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The club is dark when I enter and my body thrums with the bass that permeates the air. My heart thumps in time with the beat and anticipation makes the tips of my fingers tingle. I push through the throng of bodies as they grind against each other, sex is heavy in the air. Stamford had been near certain that who I was looking for would be here tonight so I’d taken my courage in my hands. Dressed up - tight black t-shirt and leather trousers - my hair mused with a little gel and a brush of eyeliner and I was ready to walk into hell.
I can feel eyes on me as I move towards the bar and if I hadn’t been so specific about who I was here for anyone of the bodies writhing on the dance floor would have done, but no - I was on a mission. After months of chasing dead ends and whispers I knew he’d be here tonight. The vile creature who’d lured my Mary into a world of sin and changed her beyond all reckoning. He needed to be taught a lesson.
I make it to the bar and order a triple shot of whisky over ice. The bartender is human, skin flushed and perspiration settling on his skin. Dark bags hang under his eyes and I can see a smear of blood on his neck. Christ - he looks like a walking meal. Nerves shoot through my body - am I ready for this? But no, I’d trained intensively with a specific order of hunters and I’d excelled. Many creatures of the night had fallen under my hand already and tonight - tonight would be the night I killed the man who’d turned my wife into the devil.
I feel sick as visions of my wife hissing at me from the chair I’d secured her to with rope soaked in vervain. Her eyes that had once been as blue as the sky glowing red and her canines unnaturally elongated. She’d become an animal and all traces of the woman I’d loved had vanished. She’d had to die and I’d had to be the one to do it. I close my hand tighter around my glass to get rid of the sense memory of the stake I’d stuck through her heart.
I turn from the bar, resting my elbows back on the wood and scan the crowd. I know exactly who I’m looking for. I’d seen pictures and heard so much about him that I know I’d never miss him. Sherlock Holmes is one of the oldest vampires in London and he basically runs the underground network of vampires in this city. If the vampires had royalty then he’d be the crown prince. There are many dancing couples - some of them are just pairs of humans who are trying desperately to play into the vampire culture. Dressed in the dark period costume that the media have made into a symbol of vampirism, their faces paled with powder and fake fangs protruding from their mouths.
Last year I would have thought them to be true vampires but now I can see the real predators in the masses. They blend in well but I can see them, feel them. I hate them. A petite woman with ivory hair and bright red lips has a swarm of people swaying around her, she is moving too and her movements are mesmerising. There are no fangs peeking from her mouth but I know she’s one of them. There’s something about her that screams danger and sex and charisma. She lifts one hand to a woman on her right and traces a blood red nail along the woman’s lips, the movement drips with sensuality and I can see the victim shiver from twenty feet away. The female vampire’s eyes meet mine and I’m struck for a moment. I want to go and join the people dancing around her - I want to know her, touch her. No! I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. Goddamn compulsion. I chance another glance at her and see the tiny movement of a shrug before she places her hands on the shoulders of the other woman and bends her head to the neck before her. In any other place it’d look like a lover’s kiss, a gesture full of lust but I know exactly what she’s was doing and I turn from the display in disgust.
I startle as I realise I’ve been joined at the bar while I’d been watching the women on the dance floor. The man I see oozes charisma and charm, he is dressed impeccably in a clearly expensive suit, a dark purple shirt is stretched across his chest - open at the collar to offer a tantalizing glimpse of alabaster skin. My eyes travel up to his face, framed with curls that seem to shimmer with life. Pale pink cupid bow lips on a cruel mouth, cheekbones that could cut diamonds and a classic nose. I look into his eyes and feel at once terribly exposed. They aren’t like any other eyes I’ve ever seen - vampire or human. A ring of vivid gold curls around an ebony pupil and icy blue and grey spread out from the gold. They are beautiful- inhumanly so and I shiver without meaning to. This is him, Sherlock Holmes - the thing I hate most in this world.
