Fic: Drink
Pairing: Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mind control, vampires, AU
Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme. John and Lestrade are in an established relationship. Vampire!Sherlock suddenly decides he wants in.
***
It was early evening when Sherlock stalked into the police station, a strong mental shield cast around his person to ward off any irritating humans that would try and stop him. It was a simple power. Anyone that tried to get near him forgot whatever it was they were going to say, suddenly overcome with the desperate need to get far away from Sherlock as possible. It wasn't particularly necessary at this time of day; most officers had already gone home, and he let it fall as he approached his target.
Lestrade was at his desk in an empty CID, dark bags under his eyes and a thin sheen of sweat over his brow. He hadn't been home. The case files from an arson case were spread out of over his desk, and on flipping through the detective's malleable mind, Sherlock pieced together the evidence and identified the only possible perpetrator. He'd tell Lestrade later. Important things first.
"Lestrade," he announced, stepping into the office and letting the door swing shut behind him. Lestrade sat upright, brow creased.
"Who let you in?" he asked, bemused.
"I'm here about the murder of Allison Hunter." A spark of interest lit up in Lestrade's eye, and Sherlock continued. "You need to drop the case."
"Oh god." Lestrade ran a hand down his face. "Don't tell me it was one of you lot."
"A fledgling," said Sherlock dismissively. "I dealt with him."
"I don't want to know," said Lestrade in earnest, shaking his head. Sherlock admired the fine silver strands of his hair, silently thrilled at the fact that, if he wanted to, he could stroke his fingers through it, grip it, use it to guide Lestrade's mouth downwards …
Lestrade was one of the few humans that Sherlock could tolerate for sustained periods of time, and was an even rarer case in that Sherlock found him attractive. He'd had Lestrade many times, sometimes under hypnotism, sometimes hunting him down an alleyway and taking him, struggling against Sherlock's grip. And every time afterwards he'd feed Lestrade a bit of his blood to heal his wounds, and erase his memory of the encounter. Lestrade was one of the few who knew about his true identity, but he had no idea as to the liberties Sherlock had been taking with him.
Mycroft often lectured him about it. He was centuries older than Sherlock, and old-fashioned vampire who blathered on about the importance of making thralls, fucking and drinking from the same hopeless, dependent humans. Sherlock did not have the time or inclination to manage mindslaves. He drank little, abstaining for long periods of time to heighten his senses as the need to hunt grew. He had sex even less. Mycroft was a glutton, physically and mentally. Sherlock wasn't going to take advice from him, despite their link through the same sire.
Lestrade let Sherlock look over the evidence from the arson case, and Sherlock confirmed his original hypothesis. He was about to tell Lestrade when he caught a slight trace of the most enticing scent. He sat upright, glancing around, sniffing. The scent grew stronger, and Sherlock stood swiftly, knocking his chair over. His tongue was wet with salivation mixed with blood clotting agent and he had to will his teeth to stay withdrawn.
It was the most succulent scent he'd come across in years, brimming, overflowing, the tell-tale signs of a human that had never been fed on before. Although how someone so delicious had been walking the streets of London without being dragged off and drained, Sherlock had no idea.
Lestrade interrupted him, and Sherlock tore his gaze away from the direction of the smell. "Could you pick up the chair please, Sherlock?" he asked wearily. "And what were you staring at?"
"Someone's coming," Sherlock said, pulling his chair up to the desk. But he no longer cared about the arson case.
"Yeah, that's just my partner dropping off dinner," said Lestrade with a yawn. Sherlock willed his tiredness away, impatient.
"You have a partner?"
Just then, the door to Lestrade's office swung neatly open and a little blond man walked in with a chinese takeaway for two clutched in his arms. He was late thirties, military posture, and underneath his come-eat-me scent there was a hint of hospital antiseptic. No obvious wounds or diseases, so it was most likely he worked there.
