It was only as he pulled the trigger, his heart going a mile a minute, that John remembered how easy it was to take a human life. In the half a second it took for the bullet to leave his gun, break through the window and lodge itself in the chest of the cabbie, John realised the insanity of the situation. He'd met the man what, a day ago? And he was willing to kill for him? Barely able to breathe, John stared through the open window, watched as the cabbie (obviously the serial killer they'd been searching for) crumpled to the floor, the window ledge obscuring him from view, John knew he shouldn't loiter, he should run, but Sherlock's shocked expression was quickly wiped and replaced by something almost animal, predatory. It wasn't directed at John, he knew that, but it pinned him in place, chilled him to the bone. John couldn't have moved if he tried.

The dark thin figure that was Sherlock Holmes, mad man extraordinaire, circled twice, presumably assessing the body in the analytical way John had seen him do before, then a wicked grin on his face, he swept down, out of view towards the cabbie. The logical thought was that Sherlock was talking to him (assuming he was bleeding out?), hissing some whispered secret or drawing answers out of his final breaths, but the hairs on the back of John's neck prickled, something told him that was not the case. He heard sirens in the distance. He couldn't stay here. Pocketing his gun, he ran, only joining the growing crowd outside when it was a throng of police officers and paramedics.

The excitement was obviously still coursing through him because despite the insanity, he laughed with Sherlock ("We can't giggle it's a crime scene!"), the look Sherlock gave him when they stopped laughing was... odd. It was warm and friendly on the surface, a lonely man who had finally found a friend, but there was a flash of silver in his pale eyes that made John think he was hungry. John shivered for no apparent reason under the heat of his gaze.
"Dinner?" He suggested.
"Starving." Sherlock agreed, a weight to the word. "End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open til two." He offered. "You can tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle." John rolled his eyes but he followed, pulse still alarmingly high from the thrill of it all. This madness was his life now. Sherlock walked close to him on the way to the restaurant, and John might have been imagining it, but he swore Sherlock kept sniffing him.

"Coming down with a cold?" He asked, the third time he thought Sherlock inhaled a little too sharply.
"No." The detective replied bluntly. "What cologne are you wearing?" Ah, so he wasn't going to deny it then, he had been smelling John - then again, if that was the oddest thing about Sherlock Holmes, John would eat his hat.
"Sweat and adrenaline." John answered playfully. "I'll get a shower when I get home."
"Stay at Baker Street tonight." Sherlock suggested, apparently trying to sound offhand. "It's closer, and you are moving in, aren't you?"
"I am yeah, but all my stuff's still at my place." Sherlock shrugged in dismissal.
"I can lend you a T-shirt to sleep in."
"I uhm... s'a bit weird, isn't it?" John said awkwardly, half-thinking that there was no way in hell Sherlock's clothes would fit him. John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock leaned in and whispered, right against his ear.
"You killed a man for me tonight, and yet wearing my clothes is inappropriate?" He asked, breath ghosting over the shell of John's ear. John felt the same chills as before, the look on Sherlock's face as he'd hovered over the bleeding cabbie burned into his mind.
"I uh... I guess not." He mumbled. Sherlock pulled back and nodded his head.

"We're here." He said, as calmly as he could. John looked up at the takeaway, having momentarily forgotten where they were going.
"Right... yeah food." John refused to admit the detective had thrown him with that move, he was a soldier for god's sakes, he didn't cower, but Sherlock leaning in so close had been like a shot of adrenaline in the heart, the same kind of reaction he got in immediate danger, fight or flight instinct... and John had a funny feeling he'd quite enjoy the fight. John shook the thoughts from his mind as they sat down in the deserted takeaway-come-diner. Sherlock ordered for them both and John did not question how Sherlock knew what he'd like - the man was a bloody genius and he could read people like a book. He supposed, vaguely, in the back of his mind, that he ought to feel uncomfortable with how close Sherlock sat to him, their legs touching from knee to thigh, but no, it felt (oddly) like a date. Well, if it was a date he ought to document it...

