vampires feed on elves? Is the blood compatible?"
Scowling, John drew away. "As I've told you, at least four times now, I am not an elf. I'm Robin Hood. This is a Robin Hood costume."
"Ah. I see." Sherlock's forehead crinkled thoughtfully. "Shouldn't you be wearing tights?"
John sighed. "Not Errol Flynn. Russell Crowe."
"Who?"
"No, I should not be wearing tights."
"I will need to consider different strategies for your predation in that case." Sherlock frowned, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully as he began glancing around the landing and up the stairs, sharp eyes assessing all the dark and shadowed spaces. "If I'm facing a man easily capable of shooting a wooden stake through my heart from a distance."
"Sherlock, love," John pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "You're overthinking it. And I'm not going to be an el—I'm not going to be Robin Hood. I'm going to be me."
"Oh." Sherlock nodded a little too quickly, the way he did when he was feeling a bit out of his depth. "But…I just thought I should take into consideration all the relevant—"
"Sherlock." John made sure he recaptured Sherlock's focus both with his firm tone and with the squeeze of his hand around Sherlock's bicep. "It's actually fairly straightforward."
Sherlock's brow furrowed attentively. He nodded at John to proceed.
"It's like this." John dropped his voice. "It was a good case. This has been the best damn Halloween I've ever had. I'm worked up. You look incredibly hot in that getup. And I want you—in the costume—to hunt, subdue, bite, and fuck me. And, Sherlock…" He ran his hand gently down Sherlock's arm, ending with a soft stroke of his thumb against the bare skin of Sherlock's wrist. "I want it rough. Are we clear?"
Sherlock stood silently, frozen and staring.
"Sherlock?" John licked his lips, feeling a glimmer of uncertainty at Sherlock's blank expression. "We don't have to do this if—"
"I'm ready." Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. "We can begin. Have we begun? I'm ready now."
John's delighted grin spread back into place. "Not much of a hunt if I'm just standing in front of you is it?"
Sherlock gave him a fierce glare. "Then go away."
"Wear the teeth," John grinned over his shoulder as he jogged up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to lurk in the darkness below. Now that was a little more like it. At least Sherlock was a bit irritable now—a properly annoyed vampire. John licked his lips in anticipation. As amazing a lover as Sherlock was, angry Sherlock was, well…breathtaking.
This was going to be good.
He left the lights in the flat off—more atmospheric—and shed the most obviously Sherwood-themed elements of his own costume as he focused on getting himself into character. He tossed leather bracers, wide belt, and his sueded brown vest onto the sofa as he scanned the room. Tugged open on the laces at the v-neck of his tunic, letting the shirt fall open, temptingly he hoped. Now…he rubbed his hands together…he mustn't make it too easy for his pursuer, but if he did want to be properly stalked he should probably at least make himself scarce long enough for Sherlock to get into a tenable stalking position. He made his way down the hallway and busied himself in the loo and then in their bedroom for several minutes, tugging off his boots, setting out lubricant and hand towels within easy reach on the beside table.
He stilled when he caught the sound of the brief, soft scrape of wood against wood. Kitchen? Chair? Something on the table? His heart started to beat a little faster.
He could still hear the night's strong winds whining through the streets. The light from the waxing moon was filtered through scudding clouds, making the shadows seem like they were moving. It was a bit eerie, wasn't it? Dangerous, even. Who knew what might lie waiting in the dark? As a solider he knew how to hold his own in a fight, but sometimes even he could be overpowered. And as a soldier he also knew how to give a command, but he knew how to take one, too. Especially if the command was issued in a deep, rolling purr of a voice.
Barefoot, skin tingling, John crept out into the hallway, head cocked and mouth open, listening intently.
"Is someone there?" he called out, trying to sound a bit trepidatious instead of just rather gleefully horny. He padded silently toward the sitting room, eyes wide in the dim blue light.
There was a soft pop directly in front of him, and a cloud of grey erupted in his face.
