A/N So this is set in the Supernatural universe but there are no mention of those characters, I reference the Men of Letters a bit and the lore I use is the same lore that the show uses so those of you who haven't seen Supernatural won't be too lost. TRIGGER WARNING!!!!! Mentions of suicide attempts and impulses. Let me know what you think of this story and if you want more of these characters. If you guys want more of them I will start a book of stories about their adventures. Enjoy<3

Sherlock was terrified. He didn't remember anything and his head was killing him. He stumbled through the dark street, pulling on his dark curls and trying to find the answers in his mind palace. He could only see white. His own mind was closed to him and he couldn't unlock it. His ears were ringing and it felt as though his veins were flowing with white-hot flame. He felt a sharp stinging emanating from his right wrist and shooting up to his shoulder. He felt a pang of fear as this registered, remembering that one time in high school when he had slit his wrists. He tore at his sleeve, trying to see the damage. All that was there was a series of small holes. They looked almost like a bite mark, same pattern but shaped more like cuts from a sharp, pointed blade. The fire in his veins got irrationally hotter and he stumbled against a nearby wall, biting back a cry. He was sweating and panting, unable to control his heart rate.

He fought through the fog of pain and thought through the events of the night. He had been working a case, a series of murders, something intriguing about them. What was it? He couldn't remember. He was chasing someone, they were fast. A dark alley, he was jumped. That was all he could recall.

"Oi mate, you alright," Sherlock felt his whole body tense as he turned to the voice. A young woman stood at the entrance to the alley, using the light on her phone to see Sherlock. "I am a doctor, do you need any help?" As the woman spoke, she stepped closer to Sherlock and a slight breeze picked up. Sherlock caught scent of something that sent his head reeling. He spun to face the girl, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he did. The smell was coming from her. He hissed as the harsh light from the phone, throwing his hands over his face. Why was she using a flashlight? It wasn't that dark. The smell hit him harder and he felt a sharp pain in his gums. He cried out as the pain increased, it felt like razors were being dragged through the tender flesh. He reached up to feel his mouth, checking for blood but found something far worse. There were new teeth sprouting in front of his old ones.

What is happening to me? He thought as he shook his head, looking at the woman once more. He was suddenly irrationally hungry. He needed something; he needed whatever it was that smelled so damned good. The hunger cleared his mind instantaneously and he stalked towards the girl. His vision cleared and became sharper than ever. He felt new strength rushing through his muscles and he reached for the young woman, grabbing her by the elbow and throwing her harshly against the brick wall. She shrieked at his action and the sound ricocheted around his skull, causing him to wince. He silenced her with a harsh slap across the face. She whimpered and tried to fight his grip. He pressed himself against her and inhaled her scent deeply, his eyes drawn to the vein pulsing on her neck.

"What is your name?" He asked, trying to buy time to figure out what he wanted from her.

"M-Molly, M-Molly H-Hooper," She whined, her mousy voice grating against his nerves. "Please, let me go. I won't tell anyone I promise, I don't have any friends and no family-" He slapped her again, her voice was so harsh.

"Well Molly Hooper, it looks like you are my perfect victim." He whispered in her ear, the pain in his veins but a faint throbbing as he kissed the pulse point on her pale neck. His words sounded muffled and distorted through the new teeth. He heard shuffling and started to turn to see who was interrupting them when he felt someone grab his hair and force him off the girl. He tried to fight but felt the familiar sting of a needle sink into the vein in his neck. Almost immediately he felt as though his limbs weighed a thousand pounds, falling back into the arms of whoever had drugged him.

"Get out of here, and don't bother telling the police, I'm a DI." A new voice grunted before Sherlock heard his would-be victim scurry away. He growled and tried to fight but found himself pinned by the new man. His vision faded away and he heard the new man grumbling as he lost consciousness.

