Fic: Thrall, chapter 2/5
TITLE: Thrall 2/5
PAIRING: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
RATING: NC-17 (eventually), this part R.
WARNINGS: Some violence, non-con themes.
WORD COUNT: 39,000. This Chapter 6400
SUMMARY: Vampire!Au, sequel to Mate. Sherlock is sober, but his life is still spiraling down hill. Despite this, he has resisted the notion of ever getting a mate. The very idea of having a human balancing his life is abhorrent. As Mycroft, a case, and a new flatmate all vie for his attention, he misses the most important clue of his life: that his mate has found him.
A/N: This is too long to fit as a oneshot so I've broken it down into four five chapters.
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 2
Mycroft was still at the office when Greg called. GPS on his phone put him in the Lauriston Garden's area. Another crime scene. He sighed and answered. “So you aren't going to be home in time for a late supper?”
“Fraid not. We've got another. ”
Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “You know, your daughters are beginning to wonder what you look like.” With a mouse click he called up the CCTV's in Greg's area, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “I'm beginning to wonder, too.”
“I look unshaved and could use a shampoo, but otherwise the same as I looked two days ago. Besides, I'm pretty sure you've been peeking in on me. I've noticed the cameras moving.”
Mycroft chuckled. “You can hardly blame me. I do worry about you. But more to the point, you have to come home sometime, Greg. Sleeping at the office can't be good for you. I need you.”
There was a brief commotion in the background and he heard Greg ordering some of his people around. Then Greg's voice came in clearer: “Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that I stank today. I'm guessing that's vampire code for 'needing to be fed on.' Of course, he could have meant that I needed a shower. Are you hungry?”
“For you, always.”
“But you have been eating elsewhere, right? You aren't about to die on me because I'm busy with this homicide investigation.”
“I feed daily. That doesn't stop me from needing to feed on you. Nor you of needing to be fed on. Sherlock doesn't have a mate, I'm sure you must be distractingly tempting right now. Of course, he knows better than to try lay a tooth on you.”
He better.
“That's reassuring,” said Greg, a bit dryly. “Oh, speaking of Sherlock, the reason I called. He brought his flatmate to the crime scene, that's a first. Interesting man. Doctor, apparently. Sherlock asked his opinion about the murder.”
New thrall, thought Mycroft. Didn't take long to find a flatmate it seemed. “Was he helpful?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Greg. “But you'd never know it to look at Sherlock. If I had to guess, your brother was showing off like a peacock to him. It was rather funny. I've never seen Sherlock smitten by someone before.”
“Smitten?” Mycroft's interest went up several fold. “Are you sure Sherlock wasn't simply currying favour?
“Oh, possibly. I mean, I've seen him being ingratiating before, and he can charm the pants off anyone, but this wasn't that. He actually looked vulnerable - for a bit.”
“For a bit?”
“Yeah, then he noticed an actual clue, and raced off, leaving the poor man behind. So I wouldn't put too much stock in this being significant. Just thought you might find it interesting.”
“How very odd.” Mycroft murmured. “Where is this Doctor?”
“He just left the building about a minute ago. Hold on. Yeah, I can still see him right outside, looking lost, poor fellow.”
Mycroft's hands flew over the keyboard, training all the CCTVs in the area toward the building Greg apparently was in. He saw the police tape and focused in on a clump of three people. One was readily identifiable as Anderson. Mycroft felt a prickle of anxiety, even though Anderson's powers didn't extend through the wires. The uniformed officer was Donovan, one of Lestrade’s regulars. The third was someone new.
Mycroft tightened the focus on his face. Thirties, weary looking. Military hair cut. Army medic then. PTSD? - that would give him a certain tastiness. But why bring him along? Sherlock never ate when he was on a case. If he wasn't useful and he wasn't food, what was he?
“What's his name?” he asked after a long moment.
“John something. Watson. Yes.”
“John Watson. Thank you, Greg. This is very interesting, indeed.”
“Oh, boy. You are being creepy again,” Greg warned. “And now I feel like I've ratted him out.”
“Oh, it's nothing I wouldn't eventually have noticed myself. You are guilt free. Don’t worry about John Watson. Spend your energy on finding a way to come home soon.”
“I will.”
“Promise.”
“Promise - right after I've raided Sherlock's flat for the evidence he's searching for.”
“I see. Right after that, then.” Mycroft chuckled as he hung up.
Then swiftly he went into action. Pressing a button on his desk, he called into an intercom. “I need any information you can find on Dr. John Watson, thirties, recently retired from the military. James: His psychiatrists notes would be useful. Candice, his military records. Anthea, please take a car to the immediately to the Lauresten Gardens neighbourhood. Let's see what it is about this man that my brother finds so terribly fascinating.”
Mycroft turned back to the CCTV. Watson was on the move, but not very fast. He called up a list of phone numbers in the area and began ringing them as John approached.
John didn't seem to notice the first phone. The second made him pause for a moment, but then he went on. By the fourth even John couldn't ignore it anymore. Reluctantly he lifted the phone.
Mycroft could see the car with Anthea in it slowly approaching the curb. His fangs lengthened in anticipation of a capture.
Sherlock found the baggage. Of course, he did. There was only a limited number of places a person could stash a bag, especially one that awful a colour, and not have it be immediately noticed. And the killer, Sherlock knew, was clever enough to hide it, but not so clever as to realise that in some neighbourhoods abandoning pristine luggage in the street would invite immediate theft rather than alarm. Had the bag been left in Brixton, he never would have found it.
Instead it was buried in a skip, tucked in turn down a narrow, seldom used alley, a mere four blocks from the murder. Highly predictable.
The killer thought he was smart. But he wasn't. Not nearly clever enough to make that pill. Ergo, there had to be two people, which explained the mixed message. Oh, delightful! Utterly delightful!
Humming cheerfully to himself, Sherlock towed the luggage back to Baker Street. He garnered a fair number of surprised looks, what with the harsh pink clashing awfully with his wardrobe and his masculinity, but he simply smiled them off. He was in a good mood.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he called through the door of 221A. “Did you let John in? I'm sorry I forgot to give him a key before we left. I hope he wasn't too angry.”
Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “Oh, he's not been back since you left.”
Sherlock stopped. “What?” He reached in his pocket for his mobile, but there were no messages that he'd missed. “There are plenty of cabs around. He should have been back fifteen minutes ago.”
“Well he's not,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Perhaps he went back to his old place. He's not properly moved in.”
Sherlock felt a shudder run through his middle. In retrospect, abandoning him at the scene wasn't the most friendly thing he could have done. On the other hand, he could hardly have expected John to climb across the rooftops the way he did, looking for those hidden skips. Common sense would have dictated he return to rendezvous with him at the flat. Was John too thick to realise that?
Sherlock sent out an offhanded psychic call to the man, and then kicked himself. There was no connection. Still.
He should have made John a thrall. Such a simple procedure, five minutes of time, and why-oh-why hadn't he spared them? Ten drops of blood down John's gullet and Sherlock could have found him half way across town. He could have called him and John would come running as fast as his weak leg would let him.
Or the other way around: Sherlock could hunt him. Follow the connection between them until he spotted his prey. Chase him down to some back alley. Celebrate his discovery by holding John against a brick wall, tearing free any offending clothing, and sinking his teeth deep into the flesh. The heady-thick flavour of his blood. The euphoric surge of vitality. The delicious shudders as fear turned to desire. The complete surrender of all John was and all he'd ever be to Sherlock.
Now. Now. Now. Like a pulse through his mind.
Sherlock's teeth had descended. His bloodlust rose, painfully sweet. With a much stronger glamour than needed, he sent Mrs. Hudson back to flat, because he didn't want to attack her. She turned around without a worry and closed the door on him, taking her weak, thin scent with her.
Well, one good thing was coming from this: His bloodlust had heightened his senses to an exquisite degree. It would be a shame to waste this state worrying about a man who doubtless had done exactly what Mrs. Hudson had said: gone back to his miserable hotel, wherever that happened to be.
