Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is the property of Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and based on the original stories of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I'm just borrowing it to give Sherlock a set of fangs and John a higher sense of deduction than he's accustomed to.

A/N: This started out as a personal challenge to write a vampire fic without using the word 'vampire', along with the popular fan theory that Sherlock is a vampire.


Sherlock always looks away when he laughs. He only ever laughs with John. But John has never seen him do it. By now it's become mutual; they both look away from each other when they laugh. But John knows Sherlock always looks away first.

Sure, he smiles. With his lips tight over his teeth. His teeth. John has never seen Sherlock's teeth. When he speaks, it's too fast and too clever for John to keep up with mentally let alone consider the physical side of it.

The next day he went with Sherlock to a crime scene and instead of listening to the brilliant deductions fired in lightning speed at Lestrade, John found himself staring at Sherlock's mouth, waiting for his teeth to show, even if just for a second. He never saw them. Not properly. Not enough to confirm or deny his suspicions.

"Problem?" John looked up from the mouth that questioned him to the eyes that regarded him. A paler green than his skin tone. And that's saying something because Sherlock's the palest man he's ever met. Other than Mycroft. Maybe it runs in the family. Whatever it was.

John shook his head.

"No" he said "It's all fine"

Sherlock eats little. He sleeps less. But John gets the feeling he doesn't really want to. Like it's a show put on for John's sake. Mrs. Hudson constantly complains about Sherlock's diet and that's he's far too skinny to be healthy. But Sherlock just twitches a corner of his lip upwards and makes some comment about his brother's eating habits, which is complete and utter bull, in John's opinion. Mycroft wasn't even overweight, and had an even worse aversion to food than Sherlock. A fact that John had learned over the 5-course dinners at the most ridiculously extravagant restaurants in London, the sort with ice sculptures and satin table cloths, where Sherlock barely made it through the second course and Mycroft had left his plate completely untouched.

There's always blood in the kitchen. Always fresh. Courtesy of Bart's morgue. Or more specifically; Molly. Experiment, Sherlock would say and John wouldn't question it because a liter of blood in the oven is nothing compared to a human head in the freezer.

Freezing. That's what it feels like to John when Sherlock touches him; pulling him along by the hand, gripping him by the shoulders and that one time he got knocked out and woke up to find Sherlock's stone cold hands on him face, trying to rouse him and that other time where Sherlock got knocked out and John going by his medical instincts reached for his friend's wrist. Sherlock had wrenched his arm free from the former army medic's grasp almost immediately, but it had been too late, John had already noticed two things; one, it felt like dry ice, and two, there was no pulse. None, nil, zilch, nix.

A mistake, that's all it was. Just a mistake. At least that's what he kept repeating to himself internally, till Lestrade arrived on the scene and starts ranting at Sherlock about almost getting himself killed and demands John if Sherlock was alright. John wordlessly nods and 'forgets' mention his 'mistake'.

Three days later, after the case was over, they went to the cinema to watch a black and white romantic comedy, with Sherlock critiquing everything from the lead player's acting to lighting man's position.

And then right at the point where the protagonist and the girl kissed, with Sherlock yammering at his ear about utterly predictable the plot was...


And that wasn't part of the movie.

37 people died that evening, 8 were receiving treatment for severe injuries. There were 45 casualties total. The police disregarded the statement of the strung up ticket girl who swore she had sold 47 tickets because she was quite obviously in shock and besides it was a ridiculous notion that anyone could've walked away from this catastrophe unharmed.

John turned off the telly. He didn't know much other than that Moriarty wasn't responsible for the bomb just this once and it was a random act of vandalism and that he and Sherlock should be plucking daisies right about now but somehow neither of them has a scratch on them.

Asking Sherlock would probably be the dumbest thing he's ever done, but that's just what he does. At least that's what he thinks he does. He's not really sure what happened but he remembered Mycroft being there, when he asked Sherlock…what did he ask him? He doesn't remember the question. Or the answer for that matter. All he remembers feeling calm, too calm.

Then he woke up, which was odd, because he never went to sleep to begin with and people don't just fall asleep where they stand. Sherlock is screaming, yes, literally screaming at Mycroft who just stands there smiling in a way that really wasn't good.

That night, he strips down in front of a full-length mirror borrowed from Mrs. Hudson and checks for teeth marks. He finds none. He checks again after a fortnight, then every fortnight, then it became once every couple of days, now he checks every morning after he wakes up. It's become something of an obsession. But there's never a bite on him.

He doesn't write any of this in his blog. His therapist was sure to call him back in. She wasn't too happy about the fact that he was chasing criminals around London with a self-proclaimed sociopath, and the fact that he had stopped coming in for their sessions of the advice of said sociopath's equally, if not more, sociopathic brother. And blogging about how Sherlock looks over John's shoulder to see what he's typing, breathing a little too hard, leaning in a little too far, his mouth inches away from John's neck…

And that's fine on its own. The problem is the part where John freezes, expecting sharper than normal incisors to dig into his skin any moment now.

It never happens. But John always holds his breath.

Apart from that everything else is normal, well, as normal as it is for them anyway. Sherlock makes amazing deductions and John makes tea, and pretends that Sherlock doesn't pour it away as soon as he's out of sight. He keeps making tea because that's what keeps him from giving himself a paper cut and waving it in Sherlock's face just to see how he'll react.

Mycroft abducts him again and John still doesn't cower from him, even though he had more reason to do so than ever.

They stood in silence for awhile, Mycroft twirling his umbrella the whole time. Round and round and round. It made John's head ache just to watch.

"Are you afraid, John?" His friend's brother, who had come to be his friend too, asks John finally.

"I don't know" The honesty tastes bitter in the back of his throat. "I don't know anything anymore"

He goes home and finds Sherlock polishing his bow, with his violin balanced less than steadily on his knee.

"I had a chat with your brother"

"Oh?" His friend calmly finished polishing and placed the violin and bow carefully in its velvet case.

"Learn anything interesting?"

"Well… his hairline's receding" It wasn't. It never did. Just as Sherlock's hair never grew. Just as the rest of their physical features that never changed. Ever.

Sherlock let out a surprised laugh, almost forgetting to turn his head away from John. Almost.

"Tea?" John offers and Sherlock nods, smiling, lips over his teeth.

A/N: I'm sure I lost track of more than a few features there are of vampires and maybe added a couple that's not really there. It's all pretty damn vague, I admit, and dark-ish. But I hope you enjoyed it anyway.

Reviews are much appreciated. Thanks guys!