Title: Triune
Rating: NC17 (PG this part.)
Warnings: TGG spoilers, vampirism, bloodplay
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Notes: Unbeta'd. This is an AU fusion with "Fledgling" by Octavia Butler, with some details modified.
Also available on AO3. (Yeah, yeah, what can I say? Hurt comes a lot easier to me than comfort.)
John tilted his head then, and Sherlock leaned in and accepted the unmistakeable invitation by sinking his teeth into John's neck.
The rush of endorphins hitting John's bloodstream was so intense that he nearly passed out. It wasn't pleasure, exactly, and definitely not arousal- this was probably in the top five of the least sexy situations in his life- more like simple relief. His stress had eased the minute he saw Sherlock. But when the Ina bit him, something in him that he hadn't exactly realized was tight and hard unclenched, and every thought in his head was blown out by the sensation of Yes, this, exactly this.
The pain was easing too: the powerful, whole body ache and the shivering that made him feel like he was about to break apart at the joints. He was barely aware of his body at all in fact, except for the points where he could feel Sherlock's skin against his. Sherlock's face was pressed against his neck, and John could feel his throat moving as he swallowed; John couldn't see his face any more, but that was okay because Sherlock's hands were still pressed tightly against John's ribs. John managed to loosen his hands from Sherlock's clothes; they were already cramping from the tightness of their grip. He slid one hand over the back of Sherlock's neck and gently rubbed the skin there.
He wanted to touch Sherlock everywhere. Sherlock was still fully dressed, his clothes scratching against John's bare chest, and John wanted to strip them both down and stretch out against Sherlock and melt into him. Sherlock was taking his blood and that felt unbelievably right. John was going to be inside Sherlock, as close to him as it was possible to be, working through his veins and his heart and his brain. He squeezed the back of Sherlock's neck in silent encouragement. He could take all John's blood and leave him a drained husk, if he needed; John wanted him to.
He felt Sherlock withdraw from his throat. No, what was he doing? Sherlock removed one of his hands from John's side and pried John's fingers from his neck. "No, John, that's enough," Sherlock said, sitting up.
John experienced a moment of total panic as he felt Sherlock pulling away. "Don't," he said fervently, fisting his hands in Sherlock's clothing again. He squeezed his eyes shut as he suffered a sudden rebound of pain. Localized this time: his head pounded brutally, and there was a sharp, stabbing pain in his chest every time he breathed. His back felt like it was on fire. Sherlock bent to lick at the bite on his neck, which brought a few seconds' relief, but the pain quickly crashed back in. John's thoughts were sluggish and vague, and he felt like he was wandering through a mental fog. He opened his mouth, but wasn't sure what he wanted to say, how to express how much he hurt, how much he had hurt, how lonely he had been, the way he wanted to crawl inside Sherlock's skin so that nothing could ever separate them again. He rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock touched the side of his head, prodding in a way that made bright spots flare behind John's closed eyelids. He hissed, but made no attempt to stop Sherlock's examination. "You hit your head," Sherlock said. A startlingly obvious deduction.
John giggled, and it felt like a knife in his side. "Fuck," he said.
"Trouble breathing?" Sherlock asked. "You probably have some broken ribs, too." John shouldn't need Sherlock to tell him that, but everything is still so slow.
Sherlock cocked his head as if listening, and then said, "Fuck off, Mycroft," in a conversational way.
"What?" John asked blearily. Sherlock still had one hand on his side, rubbing slowly in little circles, and John was almost entirely focused on the sensation. It was an anchor, helping him emerge from the fog despite the clouding effect of pain and exhaustion.
"He wants to send you to the hospital," Sherlock said. "We're going home."
"For God's sake, Sherlock," Lestrade said, making John start. He had almost forgotten Lestrade was there, wrapped up as he was in Sherlock's presence. "It's bad enough you play silly buggers with your own health, but John's just been in an accident, he has a head injury- don't be a stubborn arsehole."