Yes, yes. It was just as well John wasn't here, because if he'd walked in the door at that moment, Sherlock would have wasted this wonderful heightened state on actual hunting. And rather violent hunting at that. He'd have to glamour some explanation for the torn clothes when Sherlock finally released him.
And then Sherlock would be sated and useless for hours, or perhaps, given the degree of gluttony he seemed to be feeling, days. Thank you, John, for not being timely.
He lifted the luggage and almost flew up the stairs. He was in full hunting mode. His intellect was on fire. Safe in the living room, Sherlock turned his attention towards the pink bag.
The luggage was rife with clues that only a vampire could sense. First, there was the smell of garbage, reeking oil and rust and decay. Dust and dirt. Vampirically, these were null scents, easily ignorable. Intellectually interesting perhaps, but nothing to lengthen his teeth or wet his mouth. Since he knew where they came from, he dismissed them.
The next strongest scent was the woman. She was layered with perfumes and creams and soaps, slathered with chemicals to mask the richness of her humanity. Had Sherlock been in less than full on vampiric lust, that would have been all he sensed. In this state, he was able to ignore the scream of artificial odours. Underneath was the much more lovely scent of her her natural self. She smelled fertile, well fed and healthy, eager to be fed on. She'd been very much alive when last she touched the bag. There was no fear scent in the sweat, only effort and concupiscence. She'd not known she was about to die.
Under her scent was just the faintest trace of the killer. The contact had been brief. At no point had the killer actually allowed his bare flesh to touch the bag, which was too bad, since that would have given Sherlock a clear trackable identification. As it was Sherlock only got the smell of his clothes. The bag had brushed against his trousers. His leather clad hand had grasped the handle.
Less interesting was the contents. A second set of clothes, a bag of toiletries, a book. Condoms.
No phone. Bah.
Sherlock turned away from the briefcase and lay on the couch, thinking. A picture built: She'd entered the car (yes it must have been a car, not a train, not a bus) not knowing she was in danger. The luggage had been placed in the trunk and forgotten. Up until that point, everything must have seemed completely normal.
Why would she enter someones car without fear? Because she knew her killer she trusted her killer. Why would she trust someone she didn't know? Because it was his job to drive her.
A cabbie. Obvious. It fit all the murders. The victim's had willingly entered his cab, their thoughts filled with their destination. Once inside, the killer had been able to drive them where ever he found most convenient to dispose of them. By the time they realised the error, they were trapped. As for the victim profile - it truly was random. Anyone unlucky enough to hail his cab when the murderer needed his rush ended up with a pill in their mouth. Simple as that.
No, not that simple.
There was still the message clawed into the woodwork to explain. And the missing phone. Of course, she had to have a phone. But it wasn't in her luggage and it wasn't at the scene, which meant she lost it hid it with the murderer. If she thought there was a chance she'd survive, she'd have kept it on her, but she'd known she was going to die. The murderer was a braggart. Why leave the phone? Because she knew its built in GPS would track him down, and the phone itself would provide incontrovertible proof of his guilt. The word scratched into the floor - a password. GPS would allow anyone with the password to track the phone.
Oh, yes. This woman was smart. She died knowing she was taking her murderer down with her.
It all seemed perfectly clear and obvious thanks to Sherlock's heightened senses and racing mind. And here John worried that he wouldn't be that useful. His desirability was a perfect tool. Sherlock would have to remember to thank him when he returned.
The world froze.
John needed a cab.
And he was missing.
Sherlock sat up as if shocked. His hand was on his mobile instantly. What was John's number? Dear god, he didn't know John's number! He'd been so caught up with the case and his own situation he had taken John for granted. He hadn't bitten him, he hadn't fed him, he hadn't gotten down his pertinent information. He'd been so assured that he had time for all of that. But what if he hadn't?
This case had distracted him!
No, no, this panic was for nothing. The killer surely wouldn't be looking for another kill this soon, would he? The last corpse was barely cold. That must be enough of a thrill for one night. Hanging around the murder scene while the police were there would have been stupid.
But the killer wasn't as smart as he thought. He let the woman plant her mobile on him. And his kills were getting closer together. It was possible!
He didn't know John's number but Greg did. Sherlock had used John's phone yesterday to text him about the Jarvis case. The number would still be in his history.
Is John with you? - SH
The answer came back a few seconds later. No. He left forty minutes ago.
Did he catch a cab. v. imp!
I'll ask Sally, she talked to him last.
You have his number, I need it immediately. Perhaps there was time to warn John at least.
The next text was delayed an unbearable amount of time.
Relax, John is with Mycroft. I just talked to his people. He's fine.
Two emotions hit Sherlock one on top of the other. The first was terrible relief. John was safe. He hadn't entered the killer's cab after all.
The second was utter fury. John wasn't safe. Mycroft - starved after days of being spurned by his mate - was probably feasting on him right now, wallowing in all that extra vitality in a state of self-satisfied debauchery. Fucking him, too, if he knew his brother. The man rarely met a meal he didn't stick everything he could into.
Sherlock's imagination, strengthened by his own thwarted bloodlust, was far too clear. He could see John splayed out on Mycroft's decadent, overlarge bed, naked but for a sheen of sweat and whatever body fluids Mycroft had worked out of him. His mouth wet and open, eyes half-lidded. Exhausted. Tiny bruises flanking his thighs from Mycroft's overenthusiastic fingers. The vanishing marks of Mycroft's teeth on his bent and proffered throat.
No. No. No! John is mine!
And Mycroft doubtless knew that. Which is precisely why he'd poached him. Revenge for Sherlock thwarting his plans. Spite. Something he could lord over Sherlock, in that smug way he had.
You let this delicacy slip from your fingers without marking him? You let him wander the streets smelling like this? Surely you knew it was only a matter of time before some other vampire gobbled him up. Be glad it was me, and I might, if you ask very nicely, give him back.
Sherlock fingers flew over the buttons of his phone.
GIVE HIM BACK
NOW
The basement meeting spot was about midway between work and home. Not a place Mycroft had ever been to before, nor planned to again. Sherlock could turn London upside down before he accidentally stumbled across this place. And it would have to be an accident - Mycroft left neither scent nor paper trail for his perceptive brother to follow. He would have plenty of time to thoroughly get to know this Watson chap without Sherlock's intervention.
Without much difficulty, he was able to get the night watchman to open up a side door and wait patiently for Anthea to arrive. The man's mind was naturally dull and Mycroft's glamour took quite solidly without need for feeding to solidify their connection. He'd wipe the watchman's memory as soon as he was done with the place.
Bring him in, he texted Anthea, after scanning Watson's service records and psych reports. Anthea was driving the poor fellow around now, eating time until Mycroft was fully prepared.
He licked his lips in anticipation. Soldiers always made the most delicious meals. So young, so fit, so emotionally traumatised. Just how much vitality was this poorly-adjusted, mentally-scarred man producing? And how problematic was his mental state? And for that matter, how accurate were the psych notes? For a man with supposed “trust issues”, Watson seemed to jump into untested situations without much compunction.
And there he was.
John's scent preceded him. Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed it in. Dear Lord. The man was nearly as enticing as Gregory. What sort of soul searing action had he been through? He must be an emotional wreck. Funny, he'd sounded calm enough over the phone.
Then came the man himself, entering at the far side of the echoing machine room with Althea a step ahead of him. He looked small and vulnerable compared to the giant size of his vitality. Despite his psychologists notes, he didn't seem particularly shellshocked. In fact he appeared quite composed considering the circumstances. At most he was wary and annoyed. A bit of adrenaline adding spice to an already piquant dish.
Suspicious. Could it be...? Mycroft's eyes narrowed.
“Come to me,” he ordered, throwing out the strongest glamour he could. John hadn't even attempted to avert his eyes. John took a step forward and then stopped. Just like that, the glamour had snapped.
“I don't think so.”
Yes, of course. Mycroft's smile broadened. A mate.
