Actions

Work Header

An Acquired Taste

Summary:

At Montague Street when Sherlock was forced to sate his body’s needs, he was at least able to wander about the flat as much as he pleased.

At Baker Street, it was mini-bags in a mini-fridge and bedroom confinement.

Notes:

This one goes out to falka katzensprotte who gave me the idea in the first place, and reminded me that I wanted more soft & sweet vampire (maybe) Sherlock.

The premise is basically what if we focussed on the aspect of vampires people usually cut out, and then ignored almost everything else lol.

Thanks as always to my beta team Anna and Soli, and also to everyone who pitched bat pun related titles for this fic <3

***Update: Falka has now painted a Mood Board fanart for the fic , which is, in a word, Perfect

(See the end of the work for other works inspired by this one.)

Chapter 1: A Vampire, Maybe

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Slipping a straw past his lips, Sherlock considered venturing out of his room and into the rest of the flat. He hated this part, and there was nothing sufficiently distracting in his room. It was always worse when he let himself go without feeding for too long.

 

He considered it, but ultimately dismissed the idea.

 

John had ducked out to Tesco Express, which only afforded Sherlock a narrow time window. Too many factors to consider for a confident estimate—John fighting with technology at the store, John attempting to find sales, John chatting up a woman in the queue. In any event, Sherlock couldn’t risk it.

 

At Montague Street when Sherlock was forced to sate his body’s needs, he was at least able to wander about the flat as much as he pleased.

 

At Baker Street, it was mini-bags in a mini-fridge and bedroom confinement.

 

The voice in his head (that was annoyingly similar to Mycroft) pointed out this was self-inflicted.

 

Rationally, Sherlock knew his current living situation was ridiculous. He didn’t need a flatmate, let alone one he had to hide his true nature from.

 

The counter argument was simply John. And no attempt was made at a rebuttal.

 

Sherlock, for whatever reason, needed John Watson to be present at all times. Sherlock had suspected it within moments of meeting him, and had fully confirmed it by the following evening when John had killed for him.

 

John hadn’t known Sherlock’s mortality was a bit more robust than that, but the gesture had been... inspiring. Sherlock had needed to keep John, right away, and had needed to be near him as much as he was able. Living together was essential, and wasn’t nearly enough. Sherlock still felt the urge to check in on John during their brief moments of separation, and he had a poor track record for resisting urges.

 

At least in the other form he could take, he went completely unnoticed by John.

 

Living separately would have made this even more unbearable. So, instead of checking on his spores in the kitchen, Sherlock sat on his bed and sipped. The syrupy sweetness and metallic tang were the same as always; the coldness he was still getting used to. It was never very pleasant, even if it was hot. As he drank, his nose scrunched up and his mouth rearranged itself into a moue, not unlike a child being forced to eat his vegetables.

 

The slam of a door and the pounding of feet (heavier on the left, carrying milk) up seventeen steps (creak on the fourth) confirmed he had been right to relegate himself to the bedroom.

 

Sherlock listened to John busying himself in the kitchen. He was making a show of putting away the shopping, banging items down and shelving them with vigour, even though they both always left Mrs Hudson do the rest of it in the end. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

He was being summoned. Not in the traditional sense of course, and yet still equally as undeniable and persuasive. John had that effect on him.

 

“I got honey, so now you have to eat a bit of toast. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you threw out the one from this morning. And the day before that.” John’s further commentary on his eating habits devolved into grumbling, which not even Sherlock’s keen ears could make out.

 

While said ears had perked up at the mention of honey, he’d lost his enthusiasm by the conclusion of toast. Toast meant John had gotten the liquid honey in a squeezy bottle to put on bread, a truly inferior product.

 

“Is he even home?” John muttered, accompanied by the soft sound of feet leaving the kitchen to stick his head out into the hallway.

 

Which was not good. He couldn’t let John get it into his head that he was welcome to come into Sherlock’s room. If John found the bags, it likely wouldn’t strike him as odd, given Sherlock’s generally unusual habits. Finding Sherlock drinking from them however, might raise some red flags.

 

Sherlock finished the rest of the mini-bag so fast he almost choked, and tossed it before heading into the toilet through the ensuite door. The noise of him moving about was enough to hold John off, for now.

 

A check in the mirror confirmed he’d been sloppy. Sherlock wiped at his mouth, and in the process smeared the mess across his left cheek.

 

The image was arresting, even to himself. The trail across his face was dark crimson, garish against his pale skin. He looked monstrous.

 

On the other side of the wall, John was spreading honey on to toast for him in the kitchen.

 

The contrast brought the reality of his situation into sharp focus. For a time, Sherlock had attempted to deny, resist, and fight the inevitable conclusion he had reached. Now, he was forced to simply live in acceptance of it.

 

He was attached to John Watson. John was currently with him almost always, and he wanted it to continue indefinitely. John was necessary. John had to stay.

 

And, for that to be the case, John could never be allowed to see him like this.

 

John was attracted to danger, of course, but even he had to have limits.

 

“Sherlock?” John called out, again, voice lower than earlier. John had moved into the hallway, drawing closer, and Sherlock still had O negative smeared across his cheek.

 

Sherlock’s response was to shuffle back into his bedroom, shutting the door connected to the shared toilet behind him.

 

+

 

If their home life was difficult to navigate, concealing himself while bringing John on cases was even trickier. He had to regretfully leave John behind at times, which made John inordinately angry with him. He didn’t enjoy the fallout, but there was some information that couldn’t be acquired through on-site deduction.

