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Stranger: [Vamp!lock] There were a lot of people whose parents would pay for things like medical school, or at least help, but John (22) didn't have such a luxury. So he resorted to other methods, most of which loans and work. Then he had the suggestion of his friend Mike to think about donating blood. It wasn't something he was too fond of, but...it did pay to give blood so that the banks would have supply for the fanged population. The more people donated, they argued, the less innocent people would be attacked in the streets. He had to admit it did bring in some extra cash, so he did that for a little while. Of course...that didn't always stop things from happening, but he always figured he'd be attacked by a vampire, not a member of his own species. He knew exactly what was happening when he felt the small sting in his neck, and when his brain fuzzed over. Bleeders. Black market vampire drug dealers. They got someone high, often overdosing them, and then took their blood, usually leaving them to bleed out. He couldn't struggle, his body feeling like it was made of lead. He felt something glide across his forearm, burning slightly as warmth poured out, dripping down his arm. He blinked slowly, not even noticing when he heard a slight struggle, one of his attackers being attacked themselves.

You: It was always entertaining, going back to school to study something new or to even learn the new discoveries in a field. Sherlock was getting another degree in chemistry, but he had taken an advanced biology course on the side. And there was a human in that class who was absolutely gorgeous, the center of Sherlock's attention. John Watson. Physically, he was older than Sherlock, who was only 21 himself when changed. Sherlock was quite old now, but it hadn't kept him from developing a crush. And now, as he was out hunting down a group of bleeders, he couldn't believe what he found. That was John's blood, if contaminated and pouring out. John was bleeding and drugged - and Sherlock was hunting bleeders. The 'young' detective followed the scent to an alley and he saw red. It felt like two seconds later that he was standing over Watson, three bleeders dead behind him, their throats torn out, their blood dripping from his lips. He licked them and blinked twice. "I haven't lost control like that in years," he murmured, before kneeling. "Can you hear me?"

Stranger: John hummed a little, his eyes rolling around unfocused in their sockets. He blinked slowly as he heard someone speaking, their voice somewhat distorted. It took him a minute to even comprehend what was asked and even then, he couldn't think up an answer. "Mmm..." he hummed, mumbling something incoherently, his fingers flexing weakly. He started to feel a little...what was that?...cold, he supposed, underneath the general numbness that was everything else.

You: He was dying and fast. The drugs weren't helping in the least, an overdose. His blood would be dangerous to Sherlock, who hadn't been high in years. All it took was one taste to send a vampire back into the depths. But it was that or John's life. Beautiful John, young John, kind John. Brave and strong and clever and interesting. Sherlock cradled the back of his head and traced a hand gently over his cheek. Sherlock had never done this before, had never been interested in doing to someone else what his brother had done to him all those centuries ago. But if he didn't do this now John wouldn't have enough strength in him to drink his blood down. He might not have now. "I'm sorry. But I can't let you die." The words were whispered and Sherlock ghosted a kiss across John's forehead, before bending to bite into his neck. His eyes widened at the taste of the drug, but he forced himself to pull away. It was more important that John drank right now. Sherlock bit into his wrist and pressed it to John's lips. "All you need is a drop. Just get some of it down, please." The drug was already starting to affect him, John had had so much in his system.

Stranger: John groaned a little as he was moved, his body limp as his head rolled back. His brows furrowed a little, eyes having slid shut at some point without his realizing. He gasped when he felt a sharp pain in his neck, his body giving an uncoordinated jerk. He felt something press up against his mouth, a thick liquid dripping into it. He coughed, grimacing a little a whimper escaped him as he tried to turn his head away weakly.

You: The blond was fighting him and Sherlock frowned. "No, John. You have to..." Do something. He blinked twice heavily and shook his head. Focus. What did John have to do. His fingers tightened aggressively. He couldn't remember. His wrist was bleeding. Drink! "You have to drink!" He forced his blood down John's throat. "Come on, you idiotic little human. Take it! All you need is a drop!" Just a bit of his blood would make John like him. But John needed to swallow it before he died!