He awoke slowly, trying to swim through the fog that hung over his mind. He was lying on something softer than the ground, a couch? His hands were pinned above his head and the fire had returned, though not nearly as strong as before. He forced his eyes opened and immediately slammed them shut, hissing at the pain that bloomed behind his eyes. He squirmed and found that his legs were also bound.

"Sorry about that, you can open your eyes now. I turned off the light." The same voice he had heard in the alley cut through his mind. This voice wasn't as harsh as the girl's, in fact, this man's was soothing. He opened his eyes and glanced around the room.

Basement, unfinished, probably in an abandoned house, no personal belongings so whoever this is probably squats here. Duffel bag in the corner contains at least three different guns. Salt lining the windows and doors; that is a little strange, symptom of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder perhaps? He finally found the man, sitting in a dark corner of the room. Former soldier; invalided home judging by the way he favors his shoulder. He is carrying a rather large gun in his belt, not holding it but also prepared to shoot at any moment. He has killed before and won't hesitate to do it again if the need arises. He knows what happened to me.

"How's your head?" Sherlock caught the man's eyes and was immediately entranced. He lost himself in the eyes of his captor. "Hey, you alright over there," He shook himself to try and free his mind from whatever spell he had fallen under.

"It is fine. Where am I?"

"A basement,"

"I gathered that."

"Oh, you're a smart one aren't you? What do you remember?"

"The girl, a needle, pain-"

"What about before all that?"

"Nothing, I can't access those memories."

"Damn, no worries. How is your pain level? 1-10?" Why did this man care about his pain level?

"Seven and a half," He saw the man squirm in his seat, looking displeased with his answer.

Medically trained then, army doctor perhaps? He thought, relieved that his mind seemed to be functioning again.

"Why does my pain level matter?"

"Just trying to determine if you need medical attention," Sherlock felt a shiver trace down his spine at the man's voice. "What is your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes, what is yours?"

"John Watson."

"I would say I am pleased to meet you, but under the circumstances I don't think that would be appropriate." John chuckled, sending a thrill throughout Sherlock's bound form. He could get used to hearing that laugh.

"I need to check your wrist, promise not to bite?" Sherlock froze in confusion before he remembered what he had planned to do to that girl. Sherlock nodded and watched as John stood, hesitantly stepping towards him. He reached for a small table and grabbed a small first aid kit and a syringe.

"Going to drug me again if I misbehave? I knew a dominatrix that used that technique on her playthings; never thought I would ever be subjected to it myself." John stopped dead and Sherlock saw a blush creep along his cheeks. He smirked and let his eyes wander his captor's body, focusing on his groin for longer than necessary before meeting his eyes. John blinked rapidly and shook his head slightly.

"It's not drugs, its dead man's blood." Sherlock felt faint disgust at those words.

"You injected the blood of a dead man into me?"

"Yes, it effectively turns your blood to sludge, slowing your mind and bodily functions enough to put you to sleep. It isn't healthy for someone in your state so I would rather not have to do it again?"

"How do you mean, someone in my state?"

"Your body is still pumping pure blood; there is a chance that the human blood within you won't thin out when the dead man's blood wears off. That would kill you if we can heal you in time, and then I would have to kill you now and I would really rather not do that." Sherlock's head was spinning as John spoke. He stayed silent as the man walked towards him, kneeling beside him and opening the kit. Sherlock could smell the man and the hunger started to return, but he fought it down. He winced in pain as he felt the razors slicing his gums again. John glanced at him and hesitated before continuing to rifle through his bag. He pulled the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt open and glanced at the wound, studying it closely.

"Well, your body hasn't healed yet, that is a good sign. No blood though, cause for concern. I am going to try and cut your hand, just to see if the blood is flowing properly. Are you feeling alright?" Sherlock nodded, watching the confident man tending to his wounds.

"What the hell happened to me?" His voice was soft, and he couldn't keep the tremor of fear out of it. John looked into his eyes and his expression softened.

"I can tell you if you want, or you can simply trust me and I will fix you. Then you can go back to your old life, no questions asked. I can even make you forget all of this."