 

His homeless network, a charming collection of stray cats, only liked to speak to him in his other form.

 

Sherlock had been successful in keeping John out of it regardless, even with a one-time slip up. Sherlock blamed the cats, who only accepted payment in the form of tinned fish. John had caught him mid-transaction, but had luckily misinterpreted it.

 

John’s face, rather than breaking into a look of dawning realization on how Sherlock had gathered intel on their suspect’s whereabouts, had softened. He looked at him differently. It was the kind of expression that Sherlock never felt deserving of, but still made him feel… good. John could look at him a certain way and his chest would heat, like drinking after he’d put the blood in the microwave first.  

 

He was sure John wouldn’t look at him like that again, if he knew about the blood thing.

 

+

 

Sherlock assumed that if John was annoyed about not being able to stay with Sherlock when he dashed off, surely that meant John would understand if the reverse held true, and that Sherlock liked to keep an eye on him from time to time.

 

John was easy to deduce and his computer passwords even easier to guess (jamesbond007, really John), but still Sherlock found his curiosity wasn’t satisfied. The combination of hating having John out of his sight and his poor impulse control had resulted in the perhaps bit not good habit of following John. Only occasionally.

 

When he sent John out on his own for cases, it was so easy to follow him in either form. And once Sherlock had scratched an itch, his restrictions on himself only loosened further.

 

Following John to the store (where he flirted in the queue). Following John to the newspaper stand (where he flirted with the other customers). Following John to work (where he flirted with the receptionist). Following John to interview a female client for a case where—surprise!—John flirted, wretchedly. Sherlock suspected John’s strategy was the more women he attempted to pull, the more likely he was to succeed. Quantity over quality, as far as Sherlock could tell.

 

Regardless, once Sherlock had gotten used to following, and watching, it had become second nature. He became spoiled, gorging himself on being near to John.

 

This resulted in the first incident.

 

Partially. The first incident was really due to John being doused with petrol (“Did we have to hide underneath the leaky car, Sherlock?”), which then meant he needed take a shower, mid-day, when Sherlock normally had unlimited access to him.  

 

John had been in there for over three minutes, which had seemed excruciatingly long at the time, while Sherlock was being forced to watch steam fog the frosted glass of the ensuite toilet door. Which had been left unlocked. It was practically an invitation.

 

With his strengthened hearing, Sherlock could also hear the faint humming through the door, and it was surprisingly nice. John had a rather good singing voice, and Sherlock just wanted to be closer to hear him. It was simply a matter of cracking the door open on a particularly loud hum, shifting into his other form, and fluttering in.

 

Flinging himself onto the light fixture and hanging on by his feet, Sherlock watched the top of John’s head upside down through the crack between the shower curtain and the rail. His hair was spiked from running his hands through it while wet, and John’s humming was growing louder. He might start to sing at any moment.

 

Except, that came to a halt when John reached around the outer corner of the tub only to find it empty. Sherlock’s head swiveled to the sink where John’s bottle of shower gel sat, having never made it to the shower.  

 

“Crap,” John muttered, his arm retreating behind the curtain. Despite it being the obvious next move, one of Sherlock’s feet nearly slipped off the fixture when, without turning the shower off, John pulled the curtain back to duck out and retrieve his shower gel.

 

Sherlock was too high to see much beyond wet shoulders, bare chest with a slight dusting of blond hair, and water running off John’s biceps. This was, as it turned out, much more than enough, and was perhaps why his usually strong gripped feet slipped from the fixture. He stretched his foot out hoping to grab it, and when that failed, Sherlock flapped his wings, flying in a circle, with the hope of perhaps seeing a bit lower on John’s body.

 

However, the unfortunate side effect of moving rather than hanging was that it drew John’s attention. At the first extension of Sherlock’s wing to catch his fall, John’s head shot up. There was a short startled yell and then, ever the soldier, the body Sherlock had wanted a bit of peek at had crouched lower.

 

“Is that a bloody bat?” John’s arms were outstretched above his head, as if he expected Sherlock to fly straight at him. Rude. Sherlock continued his circles overhead with more vigour, annoyed.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock’s flapping faltered, causing him to dip slightly, before he realised John wasn’t speaking directly to him. John thought he was still in the flat, and that he was the culprit behind an animal getting into the toilet. Which was also very rude of him, though to John’s credit, not entirely inaccurate.

 

John reached for the ensuite door, pushing it further open than the crack he had created.  

 

Sherlock seized his opportunity, making his exit. He flew through the larger opening and into his own room, until realizing he couldn’t exactly turn in front of John. The only appropriate course of action would be to fly out his bedroom window.

 

He considered never returning.

 

When he arrived back at the flat several hours later in his more human form, his cheeks were still tinged pink.

 

When John attempted to start a conversation with him—beginning with “you wouldn’t believe what happened earlier”—Sherlock fled to his freezing bedroom (window still open) without a word.

 

+

 

After the first incident, Sherlock came to the conclusion that he would have to stop trailing John in his other form, at least for some time. John had seen him now, which was a terrible slip on his part, and meant he couldn’t very well be seen again. Even with his significantly lessened observational skills, John might eventually notice that a bat was following him everywhere.

 

Sherlock didn’t hang in John’s bedroom window for a week, and instead took the extra time to feed more than he usually would.

 

Which was good. Feeding was….something. Important.