Stranger: John coughed, sputtering as more of the liquid coursed into his mouth, trying to take a breath. He forced some of it down, gasping for a breath when more of it was there, and he found himself swallowing that down as well. As if on it's own his head leaned up a little, and his lips closed around what was pressed there, and he drew out more of it, whimpering a little again.

You: Good. Good, some had definitely gone down. Sherlock bent down to nuzzle into John, before lifting his head to look around the mess of an alley. Three dead humans. A dying John - but he would change, he would be alright. Still, they didn't have long. Deciding John had swallowed enough, Sherlock drew his wrist back. "Good. Good, I'm so pleased." He licked the wound on his wrist closed and picked John up. Sherlock stood and stumbled a bit. Oh, hell. "Come on," he murmured to the quickly dying man. "When you wake, you'll be clean. You'll be home with me." And Sherlock moved as well as he could manage back to 221B.

Stranger: A small whine rose from John when it was pulled away from his mouth, but he fell silent again. He jerked a little at being picked up so suddenly, humming a bit. It was when his stomach twisted that another noise came from him, this one one of pain. He gasped, feeling like his insides were twisting, but only slightly, enough to ache. His forehead creased, and he shifted slightly in the arms that held him, heart starting to speed up a little. "Mm...hmmm...."

You: "I know it hurts," Sherlock whispered. "But you will thank me. Some day..." He needed to walk, glaring at nearly every camera he passed - Mycroft had surely seen, was probably gloating over it. If Sherlock could reach his mobile, he would probably have at least half a dozen texts from his big brother. But he finally reached Baker Street and quickly made his way up the stairs, laying John down on the spare bed. "Just rest. You'll feel so strong so soon." He pet his fingers through John's hair and smiled softly. "My beautiful one."

Stranger: John could hear the voice talking, not understanding what was being said, or what was going on. He curled onto his side as the ache turned into more of a burn, that almost seemed to creep up into his chest, towards his quickly beating heart. He groaned, his eyes pulling open and moving around wildly, unseeing around the unfamiliar room, wide and fearful.

You: He turned away a moment, leaving to the nearest bathroom, and returned with a change of clothes and a few towels. He stripped John out of his clothing, taking just a moment to appreciate his length, before beginning to wash away the dirt and blood. Once John was clean, Sherlock dressed him in red pants, a pair of pyjama bottoms, and a t-shirt. That done, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's forehead, before deciding to go ride out the rest of his high downstairs.

Stranger: John's eyes rolled back in his head, huffing his breaths now, as his breathing was starting to become a bit of a chore. He shook, tossing over onto his back, another noise escaping him. His fists balled up into the bedding as he took a sharp breath in, his heart giving two final, painful throbs, before he went slack on the bed, growing still at the same time as his heart, and getting swallowed up by blackness.

You: It was hours before Sherlock was finally starting to feel sober and he slowly stood and made his way up the stairs, after having stopped to grab his violin. John's heart had stopped hours before, and it was amazing what a few hours could do. John's hair shined golden in the light, rather than how dusty it had been before. He was pale now beneath his tan from blood loss. No flush to his cheeks. Sherlock hummed softly. He had liked John better before. But if this was what he needed to do to keep John alive, then so be it. Lazily, Sherlock started to play his violin, hoping John would wake to the sound of it.

Stranger: Something was wrong...off. It felt, different...he felt, different. John wasn't sure what it was, what was he doing? He'd been doing something, going...somewhere. Hadn't he? He slowly became more aware that he was laying on something, soft, and he flexed his fingers a little. They slid over a soft fabric, and he almost swore he could feel each thread. What came next was....almost overwhelming. As if he was rising up from under water he heard music, and it closer and louder until it almost hurt his ears but it was so...beautiful. His face twitched a little, not quite finding his eyes yet as the loud notes overwhelmed anything else, so much...that he didn't realize yet what was missing from within his chest.

You: He dropped the melody down to something quieter the moment he watched the other wince at it. The music slowly died out and from his place across the room, Sherlock whispered, "John. Find yourself. You're there, hardly changed at all." He smiled softly. "You're safe." Sherlock plunked at one string, before setting his violin down on the dresser. He moved to the bed and slowly took John's hand. "I'm here." He pressed a kiss to those fingers, hardly remembering waking up himself nearly six hundred years before.