"C'mere." John instructed, shuffling closer before their food arrived, he fished in his pocket for his mobile phone and held it up.
"Ah... what are you doing?" Sherlock asked, having been okay with John pressing slightly closer, yet frozen at the sight of the phone.
"Taking a picture, first case and all..." Sherlock's hand darted forward and closed over John's, lowering the phone he'd raised to take the photo.
"I don't like having my picture taken." The detective said grimly. John blinked.
"Seriously?" He asked, almost incredulously.
"Seriously." Sherlock dead-panned.
"I just thought... Christ if I looked like you..." He trailed off awkwardly. Sherlock smirked a little.
"And how do I look?" He asked coyly.
"Well... all... brooding and mysterious..." Sherlock's eyes were lit up mischievously, and John felt more than a little foolish. "Oh stop looking at me like that, you know damn well you look like a god-damn model, all... coat and cheekbones." John muttered, gesturing vaguely at the man's visage. He was saved the embarrassing awkward conversation after that when their food arrived.

John was famished, and half way through wolfing down his Hoisin duck and noodle meal when he realised Sherlock had barely touched his, prodding his Dim Sum around his plate with a chopstick.
"Thought you said you were starving?" He slurred through a mouthful of duck, realising belatedly that it was probably not attractive to talk with his mouth full. Sherlock smiled wryly.
"Turns out I'm not as hungry as I thought I was." He answered coolly. John raised an eyebrow but didn't question it, killing people obviously made him hungry so he continued scoffing the meal - which at this level of hunger might as well have been manna from heaven.

"I can always predict the fortune cookies." Sherlock put forward when John was chasing the last lump of meat around his plate.
"No you can't."
"Sometimes." Sherlock amended. John rolled his eyes, Sherlock might be brilliant but he was not psychic - if he could truly predict the fortune cookies - it was educated guesswork and nothing more. The detective waved his hand at John's cookie and said "Immediate danger in your future." with the same menacing silver glint in his eyes. John frowned and broke the cookie open, freeing the piece of paper. Written in both English and Chinese were the words
"Looks can be deceiving. Beware a tall, dark, handsome stranger."
"Told you." Sherlock said with a smirk.
"Lucky guess." John mumbled.
"I never guess!" Sherlock objected, affronted.
"Yes you do." John grinned.

"Go on then, what does yours say?" John queried, leaning in while Sherlock stared at his cookie for a long moment as though the answer lay in the sweet shell and not within.
"Are you sure you want to know?" He asked. John nodded, fairly certain he did want to know - what could a Chinese fortune cookie have to say that he didn't want to hear? Sherlock picked up the cookie and held it in his palm, making sure to look John in the eye as he spoke. "According to the ancient wisdom of Eastern confectionery... I will be getting lucky tonight." His voice was almost a growl and the desire in his eyes was nearly overwhelming but it was laced with something else, something darker, something John was hesitant to label. He pulled away and nodded, drinking deeply from his glass of water.

"Yeah well, good luck with that." He murmured awkwardly, cursing his own face for the blush he felt creeping up his cheeks. Apparently the attraction was mutual but being propositioned by a strange man in a restaurant was not something he was used to. Sherlock glanced back at the cookie. "Go on then, open it." Sherlock didn't need telling twice, he cracked the cookie in two and abandoned the halves, fishing out the crumb covered strip of paper. John read it aloud with a laugh. "Good food is the key to true happiness!" He chuckled. "Sorry mate, don't think you're getting lucky tonight."
"Perhaps you and I have very different definitions of the term 'lucky'." Sherlock observed, gathering his things and seamlessly gliding to his feet. Full of Chinese food, John clambered into a standing position with much less grace and finesse.