 

But, John had used to suffer from nightmares before moving in with Sherlock, and as a point of pride, Sherlock liked to confirm for himself that they weren’t continuing. This was the usual rationale for haunting John’s windowsill. Regular reaffirmation that John’s new life with Sherlock was exciting enough to fix all of John’s bedsit-life problems.

 

Which was how Sherlock found himself in John’s window. He had lasted a week. If four days were considered a week, which was maybe one of those things John would have disagreed with. John was sleeping peacefully, unmoving. There was nothing to see. He would leave shortly. In a bit.

 

John’s window was cracked open. It was just wide enough for, say, a small animal to squeeze through.

 

Sherlock was through the window and on the lip of John’s floor lamp before he knew it. It wasn’t a conscious decision; he just felt the need to be closer. At this distance, he could discern John was in REM sleep. He watched the movement of John’s eyes beneath his lids and the movement of his chest, almost unnoticeable beneath the sheet.  

 

All of this Sherlock could have gotten away with. In this way, the first shape-shifting incident caused the second. By staying away from John, Sherlock had grown bolder, more desperate. And by feeding excessively while staying away, he had made himself lethargic.

 

His eyes were drifting closed, and the bed looked remarkably comfortable. And John slept on the left side, not the middle. Almost as if he were waiting for someone to fill in the right. Yet, John never brought any of his women back to the flat. Probably because he didn’t want them meeting Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was just curious, was all. He wanted to know what John’s sheets felt like. He’d only been in John’s room before to properly index his ties and shirts. The bed had been stripped of its sheets at the time. He wanted to make up for the missed opportunity.

 

Sherlock dove for the other side of the bed, landing with grace. The covers were already partially lifted, making it easy to wiggle underneath. The sheets themselves were only satisfactory, but they felt much better when he had folded his wings around himself, forming a tight cocoon.

 

His impression of the sheets improved shortly after, but he might have been biased by the smell of John clinging to them, and the sound of John’s deep, even breathing next to him. The combination of John’s smell, the sound of him sleeping peacefully, and the soft cotton against his skin was all rather soothing. He yawned, pulling his wing up over his face, just for a moment.

 

The next thing Sherlock knew there was a bright light and a great deal of yelling. John had turned on the light and was now screaming bloody murder, which was rather inconsiderate of him.

 

Sherlock recalled his current situation as soon as he attempted to lift his arm to cover his eyes, only to find a wing membrane pressed against his snout. The shouting made much more sense now, though still seemed excessive.

 

John had jumped out of the bed, likely as soon as he’d realized there was something else in it with him, and Sherlock roused himself before John attempted to forcibly remove him. He flew upwards, which only caused John to start up again.

 

“Christ! How the hell does it keep getting in?” John asked the room at large, his ragged breathing beginning to even out.   

 

Sherlock landed on John’s bedside lamp again, causing John to jump. John stared at him and Sherlock stared back. Without taking his eyes off Sherlock, John lunged to the side of the room, where clearly Mrs Hudson had left a broom on her last surprise cleaning visit. Sherlock could have wrung her neck at that moment.

 

Somewhat alarmed by John approaching him with a broom in hand, Sherlock fluttered away from the lamp. Whenever Sherlock was in motion, John ducked low into a crouch. However, his broom was very much at the ready. Sherlock steered his flight as high as possible to avoid getting whomped.

 

He hit the top of the window edge with a bit too much speed, just barely managing to affix himself with his thumbs, hoping he was high enough. John’s reach was significantly extended when he was bandying about that thing.

 

Sherlock had wanted to take his leave immediately, as he done during the first incident, but the window hadn’t been open enough for him to fly directly through. It had required wiggling to fit through the first time. Even in this form, Sherlock had too much dignity to wiggle through an opening in front of John.

 

John, still slow and careful, was now approaching him in his new spot. When Sherlock extended his wings and shook the elastic skin, John took a step back with a hand outstretched in front him. “It’s all right,” John murmured, “It’s okay, bat. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

John’s voice was very gentle. Soothing, admittedly. However, Sherlock resented being talked to like a wild animal in need of coddling. It was condescending. Sherlock flapped a second time to communicate his displeasure; he could not be pacified so easily.

 

“Shh, shh.” He was being hushed now, which was ridiculous, and absolutely not working.

 

While still shushing him, and with eyes trained on him at all times, John ducked forward and pushed the window up a few more centimeters. When Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, John stepped back and began to slowly extend the broom, bristles first, towards him. Sherlock began flapping his free wing not clinging to the windowsill in earnest, not wanting that thing anywhere near him.

 

“It’s all right, shh, yeah, that’s it,” John said, voice still low and sweet. “I’m going to help you get back outside, all right?”

 

Well, that actually did sound…. agreeable. Mutually beneficial really.

 

John continued to tentatively stretch the broom over to him, and when it finally arrived, Sherlock uncurled himself and grabbed hold with one clawed finger. Slowly, Sherlock allowed himself to lean forward onto the broom’s bristles. If John had known even the first thing about the creature Sherlock currently resembled, he might have clued into this being unusual behaviour. Luckily, John was fairly ignorant on such topics, and lowered the broom handle with him on it with bated breath.

 

John did at least seem somewhat shocked that his approach was successful (as he should have been). “That’s it, yes, okay just stay there for a little longer,” John coaxed him, ever gentle in his handling of the broom. “Okay, bat, just hang on…”

 

John pushed the broom out through the opening of the window, and finally, Sherlock was able to make his escape. Sherlock heard John exhale a sigh of relief before closing the window, tight.

 

Well, there went having a nap.