"Hey Greg," the man said quietly, glancing hesitantly over Sherlock and settling with a ready smile at Lestrade. He held up the package. "Dinner?"
Lestrade perked up, eyes brightening. "John! Thank you." He stood to take the food and gestured to Sherlock. "This is the special detective I was talking to you about -"
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," interrupted Sherlock.
"Hello," said John politely, holding out a small hand. Sherlock leapt to his feet and took it, inhaling deeply. He must have been recently back from military service, within the year certainly, that was the only explanation behind why he hadn't been snapped up by a hungry vampire already. This was the sort of human that vampires would fight over.
"You didn't tell me that you had a boyfriend, Lestrade," Sherlock said, unable to look away from John's eyes. Contrasted against his tan face, they appeared bright blue. John blinked up at him, and tugged at his hand. Sherlock grudgingly let go.
"Well, it wasn't really any of your business," said Lestrade, wrapping a hand around John's waist and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. John accepted it, but still stared warily at Sherlock. He wouldn't be able to figure out why, but evolutionary instinct was drumming into him that Sherlock was a predator, and was thus very dangerous to be around. Sherlock had dampened down that instinct in Lestrade, but for a fresh human like John, his natural prey reactions were at the forefront of his mind.
Sherlock sat back down, and mentally lowered their inhibitions. "You two haven't seen each other for a while, have you?" he said, relaxing back in his seat. Lestrade and John looked at each other with longing, and both shook their heads.
"John works all day at the hospital," said Lestrade sadly, running a hand down John's soft cheek.
"Greg has been staying behind late to wrap up all these cases," said John. He tilted his head into Lestrade's touch, blinking hurriedly. "I miss him."
"I miss you too, babe," murmured Lestrade.
"Show him," suggested Sherlock, lowering their inhibitions even further. They wouldn't even think twice about fucking in front of him now. Sherlock was quietly grateful that the rest of CID was empty.
Lestrade cupped John's jaw and pulled him into a kiss, at first a soft movement of lips, but John made a hungry noise, opening his mouth and licking into Lestrade's mouth with a needy tongue. Lestrade responded with passion. Right when they were in the middle of making out, when Lestrade's hands started to drift up John's jumper, Sherlock let their mental states snap back to normal.
John pulled away first, red-faced, and tugged his top straight. The kiss had set his heart racing and his blood flowing faster, and he was scenting the room with a heavy, pheromone laden aroma. Lestrade ran a nervous hand through his hair and shot Sherlock a horrified look. Sherlock smiled innocently. "Oh," he said calmly. "Don't mind me."
"I'm so sorry," said John, staring at his feet. "I … I think I'll go now. You can have my part of the takeaway, Mr Holmes."
"Sherlock, please."
John looked over to him, that confused fear flitting over his features again. His eyes met Sherlock's and there was a snap of connection. Just like that, he had John under his control.
"Kiss me," said Sherlock throatily, and Lestrade let out a choked gasp as John rushed over to straddle Sherlock's lap and open his mouth into a deep, wet kiss.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed furiously. "John!" But they both ignored him.
John was close and warm. Sherlock could feel the contours of his body under modest clothes, blood pumping loudly through healthy arteries. His scent invaded Sherlock's nostrils and rubbed against his skin. Instinct took over, and Sherlock's fangs extended.
Their kiss quickly grew bloody, although to John, every bit of pain was translated as aching pleasure. It was only the tiniest of sips, but Sherlock was certain already that John's blood was the most appetizing that he'd ever tasted. This was a human ripe for the plucking. His blood was something to savour.
John pulled back with a gasp, his lips red and cut. His eyes had darkened under the possession, but Sherlock could still see flashes of blue-grey. He looked beautiful.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said out loud, pulling the man under his influence with the ease that came with practice. "Kiss me."
The betrayed expression slipped from Lestrade's features, and he happily came forward. John moved thoughtfully out of the way, still perched on Sherlock's lap as his boyfriend leaned over to pull Sherlock into a kiss, deep and greedy. Sherlock finished it with a little bite and suck at Lestrade's lower lip. He'd been fed on too many times to be much of a treat, but he tasted good all the same.
