#vampire!lock

John might like it! 🧛🏻

What did I just read?

You make it sound like I am a vampire. I wouldn't bite to kill. But he is delectable.

Day 17: "You Look A Little Pale"

today's prompt fill is an excerpt from Something Of The Night About You.

For the next twenty-four hours, John barely left Sherlock’s side while the detective remained in a deep, dreamless sleep. He sat vigil over his motionless form, only concerned with Sherlock’s wellbeing and ignoring all of Lestrade’s texts about what had happened the night they’d tried to nab their suspect, who was, by all accounts, in the wind and long gone. 

Good riddance to bad rubbish, John had thought, as he finally tore himself away from Sherlock’s side to answer to his rumbling, empty stomach. Moving like an automaton, John put together a lazy man’s charcuterie plate; a few triangles of Laughing Cow cheese and water biscuits, a small handful of grapes. He sighed, popping a few grapes in his mouth and closing his eyes, exhausted. What’s happened to you? He wondered, gaze turned sideways, keeping Sherlock’s bedroom door in view. 

Mindful of the floorboard’s creaks, John went back to the detective’s bedroom as silently as he could, and moved to change the cold compress he’d left across his forehead. “Oh, Sherlock, the state of you…” he lamented softly, ringing out the cloth in the bowl of water on his bedside before replacing it on his alabaster forehead. “The colour’s completely gone from your face,” he observed, touching his cheek gently. Taking the man’s wrist in his hand, he counted his pulse and kept an eye on his watch’s second hand. “Thready,” he noted, placing Sherlock’s hand by his side once more and squeezing it. “You’re so cold, this can’t…” he shook his head. “I can’t lose you, not like this,” he sighed, head in his hands and his elbows resting on the bed. “I’ve never seen this before, feverish but still so cold,” he bit back frustrated tears and shook his head. “Do you remember, once, back when we first met, and I found you completely spaced out,” he managed a small smile. “Wankered on nicotine patches, you idiot,” he shrugged, a soft, bitter laugh escaping him. “You do such stupid things, Sherlock,” he held his hand, squeezing. “You always do such stupid things…” 

In a moment of weakness, John let a few tears escape his exhausted eyes. He looked back to his meagre plate, still untouched, and realized that he had lost his appetite entirely; all he could think about was Sherlock’s state. “Why did you do it, hm?” He asked the sleeping figure. “What could have possibly possessed you to let yourself be so taken by…” he shut his eyes, not wanting to remember but being cursed to recall the scene. “If only I’d followed you closer, if I’d stepped in…”

“Then he would have harmed you, too…” Sherlock’s cracking voice, sore and small from disuse, interjected. He lifted a weak, shaking hand to John’s cheek. “John…” he managed a small smile. “How– how long…?” 

John blinked away his tears and held Sherlock’s hand against his face. “Just over a day,” he replied, heart racing. “Sherlock, tell me what happened,” he pressed, “what did he do to you?” He wiped Sherlock’s brow and removed the moist cloth, combing back his unruly mop of hair with shaking fingers. “God…” 

“I hadn’t meant to,” Sherlock blinked slowly, taking in the sight of John’s fretting face. His vision was beginning to return to him, things coming into focus at last; he felt as weak and flimsy as a paper doll, and as he slowly raised his hands in front of his face, he noted the now-pallid shade of his normally alabaster skin. “Somehow, all control was taken from me when he looked at me. I really thought I was for it,” he remarked, “I felt the life being stolen from me…” he flexed his hands open and shut slowly, watching his fingers. “I thought I was going to die before I could…” he stopped himself, and shut his eyes. 

thank you @ailesswhumptober for the prompt!

Day 15: Transformation

today's prompt fill is an excerpt from Something Of The Night About You.

Watching him now, from afar, John could only remark how pretty a figure he cut among all the lights and all the people, his pretty skin practically glinting in the flashing lights and his body naturally swaying to the thumping music, blending in seamlessly. He’d never seen Sherlock in an environment like this, he realized; he’d always thought it might have been a sensory nightmare for him, a cramped club like this, with the mixing smells and the too-loud bass and the closeness of the uninhibited partygoers. Now, though, it seemed that Sherlock was acclimated, if not even enjoying himself, in the space. John watched him zero in on a handsome young man, and he felt warning goosebumps appear suddenly on his skin despite the warmth of the room. That’s him, isn’t it, he realized. He wanted to rush to Sherlock’s side, but bit his tongue. It looked like Sherlock was going for the charm offensive rather than cause a disturbance; he leaned in, and the nameless man did the same, casually touching Sherlock’s arm where they stood against the bar. John watched Sherlock bend his head forward, watched the stranger lean in further, talking in his ear and saying something that must have been remarkably funny, because he watched Sherlock’s lips curl into a smile and watched him clutch his stomach in laughter. Sherlock took the man’s face in his hand, examining him; they appeared to now be talking about something a little more intimate. John felt jealous bile rising in his throat, and stepped forward slowly, wanting to come between them but he knew he was too far. In a blink, he watched their mystery man wrap a possessive arm around Sherlock’s slim waist and guide him off to the side, kissing him as they walked away; John saw the neon signage for the loos, and made an educated guess. Not tonight, he thought. Sherlock, what are you doing?!