It was after midnight, and the January air bit at them as they ventured out into the cold, John envied Sherlock's long coat, the collar of which he'd turned up against the bitter chill. Baker Street was not particularly long, and their journey was a short one. They did not talk, John mulling over the night's events and trying to process the information Sherlock had just given him - the man had all but offered to have sex with him and God knew John hadn't seen any action since he was well... in action, he ought to jump at the chance - male or female, an orgasm was an orgasm, but there was something distinctly off about Sherlock Holmes.
"Ah..." Sherlock announced, breaking John from his thoughts as they arrived at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock surveyed the building as though it were brand new. He threw John the keys and John fumbled with them, his hands clumsy with cold as he unlocked the door.

"I just realised." Sherlock said, following John up the steps to the door but hovering over the threshold. "You've actively decided you're moving in. As of today, this is your home." His eyes wandered, examining the door frame as though it held a new mystery.
"Yeah..." John agreed, stepping into the relative warmth of the entrance hall, still Sherlock loitered at the doorstep.
"Well, may I come in?" Sherlock asked, in his most charming tone.
"You live here too, you nutter." John laughed cluelessly, turning to face Sherlock who did not move, his figure backlit by the orange street-lights, casting a long dark shadow into the hall.
"Will you invite me into your home, John Watson?" He asked.
"What are you, a vampire?" It was said as a joke but the mood whiplash was dizzying, Sherlock's features, which had been a perfect mask of polite charm, flashed briefly to something inhuman, fear and possibly anger contorting his face, then just as quickly as it had appeared the look vanished, his expression a mask and eyes alight with unbridled delight.

John gulped.
"Oh..." He said, realisation creeping up on him - creeping was the right word, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his heart leapt into his throat, or it might as well have done, his pulse beating a violent tattoo against his neck. Sherlock smiled politely.
"May I enter?" He asked again, coolly. Despite what could only be described as unholy terror, John's response was immediate.
"Yeah, come in." Ridiculous, everybody knows you don't invite a vampire into your home... but then again, John was of sound mind - vampires don't exist, his logical brain knew that - yet the look on Sherlock's face said differently. Sherlock stepped over the threshold in the most anti-climactic fashion, John didn't really know what he'd expected, a bolt of lightning? A flurry of bats? Evil maniacal laughter and fangs to sprout from Sherlock's canines? No. Nothing of the sort, just a man coming into his flat late at night. John almost laughed - obviously Sherlock was joking, right?

"I'd have come in anyway, you know." Sherlock told him conversationally as they ventured up the stairs to their flat.
"And if I hadn't invited you?" John asked, curiously, wondering if Sherlock was really a creature of the night or just seriously unhinged.
"I'd have been powerless, but I would have entered anyway. Feeding is a very sexual thing." Sherlock purred, taking the keys from John with a brush of gloved fingers as they reached their door. "And as with all things of a sexual nature, one must garner... consent." John shivered and he had a nasty feeling it was nothing to do with the temperature. He shucked off his jacket and hung it up by the door as Sherlock removed his coat.

"You have your doubts." Sherlock observed calmly, peeling off his gloves.
"Well yeah, no offence but..." John mumbled, the cogs in his head spinning at a million miles a minute... the body of the cabbie, Sherlock had swooped down over him, had he been...
"Your phone." Sherlock said firmly. John blinked but fished his phone out of his pocket, prepared to hand it to Sherlock but he shook his head, unwrapping his scarf. "All the proof you need will be in the photograph you're about to take..." Sherlock instructed. John had to admit he felt a little foolish but he held his camera up, found Sherlock on the screen and pressed the button. The picture came up almost immediately - the fireplace of 221B.

"Weird I must have... let me try again." John said with a frown, raising the phone once more. Sherlock stood still in front of the skull, his reflection perfectly clear in the mirror - but as soon as the shutter went down he vanished from the photographic evidence, leaving another picture of just their fireplace, John knew he hadn't missed him this time because the skull was clearly in the shot. Sherlock smiled calmly.
"Handy actually. Makes it very easy to slip in and out of places, never did like CCTV, lucky for me, CCTV doesn't like me either." He explained with a smile.