John's startled inhale sucked enough of the smoke into his lungs to double him over, coughing. "The fuck?" he choked out as the column of smoke was swept aside—mostly—by a swoop of red and black satin.
Sherlock stepped grandly in front of John. He flung his arms wide, wall-to-wall in the hallway, spreading his cape like the wings of a giant bat. He lifted his chin and stared down his nose with dramatically widened eyes. Opened his mouth to reveal his white plastic fangs. And hissed.
John clapped a hand over his mouth, muffling the sound as a final cough turned into a bark of laughter.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
Oh god, John thought, as his eyes began to tear, don't laugh.
Sherlock dropped his arms and pulled out his plastic teeth, scrutinising John closely. "John, I am very much hoping that flushed expression indicates arousal."
Still with his hand over his mouth, John nodded, managing a small sound of encouragement.
"Good." Sherlock nodded, re-inserted and adjusted his plastic teeth, and resumed his grand vampire stance. "Becausthe I am going to sthuck you," he announced in a bold, resonant tone, then frowned, startled, down at his own mouth as if betrayed by the unexpected sounds it had just made.
John erupted into helpless giggles.
Sherlock stared at him, looking utterly scandalised. "What?" His cheeks darkened noticeably. "Sschut up!"
John curled in on himself, laughing so hard he had to lean against the wall to maintain his balance.
"Oh, for god'th…" Sherlock pulled the teeth out and flung them on the floor, snarling. They bounced away with an unimpressive little tick tick tick as he shoved his way past John, stalking furiously toward the bedroom.
"S-ss-sorry, I'm sorry," John stammered, trying to grab at Sherlock's cape. The effect of the apology was spoilt by an undignified burble of laughter at the end. "Wait!"
The bedroom door slammed shut.
John gulped in a breath of air, wiped his eyes and followed Sherlock, who was stood in the centre of the bedroom, jerking angrily at the ties of his cape.
"I assume we're finished here," he snapped, turning his back on John as he slung the cape from his shoulders and onto the floor.
"I'm sorry! It's just…it was…Sherlock, really, I'm sorry."
"So you keep saying," Sherlock clipped out, flinging himself onto the edge of the bed. He yanked off one black boot and threw it across the room. "This was your idea."
"I know," John said as he knelt in front of Sherlock, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's wrist as he went for his other boot. "Sherlock, stop."
"No. I am taking this off. As it is quite clearly, if you will recall my earlier assertion, not sexy at all."
"Sherlock." John softened his voice. "Look, I'll do it. Let me do it." He reached down and slid Sherlock's other boot off his leg, giving his woolly-socked foot a reassuring squeeze. "See? I'm sorry. I'm sorry I laughed. It was…it was…"
"It was not good."
"Well, no, it's just…" John bit down on his lip as another bubble of laughter threatened. He slid his hands over the tops of Sherlock's thighs, trying to make the motion soothing. The one component of Sherlock's own clothing his costume had incorporated were his black suit trousers, and the fabric felt sleek and familiar beneath John's palms. "You were, um, adorable."
"Oh, how wonderful."
"Yes. Wonderful. You are wonderful. And adorable." John crawled a little closer to Sherlock, snugging himself in between his long legs. He tugged the front of Sherlock's shirt free from his trousers and rubbed his nose along the strip of bare skin he'd exposed. He felt Sherlock's abdominal muscles tense beneath his touch.
"Adorable was not one of the stated parameters," Sherlock scowled. "This was a ridiculous idea. It didn't work."
"I thought you'd like it." John glanced up as he unfastened Sherlock's trousers.
"I've clearly disa—" Sherlock's teeth snapped closed with a sharp click. "This wasn't your desired scenario."
John unzipped Sherlock's flies and nuzzled at the elastic waistband of his black cotton pants. "The desired scenario was having sex, and that is still going to happen."
Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. "Oh, you think so?"
"You're angry with me," John said.
"Good deduction," Sherlock smirked out a mocking impersonation of John.
John looked down, licked his lips. "Well, your cock isn't."