 

 

+

 

The tally came out to two and a half shape-shifting related incidents (getting caught with the strays didn’t count as a full one). Hardly anything major really. Sherlock thought that Mycroft ought to eat his unwelcome warnings about how his relationship with John “could only end badly” and that John would “find out soon enough.” If Sherlock could be bothered, he might have texted back that cohabiting and hiding his secret was going wonderfully.

 

Until the other shoe dropped.

 

In a strange turn of events, it wasn’t his shape-shifting in the flat that spilled the beans.

 

Sherlock hadn’t fed in days and, as per his routine, he had slipped into his room to choke down the cold bag from his mini-fridge. He had only managed three long sips through his straw before the door to his bedroom was forced open, and John’s face was peeking through at him.

 

Sherlock hadn’t heard a sound, his drinking must have drowned it out. He was always at his weakest when feeding.

 

John’s eyes were narrowed in confusion, while Sherlock imagined his were wide and panicked. Staring at one another, neither of them moved a muscle for the longest fifty-five seconds Sherlock had ever experienced.

 

“You have questions,” Sherlock observed, before they reached the minute mark.

 

His hand was frozen stiff, still gripping the bag. John’s eyes were fixated on it.

 

“You could say that, yeah,” John said. His voice was strained, and Sherlock couldn’t tell if it signalled only surprise, or fear.

 

Sherlock couldn’t understand much of anything, all of his deductions overlaying across the lines of John’s face, question marks scattered throughout.

 

Sherlock had never wanted to get to this part. Now that it was here anyway, he suspected it would be just as tedious as he’d feared. Sherlock had two options. One was to lie, which would be difficult to accomplish (It’s for a case?), and would still cause him to seem like an incomparable freak. The other was to tell the truth, much to the same effect.

 

Either way, John would leave. Though John was currently in his doorway, hand gripping the doorknob, in reality he was already gone. All of Mycroft’s warnings had come to fruition, and he should have known the clock was ticking down on them, and he should have known to never have gotten involved

 

Fine! As there was no difference either way, Sherlock settled on truth. He was tired of lies.

 

Sherlock decided on telling the full truth, and then panicked and changed his mind, and then panicked again, and then settled on the truth once more. This all occurred within the span of one blink of John’s light eyelashes.

 

To John’s continued stunned silence, Sherlock said, “It’s exactly what you think.”

 

There was a pause, and then John laughed, high and thin. That laugh always meant John was uncomfortable, or displeased, or that he didn't believe a word Sherlock said. In this case, Sherlock supposed it was all three.

 

“Are you—? You’re serious,” John said. The hand that wasn’t on the doorknob rubbed at the side of his face. “You’re really suggesting that….that you’re…”

 

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. He wanted to look at anything other than John stumbling his way through this. “We don’t have to say the word if you’d prefer, John. And yes, that is exactly what I’m suggesting. Or rather, what I am telling you.”

 

The conversation became circular after that. John was unable to believe the evidence in front of his own eyes. Which, while better than John running away screaming, still wasn’t enjoyable.

 

He didn’t enjoy having the conversation at all. It would ruin everything between them. The easy nature of their friendship, the implicit trust John had in him, the feeling of it always being just the two of them—he was currently in the act of ruining all of it.

 

And it wasn’t even his fault! John was the one who had chosen to sneak into his room on suspiciously quiet feet.

 

John was still rubbing his face, while continuing to stand in the doorway. The face rubbing normally meant he found Sherlock exasperating, and might need to go out to get some ‘air’, except that this time he might not come back.

 

The circular conversation continued. “And, you’re sure this isn’t just a…?”

 

“Delusion?” Sherlock filled in, snappish. If John was done with him now (and over a bit of blood drinking!), Sherlock would rather they just get to it rather than go through the list of every possible other explanation.

 

John’s brow furrowed, taken aback. Ah, so not that then. “I was going to say fetish,” John clarified, with an aborted laugh.

 

Sherlock blinked.

 

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” John said, smiling tightly. Trying to find the humour in the uncomfortable situation, as always.

 

Sherlock didn’t know how else to respond to that, so opted for finishing his blood instead. He did so as rudely and as loudly as possible.

 

Sherlock laid the emptied bag on his side table, and then swung his legs over the side of his bed. John would go on forever at this rate; he might as well let John in on the entire secret. “Shall I show you?”

 

John eyed him dubiously, but nodded.

 

In one swift motion, Sherlock stood from the bed. John took a step away from him, back against the open door. Once he was certain he had John’s full attention, Sherlock began to shift.

 

John’s expression went through a number of stages, all coinciding with different parts of the transformation process. By the end, John’s face had settled on recognition.  

 

“Oh my God,” John said, though not in the way Sherlock had been hoping. “You! It was you, this whole damn time!”

 

If anyone had been looking on, John would have appeared quite odd, yelling at a small bat flying in one spot in front of him. Sherlock could only sustain that for so long however, and soon took to flying in circles above him. It was rather nice to finally get a chance to show off.

 

“Would you stop that?” John was still shouting, and he didn’t seem impressed at all, even though Sherlock’s flight path had been one of his better executed figure eights. “Sherlock, be you again, right now! Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock became ‘himself’ again, as demanded, adding more flourish to his return to the ground than was perhaps necessary.

 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” John had jumped at his reappearance, but was now back to raging, pointer finger extended. “It’s one thing when you change the password on my laptop or rearrange my wardrobe, but I draw the line at watching me when I shower!”