“John Watson.” If I’d been surprised and intrigued by his looks then I’d had no chance when it came to his voice. It washes over me like honey, like wood smoked whiskey. It vibrates through me in a way the bass of the club hadn’t, it makes me want him. Just two words from him and my heart is thumping and my cock begins to harden.
“How do you know my name?” I ask. How dare he talk to me as if we were old friends. How fucking presumptuous.
“I know a lot about you John, your name should be the least of your worries.” He flicks his hand at the bartender and a few seconds later he has a glass full of amber liquid cradled in a large, long fingered hand.
“Oh really?” I ask trying to hide the thrill of fear and excitement that has come over me at his words.
“Yes. Darling Mary told me all about you.” He tells me, a smirk dressing his full lips. Fury ignites my veins and I try to stop my arm shaking with it as I lift my glass and sip at the alcohol in my glass.
“Don’t! Don’t you dare say her name!” I hiss through my teeth, the alcohol already giving me the courage to talk like this to probably the most dangerous predator I’ve ever met. To my shock Sherlock snorts into his drink.
“Sentiment.” His voice is a low rumble that despite my anger makes me weak at the knees. How the hell is he doing this? He is everything I abhor in this world. He’s a monster who exudes arrogance, like he’s better than everyone around him - vampire and human alike. I want to say something back to him but my mouth is very dry in spite of my drink.
“So, are we going to get this ‘mission’ of yours underway then? I’ll even come willingly, no need for that vervain sedative lying in your pocket, though if you feel that strongly about spiking my drink I suppose I’ll let you.” He doesn’t look at me as he says this but I know he sees the shock on my face. How the fuck did he know what I’d spent months planning?
“You’ve been stalking me.” I spit in disgust. He looks at me then, an elegant eyebrow arched. He really is the most attractive person I’ve ever seen in my life. I bite my lip at the thought, how sick am I? He killed the love of my life.
“Please, like I’d waste my time on that. Although...you are much more promising than I thought you’d be.” His eyes travel up and down my body, lingering on my neck and I shiver with a mixture of fear and repulsion. The plan I’d so carefully constructed has been completely blown apart in less than five minutes. He’s apparently totally aware of what I’ve wanted to come from this night, and obviously thinks I’m not capable of dispatching him. Why else would he offer to come with me willingly?
“Get up.” I growl, downing the rest of my whiskey and slamming my glass on the bar. His movements are fluid as he stands, swinging a long dark overcoat on. He looks at me expectantly when I get to my feet and I turn on my heel and march from the club vaguely aware that he’s following me very closely. I have one thought : by the end of the night I’d have my revenge and I’d wipe that charming smirk from Sherlock Holmes face.
~
Sherlock walks calmly beside me as I lead him into the basement of the flat I rent for this specific purpose. He perches on the chair that’s sat in the middle of the room and looks around at my kit spread over the tables with a boredom that fuels my rage even further. I switch on the large flood lights I have positioned facing the chair. Sherlock’s eyes narrow minutely but apart from making his ivory skin glow ethereally there seems to be no change in his demeanour.
Going to a bucket in the corner I grab a long length of rope that’s been soaked in vervain infused water. Wrenching his arms behind his back I secure Sherlock’s wrists tightly behind his back, looping the rope around the back of the chair. Sherlock’s pale skin sizzles as the rope tightens on his flesh. I expect at least a gasp of surprise but Sherlock’s sigh is laden with indifference. I light the candles I’ve collected from churches around the world and they dance in the still air of the room.
“Does this make you feel better?” He asks as I stand before him.
“What?” I ask, thrown off by his perfectly clipped voice. I try not to think of how purely sexual he looks bound to the chair, his shirt gaping a little further open, his body slouched just a touch and his knees spread displaying his crotch and the hint of a bulge I see there. My mouth waters unexpectedly and I reach for the flask of whiskey I keep on the table gulping down mouthfuls of the burning liquid. Sherlock rolls his eyes and pushes his hips further out towards me.