Sherlock frowned down at his erection and made a sharp, dismissive motion with one hand. "That isn't fair. It's always on your side."
"Then I guess you're outvoted," John said with a serene smile. "Because this is what we do after a case in which you have been brilliant."
Sherlock sniffed. "I'm always brilliant," he muttered at last, letting John pull his shirt off over his head. "Why are you smiling?"
"Because I'm happy. Because I love you and you make me happy." He raked his fingers through the tangle of Sherlock's hair. "Kiss me."
Sherlock looked pointedly away toward the far corner of the room, his expression sullen. "No."
"Fine. Then get on the bed."
"I'm already on the bed," Sherlock said peevishly.
John knelt again and hooked his fingers under the waistbands of Sherlock's trousers and pants as he nodded toward the pillows at the head of the bed. "All the way."
Sherlock scrunched his face into a resistant pout, but nevertheless pushed himself backward with his arms, lifting his hips out of his trousers. John pulled trousers, pants, and socks the rest of the way off as Sherlock, now gloriously naked, scooted the rest of the way back to lean against the headboard.
Feeling quite pleased with the results of his efforts thus far, John climbed onto the bed, straddling Sherlock's outstretched legs. Sherlock folded his arms across his chest and glared at John belligerently.
"Sherlock, you laughed at me when I pretended to pull you at that bar."
"Of course I did. Your technique was rubbish."
"My technique?" John pressed his palms against Sherlock's hips, rubbing his thumbs in teasing circles just to either side of the warm weight of Sherlock's erection. "Sherlock, what was the smoke about?"
Sherlock frowned. "Vampires appear in a cloud of smoke."
"No," John giggled, shaking his head. "No, they don't."
"Don't they?"
"They really don't." John moved back on the bed, running his fingertips down the crease between Sherlock's clenched thighs. "Open up, love."
Sherlock glowered down his nose at John, lower lip jutting impressively. "What for?"
John slid his hand up, a long stroke up the shaft of Sherlock's cock, ending with a squeeze at the head. He dropped his voice. "Because I'm going to make it all up to you."
Sherlock regarded him coolly for several long moments, then sighed and flung one arm over his face. His thighs parted to John's questing fingers. "If you must," he conceded with a dramatic sigh.
Humming his approval, John leaned over and took Sherlock in his mouth.
+++
Sherlock was gone from the flat the following morning by the time John awoke. He'd left no note, which was hardly atypical behaviour, but John suspected that despite the rather impressive orgasm John had coaxed out of him last night, Sherlock might still be feeling just a bit embarrassed over the failed vampire experiment.
John did feel quite guilty for laughing. And for not feeling guiltier about it than he did. Raging egomaniac that Sherlock was, there were still some areas where he was less than sure of himself. John was quite happy to give Sherlock all manner of grief in any situation where his pride was in danger of running wild, but he would never wish to actually wound him. Knowledge of someone else's vulnerabilities—especially someone like Sherlock who would have the world believe he had none—was a powerful thing, to be wielded with caution.
He let Sherlock alone, wherever he was, to get on with his day's experiments (or just his general avoidance of John, if that was the case) since he had some errands of his own to catch up on. He didn't text until late afternoon, after Greg Lestrade rang and John accepted his invitation out for a pint, when he was actually starting to be just a bit concerned at the lack of contact.
Where are you? Everything OK? Fine. Busy. -SH
John lifted an eyebrow. All right, then. Terse, but that was also hardly atypical. He let Sherlock know about his plans with Greg, but received no further communication. John let it go, but let his back brain start working on ways he might soothe any still-ruffled feathers when he did see Sherlock again. After all, if there was anything he was good at—apart from being an excellent doctor, competent soldier, and talented blogger, of course, he thought as he adjusted the collar of his plaid button-up under a warm navy jumper—it was managing Sherlock Holmes.