"Go for your shower, there'll be a t-shirt waiting for you on your bed when you've finished." John blinked, daring to look at the man... no, the creature, in front of him. He looked no different than he did earlier, tall, thin, pale, dark hair in startling contrast and almost silver eyes - cool and collected, bloody gorgeous as far as men go. John gulped once more.
"Right..." He murmured.
"Goodnight, John." Sherlock said, disappearing into the downstairs bedroom. For a long moment John stood stock still, his body frozen but his mind racing. This was madness, pure madness and nothing more. Obviously he was over tired or Sherlock was having a laugh or... no, as he wrested his body from its immobility and dragged himself up the stairs towards the shower, he knew somehow, in the pit of his stomach, that this was real. He was living with a creature of the night and he ought to be terrified, yet... if Sherlock had wanted him dead he'd had plenty of chances. Hell the man had been trying to seduce him at one point.

Oh. Oh obvious. He'd said it himself.
'Feeding is a very sexual thing' The two went hand in hand. John shed his clothes hurriedly and stepped under the spray of the shower, the heat penetrating his icy skin and warming him up. Because the thought of being bitten, drank from, used, should definitely not be sexy, but somehow his heart rate had picked back up with physical effects, his cock half-hard under the stream of hot water. It would be foolish to pursue it, yes, Sherlock was interested, he'd made himself perfectly clear but John was not going to put himself in danger just to get laid, he wasn't that desperate. A quick soapy wank and he'd go to sleep.

Go to sleep, in a flat with a vampire a few feet below him... perhaps, if John didn't give Sherlock what he wanted, he would just take? Dear lord these thoughts were not helping his growing erection - and John's body's reaction to his dark mindset was beginning to worry him. He reached over for the soap only to realise there was none, a bottle of shampoo on the top shelf that he had to stand on tiptoes to reach. Sherlock did not seem the type to skimp on personal grooming ('do not think about his looks, Watson! Not the point. Vicious bloodsucking creature, remember, sexy or not') the mint shampoo an expensive brand John had never really heard of, proclaimed to revitalise damaged hair and split ends. He toyed with using it as lubricant but washed his hair first and was glad he hadn't gone ahead with that idea, the stuff tingled and he wasn't entirely sure it was a good thing, oddly cooling despite the heat of the shower, he didn't fancy the thought of his testicles stinging the way his head was.

He washed the foam from his hair as quickly as possible but the shower was already starting to go cold and he hadn't so much as touched himself. The towels were laid out over the radiator and blissfully warm as he wandered back into what would become his bedroom, sure enough there was an overly large T-shirt on his bed. Odd, John hadn't heard Sherlock come upstairs. He vaguely entertained the notion that Sherlock had changed into a bat and flew up with the T-shirt in his mouth. Daft. He smiled to himself and pulled his boxers back on before putting the T-shirt on. It smelled of Sherlock, slightly chemical with a hint of cigarette smoke. He climbed into bed, his erection having somewhat flagged, but it only took him a few minutes to decide sleep was not on the agenda. He was too wired, there were too many questions spinning in his head and every time he tried to answer them on his own his pulse rose and his dick twitched.

Maybe a cup of tea would calm him down? As soon as the idea reached his brain he was on his feet and half way down the stairs. On his way to the kitchen, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end again and a shiver ran down his spine, he turned to see Sherlock's bedroom door, closed. A wooden door should not spook him. Damn it, if John was going to live here, he refused to live in fear of inanimate objects. Resolve strengthened, John's feet began moving almost of their own accord, drawn towards the bedroom like he was sleepwalking, and his fist was poised to knock at the door before he'd really had time to think it through.

His last thought, before he knocked was 'this is a spectacularly bad idea'. His knuckles had barely brushed the wood when the door creaked opened, Sherlock standing in nothing but a pair of black boxers. Fuck. Okay, there goes that whole resolve thing.
"Yes?" Sherlock asked, looking far sexier than anybody who wasn't technically alive ought to.
"Uh... you're out of soap." John said, knowing how stupid he sounded. Damn it. Sherlock's mouth formed a smirk almost habitually.
"Oh, am I?" He asked, sounding mildly amused. John would not blush, he would not cower, he was a fucking soldier. He cleared his throat.
"Yeah, just thought you ought to know." He said boldly. Sherlock surveyed him long and hard before stepping aside.
"Would you like to come in, John?"