"Strip," he ordered, pushing John off his lap. The little man huffed in shock as he landed with a thump on the floor. "Both of you. Help each other undress."
Lestrade knelt to pull John's jumper over his head, and John started flicking open the buttons of Lestrade's shirt with easy familiarity. At Sherlock's feet they tugged each others clothes off, completely happy in their nudity as their soft, biteable skin warmed the office air, and their knees scraped against cheap carpet. John had tan lines that mapped out his time in the army and a bullet scar gracing his left shoulder, whereas Lestrade was the typical London pale.
Sherlock had them kiss each other again, and John's red blood smeared over Lestrade's lips as they pressed together like lovers, soft skin sliding, their cocks hardening. He licked John's blood off both of their faces, and then undid his fly as he settled back into his seat.
"Do you like sucking, John?" he asked, and John flushed with embarrassment.
"I do," he said slowly. "But, you know. I'm not that good at it."
"Yeah you are," said Lestrade, smiling.
"I'm not really," said John. "I can't really take that much."
"Let me decide that." Sherlock reached down and threaded his fingers into John's soft blond hair, feeling the shape of his scalp in his palm. He drew John in, pressed incessantly against thin lips and John eventually sucked the head into his mouth.
"Ohh," Sherlock quietly moaned, tilting back as John did his best to take more of Sherlock in. He wanted to feel that nose rubbing against his abdomen. "Lestrade," he said hoarsely, pushing down on John's head and supressing the gag reflex. "Prepare him for me."
He looked down again to see Lestrade lick at John's hole, first tentatively, then probing with the tip of his tongue. John shuddered deliciously under his ministrations, swallowing.
"Oh god," groaned Sherlock, as John glanced up at him for approval, blue grey opening up in his face from under sandy lashes, his reddened lips stretched. Sherlock rang his fingers over John's hollowed out cheeks. His fangs were aching to sink into flesh, but he couldn't. Not yet. Eating slowed him down, and he wanted to enjoy these two properly before he feasted. With slight reluctance, he pulled John off.
Lestrade fingered John open with practised movements, pressing kisses over the small of John's back. That step didn't really matter, John wouldn't be able to feel pain in this state, but the less injuries Sherlock caused now, the less blood he'd need to gift afterwards.
He abruptly stood, carrying a surprised John with him. Stepping over Lestrade, he dropped his quarry face-up onto the desk. John sprawled over the wood, scrabbling uselessly for purchase, and he let out a little gasp as Sherlock gripped his hips and dragged him along the polished wood until he half hung off the edge. Sherlock wrapped John's legs around himself, and lined up, teasing against John's entrance. John stared up at him, wanting it despite himself. But something was holding him back.
"Greg," John said weakly, and Lestrade walked around to the other side of the desk. He bent to kiss John upside down, and took both his hands to hold them to the table.
"It's okay," Sherlock heard him say. "I love you, John."
"I love you too," John whispered, clutching Lestrade's hands tight, and Sherlock chose that moment to push into his tight heat with a groan.
He gripped John's thighs forcefully and felt the muscles clench under his fingers as John shuddered, the scent of his sweat strengthening his human smell, and a switched flicked in Sherlock. He was done playing.
His next thrusts into John set a furious pace, no longer savouring the intricacies of his body. This was brutal claiming, forcing the vitality into John's blood, adrenaline and sex hormones mixing in. Sherlock loved it, taking something that should be savoured like it was cheap and everyday. It was luxurious, squandering such a rare treasure, and he revelled at it, pulling John's legs closer around him and fucking him harder.
Lestrade held John down as he cried out in pleasure, his noises smothered every so often as Lestrade reclaimed that mouth with his own. John came to orgasm quickly, spilling semen over his stomach with a yell, clenching around Sherlock's cock. He lost grip of Lestrade's hands as Sherlock pulled him up, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist to stop himself from falling.