John badly wanted to be home, at Baker Street, in his own bed with a mug of tea. He was so close, and still so impossibly far away he could almost cry. But Lestrade was right, he needed the hospital. He needed his head checked, his ribs...oh God, his back. John swallowed. "The hospital," he said. "Then home."
"All right," Sherlock said with an alacrity that surprised John. He grasped John by the hips, and already had him in motion before John realized that Sherlock meant to carry him.
"Fuck- Sherlock, stop," he said. Sherlock released him at once. John pushed himself to his feet, drawing on his last reserves of strength in a way he knew he'd regret later. He used Sherlock to brace himself, but it still sent pain tearing through his chest and back. Lestrade immediately moved towards him as well, and John flinched at the hand on his shoulder. "Stop!" he said, viciously suppressing the urge to hit Lestrade. John closed his eyes for a moment and got his breathing under control. "Just- let me lean on you," he said.
He realized that he was not going to be able to put up his arms and still keep Lestrade's jacket over his shoulders. His choices were to put it on properly, or to take it off, and he hesitated as he tried to decide. He wasn't really cold, but he felt hot and sick at the idea of removing the jacket and revealing the mess that he knew was carved into his skin. Still, they would need to see the wounds at the hospital- he was just delaying the inevitable. John gritted his teeth and shrugged his shoulders out of the jacket.
Lestrade tried to be subtle, but John could see him craning his neck to get a look at John's back. John leaned sideways to offer him the jacket back, and Lestrade exhaled noisily as he saw what was there. John glanced back to Sherlock, whose jaw was set and lips pursed to a narrow line. "Christ," Lestrade said in a low voice. "John, do you-"
"Just get me out of this fucking van," John said, more harshly than he meant to. John wrapped his arms around his friends and leaned on them as they made their way to the door of the van and then outside, but neither of them tried to grasp his shoulders or back again.
When they exited the van, John saw Mycroft standing a distance away, by the waiting ambulance. "John wants to go to hospital," Sherlock said in his direction. Mycroft nodded, despite Sherlock having spoken in a normal conversational tone. Mycroft raised his left hand and beckoned; John's eyes shot to his right hand, which Mycroft held cradled awkwardly against his chest. It was wound with what looked like a necktie. John had a sudden, vivid sense memory of seizing someone's arm, pulling and twisting it beyond the breaking point- he flushed in embarrassment. "Your wrist," he said to Mycroft when they were only a couple meters away. "I'm-"
"Think nothing of it," Mycroft said airily. "Under the circumstances, your actions have been more than reasonable." John was in no mood to debate, but he was sure there had been nothing reasonable about the spike of terror that had made him hurt Mycroft. Even now that he was more aware, Mycroft's nearness was making him uneasy. He could feel the tension in Sherlock's shoulder beneath his hand, and glanced at his face, surprised to see the hostility there. Sherlock was lifting his lip slightly to bare his canines at his brother, something John had never seen him do before tonight, for all their antagonism and sniping. Mycroft was ignoring Sherlock's attitude as well as John's, but John couldn't help feeling rather silly. Obviously Mycroft wasn't dangerous to either of them, so why did they object so strongly to his being here?
"I have instructed the ambulance driver as to destination. The hospital will be both secure and discrete, and I will join you there. Detective Inspector, if you would care to accompany me? I believe the ambulance will only hold so many."
"Okay?" Lestrade asked in a low voice, and John nodded. Lestrade slid cautiously out of his grasp, and when John didn't immediately collapse he followed Mycroft as he retreated to his car.
Sherlock easily took John's weight during the last few meters' journey to the back of the ambulance. John winced as every step closer jolted his ribs unpleasantly. Two paramedics were waiting inside, and they both eyed him warily for a moment. John was momentarily thrown, until he saw the bandage one of them was wearing. "Shit," John said. "I did that, didn't I?"
They both seemed to relax. "You bit me," the one with the bandage said. John wasn't sure if he was reading the tone of accusation into the man's voice, but either way hearing it made John flush bright red. He remembered now, sinking his teeth into the person reaching for him; striking out in a panic like a trapped animal.