 

Sherlock’s arms had been outstretched in an aborted ‘ta-da’ gesture, but they now dropped to his sides. Sherlock’s face fell. John was really being quite unbelievable about this.

 

“Your flatmate reveals he isn’t exactly human, and that’s all you have to say? How dare I come into the toilet while you were having a shower?”

 

“Yes, thanks, that is what I have to say! Why the hell did you come in while I was showering like that, and,” John cried, really gaining steam now, “My bedroom! Oh my God, that was you. I was talking to you. Of course it was. I’m sure that was a right laugh for you.”

 

“It wasn’t a laugh!” That incident had been very trying for the both of them. God, John could get things so twisted. “Those were both… unintended. Incidents.”

 

Sherlock turned away from John’s ire, a scowl forming. Sherlock supposed he hadn’t expected John to be impressed with him, he’d only just become a bat for him. It had been weeks since he’d gotten so much as a ‘brilliant’ out of John, could anyone blame him if he’d hoped for some praise?

 

“Unintended,” John repeated, as if he was mulling it over. He wasn’t. “Not sure that checks out.”

 

“They were accidents!” Sherlock insisted, and then at once, recalled how they had arrived at this situation. His eyes narrowed on John, deductions finally becoming clear.

 

“And I might ask you the same thing! Coming into my bedroom, unannounced, wearing silk socks—nice touch John—did you slide down the hall the moment my door was closed, or did you wait a full minute before bursting in?”

 

John’s face flushing in anger gave him away. “Oh, right! Do you honestly think you have the moral upper hand on me right now?”

 

“A-ha!” Sherlock crowed, mirroring John’s accusing stance. “So you admit it! You snuck up on me!”

 

“Yes, okay, yes, I did! I wanted to know what you were always, uh—” John waved his hand between Sherlock and the depleted bag on his table. “But that still doesn’t come anywhere close to coming into my room at night, Sherlock, or coming in while I’m showering.”

 

“I’ve done that before,” Sherlock scoffed, “and you reacted with far more poise.”

 

“Yeah, it’s a bit different when you’re a goddamn bat!” John rubbed his face, his constant state it seemed.

 

“Is it?” Sherlock asked, not really seeing how. Perhaps it was John not knowing that it was him beforehand. Hmm. Maybe he had overstepped.

 

John always told him he should apologize in these situations, which might be enough to calm John down. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, a question mark almost hanging at the end of it.

 

“And?” John prompted.

 

Sherlock sighed. He hated having to make promises he didn’t want to keep, but would now have to. “I won’t come into your room or the toilet as a bat any more.” There. That should do it.

 

John nodded. “Okay. Good. Agreed.”

 

John wasn’t yelling any more, but he still didn’t look happy, even after Sherlock had apologized and promised. Sherlock still couldn’t tell what John made of him being like this, whether it was too strange, whether John would stay.

 

His bottom lip shook. He willed it to stop. “It’s your own nosiness that got you here, John,” Sherlock pointed out, petulant in the face of John’s stoniness. “You can’t blame me for what I am.”

 

“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, face turning ashen. John looked guilty, or at least more so than he had when admitting to invading Sherlock’s room on purpose. “I’m not blaming you for…. whatever this is. We just needed to have a talk about privacy.”

 

“Privacy,” Sherlock drawled, extending the word. “Is that really all?”

 

For the hundredth time, John’s gaze refocused on the drained mini-bag. “Okay. Yeah. Maybe there’s more. Like where do those come from?” John asked, waving in its vague direction.

 

Sherlock’s eyes slid to the side. “It’s given voluntarily, if that’s what you’re asking. I have a... contact.”

 

“A contact. Okay.” John nodded, apparently willing to let that go, for now. “So, just bags then? Or do you….?”

 

John trailed off, but the implication was still clear. “God, no,” Sherlock grimaced. “You needn’t worry John. That’s not really my area.”

 

“Right.”

 

John’s clipped responses were really starting to make him agitated, which caused him moments later to blurt out, “For God’s sake, I’m not going to prey on you!”

 

“Never said you would,” John replied slowly, brows pushing together to form a crease.

 

“And you weren’t thinking it?” Sherlock asked, not entirely sure.

 

“No!” John said with a laugh. “I know you.”

 

“One hundred percent?” Sherlock clarified, catching John’s eye.

 

John answered without looking away. “You can be a rude arse Sherlock, but I’m not the Yard.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Meaning I don’t think you’re capable of real, intentional harm or cruelty,” John said, as if stating anything else. “Unless, of course, everything up till now has been a lie.”

 

“It hasn’t,” Sherlock rushed to say, and then paused, feeling wrong-footed. “I’ve omitted the truth, yes. Lied, no.”

 

“Fine. Then, we’re fine. It’s all fine.” John smiled at the end, likely to reassure him. It worked.  

 

Sherlock examined John’s face, but couldn’t find even the slightest trace of doubt. Amazingly, John did seem to mean it. He wondered whether there was any end to John’s trust and belief in him, and more importantly, whether he was worthy of it.

 

John rocked back on his heels and cracked a crooked smile up at him, perhaps to break the intensity of his current scrutiny. “So, not a fetish then?”

 

That punched a laugh from Sherlock’s gut, though shortly after made him tenser than before. With a forced smile he quipped, “Not everything is about sex, John.”

 

Except, that it was. A bit.

 

+

 

True to John’s word, it was fine. All fine.

 

John however did question him about it, and Sherlock answered to the best of his ability. John’s curiosity was piqued at unpredictable times, and his questions came in waves. Either it was not addressed at all, or John wanted to know everything.