It explained everything. Sherlock's behaviour. This man's. Even Sherlock's reticence to take Mycroft's offer of a place. Some part of Sherlock's soul must have sensed a mate ready for him and didn't want want another vampire too close.
As for John Watson, the call to bond for mates was weaker, but there. Perhaps poor adjustment simply meant dissatisfaction. And John's social isolation was merely an awareness that that he needed to keep himself in reserve for someone.
Gregory had been similarly effected. He'd talked about a growing disinterest in his marriage and friends months before he'd met Mycroft. His social life had been utterly nonexistent when they finally bonded. It was only after they'd been together for some weeks that Greg began to renew contact with his old acquaintances and find more friendly ground with his ex-wife.
“Don't be afraid,” said Mycroft, gently. “I won't bite. Now that I know who you are, it wouldn't be appropriate, sadly.”
John's eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Who are you and why have you brought me here?”
“I am...” Mycroft hesitated. “A concerned party.”
“Concerned about what?”
“About Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft took a step forward, leaning on his umbrella to give a reassuring, if false, appearance of infirmity. John stood still, watching him with a guarded expression. “I'm quite worried about him. He and I have been... rivals... for a very long time."
Watson took the information in with a small nod.
“And what are you to Sherlock, may I ask?” Mycroft continued. How much of the situation did John know?
“I'm none of your business,” said John, curtly.
Is that how he was going to play this! Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You met Sherlock for the first time yesterday, two hours ago you moved in, forty minutes ago he took you to work. It's all progressing rather quickly, wouldn't you say? Has he told you what he wanted from you?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” Mycroft was surprised. “And that is?”
“£150 a week plus half the utilities.”
“Oh now, don't be obtuse. He didn't bring you to the crime scene to shake you down for rent money. He wants something from you. Did he tell you what it is?”
John looked like his patience was being stretched. “He wanted my doctorly opinion on a corpse.”
“Tch!” said Mycroft. “Then he hasn't told you yet, has he.”
“Told me what?” John was doing an admirable job of holding his emotions in check, but his heart sped up at those words.
“Who you are. Who he is.”
And John's heart slowed back down. “You bring me here to talk in enigmatic riddles? You are the strangest kidnapper I've ever--” He stopped. His mouth snapped shut. What was that? A little widening of the eyes, broadening of the pupils, as if he'd made some sort of connection and had finally become properly concerned.
“Oh, I'm quite sane.”
Mycroft came closer. John didn't back off. Clearly fear wasn't the reason for his refusal to come to him earlier. Mycroft could cross the space between them in less time than it took for John to react, but it was better taking it slow, seeing just where he'd draw the line. He was almost within arms reach and John's only reaction was to stand a bit straighter and tighten the muscles of his arms.
Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. There was no trace of Sherlock on him. Not blood, not saliva. There was no marker left showing that he'd ever been taken by a vampire. Sherlock had kept him close but he hadn't touched him.
Was he resisting the call? If so it made no sense that he'd hold his mate so close, where his body would have no choice but to react.
Or was it possible Sherlock simply didn't not recognise what John was? It seemed impossible that Sherlock wouldn't know his own mate, but then Sherlock had shown a remarkable degree wilful obliviousness in areas he didn't wish to deal with. He'd said many times that he had no intentions of ever taking a mate and had nothing but contempt for the idea of creating childer. He'd spurned close friendships. He barely deigned to eat properly and tended to chose his food from among those least pleasant to feed from. It was just barely possible his libido was doing an end run around his obstinate will, making sure that he'd be irrevocably triggered before he had a chance to avoid his fate. Even though he couldn't consciously tolerate a mate, perhaps unconsciously he still longed for one.
Oh the grist for the vampire rumour mill. Mycroft chuckled to himself. Someone should really do a formal study of vampire psychology sometime. There would probably be a name for this.
“Perhaps I should rephrase. What do you want from Sherlock, Dr. Watson?”
“I want --” John hesitated and seemed to catch himself. His eyes narrowed. “Also none of your business. What do you want? With me? From him?”
Mycroft considered. “I want information,” he said, calculatingly. He pulled out a check book. “For which I'm willing to offer a considerable sum. Nothing that you'd feel awkward or bad about divulging. Public matters. Trivial things.”
“No.”
“I haven't said how much I'll pay. You are unemployed and Sherlock is broke. A bit of extra money would be very useful. And if you take over some of the payments, it would even benefit Sherlock.”
“Still no,” said John when he finished.
“You are very loyal to a man you've barely met. Don't you wonder why?”
“I'm not the kind to betray people, even those I've just met.”
Mycroft took the last step. He was now in easy reach of John. Generally humans considered this too close. John stiffened but held his ground as if defending this particular spot of concrete were his job.
“Give me your hand,” said Mycroft, gently.
John's impassive demeanour broke briefly and he frowned. “No.”
“Then hold it still, in the air. I wish to show you something.”
John held his hand in the air. It was still, utterly so.
“You're psychologist claims the tremor in your hand is due to stress, but you are in quite a stressful situation right now and it's quite steady. You don't have post traumatic stress syndrome, at least not to the degree everyone has been claiming. You are, in fact, completely sane and grounded. What's going on with you is something quite different.”
John looked at his hand, surprised. “What?”
In that moment, Mycroft made his move, clasping the hand and bringing it to his lips. One fang grazed the bared skin on John's wrist. Too light to penetrate, but enough to spread a line of saliva across the flesh.
John yanked his hand away, and held it to his chest. He stepped back, once, twice, until he was out of arm reach again. Mycroft let him. Tempting as John was, he was not thrall material at all. Mycroft was the last person to get in the way of Sherlock's happiness.
Though he was not above giving it a good hard push in the right direction.
“You are lonely, Dr. Watson. Go back to Sherlock,” Mycroft said, turning his back to John as if to dismiss him physically as well as verbally. “My assistant will take you.”
There was a ringing of a phone and Mycroft paused then reached into his pocket. He clicked on the message and let out a soft chuckle. To Anthea he said. “Take him home.”
John was sitting next to the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen this side of a telly screen and she was ignoring him. That part wasn't a surprise. Though there had been a time, not too many years back when even women out of his league would at least give him a once over and a laugh before dismissing him. But the thirties had been a bit harder on John than most people and he knew he showed it in his face.
Just his luck. At least the blokes seemed to find him attractive enough. What was up with that odd kiss his captor gave him before sending him off. His wrist still tingled from it. The worst of it was the deja vu feeling he got, as though he'd been through this before. Back in Afghanistan. The warlord and peacekeeping mission gone wrong.
John shuddered.
If nothing else, looking at this incredibly beautiful woman made a nice distraction from thinking about what happened.
So it was that they'd gone several blocks before John realised they were headed North towards Regent's Park.
“I'd like to be dropped off at my flat, please,” he said. “It's in South Kensington.”
“Mmm,” said the woman. She didn't look up and the car didn't deviate from it's path.
“So, where are you taking me.”
“Home,” she said brightly.
“And that would be South Kensington, where all my things are.”
“Mmm,” she repeated non-nondescriptly.
“I don't live at Baker street. I don't even have a key. I was just checking out the place. And really, I've had a long enough night. It's almost midnight.”
“He's waiting for you,” she said looking up and giving him a slightly pitying smile.
“Him who? Sherlock Holmes? I rather doubt it. He's chasing about looking for a murder.” That came out slightly bitter.
“Mmm,” she said, more guardedly “Here we are.”
The car pulled up to the curb and the driver opened John's door. His traveling companion smiled expectantly at him. Not really wanted to be kidnapped for longer than he had to be, John got out and stood in front of the building. He took a deep breath. Up on the second floor the curtains twitched and he saw Sherlock's face glowering down.
He sighed. Well at the very least he wouldn't be locked out. Wearily he limped up the steps.