Sherlock walked him to a wall, pressed him flush against it, and John gulped breathlessly in his arms, overstimulated, helplessly responsive to sensation. His smooth muscle fluttered around Sherlock's cock.
Perfect.
Sherlock tilted John's head to the side and finally sunk his teeth into the virgin throat, causing bright red arterial blood to spill against his tongue. John coughed and spluttered as Sherlock drank deeply, still rolling his hips in and out of him to a steady pace. His little hands clawed at Sherlock's back, and he shivered as Sherlock fucked him, consumed him, breathed in the scent at his skin.
John's blood was mouth-wateringly tasty, and Sherlock couldn't get enough. He bit down harder as he came, pulsing deep inside of John, thrusting shallowly until he was completely spent.
When he dropped John back onto his feet, the little man's legs gave out, and he would have fallen over if Lestrade wasn't there to catch him. Sherlock wiped the his mouth with the back of his hand, watching John stare blankly upwards. His skin was pale and clammy, and he was noticeably trembling.
Perhaps Sherlock had taken a bit too much.
But how could he not? John had been an uncommon treat, and after the first bite humans never tasted quite the same. It would have been a shame to waste the experience. And to think! He almost hadn't bothered coming in to tell Lestrade about Miss Hunter in person. He'd have missed this one entirely, and some other, lesser, vampire would have claimed him.
Sherlock treated them both to a bit of his blood, then implanted instructions for them to clean and dress themselves. After that, their memory would be wiped and they'd return to normal, although John would probably feel poorly for a few days. The little man's smell was a lot thinner now, less tempting to other vampires, which Sherlock was frankly thankful for. He had plans for John.
Pausing by Lestrade's desk, Sherlock scribbled the identity of the arsonist over the case notes. Then he left them in the office to catch their breath in each others arms.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mind control, vampires, AU
Written for this prompt on the kinkmeme. John and Lestrade are in an established relationship. Vampire!Sherlock suddenly decides he wants in.
***
It was early evening when Sherlock stalked into the police station, a strong mental shield cast around his person to ward off any irritating humans that would try and stop him. It was a simple power. Anyone that tried to get near him forgot whatever it was they were going to say, suddenly overcome with the desperate need to get far away from Sherlock as possible. It wasn't particularly necessary at this time of day; most officers had already gone home, and he let it fall as he approached his target.
Lestrade was at his desk in an empty CID, dark bags under his eyes and a thin sheen of sweat over his brow. He hadn't been home. The case files from an arson case were spread out of over his desk, and on flipping through the detective's malleable mind, Sherlock pieced together the evidence and identified the only possible perpetrator. He'd tell Lestrade later. Important things first.
"Lestrade," he announced, stepping into the office and letting the door swing shut behind him. Lestrade sat upright, brow creased.
"Who let you in?" he asked, bemused.
"I'm here about the murder of Allison Hunter." A spark of interest lit up in Lestrade's eye, and Sherlock continued. "You need to drop the case."
"Oh god." Lestrade ran a hand down his face. "Don't tell me it was one of you lot."
"A fledgling," said Sherlock dismissively. "I dealt with him."
"I don't want to know," said Lestrade in earnest, shaking his head. Sherlock admired the fine silver strands of his hair, silently thrilled at the fact that, if he wanted to, he could stroke his fingers through it, grip it, use it to guide Lestrade's mouth downwards …
Lestrade was one of the few humans that Sherlock could tolerate for sustained periods of time, and was an even rarer case in that Sherlock found him attractive. He'd had Lestrade many times, sometimes under hypnotism, sometimes hunting him down an alleyway and taking him, struggling against Sherlock's grip. And every time afterwards he'd feed Lestrade a bit of his blood to heal his wounds, and erase his memory of the encounter. Lestrade was one of the few who knew about his true identity, but he had no idea as to the liberties Sherlock had been taking with him.