“This, the rope and binding me here. I told you. I’m not going anywhere.” He tilts his head as he stares at me, the tip of his tongue running lightly over his canines in a gesture that is so sordidly sexual I have to turn from him lest he sees my true reaction.
“Shut up!” I yell grabbing a rosary that I’ve laid out and shoving it over his head, it falls against his shirt and he chuckles softly. Feeling more out of control than I’ve felt in a very long time I take both sides of his shirt and rip it wide open, buttons ricocheting off of the stone floor of the basement.
“Oh hell, a cross. Whatever shall I do?” The vampire drawls nonchalantly looking up at me through long dark eyelashes.
“I said. SHUT IT!” What is it about this man that stops me from accessing the deadly calm I’ve displayed in my months as a vampire hunter. I take another swig from my flask frantically wondering what I should do next. By this point the vampires I’ve killed have usually displayed at least a little bit discomfort. Sherlock rolls his eyes again and I put my face so close to his I can smell the antiseptic smell of whatever he’d been drinking back at the club. I want to kiss that horrible sneer from his perfect face.
“Don’t say a fucking word, you disgusting creature.” The obvious sexual tension between us is driving me crazy in a way I have never experienced in my whole life. I shouldn’t want him in this way. I don’t care that he’s a man, but I care that he’s the...thing that sunk his fangs into my wife’s neck and took her from me forever.
“You killed Mary!” I cry to the room, taking measured steps I walk to my collection of weapons and run my fingers over a bottle of Holy Water from the Vatican. I’ve been saving it, just for him. I pick the bottle up and saunter back over to him, kneeling in between his legs. Heat radiates between us and if he was anyone else I’d not be able to resist lowering my head and tracing the outline of his cock with my lips.
“I hope this hurts, motherfucker.” I whisper with all the hatred I can muster in my disorientated state and bring the bottle above his head upending it so the liquid pours down his face, soaking his hair and running down over his annoyingly alluring features to drip from his jaw and pool in the hollow of his collar bone. He doesn’t move, or even huff a breath of pain. Frustrated I hurl the bottle across the room where it shatters, shards of glass sparkling in the light.
“Who in God’s name are you?” I ask in a kind of perverted awe. Nothing seems to be touching him, the holy water should have burned his skin, should have been agonising but he looks at me with the same bored expression plastered on his face. He presses his lips together and shakes his head. Leaning up on my knees I grab a fisful of those chocolate curls and yank his head closer to my face.
“Speak, Holmes.” His breath flutters across my lips as he gasps- not in pain but pleasure and I can’t stop myself from running my dry lips across his angular cheekbones.
“You know very well who I am, John Watson.” His voice is deeper than I could ever imagined it being, dripping with lust and want.
“Why can’t I hurt you?” I whine in annoyance. His pink tongue flicks out to wet his lips and I fight not to suck it into my mouth and bite until I taste the blood he’s stolen from a wealth of innocent humans.
“Because, John, you don’t really want to hurt me…” He gasps against my mouth and I whimper with how wanton he sounds. Disgusted with myself I push him away from me, the chair rocking back on it’s back legs momentarily before settling back on the ground with a sharp smack.
I stand, shrugging my jacket and t-shirt off against the heat in the room, my golden skin is glistening and for the first time I see an expression other than perpetual ennui light up his eyes. He looks hungry and I shudder as I’m flooded with vivid images of that lithe body pinning me against a wall, the mouth opening to display sharp fangs and I want...I want to know how they’d feel piercing my skin.
“I want to kill you!” I erupt grabbing the cat o nine tales I have studded with sharp spikes blessed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. I move behind him and yank his shirt down until it’s bunched up by his wrists. I can see the pale expanse of skin of his back. I try to expel the thoughts of exploring the skin with my lips and tongue. The first crack of the whip against his skin paints the air and I feel some of my anger drain from me. The studs have broken the skin and blood wells before softly trickling down his skin. It makes me hungry for more and I crack the whip again and again and again until the coppery scent of blood hangs heavy in the air and Sherlock is slumped forward breathing heavily.