“I'm only here a moment,” he said as he opened the door to 221B, figuring that the best way to deal with the incredible night was to simply treat it as fluke. “I thought I could get your number and we could talk about arrangements --”
He turned around from closing the door to find Sherlock standing no more than an inch away from him. He jumped, his shoulder hitting the door frame.
“What did he do to you?” asked Sherlock, looking sharp and dangerous.
“What did who do to me?”
“Mycroft. The man who abducted you. Did he glamour you to forget? I can smell him on you.” For the second time in fifteen minutes, John found his hand being raised to someone's face. “He touched you, here. What do you remember?”
There was a slightly dizzying quality to Sherlock's voice, and John felt the pressure of words against his mouth. Then he tightened his lips and pulled his arm hard. “What are you doing? Let go of me.”
Reluctantly Sherlock let go. John retreated into the room, staring around at the jumble of boxes and equipment. The reek of chemicals from the kitchen made his nose twitch. Part of him still thought the place had promise, but right now he wasn't really sure it was worth the work, both physically and emotionally.
“You want to know what happened?” he asked Sherlock. “You really want to know?”
“Yes!”
“Well so do I,” said John. “I'd bloody well like to know what's going on. That man, Mycroft, you called him, he controls the CCTV system. The bloody CCTV system. How can he do that?”
“Yes, I know. That's not important, John. The important thing is did he bite you.”
“Of course, he didn't bite me!” said John limping to the kitchen and grabbing one of the chairs. He felt like his leg was about to collapse under him. “Why on Earth would he bite me?”
“Then what did he want from you?”
“He wanted me to spy on you. He offered me money.”
“Spy? Really? Is that all?” Sherlock looked suddenly relieved. “Did you take his offer.”
“Of course not,” said John.
“Pity.”
“Who is he?”
“My brother. Trying, I imagine, to find yet another way to force himself back into my life again. He didn't bite you, but he touched you. I can smell him on your wrist.”
“And does your brother normally bite people?” John had chalked the touch down to an odd kiss, but now that he thought about it, it had felt more like teeth than lips. Wait, what was that about smelling?
“Yes. He's a vampire. It's what he does.” Sherlock was staring at him in a guarded way.
“Your brother's a vampire?”
“Yes.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really,” repeated Sherlock.
“Okay,” said John abruptly too tired for all this weirdness. “I can take being made to look a fool at a crime scene. That was my fault, too. I tooted my horn a bit more than I should have, you couldn't know that I didn't have the skills you needed. Thank god you were brilliant enough for the both of us.
“I'm also fine with you just running off and forgetting me when I become inconvenient I'm a grown up, I can take care of myself and you have a job to do.
“I'm even marginally okay with being kidnapped by your brother - that wasn't your fault.”
“Naturally not!”
“But lying to me after all that?” John shook his head. “There I draw the line.”
“I'm not lying.”
“Vampires, Sherlock?” John shook his head. “No. Enough. I'm tired. You're busy. Give me your number and I'll talk to you tomorrow about the flat. It's a lovely place and the price is perfect, but I'd rather not rush into any decisions at the moment.” Because that decision would be “no” and damn it, he needed this place. John got up and began walking towards the door.
“You are leaving?” Sherlock asked.
“Just for the night.”
Sherlock placed himself in front of the door. “No. You can't. I still need you. It's not safe for you to be out there like you are. Trust me, I read Mycroft's message loud and clear. If you could just bear with me another hour - I've almost solved this case. Then I can, I can--” He stopped talking and his mouth gaped open.
“Oh dear god,” he said.
John stared at him. “Is it always like this around you? Never mind. I don't want to know. Just move out of the way.”
“Cluck like a chicken, John.”
John brushed aside an utterly madcap urge to comply. “The hell? Stop it, Sherlock.”
“Take off your shoes!” Sherlock was staring at him as if he could skewer him with a look.
“I can't believe Mike put me up to this. I'm going! Get out of the way.”
“WAIT!” Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms wide to block John. Then in a softer voice. “Please, wait.”
John hesitated.
“You chose to give me your mobile yesterday. Explain!”
“What?”
“I didn't ask you for your mobile, but you gave it to me yesterday, why?”
“Because yours was out of battery and Mike had left his in his coat. I had a mobile...”
“It was the nice thing to do.” Sherlock's eyes widened with what could only be horror.
“Yes.”
“Why did you come to the crime scene with me tonight.”
“Because … I don't know, I thought I might be able to help.” At Sherlock's crushed expression John expanded. “Because I was bored. It sounded interesting. And you wanted it.”
“You could have said no.”
“Do you wish I had?”
Sherlock looked stricken. “No! No. Oh, God, John. Oh God. You aren't easy to glamour - you are impossible. You're a mate! You have to be. It explains everything. Your my mate!”
John frowned. It seemed jarring that Sherlock would use such a low class word.
But before he could respond any further there was a thunderstorm on the steps. The door burst open, hitting Sherlock in the back. He moved aside and Mrs. Hudson entered a step in front of Lestrade and what seemed to be half of Scotland Yard.
“Oh for God sake, Greg,” said Sherlock. “Not now! Worst. Timing. Ever!”
“Hello, Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a calm smile. “I expect you know why we're here.”
“OUT!”
“Okay, if you say so,” Lestrade half turned around then shook his head in a self-deprecating manner. “Oh no, wait. Look what I have here in my pocket. Is it a warrant to search your flat? Why yes it is!” Lestrade held up a paper.
“On what grounds?” Sherlock snatched the paper. “My ASBO?, that was three years ago!”
“Your probation specifies that I can search your flat for drugs any time I deem it might be necessary. Oh and look, there's a pink suitcase sitting out on your table.”
“You have an ASBO for drugs?” asked John, surprised.
“It was three years ago. And I didn't take them myself,” he said to Lestrade.
Lestrade leaned in and spoke so quietly that John could barely make out what he was saying, “Because that makes it so much better.”
Lestrade’s people were filing into the flat in a seemingly endless stream. John recognised many of them from the crime scene earlier, and he rather expected it was the exact same group. Several converged on the pink case, the rest fanned out to search the rest of the flat, including poking into some of Sherlock's closed boxes. “There's nothing in ther--” Sherlock spun towards the door. “NOT HIM!”
“Hello, Sherlock,” said Anderson, smiling.
“Greg there's no reason for him being here. You are just being spiteful.”
“He volunteered,” said Lestrade. “And it wouldn't have happened if you'd called me when you found the luggage. How many times have I warned you about tampering with evidence?”
“I was going to call!” Sherlock said in very close to a whine. “I'm so close to solving the case - I just need to--”
Someone brushed against John's back, jostling him. He looked around and noticed Sally poking at the chemistry kit. “Is this cocaine?” she asked, pointing to some powdered residue in one of the beakers.
“Lick it and see,” dared Sherlock.
“Don't!” Lestrade warned.
This is a zoo, thought John. Once again he was in the middle of a crime scene he had nothing to do with and couldn't in any way help. He felt like an obstructive bystander. Well enough of this, he thought to himself, grabbing the door handle and turning sideways to slide past one of Lestrade's team. The man ignored him. John gave one last glance half way down the stair and barely saw Sherlock's head turned away. He was shouting to someone to be careful with a box.
John turned around and shook his head. It was hard not to laugh as he stepped out into the street. The whole situation just seemed like dinner theatre, with the bit about vampires making an interesting second act intrigue. But as odd and funny as it was, John was just as happy to be out of it.
Outside was eerily quiet. John took a deep breath of the cool night air, then glanced at his watch. Midnight. Usually he was in bed and sound asleep by ten.
A cab pulled up, finding a spot between all the police cars. A cabbie ducked his head out of the open window and called to him, “You look like you could use a lift. Can I take you somewhere?”
John walked over to him. The cabbie was small and grizzled with age. He had a kind looking smile that reminded John a bit of his uncle Phil. “Yes. South Kensington, please.”
“Hop on in,” the cabbie said.
John opened the door and, without a second thought, climbed into the back.
Chapter 3
PAIRING: Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Lestrade
RATING: NC-17 (eventually), this part R.