No. No John would very much not like to come in, he didn't want Sherlock to suck at his neck and or other places he didn't want to feel if that skin was as cold as it looked and he didn't want to get a stiffy at a stranger's door in the middle of the night, but despite all his inner mental protests, he found himself inexplicably following the vampire into his lair.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and continued to watch him like he was the most interesting thing in the world. John straightened his back and held himself in a military like stance, well... sort of, he didn't think he'd ever stood to attention while uh... standing to attention so to speak. Sherlock raised his own hand and bit his thumb gently as he circled John slowly, the way he had done before swooping in on the cabbie. John was no coward, he held his posture, aware of Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of his head, looking right through him.

"When you look at me like that..." John said, when Sherlock had finished his walk around John. "I'm not sure if you want to eat me or fuck me." A smile played at the corner of Sherlock's lips and he stopped worrying his thumb for a moment.
"A little of both, I think." He said coolly. John nodded. Right. They were clear on that then. John felt very much as though he was on display, and oddly okay with that fact, nobody had ever looked at him with such raw desire before. "Why are you here, John Watson?" Sherlock asked eventually.
"I could ask you the same thing." He countered, strong in the face of danger. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"You're here of your own accord, I did not summon you." He sounded mildly offended at the implication, still toying with his thumb between his lips as though restraining himself. John shook his head.
"No, I know why I'm here, I mean... I know your secret." He said, voice never faltering. "I can't imagine many people do, yet... here I am. Unharmed. Why?" John questioned, tension in his shoulders from standing so alert.
"You figured it out on your own. You're not as much of an idiot as I thought you were, that in itself is a wonder." Sherlock's tongue flicked out to lick absently at his thumbnail, John did not allow himself to be distracted by it.

"So, you don't intend to kill me then?" He asked.
"You're still alive, aren't you?" Sherlock countered. "You can turn around and walk out this door right now, you can go upstairs to bed and I won't so much as lay a finger on you." He promised. "But I can hear your heart pounding... your blood is singing to me, John." He purred, stepping slightly closer. "And it's not fear I smell on you, adrenaline certainly, laced with the obvious arousal." Sherlock's silver eyes flicked down to John's tented boxers before locking with John's own blue eyes. "You smell of sex and danger. It's intoxicating. You're not nearly as afraid of me as anybody else in your shoes would be."
"Should I be?" John's voice had dropped a little, but it was still firm.
"Probably." Sherlock shrugged. "I am, however, capable of restraint. You say no to me now and I will go out and find sustenance elsewhere." He reassured, starting another slow circle of John's body.

"And if I say yes?" John thought it prudent to ask. Sherlock was behind him and John felt him stop.
"I'm sure we can come to a... mutually beneficial arrangement." Sherlock mused. "It would be convenient, certainly."
"That's what this is then, convenience?" John asked, determined not to shiver at Sherlock's eyes on his back.
"For now." Sherlock answered immediately.
"Does it hurt?" John asked, breath catching in his lungs. Sherlock moved slightly closer and drew a fingertip down John's neck. John was painfully hard now, and he was beginning to understand what Sherlock had said about his blood 'singing', his pulse was no longer a steady beat but a stream of beats on top of each other, a rhythm all its own.
"I wouldn't know, I've never been bitten." He breathed against John's skin, bringing him out in goosebumps. "Natural anaesthetic though, shouldn't hurt for long."