John set down his drink on the nearest table he could find, and strode over to the loos with half a mind to throttle the man for laying a hand on Sherlock. “Sherlock!” He called after him in vain, for the music was too loud to be heard through it. He finally reached the dark hallway that led off to the washrooms, and nearly tripped over–

Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, you okay?!” John knelt on the ground, fumbling for his phone’s torch to illuminate the small corner and he nearly yelped when his eyes registered what he was faced with. 

There was Sherlock, slumped against the corner wall, barely breathing and his neck dripping little rivulets of deep red, staining the collar of his shirt. “John…” he murmured, voice weak as a child’s. “John, help me…” he blinked his eyes open slowly, but he was too dizzy to keep his eyes fixed on the good doctor. “I was too slow,” he groaned, reaching for John’s hand to hold, to steady himself. “I wasn’t myself, he… I feel drunk,” he lolled his head back against the wall. “Take me home, please…” 

John, unable to let himself panic, called on his soldier’s courage now; gathering Sherlock in his arms, he helped him stand, and took him into the washroom to clean up his blood. Gently patting the wound clean, his breath shuddered as his fingers grazed the site of the bleeding:

Bite marks, like needle pricks, and bruising that looked like a love-bite. 

No, John shook his head. This isn’t real. It can’t be, he thought, dabbing cold water to Sherlock’s face and fretting over his laboured breathing. “We’ll get you home, Sherlock, hang on,” he promised, feeling Sherlock lose his balance and catching him in his arms where they stood. “We should go to a hospital,” he corrected himself. “I don’t know how much blood you’ve lost.”

“No hospitals,” Sherlock shook his head and breathed John in, arms wrapped loosely, weakly, around his middle. “He didn’t… he didn’t finish. You’re warm…” he observed, “you smell good,” he murmured against John’s shoulder. “John…” 

John ignored the way Sherlock’s body against him made him feel. “Alright, mister,” he propped him back up against the washroom wall, assessing his state and feeling not at all confident in his medical abilities in the moment. “Let’s get you back to Baker Street.”

The entire ride back to their flat, John couldn’t take his eyes off the injury to Sherlock’s neck; more out of concern and fear and affection than medical interest, he held fast to Sherlock’s hand and wrist the entire ride home, terrified that he’d lose a read on the man’s pulse if he let go.

thank you @ailesswhumptober for the prompt!

It’s an Abraham Lincoln Vampire inspired AU.

It’s been a long while since I have really written anything. The woes of life and writers block. Let me know what you all think?

John Watson sat at the far end of the crowded bar of the pub. His fingers traced around the rim of his shot glass. He had promised himself he wouldn’t come back to London, not until he had the training. Training that he needed to kill. 

There was only one thing on John Watson’s mind tonight as he took another shot of whiskey--the alcohol burning the back of his throat. 

The room began to spin when he saw a tall shadow approach behind him.  His hand instinctively reaching for his gun.

“A man only gets this drunk when he wants to snog a person, or kill a man.”

You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!

You both like johnlock, and vamplock.

Stranger: [Vamplock AU] Vampires had been well-known in society since the late 1800's and, although initially feared, mankind had come to somewhat admire them; their immortality, their grace, their power. As medicine progressed, so did humanity's methods of showing their adoration. Donor clinics were set up and all humans were required to donate at least twice a year. For those who felt that wasn't enough, some humans applied to become live-in donors; or as John Watson thought of them, walking, talking meals. As such, sat on a bed in the walk-in clinic, the recently invalided army doctor resisted the urge to scowl all throughout his donation. The fact that it was mandatory irked him, and particularly that the donated blood didn't go to people in dire need. Hearing a sudden shout of something that sounded like 'useless', John glanced up, aware that next door were the auditions for the live-ins. Poor saps. When the door suddenly slammed open to the donor room, where John and ten other donors were, the doctor tensed when the tall, enigmatic figure entered.