They met at Greg's local and sequestered themselves in a quiet booth near the back of the pub to exchange their Halloween stories. John told Greg about the evening's case—what he'd decided to call the Case of the IV League for his blog—and made him cry with laughter over his description of how dashing vampire Sherlock had found himself engaged in battle with a surprisingly athletic Little Bo Peep at the fancy dress party. An extremely undignified wrestling match over her blood phial-filled shepherd's crook had ensued that Sherlock had only managed to win by virtue of the felonious Ms Peep's lace petticoat getting tangled in the ribs of a decorative skeleton. Greg in turn had John chuckling over his tales of some of the more unfortunate party-goers who had spent the night in the Met's lock-up, and then in tears of his own with his impression of Mycroft eating his first toffee apple.
"Why on earth did Mycroft have a toffee apple?" John snickered.
"Oh, I brought one home. That is, I brought one round to his. In the spirit, you know." He grinned wickedly. "'Cause Mycroft Holmes and food on a stick…how could that be a bad thing?"
Mellowed by both beer and company, John was feeling pleasantly warm and more than a little blurry around the edges by the time he and Greg called it a night. He pulled out his phone and tried texting Sherlock once more before they left their seats, but again received no reply. Sulky sod, he thought cheerfully enough, stuffing the phone into his jacket pocket. But as he and Greg pushed their way through to the exit, a prickle of unease chilled the back of his neck. He put a hand on Greg's arm, stopping in the centre of the now-busy pub floor to look around over both shoulders for…something.
"All right?" Greg asked, frowning as he tracked John's scan of the room.
There was nothing. Other pub-goers, going about their business, laughing and chatting in an entirely un-menacing fashion. John shook his head. Alcohol-induced imagination. "Yeah. Sorry. Just—nothing, I guess."
"Halloween ghosts follow you out?" Greg grinned, widening his eyes.
"Must've done," John grinned back, shrugging. He waved Greg farewell as they exited to the street, headed in opposite directions. "Take care, mate."
The first night of November was making itself known with an icy sting in the air, oddly still in comparison with the almost playful bluster last night's windy, cloud-scudded All Hallows' Eve had offered. Even the normally boisterous neighbourhood around Greg's local seemed subdued under the oppressive chill. Although the street was still crowded, the conversations were huddled and quiet, the laughter between companions kept private and muffled.
John had about a quarter mile to walk to his intended tube station, and as he rounded the corner onto a more commercial street the social sounds and smells and light faded away completely. Shop fronts for jewellers, designer furnishings, boutique fashion, were locked down for the evening, although John could still see pale, faceless mannequins staring sightlessly through glass display windows. On the opposite pavement one other fellow pedestrian, chin tucked into bright red muffler and hands stuffed into grey parka pockets, was making his way at a fair clip in the direction John had come from.
He had worn no scarf of his own, but John assumed a similar tuck of chin and hands into the warm pockets of his brown wax jacket and a similar pace toward the lamp at the far end of the lonely street. It was so quiet he could hear the faint squeak from the left heel of his wearing brogues as he walked, and the whisper of the fabric of his clothes seemed to echo off the faces of the long line of low-slung, grey-paned brick buildings. Cold as it was, he almost wished for a brisk wind to rise just to stir some sound.
He was halfway down the street when a second set of footsteps joined him on the pavement.
John glanced back over his shoulder.
A tall figure, male, slim, was silhouetted against the gold and lavender lights just past the entrance of the busier street behind him, moving at an easy, unhurried pace.
John continued on, then frowned as his skin prickled another warning at him.
This time he stopped and turned to look. The figure behind him stopped, too. The prickle of awareness that had been teasing the back of his neck skittered down his spine, and for the first time in the cold night air, John shivered. At least forty yards away, the silhouetted figure stood in still silence. Watching. Even at this distance, he felt the man's focus. On him. The hair on his forearms stood on end.
He had no weapons at hand but his own body, but then…that was usually enough. He set his jaw and lifted his chin. If someone wanted a go at him, he was ready. Always.
The figure turned aside and stepped into a pool of shadow, vanishing.