 

While buttering toast the morning following the discovery, John’s face had scrunched, and his round eyes had turned onto Sherlock in confusion. Still peering into the eyepiece of his microscope, Sherlock had raised one eyebrow in query.

 

“I’ve seen you eat toast and honey,” John said.

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

 

“I’ve seen you eat mince pies out of Mrs Hudson’s fridge,” John said.

 

“Are you really going to list out every food I’ve ever eaten?”

 

“No, but—you know. Explain.”

 

Sherlock finally raised his head from the eyepiece. “I can eat food. There. Is that explanation enough?”

 

John sat down across from him, folding his hands onto the table. “Nowhere close. Do you need to eat to live, like a person? And if you can, then why the blood bags?”

 

“I need to feed to continue living. The food humans eat doesn’t sustain my body in the same way, but I can consume it.”

 

John paused, thinking that over. Then, bizarrely, he smiled. The expression was reminiscent of the time John had watched Sherlock feed the homeless network.

 

“What?” Sherlock asked. He didn’t understand that look. He hated not understanding.

 

“You like it,” John stated. “You eat honey because you like it.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. He felt embarrassed, even though he was quite certain there was nothing to be embarrassed about. “Of all the….,” he trailed off, eyes dropping back to the safety of the microscope. He could still feel John smiling at him regardless.

 

The next question period hit on a slow Sunday when they were both sitting together in the living room.

 

John had dropped his medical journal onto his armrest, and without further ado, had begun openly staring at Sherlock. His skin had pricked under the scrutiny. “Yes, John?” he prompted.

 

“You told me I couldn’t blame you for being like this,” John said, tapping the other armrest with his index finger. “Sort of suggests there’s someone to blame.”

 

“Does it?” Sherlock asked, looking heavenward. So much for playing a game on his phone.

 

John leaned forward in his armchair, elbows on his knees. “Who made you like this?”

 

“Oh, John,” Sherlock replied, tone veering into condescending. “No one made me. I—”

 

“You made yourself?” John cut in. “Seriously?”

 

Sherlock’s lips turned down at the corners. He hated when John stole his thunder. It was especially worse when he was right. “Well, no. Technically, my parents made me.”

 

“Parents, plural?” John asked, his expression turning quickly from confusion into concern.

 

This was an occasion where John was painfully easy to read. Sherlock felt as though he could see into John’s mind, as if it was a film playing out on a screen before him. The image of himself as a doe-eyed innocent, and the two ghoulish figures holding him, as they feasted on his neck.

 

“Yes John, plural!” Sherlock cried. “A mother and a father, just like you. And for God’s sake not like that!”

 

That stopped John’s bad film in its tracks, though only served to make him look more confused. “Sorry, not like what?”

“Whatever it was you were thinking, stop it immediately. I was born, like you, the creation of two people. Very much like any other heterosexual family unit.”

 

John drew back, lips pursed. Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the eye, but he thought John might have mouthed ‘heterosexual’ under his breath.

 

After a pause, John continued his line of questioning. “So, you have—parents?”

 

Sherlock didn’t know how much more of this he could take. “Did you suppose Mycroft and I had materialized one day?”

 

“No, it’s just so….ordinary,” John said with laugh. “Though Mycroft being like—uh, this, as well—does explain a lot.”

 

Ignoring the Mycroft comment, Sherlock resisted rolling his eyes at ‘ordinary’. As predicted, knowledge of Sherlock’s inhumanness had only worsened John’s hero worship expectations of him. John was still around at least, but now he had John’s inevitable disappointment to look forward to, whenever John realized he was much closer to a person than anything John might have learned from sensational literature.

 

The questions from then on were sporadic, and less like a series of inquiries.

 

John had been contemplating growing older (a minute and a half spent looking at himself in the mirror, and eyes skidding over hair dye targeted at older men while shopping), and several hours later asked Sherlock whether his people aged.

 

“Yes John, like any other living creature.”

 

The subject had been promptly dropped again. Several days later, John was looking into the mirror over the mantle, and caught sight of Sherlock in it as if he were seeing him for the first time. John had pointed at him. Or rather, the image of him reflected in the mirror glass.

 

“It’s my face,” Sherlock said, in answer to a question not asked.

 

“Brilliant, yeah, that’s your best one yet,” John said, lowering his finger. “Your reflection Sherlock. You have one.”

 

“Yes, like anything else living or dead,” Sherlock said, sinking into his chair and out of the mirror. “John, this will be much easier if you let go of any and all ridiculous myths.”

“Right, because turning into a bat is a perfectly reasonable myth,” John said, and then listed out, “Garlic, crosses, holy water? Anything?”

 

Sherlock made dismissive hand gestures for each item. “All nonsense fabricated by humans, or who knows, maybe by our own people so we had easy ways to throw humans off the scent. Perhaps a combination of both. People who are different have to protect themselves.”

 

While John’s eyes lit up at the mention of protection, the topic was once again forgotten in favour of more pressing concerns, such as what curry John ought to order for dinner.  

 

Luckily the question Sherlock was most afraid of, and that he would not have known how to answer, John never asked.

 

John never returned to the subject of feeding, not after the night of the discovery. Apparently all John had wanted confirmed was that Sherlock didn’t drink from humans, and that he still wanted to have honey in the morning. John, of course, had no cause for thinking this was unusual. He had no way of knowing that Sherlock’s practices were particular. (Childish, Mycroft would have corrected.)