"Tell me, I need to know if I did this to myself."

"Why would you think you did this to yourself?"

"I have a history." John nodded in understanding and sat back on his heels. He undid the buttons of his own sleeve and rolled it up to his elbow, baring his forearm to the detective. There were two parallel scars travelling from his wrist almost to his elbow. Sherlock looked into the eyes of his captor and felt a surge of emotion. He had tried to; far more recently than Sherlock, at least within the last year.

"You didn't do this to yourself. You were attacked, bitten. Ever heard of vampires?" Sherlock laughed, allowing no humour into the sound.

"Vampires aren't real, John."

"You have a bite mark on your wrist, you are sensitive to light, you are fighting the urge to bite me right now and every sound is grating on your nerves. Your body feels like you are pumping fire through your veins and you have a whole new set of teeth tucked up inside your gums." Sherlock froze, fear gripping his chest as he thought about what the doctor had said.

Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth. So what else could cause these symptoms? Drug induced hallucination? No, the pain I am experiencing is different than the normal overdose pain. Could it be a neurotoxin that is affecting pain and image receptors? No, there are no tremors or seizures. He growled as a sharp pain bloomed in his hand and he glared at John, but his doctor didn't see him. There is no way- vampires couldn't be- nothing else fits-

"Well, good news, you are still bleeding correctly, so we still have some time. Have you come to terms with what happened yet?" Sherlock nodded hesitantly, his head reeling. "Perfect, now, who bit you?"

"I have no idea; I was chasing someone and was attacked. That is the last thing I remember."

"Who were you chasing?"

"A murder suspect, six victims, all with their throats ripped out and blood-" A jolt of realization sparked through him. He had been chasing a vampire. John nodded and stood, making his way to the duffel bag and pulling out a leather-bound notebook. He pulled out a picture and showed it to Sherlock. It was a picture of the man he had been chasing. "That is the man I was chasing. I don't understand; who are you?"

"I used to be part of a secret organization called the Men of Letters, but I left them years ago. I now work alone, under their radar. I hunt monsters and kill them. This man is the leader of a small group of vamps here in the city. Recently one of their newer recruits went rouge and started killing innocents. Now, I have a pack of blood suckers to kill. I will be back in a few hours." He turned back to his bag and scooped it up, slinging it over his shoulder and checking his gun that was still in his belt.

"Wait, you are going alone?"

"Yep,"

"You could get killed." John turned to face him and winked; a dangerous smirk on his lips that sent a thrill of pleasure down Sherlock's spine.

"Yeah, exciting isn't it?" and with that he was gone, leaving Sherlock tied to the sofa.

Sherlock was woken by the sounds of someone crashing down the stairs. He wasn't sure when he had fallen asleep, or how long John had been gone. He craned his neck and caught sight of John coming down the stairs. He was covered in blood, breathing heavily with a huge grin splitting his face. The scent of him was causing the burning hunger to rip through his body. His new teeth sprang forward and he fought against his restraints, whimpering from pain and need. John looked towards him with concern before bending down and pulling a nearly unconscious man from the floor. It was the man he had been chasing.

"I figured you would want to do the honors of killing the bastard once you are feeling better so I just brought him here. How are you feeling?"

"I-I- I need- I can't-" Sherlock couldn't think straight, he needed to taste John's blood, to drink in his warmth.

"I know it hurts Sherlock, and it is going to get a whole lot worse, but trust me when I say it won't hurt for much longer. Just give me a minute to get everything ready." He jumped into action, pinning his new prisoner to a beam and cuffing him there before grabbing a large syringe from his bag. Sherlock watched as John expertly located a vein and inserted the syringe. He pulled a large amount of blood from the unconscious man before pulling the needle from the vein and turning back to Sherlock, leaving the wound bleeding and unattended.