Mycroft often lectured him about it. He was centuries older than Sherlock, and old-fashioned vampire who blathered on about the importance of making thralls, fucking and drinking from the same hopeless, dependent humans. Sherlock did not have the time or inclination to manage mindslaves. He drank little, abstaining for long periods of time to heighten his senses as the need to hunt grew. He had sex even less. Mycroft was a glutton, physically and mentally. Sherlock wasn't going to take advice from him, despite their link through the same sire.
Lestrade let Sherlock look over the evidence from the arson case, and Sherlock confirmed his original hypothesis. He was about to tell Lestrade when he caught a slight trace of the most enticing scent. He sat upright, glancing around, sniffing. The scent grew stronger, and Sherlock stood swiftly, knocking his chair over. His tongue was wet with salivation mixed with blood clotting agent and he had to will his teeth to stay withdrawn.
It was the most succulent scent he'd come across in years, brimming, overflowing, the tell-tale signs of a human that had never been fed on before. Although how someone so delicious had been walking the streets of London without being dragged off and drained, Sherlock had no idea.
Lestrade interrupted him, and Sherlock tore his gaze away from the direction of the smell. "Could you pick up the chair please, Sherlock?" he asked wearily. "And what were you staring at?"
"Someone's coming," Sherlock said, pulling his chair up to the desk. But he no longer cared about the arson case.
"Yeah, that's just my partner dropping off dinner," said Lestrade with a yawn. Sherlock willed his tiredness away, impatient.
"You have a partner?"
Just then, the door to Lestrade's office swung neatly open and a little blond man walked in with a chinese takeaway for two clutched in his arms. He was late thirties, military posture, and underneath his come-eat-me scent there was a hint of hospital antiseptic. No obvious wounds or diseases, so it was most likely he worked there.
"Hey Greg," the man said quietly, glancing hesitantly over Sherlock and settling with a ready smile at Lestrade. He held up the package. "Dinner?"
Lestrade perked up, eyes brightening. "John! Thank you." He stood to take the food and gestured to Sherlock. "This is the special detective I was talking to you about -"
"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," interrupted Sherlock.
"Hello," said John politely, holding out a small hand. Sherlock leapt to his feet and took it, inhaling deeply. He must have been recently back from military service, within the year certainly, that was the only explanation behind why he hadn't been snapped up by a hungry vampire already. This was the sort of human that vampires would fight over.
"You didn't tell me that you had a boyfriend, Lestrade," Sherlock said, unable to look away from John's eyes. Contrasted against his tan face, they appeared bright blue. John blinked up at him, and tugged at his hand. Sherlock grudgingly let go.
"Well, it wasn't really any of your business," said Lestrade, wrapping a hand around John's waist and pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. John accepted it, but still stared warily at Sherlock. He wouldn't be able to figure out why, but evolutionary instinct was drumming into him that Sherlock was a predator, and was thus very dangerous to be around. Sherlock had dampened down that instinct in Lestrade, but for a fresh human like John, his natural prey reactions were at the forefront of his mind.
Sherlock sat back down, and mentally lowered their inhibitions. "You two haven't seen each other for a while, have you?" he said, relaxing back in his seat. Lestrade and John looked at each other with longing, and both shook their heads.
"John works all day at the hospital," said Lestrade sadly, running a hand down John's soft cheek.
"Greg has been staying behind late to wrap up all these cases," said John. He tilted his head into Lestrade's touch, blinking hurriedly. "I miss him."
"I miss you too, babe," murmured Lestrade.
"Show him," suggested Sherlock, lowering their inhibitions even further. They wouldn't even think twice about fucking in front of him now. Sherlock was quietly grateful that the rest of CID was empty.