WARNINGS: Some violence, non-con themes.
WORD COUNT: 39,000. This Chapter 6400
SUMMARY: Vampire!Au, sequel to Mate. Sherlock is sober, but his life is still spiraling down hill. Despite this, he has resisted the notion of ever getting a mate. The very idea of having a human balancing his life is abhorrent. As Mycroft, a case, and a new flatmate all vie for his attention, he misses the most important clue of his life: that his mate has found him.
A/N: This is too long to fit as a oneshot so I've broken it down into four five chapters.
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 2
Mycroft was still at the office when Greg called. GPS on his phone put him in the Lauriston Garden's area. Another crime scene. He sighed and answered. “So you aren't going to be home in time for a late supper?”
“Fraid not. We've got another. ”
Mycroft leaned back in his chair. “You know, your daughters are beginning to wonder what you look like.” With a mouse click he called up the CCTV's in Greg's area, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. “I'm beginning to wonder, too.”
“I look unshaved and could use a shampoo, but otherwise the same as I looked two days ago. Besides, I'm pretty sure you've been peeking in on me. I've noticed the cameras moving.”
Mycroft chuckled. “You can hardly blame me. I do worry about you. But more to the point, you have to come home sometime, Greg. Sleeping at the office can't be good for you. I need you.”
There was a brief commotion in the background and he heard Greg ordering some of his people around. Then Greg's voice came in clearer: “Yeah, Sherlock mentioned that I stank today. I'm guessing that's vampire code for 'needing to be fed on.' Of course, he could have meant that I needed a shower. Are you hungry?”
“For you, always.”
“But you have been eating elsewhere, right? You aren't about to die on me because I'm busy with this homicide investigation.”
“I feed daily. That doesn't stop me from needing to feed on you. Nor you of needing to be fed on. Sherlock doesn't have a mate, I'm sure you must be distractingly tempting right now. Of course, he knows better than to try lay a tooth on you.”
He better.
“That's reassuring,” said Greg, a bit dryly. “Oh, speaking of Sherlock, the reason I called. He brought his flatmate to the crime scene, that's a first. Interesting man. Doctor, apparently. Sherlock asked his opinion about the murder.”
New thrall, thought Mycroft. Didn't take long to find a flatmate it seemed. “Was he helpful?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Greg. “But you'd never know it to look at Sherlock. If I had to guess, your brother was showing off like a peacock to him. It was rather funny. I've never seen Sherlock smitten by someone before.”
“Smitten?” Mycroft's interest went up several fold. “Are you sure Sherlock wasn't simply currying favour?
“Oh, possibly. I mean, I've seen him being ingratiating before, and he can charm the pants off anyone, but this wasn't that. He actually looked vulnerable - for a bit.”
“For a bit?”
“Yeah, then he noticed an actual clue, and raced off, leaving the poor man behind. So I wouldn't put too much stock in this being significant. Just thought you might find it interesting.”
“How very odd.” Mycroft murmured. “Where is this Doctor?”
“He just left the building about a minute ago. Hold on. Yeah, I can still see him right outside, looking lost, poor fellow.”
Mycroft's hands flew over the keyboard, training all the CCTVs in the area toward the building Greg apparently was in. He saw the police tape and focused in on a clump of three people. One was readily identifiable as Anderson. Mycroft felt a prickle of anxiety, even though Anderson's powers didn't extend through the wires. The uniformed officer was Donovan, one of Lestrade’s regulars. The third was someone new.
Mycroft tightened the focus on his face. Thirties, weary looking. Military hair cut. Army medic then. PTSD? - that would give him a certain tastiness. But why bring him along? Sherlock never ate when he was on a case. If he wasn't useful and he wasn't food, what was he?
“What's his name?” he asked after a long moment.
“John something. Watson. Yes.”
“John Watson. Thank you, Greg. This is very interesting, indeed.”
“Oh, boy. You are being creepy again,” Greg warned. “And now I feel like I've ratted him out.”
“Oh, it's nothing I wouldn't eventually have noticed myself. You are guilt free. Don’t worry about John Watson. Spend your energy on finding a way to come home soon.”
“I will.”
“Promise.”
“Promise - right after I've raided Sherlock's flat for the evidence he's searching for.”
“I see. Right after that, then.” Mycroft chuckled as he hung up.
Then swiftly he went into action. Pressing a button on his desk, he called into an intercom. “I need any information you can find on Dr. John Watson, thirties, recently retired from the military. James: His psychiatrists notes would be useful. Candice, his military records. Anthea, please take a car to the immediately to the Lauresten Gardens neighbourhood. Let's see what it is about this man that my brother finds so terribly fascinating.”
Mycroft turned back to the CCTV. Watson was on the move, but not very fast. He called up a list of phone numbers in the area and began ringing them as John approached.
John didn't seem to notice the first phone. The second made him pause for a moment, but then he went on. By the fourth even John couldn't ignore it anymore. Reluctantly he lifted the phone.
Mycroft could see the car with Anthea in it slowly approaching the curb. His fangs lengthened in anticipation of a capture.
Sherlock found the baggage. Of course, he did. There was only a limited number of places a person could stash a bag, especially one that awful a colour, and not have it be immediately noticed. And the killer, Sherlock knew, was clever enough to hide it, but not so clever as to realise that in some neighbourhoods abandoning pristine luggage in the street would invite immediate theft rather than alarm. Had the bag been left in Brixton, he never would have found it.
Instead it was buried in a skip, tucked in turn down a narrow, seldom used alley, a mere four blocks from the murder. Highly predictable.
The killer thought he was smart. But he wasn't. Not nearly clever enough to make that pill. Ergo, there had to be two people, which explained the mixed message. Oh, delightful! Utterly delightful!
Humming cheerfully to himself, Sherlock towed the luggage back to Baker Street. He garnered a fair number of surprised looks, what with the harsh pink clashing awfully with his wardrobe and his masculinity, but he simply smiled them off. He was in a good mood.
“Mrs. Hudson,” he called through the door of 221A. “Did you let John in? I'm sorry I forgot to give him a key before we left. I hope he wasn't too angry.”
Mrs. Hudson opened her door. “Oh, he's not been back since you left.”
Sherlock stopped. “What?” He reached in his pocket for his mobile, but there were no messages that he'd missed. “There are plenty of cabs around. He should have been back fifteen minutes ago.”
“Well he's not,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Perhaps he went back to his old place. He's not properly moved in.”
Sherlock felt a shudder run through his middle. In retrospect, abandoning him at the scene wasn't the most friendly thing he could have done. On the other hand, he could hardly have expected John to climb across the rooftops the way he did, looking for those hidden skips. Common sense would have dictated he return to rendezvous with him at the flat. Was John too thick to realise that?
Sherlock sent out an offhanded psychic call to the man, and then kicked himself. There was no connection. Still.
He should have made John a thrall. Such a simple procedure, five minutes of time, and why-oh-why hadn't he spared them? Ten drops of blood down John's gullet and Sherlock could have found him half way across town. He could have called him and John would come running as fast as his weak leg would let him.
Or the other way around: Sherlock could hunt him. Follow the connection between them until he spotted his prey. Chase him down to some back alley. Celebrate his discovery by holding John against a brick wall, tearing free any offending clothing, and sinking his teeth deep into the flesh. The heady-thick flavour of his blood. The euphoric surge of vitality. The delicious shudders as fear turned to desire. The complete surrender of all John was and all he'd ever be to Sherlock.
Now. Now. Now. Like a pulse through his mind.
Sherlock's teeth had descended. His bloodlust rose, painfully sweet. With a much stronger glamour than needed, he sent Mrs. Hudson back to flat, because he didn't want to attack her. She turned around without a worry and closed the door on him, taking her weak, thin scent with her.
Well, one good thing was coming from this: His bloodlust had heightened his senses to an exquisite degree. It would be a shame to waste this state worrying about a man who doubtless had done exactly what Mrs. Hudson had said: gone back to his miserable hotel, wherever that happened to be.