"Of course he bit you," Sherlock snapped. "He had just been concussed in the course of a serious accident. Naturally he was going to feel disoriented and threatened. Perhaps this experience will teach you to speak to your patients before you-"
"Sherlock, shut up," John said. "I'm sorry," he said to the paramedic. The man probably would have been more mollified by the apology if he hadn't just been sneered at by Sherlock, but John was too tired for advanced reconciliation techniques.
His head wasn't bleeding any more, and the wounds on his back were obviously not fresh, so the one paramedic went up front to drive while the other mostly focused on checking John's pupils and quizzing him about his injuries. Not feeling up to lying on either his front or his back, John sat on the trolley with one arm around Sherlock's mid-section. He fancied they were rather clinging to each other, but at that point John didn't give a good God damn what they looked like or what anyone thought. Sherlock wisely didn't try to put an arm across John's back: instead he just planted his hand on John's thigh and refused to move it. The stroking of his thumb might, under other circumstances, have seemed erotic; right now John just found it a soothing reminder of Sherlock's nearness.
John's next few hours were blurred by exhaustion and pain. X-ray, CT scan, spirometer, more annoying questions- this time by a neurologist- and something lovely in tablet form that a nurse brought to John before they went to work cleaning and bandaging his head and back. John had no idea what the drug was, he was far too strung out for thinking. But that was all right, because Sherlock was there through all of it, watching every doctor with suspicion and moving away from John's side only grudgingly and when it was absolutely required. He snatched up the tablets and examined them minutely before he put them in John's hand. John swallowed them down at once.
It didn't occur to John till much later how odd it was that no one even tried to separate Sherlock from him. It was never clear whether the staff were simply assuming that Sherlock had a right to be there, or whether Mycroft had pulled strings, and if the latter whether it was done by paperwork or manipulation or simply informing the staff what kind of mayhem they would have on their hands if they tried to send Sherlock away. John wasn't quite sure that he wouldn't pitch a fit like a three-year-old if they did; in the ambulance, in the exam room, on the table before they put him in the CT scanner, John felt like Sherlock's hand was the only thing tethering him to reality.
Sherlock was the one who pitched a fit instead: he was almost a full minute into his tirade at some poor unsuspecting neurologist before John caught up to the conversation enough to realize that Sherlock was strenuously objecting to John being admitted for further observation to make sure he hadn't scrambled his brain. "I'll stay," John announced, when he realized. "I'm bloody exhausted." John was startled to find that once again, it took only a handful of words from him to completely settle the matter in Sherlock's mind. If he hadn't been so wrung out, he might have enjoyed his newfound powers more. As it was, he could barely muster the energy to change out of his filthy jeans into a pair of hospital-provided scrub pants and gingerly manuever onto the bed, wincing every time he twisted his torso. Sherlock, who had been forced to take his hand off John's wrist to allow him to change, hovered fretfully behind the bed as John tried to make himself comfortable.
"Bloody ribs," he muttered to himself. The least painful way to lie seemed to be on his uninjured side. Finally he settled down, and Sherlock dragged the visitor's chair to the bedside and set up shop there, leaning his forearms on the side of the bed and taking John's hand in his own. "You're not usually this clingy," John said, then realized that this was one of those blindingly stupid statements you could only make when tired beyond all reckoning. He flushed a bit and closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Sherlock's look of exasperation.
"Idiot," Sherlock said, so tenderly that it was almost an endearment. John felt Sherlock give his fingers a gentle squeeze.
Even lying here in hospital, with Sherlock so beautifully present, and weariness dragging at every cell in his body, John found he couldn't get to sleep. He'd been pushed past exhaustion, into the zone where he was too tired to sleep, and his thoughts were simply cycling from one stupid idea to the next. He kept thinking of Moriarty, and every time he did the cuts on his back would ache and his neck itched as if someone was sneaking up behind him. He kept having to resist the urge to look over his shoulder. After long, uncountable minutes of this, Sherlock shoved his chair back and stood up. John opened his eyes, tamping down panic as Sherlock let go of his hand.