Lestrade cupped John's jaw and pulled him into a kiss, at first a soft movement of lips, but John made a hungry noise, opening his mouth and licking into Lestrade's mouth with a needy tongue. Lestrade responded with passion. Right when they were in the middle of making out, when Lestrade's hands started to drift up John's jumper, Sherlock let their mental states snap back to normal.
John pulled away first, red-faced, and tugged his top straight. The kiss had set his heart racing and his blood flowing faster, and he was scenting the room with a heavy, pheromone laden aroma. Lestrade ran a nervous hand through his hair and shot Sherlock a horrified look. Sherlock smiled innocently. "Oh," he said calmly. "Don't mind me."
"I'm so sorry," said John, staring at his feet. "I … I think I'll go now. You can have my part of the takeaway, Mr Holmes."
"Sherlock, please."
John looked over to him, that confused fear flitting over his features again. His eyes met Sherlock's and there was a snap of connection. Just like that, he had John under his control.
"Kiss me," said Sherlock throatily, and Lestrade let out a choked gasp as John rushed over to straddle Sherlock's lap and open his mouth into a deep, wet kiss.
"Sherlock!" he exclaimed furiously. "John!" But they both ignored him.
John was close and warm. Sherlock could feel the contours of his body under modest clothes, blood pumping loudly through healthy arteries. His scent invaded Sherlock's nostrils and rubbed against his skin. Instinct took over, and Sherlock's fangs extended.
Their kiss quickly grew bloody, although to John, every bit of pain was translated as aching pleasure. It was only the tiniest of sips, but Sherlock was certain already that John's blood was the most appetizing that he'd ever tasted. This was a human ripe for the plucking. His blood was something to savour.
John pulled back with a gasp, his lips red and cut. His eyes had darkened under the possession, but Sherlock could still see flashes of blue-grey. He looked beautiful.
"Lestrade," Sherlock said out loud, pulling the man under his influence with the ease that came with practice. "Kiss me."
The betrayed expression slipped from Lestrade's features, and he happily came forward. John moved thoughtfully out of the way, still perched on Sherlock's lap as his boyfriend leaned over to pull Sherlock into a kiss, deep and greedy. Sherlock finished it with a little bite and suck at Lestrade's lower lip. He'd been fed on too many times to be much of a treat, but he tasted good all the same.
"Strip," he ordered, pushing John off his lap. The little man huffed in shock as he landed with a thump on the floor. "Both of you. Help each other undress."
Lestrade knelt to pull John's jumper over his head, and John started flicking open the buttons of Lestrade's shirt with easy familiarity. At Sherlock's feet they tugged each others clothes off, completely happy in their nudity as their soft, biteable skin warmed the office air, and their knees scraped against cheap carpet. John had tan lines that mapped out his time in the army and a bullet scar gracing his left shoulder, whereas Lestrade was the typical London pale.
Sherlock had them kiss each other again, and John's red blood smeared over Lestrade's lips as they pressed together like lovers, soft skin sliding, their cocks hardening. He licked John's blood off both of their faces, and then undid his fly as he settled back into his seat.
"Do you like sucking, John?" he asked, and John flushed with embarrassment.
"I do," he said slowly. "But, you know. I'm not that good at it."
"Yeah you are," said Lestrade, smiling.
"I'm not really," said John. "I can't really take that much."
"Let me decide that." Sherlock reached down and threaded his fingers into John's soft blond hair, feeling the shape of his scalp in his palm. He drew John in, pressed incessantly against thin lips and John eventually sucked the head into his mouth.
"Ohh," Sherlock quietly moaned, tilting back as John did his best to take more of Sherlock in. He wanted to feel that nose rubbing against his abdomen. "Lestrade," he said hoarsely, pushing down on John's head and supressing the gag reflex. "Prepare him for me."
He looked down again to see Lestrade lick at John's hole, first tentatively, then probing with the tip of his tongue. John shuddered deliciously under his ministrations, swallowing.