Yes, yes. It was just as well John wasn't here, because if he'd walked in the door at that moment, Sherlock would have wasted this wonderful heightened state on actual hunting. And rather violent hunting at that. He'd have to glamour some explanation for the torn clothes when Sherlock finally released him.
And then Sherlock would be sated and useless for hours, or perhaps, given the degree of gluttony he seemed to be feeling, days. Thank you, John, for not being timely.
He lifted the luggage and almost flew up the stairs. He was in full hunting mode. His intellect was on fire. Safe in the living room, Sherlock turned his attention towards the pink bag.
The luggage was rife with clues that only a vampire could sense. First, there was the smell of garbage, reeking oil and rust and decay. Dust and dirt. Vampirically, these were null scents, easily ignorable. Intellectually interesting perhaps, but nothing to lengthen his teeth or wet his mouth. Since he knew where they came from, he dismissed them.
The next strongest scent was the woman. She was layered with perfumes and creams and soaps, slathered with chemicals to mask the richness of her humanity. Had Sherlock been in less than full on vampiric lust, that would have been all he sensed. In this state, he was able to ignore the scream of artificial odours. Underneath was the much more lovely scent of her her natural self. She smelled fertile, well fed and healthy, eager to be fed on. She'd been very much alive when last she touched the bag. There was no fear scent in the sweat, only effort and concupiscence. She'd not known she was about to die.
Under her scent was just the faintest trace of the killer. The contact had been brief. At no point had the killer actually allowed his bare flesh to touch the bag, which was too bad, since that would have given Sherlock a clear trackable identification. As it was Sherlock only got the smell of his clothes. The bag had brushed against his trousers. His leather clad hand had grasped the handle.
Less interesting was the contents. A second set of clothes, a bag of toiletries, a book. Condoms.
No phone. Bah.
Sherlock turned away from the briefcase and lay on the couch, thinking. A picture built: She'd entered the car (yes it must have been a car, not a train, not a bus) not knowing she was in danger. The luggage had been placed in the trunk and forgotten. Up until that point, everything must have seemed completely normal.
Why would she enter someones car without fear? Because she knew her killer she trusted her killer. Why would she trust someone she didn't know? Because it was his job to drive her.
A cabbie. Obvious. It fit all the murders. The victim's had willingly entered his cab, their thoughts filled with their destination. Once inside, the killer had been able to drive them where ever he found most convenient to dispose of them. By the time they realised the error, they were trapped. As for the victim profile - it truly was random. Anyone unlucky enough to hail his cab when the murderer needed his rush ended up with a pill in their mouth. Simple as that.
No, not that simple.
There was still the message clawed into the woodwork to explain. And the missing phone. Of course, she had to have a phone. But it wasn't in her luggage and it wasn't at the scene, which meant she lost it hid it with the murderer. If she thought there was a chance she'd survive, she'd have kept it on her, but she'd known she was going to die. The murderer was a braggart. Why leave the phone? Because she knew its built in GPS would track him down, and the phone itself would provide incontrovertible proof of his guilt. The word scratched into the floor - a password. GPS would allow anyone with the password to track the phone.
Oh, yes. This woman was smart. She died knowing she was taking her murderer down with her.
It all seemed perfectly clear and obvious thanks to Sherlock's heightened senses and racing mind. And here John worried that he wouldn't be that useful. His desirability was a perfect tool. Sherlock would have to remember to thank him when he returned.
The world froze.
John needed a cab.
And he was missing.
Sherlock sat up as if shocked. His hand was on his mobile instantly. What was John's number? Dear god, he didn't know John's number! He'd been so caught up with the case and his own situation he had taken John for granted. He hadn't bitten him, he hadn't fed him, he hadn't gotten down his pertinent information. He'd been so assured that he had time for all of that. But what if he hadn't?
This case had distracted him!
No, no, this panic was for nothing. The killer surely wouldn't be looking for another kill this soon, would he? The last corpse was barely cold. That must be enough of a thrill for one night. Hanging around the murder scene while the police were there would have been stupid.
But the killer wasn't as smart as he thought. He let the woman plant her mobile on him. And his kills were getting closer together. It was possible!
He didn't know John's number but Greg did. Sherlock had used John's phone yesterday to text him about the Jarvis case. The number would still be in his history.
Is John with you? - SH
The answer came back a few seconds later. No. He left forty minutes ago.
Did he catch a cab. v. imp!
I'll ask Sally, she talked to him last.
You have his number, I need it immediately. Perhaps there was time to warn John at least.
The next text was delayed an unbearable amount of time.
Relax, John is with Mycroft. I just talked to his people. He's fine.
Two emotions hit Sherlock one on top of the other. The first was terrible relief. John was safe. He hadn't entered the killer's cab after all.
The second was utter fury. John wasn't safe. Mycroft - starved after days of being spurned by his mate - was probably feasting on him right now, wallowing in all that extra vitality in a state of self-satisfied debauchery. Fucking him, too, if he knew his brother. The man rarely met a meal he didn't stick everything he could into.
Sherlock's imagination, strengthened by his own thwarted bloodlust, was far too clear. He could see John splayed out on Mycroft's decadent, overlarge bed, naked but for a sheen of sweat and whatever body fluids Mycroft had worked out of him. His mouth wet and open, eyes half-lidded. Exhausted. Tiny bruises flanking his thighs from Mycroft's overenthusiastic fingers. The vanishing marks of Mycroft's teeth on his bent and proffered throat.
No. No. No! John is mine!
And Mycroft doubtless knew that. Which is precisely why he'd poached him. Revenge for Sherlock thwarting his plans. Spite. Something he could lord over Sherlock, in that smug way he had.
You let this delicacy slip from your fingers without marking him? You let him wander the streets smelling like this? Surely you knew it was only a matter of time before some other vampire gobbled him up. Be glad it was me, and I might, if you ask very nicely, give him back.
Sherlock fingers flew over the buttons of his phone.
GIVE HIM BACK
NOW
The basement meeting spot was about midway between work and home. Not a place Mycroft had ever been to before, nor planned to again. Sherlock could turn London upside down before he accidentally stumbled across this place. And it would have to be an accident - Mycroft left neither scent nor paper trail for his perceptive brother to follow. He would have plenty of time to thoroughly get to know this Watson chap without Sherlock's intervention.
Without much difficulty, he was able to get the night watchman to open up a side door and wait patiently for Anthea to arrive. The man's mind was naturally dull and Mycroft's glamour took quite solidly without need for feeding to solidify their connection. He'd wipe the watchman's memory as soon as he was done with the place.
Bring him in, he texted Anthea, after scanning Watson's service records and psych reports. Anthea was driving the poor fellow around now, eating time until Mycroft was fully prepared.
He licked his lips in anticipation. Soldiers always made the most delicious meals. So young, so fit, so emotionally traumatised. Just how much vitality was this poorly-adjusted, mentally-scarred man producing? And how problematic was his mental state? And for that matter, how accurate were the psych notes? For a man with supposed “trust issues”, Watson seemed to jump into untested situations without much compunction.
And there he was.
John's scent preceded him. Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed it in. Dear Lord. The man was nearly as enticing as Gregory. What sort of soul searing action had he been through? He must be an emotional wreck. Funny, he'd sounded calm enough over the phone.
Then came the man himself, entering at the far side of the echoing machine room with Althea a step ahead of him. He looked small and vulnerable compared to the giant size of his vitality. Despite his psychologists notes, he didn't seem particularly shellshocked. In fact he appeared quite composed considering the circumstances. At most he was wary and annoyed. A bit of adrenaline adding spice to an already piquant dish.
Suspicious. Could it be...? Mycroft's eyes narrowed.
“Come to me,” he ordered, throwing out the strongest glamour he could. John hadn't even attempted to avert his eyes. John took a step forward and then stopped. Just like that, the glamour had snapped.
“I don't think so.”
Yes, of course. Mycroft's smile broadened. A mate.