"Shh," Sherlock said. "Don't move." He circled round the other side of the bed. John quickly realized what he meant to do and shuffled forward so that there was enough room for Sherlock to climb onto the bed behind him. Sherlock slotted his legs in behind John's and eased up behind until the dressings on his back were just touching Sherlock's chest. For once Sherlock's freakish height worked in John's favor, as Sherlock was able to shield the entire length of John's body with his own, and still bury his nose in John's hair, well clear of the spot they'd had to shave to dress his head wound. Sherlock levered his shoes off and kicked them firmly off the foot of the bed, then returned his legs to their proper position. He looped his left arm over John's side and groped until he found his hand, then grabbed hold.
"Problem?" Sherlock said, almost solicitously.
"Nope," John murmured. He dragged Sherlock's hand up to where he could reach to kiss the knuckles, then slid it back down and clasped it to his chest. Sherlock rubbed his face in John's hair like a giant, gangly cat; John was surprised he didn't start purring. He giggled weakly at the image, which sent a spasm of pain through his chest.
"Just sleep," Sherlock told him, rubbing gentle circles on his chest. And this time, John didn't have any trouble dropping off.
***
Mycroft’s car arrived at the hospital only moments behind the ambulance. Lestrade still found himself waiting for a lengthy period before he got a chance to see John or Sherlock. The hospital didn’t have an accident and emergency department, but that didn’t seem to matter. Lestrade had no idea what Mycroft did for a living or how he achieved his pull, but his power at this facility was evident. Upon arrival they were ushered into a waiting room, and Mycroft established himself in a chair along with a thick manilla folder he'd carried in from the car, and didn’t budge for hours. Nurses and doctors danced attendance on him, approaching with forms to be signed, updates on John’s progress through various departments, and on one occasion, a brace and proper sling for his wrist.
Lestrade had raised an eyebrow at that, but Mycroft read his expression at a glance. “A cast would be pointless,” Mycroft said with faint amusement. “The break will heal within a few hours.”
Shortly after that, a tall ginger man- Lestrade's junior by at least a decade- breezed into the room with the jacket of his navy suit slung over his arm. There was something of Sherlock's manner about him that struck a chord with Lestrade. It wasn't aloofness, and there was nothing arrogant about the brief smile the man cast him before going directly to Mycroft. It was more like an air of self-assurance. Mycroft walked the same way, as if he was fully prepared and fully in control of whatever he was walking into, and knew it. Lestrade wondered if this was another Holmes- it wasn't out of the realm of possibility, he had known Sherlock for two years before finding out about Mycroft.
The man draped his jacket over the back of the chair next to Mycroft's without looking; his eyes were fastened on the wrist brace, which he probed gently with the fingers of his free hand. "Broken," he said in a voice that was half-questioning, half-certain.
"Of course," Mycroft said. His smile cleared some of the grimness from his face.
"You didn't mention that and neither did Martin, so it happened at the scene of the accident. Who'd you let get the drop on you? John?" The man made a huffy noise, and Lestrade resisted the urge to jump in and defend John's honor.
"He is an ex-soldier," Mycroft said mildly. He was still smiling slightly.
The man turned and sat down on the chair with his jacket, crossing his legs and dragging a Blackberry out of his trouser pocket. "With all due respect, boss: you're an idiot sometimes."
Mycroft made a noncommittal humming noise and went back to reviewing the contents of his folder page by page. Lestrade rather envied him the distraction; he had been passing the time with flipping through trashy magazines, watching the telly bolted to the wall, and staring at the clock. It was almost enough to make him wish for his own office and the piles of paperwork that he cursed on a daily basis.
The ginger finally made eye contact with Lestrade, and smiled again. "We haven't technically met," he said. "I'm Simon."
"Technically," Lestrade said levelly.
Simon's smile broadened. "I prepared your dossier for Mycroft, sunbeam. But I'm the first to admit watching somebody on cctv is not the same as meeting them."