 

Sherlock had always distanced himself from people—humans and his own kind alike—and similarly, from feeding. With the bags, he was in control. He didn’t lose himself in the act, and there was no other variable to account for. His fangs didn’t even need to descend. If his body could remain detached, he was mentally and physically in possession of himself. No messiness.

 

It wasn’t that he was afraid of it. He simply preferred it this way. (Mycroft would have begged to differ).

 

+

 

Sherlock began to grow optimistic that they would never discuss his feeding habits ever again. Except, of course, then there was a case.

 

It was always a case.

 

Sherlock hadn’t drank in a week. He never did on a case; feeding slowed him down. Even with his puerile drinking practices, he couldn’t allow himself even the chance of becoming… worked up.

 

They’d had a nasty run in with some of London’s finest, and were now a bit stuck. Trapped, really. The details weren’t important. And it hadn’t been his fault, to be clear.

 

“Great,” John said. “You know, maybe if you ever told me what we were doing, this would happen less.”

 

So, it might have been a bit his fault. “You’ve never complained about my methods before.”

 

“Yeah, actually I have,” John sighed. “And that was before I learned a large part of your mysterious methods was actually getting inside information from cats. By the way, there wouldn’t be one of those around here, would there?

 

“A stray cat? We’re in a cellar John.” They were, in fact, in a partially underground and locked cellar. Their only link to the outside world was a small, barred window in the room’s top corner, much too tiny for a person to fit through.

 

“Does your mobile have reception? I’m at zero bars. It’s that, or we just have to wait here till the Yard somehow finds us. ”

 

Sherlock groaned, striding across the room, and reaching up at the barred window in vain. His fingers just managed to grip the edges, but regardless, the bars held fast. He couldn’t have fit through the window anyway. “We can’t wait! That could take ages!”

 

John was watching him struggle, leaning against the damp door, completely unhelpful, and not at all agitated. John was resigned to their situation apparently. “Hours at least, yeah. I suppose we can entertain ourselves.”

 

Sherlock doubted that very much. Now that he didn’t have the pursuit to focus on, his starvation was making itself known.

 

And the only assistance John offered was to move out of Sherlock’s way when he barreled back over to the door. It was still bolted from the outside. Not much he could do from the inside. He jostled the door a few more times, just in case.

 

“I’ve had a thought,” John said, perhaps finally taking pity on his frantic attempts. “Why not shape shift? It’s that, or one of your feline friends.”

 

Sherlock’s hand stilled on the door. He felt his body, testing his boundaries, and finding the strength he had available to him lacking. No, it was definitely not possible.

 

“And leave you in here alone, John? You really do think I’m callous,” Sherlock deflected, still facing the cellar door.

 

“Somehow I don’t think you’d leave me here to rot.”

 

“If you continue to refer to my homeless network as ‘feline friends’, I wouldn’t be so sure.”

 

There was a pause, before John realized he wasn’t joking. “You’re serious. You’re not going to change into a bat.”

 

Sherlock’s silence extended, prompting John to turn him around to face him, with a hand on his shoulder.

 

“There’s something you aren’t telling me,” John asserted, firm but concerned. Sherlock’s silence continued. “Sherlock,” John said, simply, and that was what did it.

 

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock bit out. “I can’t right now.”

 

John’s worry ratcheted up several notches. “Are you hurt?”

 

“No,” Sherlock reassured him, “I just haven’t eaten in quite some time.”

 

“Oh. Oh, right,” John said, as if just remembering what that meant for Sherlock.

 

John then cracked his neck, and rolled up the sleeve of his jumper. “Luckily that’s a much easier fix than my hunger pains. Don’t exactly have a Sunday roast hanging out with us in here.”

 

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, eyes drawn to John’s arm, now revealed from beneath the wool. It was an unusual sight as John was buttoned up almost constantly; Sherlock hadn’t seen this much bare skin since the shower mishap.

 

“I thought this was fairly straight forward,” John said, arm raised. “We’re stuck in here, unless you change. You can’t change because you haven’t fed. I would have thought the solution would be obvious.”

 

Sherlock was aware that for some the draw of humans and the blood beneath their skin was a constant call, but it had never been like that for him. Even with his own people, he was different. He had never planned to engage in the practice, which made it simple to push from his mind.

 

For perhaps the first time in his life, he understood the appeal. But it had nothing to do with the desperate hunger roiling in his gut. The idea of it being John’s.... John, feeding him, the two of them joined together in the closest way possible. He had smelled John, and touched him, but he had never tasted

 

“I can’t,” Sherlock gasped. It came out far too strained for a good-natured conversation. The conversation where John was casually rolling up his sleeves, and offering the easy, obvious solution.

 

John’s head quirked to the side, and his lips pursed into a bemused smile. “You can’t? Is this some kind rule we haven’t covered?”

 

“You can’t just—do that,” Sherlock managed, hand flapping to indicate John’s skin. Pale, he’d been back from overseas for so long, and blue veins visible along his wrist.

 

John’s smile was fond, obviously missing the point entirely. “I’m a doctor, I’ve donated blood loads of times.  Whenever the hospital runs short they head to the staff. Giving it to you isn’t any different than giving it to any other person.”

 

“That’s not what I meant, though yes, you offering is different, and too self-sacrificing doctor,” Sherlock snapped, hunger getting the better of him. (‘Person,’ John had said. ‘Any other person.’)

 

“You mean—does it hurt when you bite someone? I’m sure I’ve had worse.”