It explained everything. Sherlock's behaviour. This man's. Even Sherlock's reticence to take Mycroft's offer of a place. Some part of Sherlock's soul must have sensed a mate ready for him and didn't want want another vampire too close.
As for John Watson, the call to bond for mates was weaker, but there. Perhaps poor adjustment simply meant dissatisfaction. And John's social isolation was merely an awareness that that he needed to keep himself in reserve for someone.
Gregory had been similarly effected. He'd talked about a growing disinterest in his marriage and friends months before he'd met Mycroft. His social life had been utterly nonexistent when they finally bonded. It was only after they'd been together for some weeks that Greg began to renew contact with his old acquaintances and find more friendly ground with his ex-wife.
“Don't be afraid,” said Mycroft, gently. “I won't bite. Now that I know who you are, it wouldn't be appropriate, sadly.”
John's eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Who are you and why have you brought me here?”
“I am...” Mycroft hesitated. “A concerned party.”
“Concerned about what?”
“About Sherlock Holmes.” Mycroft took a step forward, leaning on his umbrella to give a reassuring, if false, appearance of infirmity. John stood still, watching him with a guarded expression. “I'm quite worried about him. He and I have been... rivals... for a very long time."
Watson took the information in with a small nod.
“And what are you to Sherlock, may I ask?” Mycroft continued. How much of the situation did John know?
“I'm none of your business,” said John, curtly.
Is that how he was going to play this! Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “You met Sherlock for the first time yesterday, two hours ago you moved in, forty minutes ago he took you to work. It's all progressing rather quickly, wouldn't you say? Has he told you what he wanted from you?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” Mycroft was surprised. “And that is?”
“£150 a week plus half the utilities.”
“Oh now, don't be obtuse. He didn't bring you to the crime scene to shake you down for rent money. He wants something from you. Did he tell you what it is?”
John looked like his patience was being stretched. “He wanted my doctorly opinion on a corpse.”
“Tch!” said Mycroft. “Then he hasn't told you yet, has he.”
“Told me what?” John was doing an admirable job of holding his emotions in check, but his heart sped up at those words.
“Who you are. Who he is.”
And John's heart slowed back down. “You bring me here to talk in enigmatic riddles? You are the strangest kidnapper I've ever--” He stopped. His mouth snapped shut. What was that? A little widening of the eyes, broadening of the pupils, as if he'd made some sort of connection and had finally become properly concerned.
“Oh, I'm quite sane.”
Mycroft came closer. John didn't back off. Clearly fear wasn't the reason for his refusal to come to him earlier. Mycroft could cross the space between them in less time than it took for John to react, but it was better taking it slow, seeing just where he'd draw the line. He was almost within arms reach and John's only reaction was to stand a bit straighter and tighten the muscles of his arms.
Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. There was no trace of Sherlock on him. Not blood, not saliva. There was no marker left showing that he'd ever been taken by a vampire. Sherlock had kept him close but he hadn't touched him.
Was he resisting the call? If so it made no sense that he'd hold his mate so close, where his body would have no choice but to react.
Or was it possible Sherlock simply didn't not recognise what John was? It seemed impossible that Sherlock wouldn't know his own mate, but then Sherlock had shown a remarkable degree wilful obliviousness in areas he didn't wish to deal with. He'd said many times that he had no intentions of ever taking a mate and had nothing but contempt for the idea of creating childer. He'd spurned close friendships. He barely deigned to eat properly and tended to chose his food from among those least pleasant to feed from. It was just barely possible his libido was doing an end run around his obstinate will, making sure that he'd be irrevocably triggered before he had a chance to avoid his fate. Even though he couldn't consciously tolerate a mate, perhaps unconsciously he still longed for one.
Oh the grist for the vampire rumour mill. Mycroft chuckled to himself. Someone should really do a formal study of vampire psychology sometime. There would probably be a name for this.
“Perhaps I should rephrase. What do you want from Sherlock, Dr. Watson?”
“I want --” John hesitated and seemed to catch himself. His eyes narrowed. “Also none of your business. What do you want? With me? From him?”
Mycroft considered. “I want information,” he said, calculatingly. He pulled out a check book. “For which I'm willing to offer a considerable sum. Nothing that you'd feel awkward or bad about divulging. Public matters. Trivial things.”
“No.”
“I haven't said how much I'll pay. You are unemployed and Sherlock is broke. A bit of extra money would be very useful. And if you take over some of the payments, it would even benefit Sherlock.”
“Still no,” said John when he finished.
“You are very loyal to a man you've barely met. Don't you wonder why?”
“I'm not the kind to betray people, even those I've just met.”
Mycroft took the last step. He was now in easy reach of John. Generally humans considered this too close. John stiffened but held his ground as if defending this particular spot of concrete were his job.
“Give me your hand,” said Mycroft, gently.
John's impassive demeanour broke briefly and he frowned. “No.”
“Then hold it still, in the air. I wish to show you something.”
John held his hand in the air. It was still, utterly so.
“You're psychologist claims the tremor in your hand is due to stress, but you are in quite a stressful situation right now and it's quite steady. You don't have post traumatic stress syndrome, at least not to the degree everyone has been claiming. You are, in fact, completely sane and grounded. What's going on with you is something quite different.”
John looked at his hand, surprised. “What?”
In that moment, Mycroft made his move, clasping the hand and bringing it to his lips. One fang grazed the bared skin on John's wrist. Too light to penetrate, but enough to spread a line of saliva across the flesh.
John yanked his hand away, and held it to his chest. He stepped back, once, twice, until he was out of arm reach again. Mycroft let him. Tempting as John was, he was not thrall material at all. Mycroft was the last person to get in the way of Sherlock's happiness.
Though he was not above giving it a good hard push in the right direction.
“You are lonely, Dr. Watson. Go back to Sherlock,” Mycroft said, turning his back to John as if to dismiss him physically as well as verbally. “My assistant will take you.”
There was a ringing of a phone and Mycroft paused then reached into his pocket. He clicked on the message and let out a soft chuckle. To Anthea he said. “Take him home.”
John was sitting next to the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen this side of a telly screen and she was ignoring him. That part wasn't a surprise. Though there had been a time, not too many years back when even women out of his league would at least give him a once over and a laugh before dismissing him. But the thirties had been a bit harder on John than most people and he knew he showed it in his face.
Just his luck. At least the blokes seemed to find him attractive enough. What was up with that odd kiss his captor gave him before sending him off. His wrist still tingled from it. The worst of it was the deja vu feeling he got, as though he'd been through this before. Back in Afghanistan. The warlord and peacekeeping mission gone wrong.
John shuddered.
If nothing else, looking at this incredibly beautiful woman made a nice distraction from thinking about what happened.
So it was that they'd gone several blocks before John realised they were headed North towards Regent's Park.
“I'd like to be dropped off at my flat, please,” he said. “It's in South Kensington.”
“Mmm,” said the woman. She didn't look up and the car didn't deviate from it's path.
“So, where are you taking me.”
“Home,” she said brightly.
“And that would be South Kensington, where all my things are.”
“Mmm,” she repeated non-nondescriptly.
“I don't live at Baker street. I don't even have a key. I was just checking out the place. And really, I've had a long enough night. It's almost midnight.”
“He's waiting for you,” she said looking up and giving him a slightly pitying smile.
“Him who? Sherlock Holmes? I rather doubt it. He's chasing about looking for a murder.” That came out slightly bitter.
“Mmm,” she said, more guardedly “Here we are.”
The car pulled up to the curb and the driver opened John's door. His traveling companion smiled expectantly at him. Not really wanted to be kidnapped for longer than he had to be, John got out and stood in front of the building. He took a deep breath. Up on the second floor the curtains twitched and he saw Sherlock's face glowering down.
He sighed. Well at the very least he wouldn't be locked out. Wearily he limped up the steps.