"Ah," was all Lestrade could say to that. He probably ought to be angry at the confirmation that Mycroft had been spying on him, but honestly he was too tired to be anything but resigned. Besides which, there was nothing in Simon's face or voice to indicate that he was mocking Lestrade or trying to show he was one up on him. Simon was simply stating a fact.
So this was one of Mycroft's lackeys. Lestrade remembered that Mycroft had addressed the person who called to tell him about the accident as Simon, so he was a highly-placed lackey, very trusted to be cut into this particular operation. Lestrade still didn't connect all the dots until he saw Simon, texting furiously with his left hand, reach over to Mycroft with his right. Simon's hand formed a loose circle around Mycroft's left wrist, and Lestrade immediately recognized the gesture: it was one he'd seen John employ many times when Sherlock was unusually agitated. If Mycroft had been agitated prior to Simon's arrival, Lestrade certainly hadn't been able to tell from his placid face and unruffled manner, but when Simon touched him his shoulders immediately relaxed and some of the lines in his forehead smoothed out. Simon's eyes flicked back to Lestrade for a second, and the DI tried to pretend he hadn't been staring.
At last, one of the doctors came over to report to Mycroft, “Doctor Watson has been settled in room 317.”
Mycroft immediately set his folder aside and looked up expectantly. The doctor glanced at Lestrade uneasily, but Mycroft waved an impatient hand. "Yes, yes, go on."
"His condition is generally good. He was slightly dehydrated, but that's sorted. Fractures to the 7th and 8th ribs, left side, but no flail chest and no bruising to the lungs. The head wound is superficial; the damage to the back is rather more severe and there is some infection, so we're going to prescribe a stringent course of antibiotics."
"And the concussion?" Mycroft demanded.
"Moderate to severe, but there's no sign of traumatic brain injury," the doctor said. "He'll probably be cleared to check out tomorrow, but we want to keep him under observation tonight." The doctor licked his lips. "About your brother, Mr. Holmes. I know you said-"
"I also know what I said," Mycroft said sharply. "It still applies. If you attempt to remove him from Dr. Watson's room at any point, he will make you sorry, and then I will make you even sorrier. Do you understand?" Mycroft's glare bore holes into the doctor, who fidgeted uncomfortably with the edge of his jacket.
"Yes, sir," he replied rather meekly. Mycroft flicked his fingers and the doctor scurried away. Lestrade couldn't help feeling unnerved by the display of authority and the doctor's pathetic response. It wasn't entirely clear what was going on here, but Lestrade didn't think he liked it.
The hard expression dropped from Mycroft's face as he looked over at Lestrade. "Well then," he said. "Shall we?"
***
John was apparently asleep, lying on his side with his eyes shut and a sheet pulled up to his waist, when Lestrade entered room 317. Given what John had been through tonight, it only surprised Lestrade that he had managed to stay awake long enough to jump through the doctors' diagnostic hoops. What was bizarre was Sherlock, who rather than sitting at the bedside as one would expect, was lying on the hospital bed behind John. Sherlock had propped himself up on one elbow so he could peer down at John’s face, and had his other hand spread possessively over John’s belly.
His eyes skipped over Lestrade entirely and went directly to Mycroft, who entered after Lestrade and stood by the wall next to the door. Sherlock’s lips lifted to display his fangs and he outright hissed at his brother.
“Sherlock, Jesus!” Lestrade said, trying to pack his irritation and disgust into a mutter so as not to rouse John.
“Your possessiveness is unbecoming,” Mycroft said reprovingly, putting his free hand into his pocket. “You know I haven’t the slightest interest in John, except as his well-being affects your own.”
“I don’t care,” Sherlock said, glaring. “You’re disturbing him, and I don’t want you here.” John did indeed seem to be stirring slightly, frowning.
“It’s your own behavior that’s disturbing him, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.
“Your presence is still the root cause,” Sherlock snapped. “Go away.”