"Oh god," groaned Sherlock, as John glanced up at him for approval, blue grey opening up in his face from under sandy lashes, his reddened lips stretched. Sherlock rang his fingers over John's hollowed out cheeks. His fangs were aching to sink into flesh, but he couldn't. Not yet. Eating slowed him down, and he wanted to enjoy these two properly before he feasted. With slight reluctance, he pulled John off.
Lestrade fingered John open with practised movements, pressing kisses over the small of John's back. That step didn't really matter, John wouldn't be able to feel pain in this state, but the less injuries Sherlock caused now, the less blood he'd need to gift afterwards.
He abruptly stood, carrying a surprised John with him. Stepping over Lestrade, he dropped his quarry face-up onto the desk. John sprawled over the wood, scrabbling uselessly for purchase, and he let out a little gasp as Sherlock gripped his hips and dragged him along the polished wood until he half hung off the edge. Sherlock wrapped John's legs around himself, and lined up, teasing against John's entrance. John stared up at him, wanting it despite himself. But something was holding him back.
"Greg," John said weakly, and Lestrade walked around to the other side of the desk. He bent to kiss John upside down, and took both his hands to hold them to the table.
"It's okay," Sherlock heard him say. "I love you, John."
"I love you too," John whispered, clutching Lestrade's hands tight, and Sherlock chose that moment to push into his tight heat with a groan.
He gripped John's thighs forcefully and felt the muscles clench under his fingers as John shuddered, the scent of his sweat strengthening his human smell, and a switched flicked in Sherlock. He was done playing.
His next thrusts into John set a furious pace, no longer savouring the intricacies of his body. This was brutal claiming, forcing the vitality into John's blood, adrenaline and sex hormones mixing in. Sherlock loved it, taking something that should be savoured like it was cheap and everyday. It was luxurious, squandering such a rare treasure, and he revelled at it, pulling John's legs closer around him and fucking him harder.
Lestrade held John down as he cried out in pleasure, his noises smothered every so often as Lestrade reclaimed that mouth with his own. John came to orgasm quickly, spilling semen over his stomach with a yell, clenching around Sherlock's cock. He lost grip of Lestrade's hands as Sherlock pulled him up, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist to stop himself from falling.
Sherlock walked him to a wall, pressed him flush against it, and John gulped breathlessly in his arms, overstimulated, helplessly responsive to sensation. His smooth muscle fluttered around Sherlock's cock.
Perfect.
Sherlock tilted John's head to the side and finally sunk his teeth into the virgin throat, causing bright red arterial blood to spill against his tongue. John coughed and spluttered as Sherlock drank deeply, still rolling his hips in and out of him to a steady pace. His little hands clawed at Sherlock's back, and he shivered as Sherlock fucked him, consumed him, breathed in the scent at his skin.
John's blood was mouth-wateringly tasty, and Sherlock couldn't get enough. He bit down harder as he came, pulsing deep inside of John, thrusting shallowly until he was completely spent.
When he dropped John back onto his feet, the little man's legs gave out, and he would have fallen over if Lestrade wasn't there to catch him. Sherlock wiped the his mouth with the back of his hand, watching John stare blankly upwards. His skin was pale and clammy, and he was noticeably trembling.
Perhaps Sherlock had taken a bit too much.
But how could he not? John had been an uncommon treat, and after the first bite humans never tasted quite the same. It would have been a shame to waste the experience. And to think! He almost hadn't bothered coming in to tell Lestrade about Miss Hunter in person. He'd have missed this one entirely, and some other, lesser, vampire would have claimed him.
Sherlock treated them both to a bit of his blood, then implanted instructions for them to clean and dress themselves. After that, their memory would be wiped and they'd return to normal, although John would probably feel poorly for a few days. The little man's smell was a lot thinner now, less tempting to other vampires, which Sherlock was frankly thankful for. He had plans for John.
Pausing by Lestrade's desk, Sherlock scribbled the identity of the arsonist over the case notes. Then he left them in the office to catch their breath in each others arms.