"Anaesthetic? I'd lose consciousness then?" He questioned, he could feel Sherlock's fingers at his sides, itching to touch his skin but refraining for now.
"No, only a small dose. Dizziness at most." Sherlock pressed his nose against John's neck and inhaled deeply. "Do you have any idea how tempting you are?" He murmured into the vulnerable flesh at his neck, John keened into the touch, Sherlock's skin was not cold, but certainly cooler than John's own.
"Why don't you just take? If it's what you want? Since when did a vampire need permission?"
"I don't need permission. I'm asking for it anyway." Sherlock muttered, pressing himself closer, an insistent erection nudging at the small of John's back - different but not unpleasant, sexual tension was sexual tension after all, and there was so much of it in the room it was cloying, John's breath seemed permanently lodged in his throat and if his heart beat any faster it might burst. Every point of contact between their skin felt as though it was burning, and the danger - god, the danger was obviously a major turn on for him.

Well, if it all went wrong he'd address it in therapy later, for now he was caught in a moment, aware that he was at the mercy of this dark and possibly murderous creature and somehow completely okay with that.
"Decision time, John." Sherlock murmured, his tone deeper and more desperate than before, tilting John's chin upwards and exposing a long length of throat. "You can still walk away." John gulped. One last question.
"Any... long term side effects?" He asked, 'like becoming a vampire myself' remained unsaid, Sherlock chuckled softly, cottoning onto the hint of fear behind that question where there had been none in the others.
"You've been reading too many horror stories. No, that's not how it works. Slight weakness and fatigue in the morning, nothing long term." Weakness and fatigue? Hell John had woke up worse after a night out with the boys.
'Well, here goes nothing' He thought, taking a deep breath.

"Okay." He said heavily. "Uh, condoms?" He asked as an afterthought, as Sherlock spun him round, permission granted, and pushed him down into a sitting position on the bed.
"Not necessary, I don't carry human diseases of the blood." Sherlock said, his features had changed from handsome and slightly ethereal to something more animal than human, John felt more pinned by the gaze than he felt when Sherlock literally pinned him, climbed on to his lap and straddled him. John lost sight of him for a second as the detective pulled the T-shirt off over his head, leaving them both hard and wanting, in nothing but their underwear. John had expected swooping, to be bitten quick and dirty, but Sherlock was apparently in no rush, he took John's face in both hands and stared into his eyes, then down to his lips, licking his own in anticipation.

His gaze continued downwards, hovering on John's Adam's Apple, silver eyes tracing a vein on his throat, wandering down over his collar bone, surveying the scar of the war wound on John's shoulder, travelling over John's chest, still looking hungry, vicious, predatory. He tipped John's head to one side again, the angle was awkward and it was only when Sherlock didn't dive in that John realised with a jolt - Sherlock was playing with his food.
"Starting to get a bit uncomfortable here." John said in an attempt to break the tension.
"Consider it foreplay." Sherlock muttered back, still observing John from every angle. Just when John thought he couldn't take the nervous anticipation any more, Sherlock lowered his head to the crook of John's neck and whispered "Sharp scratch" the way a doctor would before giving a patient a shot, John wasn't given time to appreciate the irony before the first bite.

For a moment there was almost unbearable agony, a burning pain as Sherlock's teeth pierced the skin, it wrenched a gasp from John's throat and he instinctively gripped Sherlock's hips to ground himself. Then came a flood of endorphins and anaesthetic, the pain dulled and was replaced with a drawing sensation, John vaguely aware that his very life force was being sucked from his veins. The rush was dizzying, his grip loosened on Sherlock's hips, relaxing into a less desperate and more intimate touch. Sherlock growled, it vibrated into John's flesh and blood, his whole body thrumming and pulsing under Sherlock's bite.

John's dick was traitorous, it ought to have abated, lost interest at the first flash of pain, but it was straining against his boxers and the section of his brain that wasn't obsessing over the fact a vampire was feeding from him, was all sex right now, Sherlock ground his hips down harshly, the friction delicious, but apparently not as delicious as John was, Sherlock panting and moaning obscenely as he drank. John gave in to Sherlock's rutting, oscillating his own hips to meet Sherlock's, wishing they didn't have the fabric of the boxers between them, it was starting to rub uncomfortably.