I’m exhausted and worryingly I’m no longer very angry. I drop to my knees leaving the whip curled on the floor and crawl to where the tableau of my anger is displayed on Sherlock’s skin. I lean up and press myself against his back. Sherlock’s blood mingles with the sweat on my skin, my hands wander over his chest, feeling his nipples erect against my palms and I pinch them roughly, delighting in the broken groan that rumbles from his throat. Feeling unhinged I bring my hands up to his neck and close them around his skin tightly, I feel his adam's apple bob tantalising against my skin. Goddamn, I want to devour this bastard.
I squeeze until my hands begin to cramp and let go. I’m drunk and adrift in a sea of wanting something that I’d trained myself to despise. Giving in I press my lips first to one broken welt on the skin of his back and then the next and then another, my tongue lathing the wounds. His blood tingles against my tongue and I lose myself in cleaning his skin of the precious liquid. Tears fall from my eyes as I grip his sides, my nails digging into his skin so hard it gives way under the pressure.
“Fuck…” Sherlock gasps and I crawl brokenly around to the front of his body, leaning my head heavily on his knee. The heavy musky scent of his sex lingers in my nostrils and I know I’m powerless to this fascination and chemistry.
“I- you killed her, how can I...what’s happening to me?” I weep, my mouth is covered with his blood and all I want is more of it.
“I didn’t kill her John.” Sherlock hums softly, he sounds wrecked and desperate. My head snaps up and our eyes meet, the connection is like an electric shock. I know beyond all shadow of a doubt that he’s telling me the truth. Sherlock is not ashamed of who, or what he is. He doesn’t feel any remorse for the times he’s killed his victims. Why would he be lying? I don’t want to believe him, I want to hate him. Want him to admit he drained my wife and transformed her into a vampire against her will.
“She came to us. She came to us and asked me to change her. I didn’t, I wouldn’t.” Sherlock carries on wearily. I don’t want to hear this, I want to block it all out. Sherlock is confirming my deepest fears - that she hadn’t been snatched unwillingly.
Mary had been acting strangely for weeks before her disappearance but we’d been struggling with money and the loss of our baby. I’d put it down to that but now as I sit here leaning against the man I thought had killed her and utterly destroyed I can see that even before she’d been turned I had lost her. Great convulsing sobs force themselves from me and I shake grasping Sherlock’s leg to me.
“I want to taste your tears.” Sherlock mewls, it sends sparks shooting through my whole body. He sounds like he wants to eat me, ingest my very essence and I pull myself up so I’m cradled between his legs. He presses his knees to my ribs and crosses his feet where they rest on the backs of my calves. I bring my face to his and tentatively he traces his tongue along the crescent below my bottom eyelid.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt and his heart wrenching groan is paired with a frenzied buck of his hips. His cock is hard and radiating heat. I can feel it press against my abdomen and my mouth falls open in a soft gasp as Sherlock continues to worship my tear-stained face with his lips and tongue. A voice in the back of my head reminds me how dangerous this is. Sherlock is a vampire, he actively feeds on humans and here I am nestled against his body sharing my sorrow with him and letting him heal me one kiss at a time.
I pull back slightly after a few minutes. I see Sherlock’s eyes dart to my lips and I can’t help myself any longer. I’m not sure who makes the first move but suddenly our lips are crushed together, moving frantically. My mouth opens and Sherlock’s tongue invades the space inside my mouth instantly, I can feel him pulling against his bonds and the thought of those large hands possessing me makes me groan into the kiss. I feel owned as the kiss escalates, I don’t even want to fight for dominance. His mouth worships mine and I feel my soul crack even further under his ministrations. He coaxes my tongue into his mouth and I taste him for the first time. He is the perfect mixture of bitter dark chocolate and sugar sweetened tea. In short he is absolutely delicious.
