Just as Stefan’s love turned him, so did Sherlock’s.
But John Watson the second was not the same person as John Watson the first. He was completely unaware of the lingering glances, the just-too-long touches, the memories wrapped up in the past, brought so painfully into the future by the similarities between them. As a vampire, Sherlock’s senses were heightened, even more so than they had been before. Each bloodline had a particular scent, one that a vampire could hone their noses too smell if they wanted. Some families had particularly strong scents, especially ones with connections to vampires.
Sherlock didn’t know if the Watson family was one of these, or if it was just him, but John’s scent drove him wild. John himself was not a direct descendent of his Watson – a vampire can’t have children – but he was a Watson nonetheless.
Even before he was turned, Holmes knew that Watson was something special. But their friendship only evolved into something more afterwards. Sherlock and John didn’t have that kind relationship. Yet, Sherlock mused optimistically.
“Watson.” It was a growl more than anything, and it sent shivers of anticipation down Watson’s spine. He ripped his fangs out of the young woman he was currently feeding off and smiled at Holmes. Well, leered would probably be a better term. There was not one part of the elder vampire that did not scream predator. Blood dripped down his chin as he licked his lips. He didn’t retract his fangs; he knew Holmes thrived off danger, adrenalin, the thrill of the chase, knew how he loved to trace the dark veins under Watson’s eyes as they kissed, biting and sucking at each other desperately. Their relationship was strictly limited to 221B Baker Street; Victorian England was not quite ready for them yet.
Watson tried to seem unaffected by it all; he was the one dressed while Holmes lay naked and writhing on the bed, he was the calm one when Holmes’ breathing grew ragged. And yet, for all his control, Holmes was a weakness of his, and as they drew ever closer to the edge, he couldn’t keep his animalistic side in check. He liked to bite Holmes when they were intimate; the mixture of pleasure and pain tipping them both into ecstasy.
Vampire sex could be brutal, savage; neither of them had to be careful not to hurt the other. But the rest of vampire life could also be brutal and savage. Watson had had over two hundred years to control the hunger. He had seen and experienced the other side if vampirism; he had flipped the humanity switch in the early 1700s – betrayal and abandonment can do that to a person – and hadn’t switched it back again until forced to – love does that to people. He had been a ripper for almost five decades, and would not let Holmes follow in his bloody footsteps.
“You don’t control me, Watson,” he spat. As if to prove his point, Holmes snapped the neck of the limp body in his arms and let the dead man fall to the cobbled street. It wasn’t quite night but smog lay thick over London, turning everything a sickly greenish-brown.
After finding a meal for the new vampire, that had been Watson’s first port of call. His daylight pendant dangled from his neck, made by a witch that had been enamoured with him back in 1668. She had unfortunately meet a grisly end not long after – Watson angered a pack of werewolves out on the Yorkshire Moors, where he was living at the time, and she was collateral damage in the ensuing battle. London had no end of witches, some plying their trade as mystics and mind-readers, some hiding, and some owed him favours. Holmes’ daylight ring was small but beautiful, a lapis lazuli stone shining from its centre. It had been enchanted by a witch, by the name of Lizzie Buckland he knew near the Seven Dials – she had a shop there that sold herbs and enchantments, some of which were authentic.
Now, his ring lay permanently around his finger. It was the only thing Holmes was bothered about getting blood on. Even now, in his blood-addled state, he was careful to keep it clean.
“No, I don’t,” Watson countered, his still-human face as calm as ever. “But you need to be able to control yourself. If you continue like this, someone will notice. What if Gregson wants us to help solve these murders? What are you going to do? Chase yourself? In this state, you will leave clues that even the ordinary police will spot. Pull yourself together. Do I need to call your brother?”
That struck something in his brain. Somewhere in that oh-so-clever brain, Holmes recognised the truth of his companion’s words. He looked down at the dead man at his feet, at the blood on his fingers.
“I am under control, Watson.”
In that split second, Watson saw the change in Holmes’ face; his eyes, despite being still in full vamp mode, were drained of all that psychotic energy, the blood high leaving him as quickly as it overtook him. The first time he had witnessed that change, Watson had been astonished. He had never seen a vampire do that before. He had come to believe his friend when Holmes said he was in control.
“I think a drink is in order.” With that, Holmes turned, his coat arcing out behind him, and walked off. Watson smiled at his retreating back. He was glad he hadn’t actually had to call Mycroft. There was no question of the alpha in his and Holmes’ relationship (despite being an arrogant swine at times, Holmes deferred in almost everything to his sire, the exception being Mycroft), but the elder Holmes brother was an enigma to Watson. Mycroft was one of the only people that had ever scared him. And for good reason too.