Sherlock drew harder, a low hum emanating from deep within him, and then it was over. With a soft, pleasured moan Sherlock went limp against him, a boneless heap on his lap - John wondered if that was it, if he'd outlived his usefulness, if Sherlock had got what he wanted and that was that? Sherlock's head had lolled on to John's shoulder the moment he'd finished, but after a minute or two he raised it, a careful tongue lapping at the leaking puncture wounds on John's throat, soothing them.
"Don't worry." Sherlock uttered softly between each gentle swish of his tongue. "I've not forgotten you." His head dipped lower to catch a stray bead of blood which had worked a path down John's clavicle before he pulled back entirely, standing up and slipping his boxers off, giving John visual confirmation of what he'd felt earlier - Sherlock was enjoying this as much as he was. He leaned slightly to the side, showing off every inch of his body, skin so pale it was almost glowing, and reached for a bottle of lubricant he'd obviously put out for John's benefit.

"On your hands and knees, I think, Doctor Watson." He instructed. Had it been anybody else in the world, John would have questioned how quickly he submitted to them, but hell, there would be time for crises of sexuality or masculinity or whatever later, instead of arguing or putting up a fight he found himself shuffling onto the bed, on his hands and knees, still trapped by his boxers yet feeling oddly exposed. Sherlock was playing a power game, one that nobody else in the planet could have won, yet John seemed happy, in this instance, to just submit: mind, body, soul, the lot of it. For now, at this particular moment, he was Sherlock's. Sherlock gave a murmur of approval at the sight and its connotations and situated himself behind John, the bottle in hand. John almost groaned in relief as Sherlock slipped his boxers down over his hips and arse, the air was cold but his body was hot with arousal and it didn't seem to matter.

Wandering hands, cool to the touch, groped his backside, palmed and squeezed his testicles and just the hint of a teasing finger traced down his crack. Again, John had been expecting force, brutality, danger and whereas there was definitely an element of all three of those things, enough to keep his heart rate elevated, there was no real sense of fear, Sherlock could have snapped his neck the minute he'd finished feeding, or slit his throat and revelled in the spoils, but he hadn't done, Sherlock was dangerous yes, but John was under no immediate threat. The pad of a dry fingertip pressed at his hole, testing the resistance, John keened into it, hips tilting back instinctively towards it before it disappeared entirely, followed by a swift 'click'.

The first finger Sherlock pressed into him was blissfully welcome, both alien - unusual and new, and a familiar relief. The second finger came too quickly, it stung, sharp and aching, the stretch was unpleasant and painful, his gasp apparently did not go unnoticed as Sherlock removed it quickly, and continued probing with just the one, stroking John's insides, just short of his prostate. Too much, not enough.
"More." John rasped, moments ago 'more' had been too much, too fast, now it was all he could think about, all he'd ever needed, all he'd ever wanted. Sherlock obeyed, his slick middle finger joining his index finger tucked firmly inside John who clenched around them. This time Sherlock gave him time to adjust before he moved, it still ached but it was a warm pain, flooding through him to the very core, perfect.

Stranger still was the fact that John could feel Sherlock resisting the urge to be greedy, to snatch, to take what he wanted, regardless of John. John pushed back against the intrusion and Sherlock's fingertips brushed his prostate, he moaned, lowered his head to his hands and tried to take a leaf from Sherlock's book, to not just give in to the animalistic side of it all and fuck himself on Sherlock's fingers - however tempting it was. John thought he made an embarrassing noise, somewhere between a growl and a mew as Sherlock latched onto the new sensation he could cause, rubbing his middle finger in a semi-circle over the small bump deep within John.
"Christ, Sherlock, just..." He didn't finish the sentence, he didn't know how to.

By the time he was ready for the third finger, John could almost hear the tension threatening to snap Sherlock's thin vein of patience, his ring finger plunging into him with the others with much less ceremony and grace, in and out quickly, stretching John's hole, making him ready. Any second now, Sherlock was going to lose it, force him forward and just take and John was more than ready, which was why he was so surprised when Sherlock withdrew his fingers. He pulled back, sat back on his own heels, coated his own aching cock with lube and then - didn't. He didn't force John's head down into the mattress, or grab his hips and pound straight in, no. He tugged John's shoulders backwards, upwards, sitting the doctor up on his lap and rubbing the blunt silky headagainst his well-worked entrance.