 

No, Sherlock thought, in fact he understood it was rather euphoric for the donator when it was done right, not that he’d ever—no, no, no, no.

 

But the pangs were there, and they would only get worse. Now that John had offered and they were in close quarters, it would get much worse. Why did John have to be like this?

 

“What is the problem Sherlock?” John asked, voice raising. “I can take it. Or is that just an excuse? Is it something to do with me? You only feed on people who went to Eton?”

 

God, this was getting out of hand. “John, if you could leave classism out of this—”

 

“Then what? Why not?”

 

“Fine! Fine,” Sherlock relented. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply, lifting his chin. John pulling up his sleeves made his scent stronger, somehow. It was everywhere. “Sit down, in case you get lightheaded. And take your jumper off.”

 

At John’s eyebrow raise, Sherlock clarified. “So you have something to press against the wound! Just in case!”

 

“Right.” John after that sat down without so much as a grumble, a very different reaction than when Sherlock normally bossed him about on case-related work.

 

John was calm, not bothered in the least by what was about to be given. He pulled his jumper over his head, ruffling up his hair. John continued to roll up his long sleeved shirt beneath.

 

Sherlock didn’t know where to look. His palms were clammy when he removed his gloves.  John’s arm was bare and he was waiting, and Sherlock had never done this before. He wasn’t sure if the arm was even the best spot, he should have paid more attention, he shouldn’t have isolated himself, he should have learned the right way to treat a human when they willingly gave, he should have learned how to keep himself calm under these circumstances—but he had not.

 

A soft “Sherlock?” cut through his internal flagellation. His eyes drifted, moving from place to place before settling on the fixed point provided by John’s open, worried eyes.

 

John looked like he couldn’t decide whether to be concerned, or to take the piss. He glanced down at his forearm. “Is the arm not good? I thought maybe the neck, but then you said all the stereotypes were out the door…”

 

“The arm is fine! It’s fine.” Sherlock blinked, gathering himself. He had to look like he wasn’t an amateur. John wouldn’t want to be drank from by the inexperienced.

 

Sherlock reached out for John’s arm, fingers pressing lightly along his wrist. John’s pulse was steady. “May I?”

 

John’s mouth tipped up on one side. “By all means.”

 

Sherlock lifted John’s wrist to his mouth. John’s skin would have to come in contact with his mouth first, of course, before he could pierce it with his teeth. He wondered if he should make his lips wetter for the first touch. But then he would have to lick his lips, and his fangs had already extended (when had they done that?), and John would see, and perhaps that would be disconcerting?

 

“Sherlock?” John was getting impatient. He just wanted to get out of this room, which they were stuck in because Sherlock’s plan had fallen to pieces, and now John was doing the only thing that would allow them to get out. That’s what this about. Not how his lips might feel when pressed against the sensitive skin of John’s inner wrist.  

 

At the first contact, the movement of John’s chest was the only thing that suggested anything less than calmness. That rapidly drawn in breath; Sherlock had to get this over with, before John became nervous.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth slightly, and pulled back his lips till his sharp teeth could press in. Sherlock, embarrassingly, gnawed for a moment without effect, before gathering himself and pushing through.

 

The first taste was not unlike the experience of being near John’s neckline and inhaling, except multiplied by approximately infinity. He didn’t want to waste a single drop, wanted to luxuriate in it—but his feeding had been so long constrained to bags and straws. He was messy, sloppy, and too focussed on sensation to care.

 

His canines were still fully extended, but annoyingly getting in his way. They were only needed for the first part, as most of his drinking from then on out was lapping at the wound with enthusiasm, turning John’s arm this way and that to catch every last drop running along his skin, sucking it from the light blond hairs. There was a gasping sound, but it was far away, distant to his current purpose of more, more more more.

 

For the second time, it was only the sound of his name, strung out and high in John’s voice, that brought him back to the moment. This was far more than enough—he was strong now, far more than he’d ever been on a bag, the donor lending his personal fortitude to Sherlock. And still Sherlock lapped, and licked, and mouthed. He knew his saliva could heal the wound till there would be no tangible reminder for John, the incident nothing but a brief moment of pain, followed by his friend making a fool of himself.

 

Sherlock drew back, hands still clamped on John’s arm but attempting to loosen. His fingers felt stiff, gripping too hard for too long. He gingerly dabbed at the corner of his lip. Some of John’s blood had escaped. He licked the finger after, to catch the last of it. Only minutes before he’d felt sick, weak, helpless. Now, he felt incredible, invincible

 

When he caught John’s eyes, that feeling shifted dramatically. Sherlock had expected John to perhaps be light-headed from blood loss, pale, woozy. Instead, his cheeks were flushed, rosy pink as if the blood in his body had only pumped harder in response to its loss. His eyes had never seemed so dark. His lips were parted, breaths coming in short, quiet pants. The tip of his tongue was visible, just touching the corner of his lip.

 

Sherlock wanted to taste that too. He wanted to taste all of him.

 

It was at that moment that Sherlock realized his penis, which had been dormant for many years, was currently as flushed with blood as John’s face. He was completely erect, and if he stood from his crouch, his state would make itself very apparent.

 

Sherlock felt his face flame with John’s blood, and did the only thing he could.

 

He transformed with his newly acquired energy, and flew out the barred window of the cellar, leaving John behind.

 

 

Notes:

Some art !!

1. Art for this chapter by the lovely ivorylungs <3

2. This lil guy could go with any chapter, but check out this animation katzensprotte made of our tiny bat son <3