John swallowed, waiting, watching closely for movement. When he saw nothing but darkness, heard nothing but the sound of his own controlled breathing, he forced himself to turn, to keep walking. He took a deep breath, blew it out again, and let the lingering haze of three pints and a whiskey relax the muscles he'd clenched a moment before. Maybe, as Greg had jokingly suggested, he really was just letting himself get spooked.
He had just stepped into the welcoming circle of light from the street lamp when he heard another sound behind him, and when he turned his heart almost leapt from his chest. The man was just behind him. John's hands curled into fists.
The man stepped forward into the light.
Sherlock.
John's exclamation of relief died in his throat.
Sherlock, but…not Sherlock. Even in the low, amber-tinted light, John could tell before he even blinked that something was off. He was deathly pale, for one. His eyes had gone completely colourless, moon-silver surrounded by a darker grey rings.
"Are you all right?" John blurted, one hand flying automatically toward the centre of Sherlock's chest. Was he ill? Injured? Not…not drugs. Please, no.
The unsettlingly altered Sherlock tilted his head curiously. His hair was dark, darker, and wild. Even his eyelashes seemed thicker, blacker. He wore no coat, no scarf, just a simple black shirt, tails loose over a pair of faded jeans, clothing far too light for the weather. No wonder John hadn't recognised his silhouette.
"Ahh," he exhaled softly as his pale eyes lit with understanding, and as his mouth opened the light caught the sharp, glittering white tips of his long incisors.
John forgot how to breathe. "Oh my god," he whispered.
"I've startled you," rumbled a deep, strangely-accented voice that was also not Sherlock's own. Long, dark lashes swept down toward pale cheeks as Sherlock's gaze drifted from John's eyes to his mouth. One corner of Sherlock's lips curled up in a soft smile that might have been gentle were it not for the avaricious gleam in his eyes. "That was not my intention."
"Oh my god," John repeated stupidly.
"Not quite." Sherlock took another slow step toward John. The half smile lingered as he caught John's hand, which was still hovering in the air between them. His fingers were ice cold.
John's heart leapt back to life, beating like a the heart of a rabbit caught under the swooping shadow of a hawk as he stared open-mouthed at Sherlock.
The tips of Sherlock's fingers brushed over the pulse point on John's wrist and he smiled, another quick flash of sharpened tooth. "Relax," he murmured, amused. "I'm just returning your phone." He pressed a cool, plastic rectangle into John's palm.
"My phone…" John's free hand slid to his now-empty jacket pocket. His eyes never left Sherlock's. "You were at the pub."
Sherlock gave John a slow, sly blink. "I was thirsty."
Oh my god. John managed, barely, not to say it aloud this time. Sherlock. You…perfect…brilliant…
Sherlock spun his body smoothly into John's, pressing into John's chest as he raised both John's hand and his phone and pressed a button on the front. "This is you, is it not?"
John looked down as his contact information, back lit in soft blue-grey, winked into view on the mobile's view screen.
"That's…that's me."
"You should be more careful," Sherlock spoke the warning close to John's ear in a low voice that seemed to roll down his back like melting wax. "You're intoxicated."
"I…yes…a bit…"
Sherlock bent his head lower, and inhaled slowly, deeply. The barest hint of breath stirred the delicate hairs on John's neck as Sherlock whispered, barely audibly, against John's skin, "Intoxicating."
The tip of a cold thumb brushed along the ridge of John's jaw, and a hard shiver shook his entire body.
Sherlock stepped away from him abruptly, and John swayed forward, only catching himself from actually falling into him with a quick step. Sherlock observed his graceless stumble with a dispassionate expression.
He gave John the merest hint of a nod. "I wish you a safe journey home." Another slow blink, and a gleam reappeared in his eyes. "John Watson. 221B Baker Street."
He walked past John without another word, leaving him wide-eyed and speechless, and disappeared into the night.
Blinking after him, John realised his legs were trembling with…everything. Shock. Excitement. Elation. And, yes, even fear. Oh god. Sherlock. You fucking wonder.
The game was on.