Shly I move my tongue over one canine and start when it begins to sharpen against my curious movements. Sherlock growls hungrily into my mouth and without even thinking I press my tongue against the deadly sharpness until I feel it pierce my tongue. Blood drips from the tiny wound and his breathless snarl is orgasmic in the extreme. With one last pull the ropes binding his wrists snap and he pulls me to him. Sherlock plunders my mouth with his own, he suckles on my tongue a keening sound resonating throughout our bodies and I don’t know if it’s him or me.
With a start he pulls from me and pushes me so I fall to the floor dazed, he stands looming over me and my heart freezes in fear.
“You completely deplorable fool!” He roars, his fists flexing by his side. I shrink beneath his anger although all I really want to do is pull him to me and beg him to carry on.
“I could kill you John!” His bellow echoes sharply around the room and then he pounces on me with a leonine grace. For a lithe man his body is surprisingly heavy as it weighs me down. Instinctively I struggle as he buries his face in the crook of my shoulder.
“You make me want. You make me yearn John.” His voice is muffled and pleasure drunk against my skin. I am torn between trying to fight the predator off and holding Sherlock tighter against me.
“I have never drank from someone who I’ve wanted this much, you stupid imbecile. Criminals, murderers, rapists, paedophiles - I’ve drained them all but you John, oh god you. You smell so very delectable and I want, oh christ.” Sherlock’s body is moving against my own and his thigh is in between my legs pushing on my cock in a tantalizing friction.
“Do it. Fuck, shit, Sherlock do it. Now, do it now.” I plead and then his weight is gone and he’s standing before me gloriously naked. He’s the most beautiful thing I have ever imagined in my whole existence. Miles of white skin, smooth and strong and toned, he looks like a Roman statue expect his cock which is flushed an angry pink as it protrudes from his body. My mouth aches to taste it and my palms itch where I want to see the silky solidity of it in my hand.
He moves in a blur and then I am as naked as he is and his eyes are drinking me in. I feel like a slab of meat before a starving man. He falls on me again, his lips and teeth torturing every part of my skin he can find. He moves preternaturally fast and I actually feel as if I’m being devoured - all I can do is lay dumbly against his ministrations drowning in the pleasure. In the feeling of someone knowing all of me for once in my life.
When his hand closes around my own erection I am fairly delirious with bliss. My limbs feel heavy and I have no control over what comes from my mouth. His movements are firm and sure and within no time I can feel my orgasm curling around my limbs, building further and further because oh fuck, I’m going to…
Twin pinpricks of pain flare in my consciousness as Sherlock bites my neck. My first instinct is to flee, to save myself but then Sherlock twists his wrist just so and I feel myself fall apart and pulse onto his hand. My body is wracked with something indescribable. I can feel Sherlock as he feeds from me. The desperation and hunger and lust, and want and drink, drink, drink. I feel the sincerity of what he’d told me about Mary, can feel his sorrow for me and the loneliness he feels because he was telling the truth and he doesn’t normally do this. He feeds from evil, rids the streets of the world’s scum and oh how the hell could I have got him so, so wrong?
I’m enveloped in the contentment he feels to be doing this, to feel wanted for once, to feel connected and not so dreadfully bored. I see myself though his eyes - the vengeful warrior hiding from the kind of life he truly wants.
Through the haze I reach for his length and touch him, cherish him. He comes with a sweet cry against my neck and our bodies ride the waves of our climaxes together, touching everywhere we possibly can. I have never felt so damn high, so comfortable and warm and wanted. I could fall in love with him….
~
I awake cold and bloody sore. I’m lying on the floor of the basement covered in the sheet of plastic I sometimes use during my...appointments. I sit up too fast and grab my head against the overwhelming pain. Christ, how drunk had I got last night?
Last night. I gasp aloud as last night’s events come rushing back. I whirl around looking for Sherlock half expecting to see him lounging in the lone chair and watching me but he isn’t there. Instead there is a single piece of paper folded over once and propped up.
Slowly I crawl over and grab it. It has one line of elegant cursive in the middle.
Don’t end up like Mary. SH.
Sherlock is gone and with him, all the faith I had in my the way I’ve lived my life for the past nine months. I’m screwed.