First Sherlock story, hope you enjoy! Please review and share your thoughts, I am open to constructive criticism and praise :P


It was close to two O'clock in the morning, the day after Jeff the Cabbie had been shot dead by an 'unknown' gunman aka John Hamish Watson. The case had taken a greater toll on him than he had first thought, and having come so close to taking a pill which could possibly have left him in a lot of pain for several hours while he recovered, Sherlock found himself sat in the morgue at Bart's Hospital among the waiting cadavers in the dark and the silence of death.

It was his 'home from home' as he liked the consider it, the dead did not think aloud and they did not disrupt his train of thought with useless conversation which did little more than pollute his thinking space. They provided a pleasant source of company and on occasion provided him with the evidence he required to solve a case. But that was about all they were good for.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, the detective lifted his gaze as the doors opened and the lights switched on as Molly Hooper crossed the floor towards him with what he required. He offered her a smile as he took the clear intravenous drip bag from her and inspected the scarlet contents with a mixture of distaste and necessity.

"Thank you, Molly, that will be all tonight." he said in his usual flippant manner as he slipped the bag into his coat and walked past her without a backward glance.

"Okay." he heard her say in her strangely submissive manner.

The walk back to Baker Street gave him time to clear his thoughts and to organise his mental faculties accordingly; he knew that sharing accommodation would be risky at best, but if it paid off it would leave him well protected from onlookers and he would gain a better control over himself at the same time. It was dangerous to risk the life of someone, foolhardy even, but it was necessary for him to be able to continue with a remotely normal life. And John appeared to be a good; strong; formidable option for that role, if not a foolishly trusting and loyal one.

John Watson. John Hamish Watson, a soldier, an army doctor, skilled and practical, with a steady hand and nerves of steal; he was fairly intelligent as well which made for at least some interesting conversations; he was not easily swayed by the thoughts of others as proved by the fact that Sergeant Donovan had been unable to put him off moving into Baker Street. Indeed, perhaps with John Watson around humanity might not be such a difficult thing to contend with.

Deciding upon this, Sherlock unlocked the front door to 221B Baker Street an jogged up the stairs towards the lounge where, to his surprise, he found the very man waiting for him. His walking stick was no where to be found, which was good, and he appeared to have made himself quite comfortable on the couch, where he had then proceeded to fall asleep, probably while waiting for Sherlock to return from his insomnia induced wanderings.

This was the first test. John was completely vulnerable, open and easy to dispatch. And it would have been a lie to say that Sherlock was not tempted, because he was; the low cut collar of the doctor's shirt revealed the soft skin of his neck and, because of the awkward and he had fallen asleep at, his shoulder.

The detective's lips parted and his eyes roamed slowly over the curve of the other's neck, he could see his pulse pumping under the layer of skin and he could sense the warmth of his body from across the room.

He padded across the floor hesitantly, crouching down at the side of the couch as he leaned forwards slightly and inhaled the doctor's sweet scent: a cocktail of mint, vanilla and washing powder as well as something far more unique which belonged only to him and resembled a soft exchange of warmth and coffee.

Wanting more, Sherlock leaned in even closer, until the tip of his nose was practically brushing the line of the other's jaw; he felt the hunger rise as he felt the body heat of life rushing up to meet him and he felt his throat constrict before he reached forward...

And pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and draped it over the sleeping man's body so that he didn't get cold during the night; he then retreated down the landing and disappeared into his bedroom, closing the door and resting his back against it as he heaved a deep breath, nodding very slightly at the success. He was making progress.

The detective removed his long coat, hanging it up on the back of the door before he removed the intravenous bag from the inside breast pocket and turned it over in his hands. It was irksome and tiring to think that so much depended on the acquisition of such a basic thing, he so loathed to be dependant upon anything... Yet it was necessity, and although dull, repetitive and very time consuming it was important that he gave himself the best chance of 'fitting in' as possible.

The days where he could get away with having an accident were gone, Mycroft would no longer overlook his accidents as he had done because they had become more and more frequent, more and more repetitive, more and more the addiction that would bring him and his family to their doom. Restraint was required. Restraint, control and sobriety.

Sherlock set the bag on his bedside table and strode across his bedroom, making careful steps as he removed his shoes and put them away before also hanging up the jacket of his suit, it was clean so it didn't require the laundry basket as of yet. His shirt, trousers, socks and pants were another story entirely and as he disposed of them, quite neatly mind you, he found himself wondering what else could lie ahead now that he had information concerning this... Moriarty. Whatever that was, it was bound to be interesting and fresh and it would prevent stagnation of the brain cells he possessed. He was eager and desired more knowledge.

But alas he also required rest after such strain, he required rest and food. And by food... He looked slowly at the intravenous bag on the bedside cabinet before he sighed and finished adjusting his sleepwear before he moved over to the bed and sat on the edge.

It still bothered him that he had been unable to see whether or not he had outsmarted Jeff the Cabbie and, as he tore open the bag with his teeth, he found himself thinking that John had shot the man with the intention of driving him crazy with the need to know. Of course he knew that was insane, John was one of these rare to find 'good people' who always wanted to help and always wanted to keep people safe. Well of course... He was a doctor and a soldier. It came with the territory.

Closing his eyes for the briefest of moments, the detective recounted his throat pattern for the evening and reconciled himself to his fate; as his eyes opened again they swirled with a deep-set blood red colouration which infiltrated his irises and his upper lip was forced into a slight pout as his canines lengthened, and then he tipped the open bag of donated blood to his lips and drank, a shadow falling over the room as the power of his darker nature flared at the nectar.