#munjen

((She became my John, my Douglas, and one of my best friends in the whole world. I'm honored to get the chance to RP with her as much as I do, and talk to her outside of it. We've both gotten so much better at writing the kink, and now she has a blog where she can post freely about it! Go check her out, please! You won't regret it!))

Sherlock stirred in the early hours of the morning, the sun peeping through the curtains. He made to roll over onto his belly, but a weight there made him stop. He looked down curiously, blinking blearily.

It was John, still fast asleep, still resting, using his belly as a pillow. Sherlock smiled at the adorableness of it all and put an arm across his eyes so he could rest without seeing sun. His stomach was hollow, which meant it had digested the dinner he'd fed it and was now eager for more. Still, Sherlock estimated it wouldn't be growling for another half-hour or so.

Cold, damp, dark.

Hungry. Starving.

Sherlock had been kidnapped and kept locked away ever since John left to care for Harry after one of her binges a week ago. He had done what he could to survive. He tried to give his captors what they wanted without endangering anyone. Still, they beat him, starved him, dehydrated him, made him go without sleep, kept him in this cold, dark, damp place.

He was sick of it all.

Sherlock was just finishing up the last of his packing. He was waiting for John to get back from his last shift at the surgery before they had to catch their flight. The shift was odd, in the middle of the night for what Sherlock assumed was A&E calls. Midnight until in the morning. His poor love would be exhausted.

Sherlock checked John's bag, trying to put himself in the mind of his lover. It seemed that John had everything he needed. Sherlock grabbed the emergency kit from its place in the kitchen and stuffed that into John's bag for safe keeping.

Martin missed the taste of Douglas' blood. 

It was a bit weird and a lot selfish, but the fact was true, though there was more to it than simple thirst. He missed the way it felt to have his fangs in Douglas' neck, how warm he felt when Douglas' blood fueled him, and, most importantly, how he felt like he was a part of Douglas when he drank blood from his love.

Despite his firm stance on half a pint from humans only, he still refrained from drinking blood, waiting for Douglas to offer. After all, he would never pressure a human. When he thought about it in bed one night, it was rather conniving, and maybe even a little passive-aggressive but he preferred that to asking outright.

After falling asleep thanks to a massive food coma, Sherlock woke up and stretched. His back hurt from the way he'd gone to sleep, curled up like that, which he found strange, given that he...no longer had a tail. 

Oh. Oh!