“I'm only here a moment,” he said as he opened the door to 221B, figuring that the best way to deal with the incredible night was to simply treat it as fluke. “I thought I could get your number and we could talk about arrangements --”
He turned around from closing the door to find Sherlock standing no more than an inch away from him. He jumped, his shoulder hitting the door frame.
“What did he do to you?” asked Sherlock, looking sharp and dangerous.
“What did who do to me?”
“Mycroft. The man who abducted you. Did he glamour you to forget? I can smell him on you.” For the second time in fifteen minutes, John found his hand being raised to someone's face. “He touched you, here. What do you remember?”
There was a slightly dizzying quality to Sherlock's voice, and John felt the pressure of words against his mouth. Then he tightened his lips and pulled his arm hard. “What are you doing? Let go of me.”
Reluctantly Sherlock let go. John retreated into the room, staring around at the jumble of boxes and equipment. The reek of chemicals from the kitchen made his nose twitch. Part of him still thought the place had promise, but right now he wasn't really sure it was worth the work, both physically and emotionally.
“You want to know what happened?” he asked Sherlock. “You really want to know?”
“Yes!”
“Well so do I,” said John. “I'd bloody well like to know what's going on. That man, Mycroft, you called him, he controls the CCTV system. The bloody CCTV system. How can he do that?”
“Yes, I know. That's not important, John. The important thing is did he bite you.”
“Of course, he didn't bite me!” said John limping to the kitchen and grabbing one of the chairs. He felt like his leg was about to collapse under him. “Why on Earth would he bite me?”
“Then what did he want from you?”
“He wanted me to spy on you. He offered me money.”
“Spy? Really? Is that all?” Sherlock looked suddenly relieved. “Did you take his offer.”
“Of course not,” said John.
“Pity.”
“Who is he?”
“My brother. Trying, I imagine, to find yet another way to force himself back into my life again. He didn't bite you, but he touched you. I can smell him on your wrist.”
“And does your brother normally bite people?” John had chalked the touch down to an odd kiss, but now that he thought about it, it had felt more like teeth than lips. Wait, what was that about smelling?
“Yes. He's a vampire. It's what he does.” Sherlock was staring at him in a guarded way.
“Your brother's a vampire?”
“Yes.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really,” repeated Sherlock.
“Okay,” said John abruptly too tired for all this weirdness. “I can take being made to look a fool at a crime scene. That was my fault, too. I tooted my horn a bit more than I should have, you couldn't know that I didn't have the skills you needed. Thank god you were brilliant enough for the both of us.
“I'm also fine with you just running off and forgetting me when I become inconvenient I'm a grown up, I can take care of myself and you have a job to do.
“I'm even marginally okay with being kidnapped by your brother - that wasn't your fault.”
“Naturally not!”
“But lying to me after all that?” John shook his head. “There I draw the line.”
“I'm not lying.”
“Vampires, Sherlock?” John shook his head. “No. Enough. I'm tired. You're busy. Give me your number and I'll talk to you tomorrow about the flat. It's a lovely place and the price is perfect, but I'd rather not rush into any decisions at the moment.” Because that decision would be “no” and damn it, he needed this place. John got up and began walking towards the door.
“You are leaving?” Sherlock asked.
“Just for the night.”
Sherlock placed himself in front of the door. “No. You can't. I still need you. It's not safe for you to be out there like you are. Trust me, I read Mycroft's message loud and clear. If you could just bear with me another hour - I've almost solved this case. Then I can, I can--” He stopped talking and his mouth gaped open.
“Oh dear god,” he said.
John stared at him. “Is it always like this around you? Never mind. I don't want to know. Just move out of the way.”
“Cluck like a chicken, John.”
John brushed aside an utterly madcap urge to comply. “The hell? Stop it, Sherlock.”
“Take off your shoes!” Sherlock was staring at him as if he could skewer him with a look.
“I can't believe Mike put me up to this. I'm going! Get out of the way.”
“WAIT!” Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms wide to block John. Then in a softer voice. “Please, wait.”
John hesitated.
“You chose to give me your mobile yesterday. Explain!”
“What?”
“I didn't ask you for your mobile, but you gave it to me yesterday, why?”
“Because yours was out of battery and Mike had left his in his coat. I had a mobile...”
“It was the nice thing to do.” Sherlock's eyes widened with what could only be horror.
“Yes.”
“Why did you come to the crime scene with me tonight.”
“Because … I don't know, I thought I might be able to help.” At Sherlock's crushed expression John expanded. “Because I was bored. It sounded interesting. And you wanted it.”
“You could have said no.”
“Do you wish I had?”
Sherlock looked stricken. “No! No. Oh, God, John. Oh God. You aren't easy to glamour - you are impossible. You're a mate! You have to be. It explains everything. Your my mate!”
John frowned. It seemed jarring that Sherlock would use such a low class word.
But before he could respond any further there was a thunderstorm on the steps. The door burst open, hitting Sherlock in the back. He moved aside and Mrs. Hudson entered a step in front of Lestrade and what seemed to be half of Scotland Yard.
“Oh for God sake, Greg,” said Sherlock. “Not now! Worst. Timing. Ever!”
“Hello, Sherlock,” Lestrade said with a calm smile. “I expect you know why we're here.”
“OUT!”
“Okay, if you say so,” Lestrade half turned around then shook his head in a self-deprecating manner. “Oh no, wait. Look what I have here in my pocket. Is it a warrant to search your flat? Why yes it is!” Lestrade held up a paper.
“On what grounds?” Sherlock snatched the paper. “My ASBO?, that was three years ago!”
“Your probation specifies that I can search your flat for drugs any time I deem it might be necessary. Oh and look, there's a pink suitcase sitting out on your table.”
“You have an ASBO for drugs?” asked John, surprised.
“It was three years ago. And I didn't take them myself,” he said to Lestrade.
Lestrade leaned in and spoke so quietly that John could barely make out what he was saying, “Because that makes it so much better.”
Lestrade’s people were filing into the flat in a seemingly endless stream. John recognised many of them from the crime scene earlier, and he rather expected it was the exact same group. Several converged on the pink case, the rest fanned out to search the rest of the flat, including poking into some of Sherlock's closed boxes. “There's nothing in ther--” Sherlock spun towards the door. “NOT HIM!”
“Hello, Sherlock,” said Anderson, smiling.
“Greg there's no reason for him being here. You are just being spiteful.”
“He volunteered,” said Lestrade. “And it wouldn't have happened if you'd called me when you found the luggage. How many times have I warned you about tampering with evidence?”
“I was going to call!” Sherlock said in very close to a whine. “I'm so close to solving the case - I just need to--”
Someone brushed against John's back, jostling him. He looked around and noticed Sally poking at the chemistry kit. “Is this cocaine?” she asked, pointing to some powdered residue in one of the beakers.
“Lick it and see,” dared Sherlock.
“Don't!” Lestrade warned.
This is a zoo, thought John. Once again he was in the middle of a crime scene he had nothing to do with and couldn't in any way help. He felt like an obstructive bystander. Well enough of this, he thought to himself, grabbing the door handle and turning sideways to slide past one of Lestrade's team. The man ignored him. John gave one last glance half way down the stair and barely saw Sherlock's head turned away. He was shouting to someone to be careful with a box.
John turned around and shook his head. It was hard not to laugh as he stepped out into the street. The whole situation just seemed like dinner theatre, with the bit about vampires making an interesting second act intrigue. But as odd and funny as it was, John was just as happy to be out of it.
Outside was eerily quiet. John took a deep breath of the cool night air, then glanced at his watch. Midnight. Usually he was in bed and sound asleep by ten.
A cab pulled up, finding a spot between all the police cars. A cabbie ducked his head out of the open window and called to him, “You look like you could use a lift. Can I take you somewhere?”
John walked over to him. The cabbie was small and grizzled with age. He had a kind looking smile that reminded John a bit of his uncle Phil. “Yes. South Kensington, please.”
“Hop on in,” the cabbie said.
John opened the door and, without a second thought, climbed into the back.
Chapter 3