Stranger: John's forehead creased slightly when the music ended, and he heard his name. The voice...it sounded, almost familiar, but for some reason in his head the word safe came to mind. /Safesafesafe/. He realized that he felt small, the only thing he could think of that had felt similar was losing his parents in a shopping center when he was younger. The voice made him feel...less small. His fingers twitched a little at the sudden pressure on them, and he shifted slightly on the bed, feeling the weight on the edge of it. Finally he found his eyes and he pulled them open, blinking a few times as they adjusted to the light, his gaze falling on the ceiling, distracted instantly by the detail of it, the crack in it, the bits of dust and cobweb...all of it.

You: Perhaps it was overwhelming. Yes, Sherlock seemed to remember it being overwhelming. Lestrade using that word when Mycroft had changed him in 1953. John seemed overwhelmed. Sherlock nuzzled into John's hand, wanting that attention on him. For John to see him and fall instantly in love as he should. As Sherlock desperately wanted. John's eyes were beautiful and dark like deep ocean and Sherlock almost wanted to, cliche as it was, swim in them. "How do you feel, dear one?" John was so young. So very young.

Stranger: John was almost memorized by what he saw, distracted next by the pattern of the wall paper he saw adjacent to the ceiling. He almost didn't notice the extra touch on his hand, but on hearing that voice again he tore his eyes away from the wall, figuring it wasn't going anywhere. He blinked, seeing the boy sitting next to him, wondering why he hadn't looked there first. He had piercing blue-green eyes and thick ebony curls. John's brow furrowed a little as if in confusion, but his mouth hung open as if in awe. John looked at him, sinking into that feeling again, /safesafesafe/. He didn't understand, but at the moment there was too much, he didn't mind not understanding.

You: A soft quarter smile lifted on Sherlock's face, loving that mixture of awe and confusion. It was too much to think John would recognise him from school - while Sherlock had been infatuated, he was rather certain John had not been aware he existed. But now he would always know who Sherlock was. "John?" He asked again, reaching out to trace the other's jaw, before chuckling. Of course, how foolish he was. John needed something immediately. Sherlock stood and murmured that he would be right back and disappeared out of the room to retrieve a bag of blood from the fridge. He turned to return with it.

Stranger: John opened his mouth as he left, not a sound escaping him, as if he'd forgotten how to speak. He knew he didn't want him to leave, almost feeling nervous when he did. His attention was caught once more though by a mirror that was across the room. He blinked, seeing someone reflected back in it. His brows pinched together, so did the reflection's. John lifted one hand, touching his hair, and one cheek lightly, realizing that that was himself he saw...but that looked so...different. He looked down at his hands, seeing every crease, and line, but also seeing something different. He touched one hand with another, moving up his wrist when he froze. You didn't need to be a pre-med student to know when a pulse was...or in this case, wasn't there. He checked again, starting to feel that initial anxiety grow once more as he felt his neck for a pulse, nothing. He gasped a little, eyes widening as he realized that was the first breath he'd taken...he'd forgotten. He took took another breath, then another, but it felt wrong, empty. He ended up panting, still touching his neck, not feeling a pulse, though he did feel something else, a burning in the back of his throat.

You: Sherlock returned to the room, surprised to find John in a state. He came forward, frowning. "John?" He was panting like a dog, but it would do him no good. "You don't need to do that anymore," he informed. Well, except to speak. You still needed air to speak. Sherlock sat on the bed beside John and took his hand from his neck. "It's alright. You needn't panic. Here, mon coeur. Drink this. You'll feel better." He offered out the blood bag to John.