"This is going to hurt for a while, don't fight passing out. This will counteract the poison in your system and purify your blood. It is going to feel like your blood has turned to acid and is burning through your body." Sherlock nodded, desperate for something to stop whatever was doing this to him. John placed a firm hand on Sherlock's chest and caught his eyes. "Try to pull through, Sherlock Holmes; I think I would rather like to talk to you again." Before Sherlock could respond John slammed the needle through his chest and into his heart, pressing the blood into him quickly and efficiently.

Sherlock felt fire and he screamed, his vision going white.

Sherlock had lost all sense of time, for a long while, the only sensation he knew was pain. It must have been days before he woke again, his joints screaming and his mouth dry. His body was crying out for sustenance, but not in the burning, painful way it was before. He forced his eyes open and blinked in the soft light. He looked around and saw John, sleeping on the floor next to him.

"John," His voice was rough and sore from dehydration, causing him to wince and cough. John woke with a start, rubbing his eyes and looking lost for a brief second before scrambling to his knees and checking Sherlock's vitals.

"How are you feeling? What is your pain level?" His deft fingers skimmed over his pulse points and the bite on his wrist.

"Thirsty; and about a six," John looked dismayed. "Could you maybe get me some water? And untie me? This position, though it can bring immense pleasure during the right circumstances, is rather uncomfortable for long periods of time." Realization filled John's eyes and he hurried to untie the detective, muttering apologies and his cheeks flushed red. "How long have I been out?" He asked, moving his legs as soon as they were freed.

"Almost three days, got pretty hairy there for a while. Definitely the hardest transition I have seen in a long time." John had seated himself on the sofa next to Sherlock and was leaning over him to unlock his hands when he stopped, hovering mere inches above the pained detective. Sherlock felt time slow down as he looked into the older man's eyes. He still smelled amazing, but not in the same way he had before. Now he smelled like clean sweat, cologne and something uniquely John.

"John," Sherlock whispered, wishing he had the strength to reach up and kiss him. He felt John shudder a bit as he heard his name, shaking his head and focusing back on the cuffs. Once his hands were free John stood and grabbed a bottle of water from the table and handed it to Sherlock.

"Don't drink too quickly; you haven't had any real fluids in more than 24 hours." Sherlock nodded and followed his instructions. It took a while, nearly four hours by his estimation, before he felt well enough to stand. During this time, he asked John about the monsters he hunts. At first the man was hesitant, but soon the facts were flowing easily from him. With every word Sherlock felt more entranced with him.

When he had more strength, John escorted him upstairs to the bathroom so he could get showered and changed. He didn't even ask where John got his spare clothes. When he finished he headed back downstairs to find John packing his stuff.

"I had to kill him by the way. I know I said I would let you do it but he almost got free and I needed sleep."

"You're leaving." John stopped packing and turned to face him, regret filling his eyes.

"Yes,"

"Why?"

"Because I finished my task and there are rumours of a werewolf in Baskerville." Sherlock felt a crushing sense of disappointment. He wanted to stay with John, to get to know him, to have him. "Sherlock, I can't stay. As much as I want to, and believe me, I want to. There are people who need me and I am not done saving people just yet." He stepped closer to the detective and placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping tightly. Sherlock nodded and started to reconstruct the wall he always kept to hide what was going through his mind. "You could- you could come with me, if-if you wanted. You don't have to, I just couldn't help but feel like maybe there is something here, between us-" Sherlock cut him off with a kiss, soft and hesitant, lasting only a second. John chuckled, running a hand through his hair and grinning. "So I guess that is a yes?" Sherlock chuckled and nodded, feeling happier than he could ever remember. John moved the hand that was still on his shoulder to the back of his neck and placed his other one on Sherlock's bony hip, pulling him close and kissing him again. It was still soft, but this time it lasted long enough to make Sherlock's knees go weak.

When John pulled away he was flushed and grinning.

"Come on my vampire, let's get a move on. We have a hound to kill." He felt a thrill of excitement as John winked and drug him out of the house, leaving behind the shattered pieces of his old life and starting to form a new one with his mysterious captor, his John Watson.