You: Sherlock had lived well throughout the centuries, and he could easily deduce the mortal humans around him. He'd been on the look out for a live-in donor for what seemed like ages, but no one who volunteered themselves measured up to his expectations. Especially with his lifestyle. Most everyone was so /dull/. After meeting with yet another disappointing candidate, he swept into the next room holding the usual biannual donors, just on the whim someone interesting might be there. His gaze raked along each of the ten, but then his eyes settled upon a smaller, blond man. Military posture, tan line at the wrists. Recently abroad with the army. He seemed all too aware of the clinical surroundings, likely the familiarity a doctor would have, and he seemed rather displeased. There were darker circles under his eyes, indicating lack of sleep. Nightmares. It could be PTSD, but something didn't quite add up. Not entirely boring after all. He stepped closer, offering him a slight smile. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He asked simply, looking up at the blond, ready to take in his reaction.

Stranger: There was something about vampires: something about the way they moved, acted, spoke that just reeked of superiority. Maybe that came part and parcel with being immortal. When you had all the time in the world, what did propriety and kindness matter? Feeling the piercing gaze settle on him, John straightened up a little where he sat, automatically jutting his chin out in an expression of defiance. He wasn't scared of vampires. He wasn't exactly a fan, either, but they most certainly didn't strike fear into his heart. He had met worse monsters during the war. Inhaling slowly as the vampire smiled, John was utterly caught off guard by the question. Whatever he had been expecting, /that/, most certainly, was not it. "I-- Afghanistan. How did you know that?"

You: "Your posture is quite military, and you have tan lines on your wrists, indicating you've recently been abroad somewhere sunny. You haven't been getting much sleep, likely due to nightmares, which usually indicates somewhere with active combat," Sherlock explained. He was hoping it might impress him, though he seemed to take on more of a defensive, defiant posture when he got closer, so that may not happen as easily. He didn't seem too keen on having much to do with his kind, which the vampire could understand. There had always been people like that. "I have a spare bedroom in my flat. I'm sure it's more comfortable than where you're currently staying. My guess is that you haven't been back for long."

Stranger: Glancing down at his wrists, aware that one was more exposed by the other due to the needle in the crook of his elbow, John frowned at the barrage of comments, before he slowly glanced up again. How the hell-- Vampires weren't telepathic. He knew that for a fact, so how? Unaware that his mouth was gaping open a little, John finally allowed it to shut, working through what he had just been told. "You got that just by looking at me? In, what, ten seconds?"

You: "It's something I've picked up over time. And no, it's not by some supernatural ability, but merely practice," the vampire answered. He was gaping a little bit, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit more. This was was definitely impressed. He glanced down at the chart at the end of the cot the man was on. "John Watson," he read before looking back up at the other. "Would you be interested in a flatshare with a vampire? I know that might put some people off, but you seem like an interesting person, and I'd love to get to know you better."

Stranger: Following the vampire's gaze down to his chart, John blinked slowly, before meeting his gaze dead on again. He paused, before huffing in amusement. "By the sounds of it, you already know me pretty well. That's sodding amazing," he murmured, flexing his fingers to prevent them from going numb as more blood flowed out into the blood bag. "Well, maybe if I knew your name first, Mr.--?"

You: "Sherlock Holmes. My apologies for not introducing myself sooner," the vampire chuckled as he held out his hand to shake John's. His deductions rarely brought him compliments. He'd have to make sure he made this one comfortable enough to stick around. "It's a small place in central London. I sometimes play the violin when I'm thinking. Or sometimes I'll go for days without speaking. Would that bother you?"

Stranger: Sherlock Holmes. It seemed-- fitting, really. Extending his free hand to shake, John allowed himself a moment to register just how cold Sherlock's touch was; most surprising of all was the fact that he wasn't all that bothered by it. Releasing his grip, more or less oblivious to the perplexed onlookers in the room, John's brow creased a little at the words. "Uh, not really. Could think of worse habits."

You: "Wonderful. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Sherlock answered. John really seemed to be considering this. Though it seemed as though he might have some trust issues, and he'd have to gain that if he ever expected him to become a live-in donor. Or at least consider it. Coercion was always so dull. "Perhaps we should meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock? The address is 221B Baker St."

Stranger: Potential flatmates. God, he was actually considering it. Then again, he was currently wasting his life away in a shitty bedsit, having to come up with a list of reasons why /not/ to put his own gun in his mouth. The list was depleting in length each day. But this? This seemed-- new. Interesting. Maybe even a fresh start. "Seven o'clock, 221B Baker Street," he repeated, before he offered a small nod. "Alright. Guess it's worth a look."