He was offering John back some semblance of control - and he didn't want it. In this situation, John was prey - and he didn't mind. Bearing down, forcing every inch of Sherlock inside of him with only a very slight grimace, John threw every aspect of power squarely back at Sherlock, who was not going to offer twice. Sherlock held John still and pistoned his hips upwards, fucking him hard and fast. Choked sobs of pleasure from John indicated that it would all be over far too quickly at this pace, so Sherlock - not quite as close, dragged John down from the peak with a sharp bite to the shoulder. John gasped, Sherlock didn't draw this time, didn't drink, let the blood he'd issued trickle slowly down John's spine, watching it intensely - the heat of his gaze secondary to the full feeling of Sherlock inside him, but eerily similar. Both burned. Both hurt in a good way. Both left John feeling raw, open, vulnerable.

Sherlock freed one hand, surprising strength keeping John pinned above him with only one hand, and drew his fingertips through the crimson rivulet coursing down John's back, playing with the blood, dragging it over the back of his chest, smearing it across his skin, appreciating the rusty dark red colour against the mocha tan. Sherlock loosed a guttural moan. John nodded, silently replying with 'me too'. Sherlock dragged John backward, his back sticking to Sherlock's chest with blood and sweat. Sherlock abandoned all pretence of care, slamming his hips repeatedly upward, pumping in and out of John's tight hole, which was beginning to flutter with impending orgasm.

John's blood boiled, his bones melted, his heart stopped and his mind exploded, it was all replaced with a very narrow focus on the feeling of Sherlock's dick twitching and jerking erratically in his passage, of blood-hot semen splashing against his prostate, of his own body curving and arching impossibly as he came, of white light obscuring his vision and stars flashing as each nerve ending imploded. Sherlock rode them through it, nails sharp as claws grounding John's hips until they were both empty, spent and exhausted. For a moment, the entire universe slowed down, the two of them frozen, then Sherlock pitched forward and deposited John in a sticky heap on the bed.

Without the sharp pulse of desire coursing through his veins at lightning speed, John felt weak and dizzy from the combination of blood loss and orgasm. He felt Sherlock disappear and return in the blink of an eye, running a cool wet cloth over his back to remove the residue of blood sweat and semen. John lay there and let Sherlock clean him off, because the very thought of raising his head made it spin.

"You should stay the night." Sherlock insisted, turning John onto his back to dab at his front.
"Didn't have you pegged for a romantic." John murmured dizzily.
"I'm not. I'm merely observing your recovery time." Sherlock answered coolly, feeling John's eyes rake his face. Post-coitally, Sherlock looked human once again, the animal-like features calmed and stoic once more.
"Recovery? For sex or feeding?" John asked, sleep beginning to invade his mind, dimly aware that Sherlock was rubbing his flaccid cock with the soaked cloth.
"Both." He answered, and John chuckled softly. "What's so funny?" Inquired the vampire, throwing the cloth onto the bedside table.
"You just want breakfast in bed, you mad bastard." John laughed weakly. Sherlock smirked.
"Perhaps." He agreed, laying down next to John. John had a million and one questions to ask: did Sherlock even sleep? How often did he feed? Who else (if anybody) knew his secret? How many more of them were there? This was going to be a regular thing, right? Would the bite mark scar?

None of his questions mattered, sleep creeping through to him and pulling him from consciousness. The very last thought that occurred to him before sleep claimed him was that Sherlock's silver eyes were still watching him sleep - staking a claim.

A/n: This is the second place winner jonnyluvssherlock's prompt from the DashCon fanfiction auction! She wanted A Study In Pink Vampire sexytimes with Sherlock being a Vampire but still being Sherlock so... I really hope she likes it, especially as today is her birthday! Reviews are lovely xx