Stranger: John's eyes snapped back onto the boy, when he felt him take his hand. He was gulping air, but it still felt wrong, there was no relief there that there should have been from holding his breath. He didn't understand. He sucked in a sharp breath from his nose and was smacked in the face with a multitude of scents, one being the offensive plastic smell that radiated from what the boy held, the other...an scent that was part spice, and part...chemical, but it echoed the same as that voice, /Safe/. Without thought he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the other's middle, trembling a little, utterly overwhelmed by what was going on, what was wrong with him? He opened his mouth, forcing the words, "Wh...what's....going...on?" he panted out, his own voice sounding weird to him.

You: Sherlock froze, looking down at John in utter confusion, his head cocking to the side. Slowly, he placed the bag of blood down and wrapped his arms around the other. He closed his eyes as he held John close, nuzzling his nose into the blond. "You're safe," he whispered, trying to get the trembling to stop. "You were dying," he whispered. "You had been attacked by bleeders. Blood loss, overdose... I saved you. I couldn't let you just die." He took the bag and bit into it, two beads of blood seeping out. "You really need to drink. Replenish your energy. I promise you, it's good."

Stranger: John's breathing slowed, but didn't stop out of sheer habit. His shaking died down a bit, the arms around him helping a bit. He furrowed his brow, not seeing when the bag was picked up again. He blinked when he smelled something different, something sweet and.../nice/. He sat up, feeling two sharp points emerge from under his lip, not even thinking as he leaned forward and bit into it, a moan tearing out of him as the liquid touched his tongue.

You: "There we are," Sherlock praised, holding John closer and keeping a hand under the bag. "I knew you would like it." John would adjust as they all did. As they all always did. He'd find a way. With Sherlock, hopefully. "This should help." His fingers played with the hair at the nape of John's neck, smirking. It was honestly lovely to see the monster in someone. Even lovelier on one who was already so beautiful.

Stranger: John hummed a little at the touch, his eyes sliding shut as he drained the bag. He let out a breath as he pulled away from it, licking the sticky liquid from his lips. His gaze flicked up to look at the boy, pupils blown wide. He blinked, brows furrowing again. "I....I know you." he said slowly. "S-seen you...b'fore." he said, feeling a little tired.

You: Sherlock tossed the empty bag onto the floor. It would be cleaned up later, but right now John was all he could bother focusing on. His lips were tinted red from the blood and Sherlock leaned in to kiss them, but stopped at the words. He pulled back suddenly, his eyes searching John's. "Yes," he sighed out, amazed. "I- I'm in you biology class. I sit behind you." He nudged at John's nose with his own. "I can't believe you recognised me." He smiled to himself. John had /noticed/ him at some point, then. Sherlock was so very used to being invisible or hated. Oh. Oh, please not the latter.

Stranger: John blinked again, those blue-green eyes even more amazing as close as they were to him. "You...you bumped into me once....s-said apologies instead of...sorry." he said slowly remembering the brief encounter. He recalled thinking it odd, most people said sorry without looking up, but this one had said "Apologies" and met his gaze for a moment. He wasn't sure why he could remember that. "I...I feel...different. M-my pulse..." he said, head fuzzy from being tired, and whatever he drank, maybe that was it? Drugs?

You: It was fascinating what some people remembered. "I did," Sherlock confirmed, smiling softly. "I was raised differently. I don't say 'sorry.'" He trailed his fingers down John's t-shirt clad chest. "You don't have a pulse," he answered. "Not anymore. I had to save your life. I had to take your humanity. Please understand." He nervously pressed his lips to John's for the briefest of moments. "I couldn't let you die." His John. His John Watson. The beautiful medical student.

Stranger: John watched the finger tips, caught off guard by the kiss. He looked up at him with that comment, not understanding. "I...but, that means I would be...be dead." he said shaking his head a little. He blinked his eyes rapidly, almost feeling like he had to yawn, but it wouldn't come. "I...I don'understand." he mumbled.

You: "Physically, yes, in only a few ways," Sherlock answered. He shouldn't expect John to have an incredible intelligence having just been turned. "But you are not actually dead. You're... You're a vampire. Just like me." Sherlock stood and retrieved the empty bag, tossing it into the bin. "I hope you're not too angry, dear," he whispered. "But I couldn't let you die before you became a doctor."

Stranger: John sat up a bit when he stood and stepped away, and he found himself almost wanting to get up and follow him, wanting him close. Vampire? Did he hear that right? Of course he did, he could hear everything. "Don't leave." he said quickly, swallowing. He let out a breath, looking down at his hands, and then back up at him. "Wh-what's your name?" he asked.

You: Oh. Yes, that would come in handy, wouldn't it? Sherlock hadn't even thought to offer his name. He moved closer. "I won't leave," he promised, moving back to stand before John. He offered out his hands and helped the others to his feet, pulling him into a gentle waltz to silent music, one hand in his and the other at his waist. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he whispered. "Welcome to 221B Baker Street."

Stranger: John wet his lips a little, taking his hand when it was offered, wanting that slight anxiety to go away. It did as soon as his skin made contact with his. He was started at being pulled up to his feet, not sure his legs would work, but he stepped easily up, almost not even noticing the movement, more letting Sherlock move him. He blinked a few times, almost feeling overwhelmed again. "I...I'm John..." he said, distracted by one of the pearl buttons on the other's shirt. "But you...knew that." he said, yawning a little despite himself.

You: Sherlock chuckled softly. "I did," he responded. "John H. Watson - though I must admit I haven't the faintest what the H stands for." He stopped spinning and just held John to him, breathing in his scent hungrily. He had feared, without his human blood, that John wouldn't smell good anymore. But now it was different. Now it was /his/. And his John. "I hope that doesn't upset you, me already knowing your name."

Stranger: John hummed a little, not sure why he felt so...comfortable like this. "If you're the bloke tha'sits behind me...then you're the one always answering questions." he murmured. "Not out loud...you mutter them, under your breath. You know everything." he murmured drowsily, his head leaning forward to rest on Sherlock's chest.

You: Sherlock smirked. "When one has been alive for six hundred years, they tend to know quite a lot." But that John had noticed - had heard. He chuckled, his smile going real. "I've fancied you," he whispered, "for so long. I kept hoping you might notice me, speak to me. It's odd how you were the one thing I was not prepared for."

Stranger: John blinked a couple times, eyelids heavy. "You can't be...that old, look younger than me." he murmured. He opened his eyes a little more at the comment about fancying John. "You wha?" he asked, lifting his head a little, looking at him. God he was...beautiful. He'd never thought that about a bloke, except one boy in primary school...but his Father had seen to stamp that out of him, quickly, and with no small amount of bruising.

You: "Well, perhaps physically. I was changed when I was twenty-one." His lips brushed John's hair, before pulling back at the question. "I... fancy you." Wasn't that the proper term? "I've been rather in love with you, my strong, brave, intelligent John." He chuckled. "I know all about you. I can see it all in the way you walk, the way you speak, your clothing and the way you clench your fists."

Stranger: John furrowed his brow a little, pulling away enough to look down at his hands. He realized then what he was wearing, running his hands down the front of the soft cotton t-shirt. "I...d-don't even know...how this happened..." he said quietly. "I only know your name." he said, "And everything is...loud and bright and...almost too much I just...I don't know what I'm supposed to do..." he said, feeling small again. "How can you know all that....and I still don't know anything? I know less than I did...this morning, or whenever that was."

You: "I'll answer any questions you have," Sherlock murmured, leading John back to the bed. "You were attacked and fatally injured and drugged. I brought you here so you could change safely. This is my home. I would very much like it if you make it your home, as well. You will adjust to your senses, their stronger than vampires, because originally we were supposed to exist only at night. We've adjusted to the sun and bright lights, but we're still wired for darkness." He sighed. "You're supposed to live. To get your doctorate. To keep as you were. Just a few things have changed."

Stranger: John eased back down to sit on the bed, looking around the room, the wall paper catching his attention once more. He felt dazed, tired. He hummed lightly, looking back down at his hands. "I...this is, a lot I...Christ." he breathed, reaching up and ruffling his hair a little, which felt funny to him as well. He looked towards the trash bin, "That bag...god that was....god it was wasn't it?" he asked, thinking about how he'd just...gone after it. "H-how am I supposed to be a doctor when I just...did that?" he asked.

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