“Very well,” Mycroft said. He shrugged and walked back to the door. On his way he paused to touch Lestrade's arm and opened his mouth to say something, but his voice was cut off by Sherlock's rumbling snarl. John twitched a bit, but didn't wake: they must have him on the really good painkillers. Mycroft glanced from Lestrade to Sherlock and smiled: this time it wasn't the broad, glad smile he'd given Simon, but a sly, sardonic one. He said something completely unintelligible, and Sherlock replied in the same manner. Except that Mycroft's voice was still lofty and insincere, even in a foreign language, and Sherlock's was all furious vowels and staccato consonants. He had pushed himself up even further so he was practically draped over John's torso, pushing his head forward to glare at Mycroft. Lestrade wondered if he even realized he was doing it.
Mycroft squeezed Lestrade's elbow lightly and said something else, and Lestrade's irritation suddenly overcame his exhaustion. "I'm right here," he snapped, jerking his elbow free and stepping away from Mycroft. Sherlock settled back on the bed and Mycroft shrugged and returned his hand back to his pocket.
"Irrational," Mycroft said with a queer little smile at Sherlock.
From the furious look on Sherlock's face, Lestrade would be willing to be that irrationality was a cardinal sin in the Holmes family. "Piss off!" Sherlock replied.
Mycroft paused once more before stepping through the doorway into the hall. “I’ll just arrange a ride home for tomorrow, shall I?”
“Do what you like, as long as you do it outside this room.” Sherlock's voice had returned to its normal level of pique, and Lestrade felt the tension in the room suddenly fall. What the hell had that been about, then? Lestrade let Mycroft stroll his way out of the room before he walked over to the bed and appropriated the visitor's chair that Sherlock was pointedly not using.
“How is he?” Lestrade asked.
"Tired," Sherlock said simply. "It's hard to gauge, given his exhaustion and the after effects of the concussion. But-" Sherlock trailed off suddenly and looked down at John.
There was something uncharacteristically vulnerable in Sherlock's expression. For a moment he seemed almost normal. "The doctor said he could probably check out tomorrow," Lestrade said abruptly. "He'll be okay."
"I know that!" Sherlock snapped. His face shifted back into a petulant expression; so much for normal.
All right. "You want to tell me what that argument just now was about?" Sherlock gave Lestrade a sharp look, but if he wanted to act like a git than Lestrade wasn't going to pull his punches.
"Not especially," Sherlock said. Lestrade glared at him, and after a moment Sherlock amended, "It's nothing to concern yourself with."
"Really," Lestrade said. "Because I could have sworn it was about me. And I have a vested interest, especially since I'm still half-afraid your brother is going to decide it's simpler to make me disappear than trust me to keep my mouth shut."
Sherlock was giving him a very strange look. "That's-" Lestrade hoped he was about to say ridiculous. "Uncommonly perceptive of you, Lestrade." So much for that wish.
"The way everyone here defers to him," Lestrade said, ignoring the implied insult, as usual. "It's- wrong. Unnatural. Like they're afraid of him, but-"
Sherlock was nodding. "He has half the staff in thrall, and the other half are simply cowed by his political clout," Sherlock said. "That's his idea of 'secure and discrete.'" There's a sneer underlying the words.
Lestrade's previously unnamed concern twists into a sick, angry fear. "In thrall- you mean he's bitten them."
"Of course," Sherlock said. "He's unlikely to take the chance that simple manipulation will fail, when it comes to matters of Ina security. The foremost concern is always that no one will know about us unless they need to."
"And what about me?" Lestrade can't help saying. It makes him feel a bit of a coward. His first thought is for the poor sods Mycroft has doing his bidding against their will, but it makes him ashamed that his immediate second thought is for his own safety. He doesn't like to imagine being bent to someone else's will, especially not Sherlock's creeper brother. And of course, Lestrade has seen more than enough tonight to be counted as a security risk. "Am I need-to-know?"
"Of course," Sherlock said nonchalantly, as if he missed the motivation of Lestrade's question entirely. "Even Mycroft recognizes that you're off-limits." There's something very self-satisfied in the way he says off-limits. Lestrade decides not to dwell on it. He rubs a hand over his face, and when he looks up Sherlock is still staring intently at him. Maybe he didn't miss anything after all. "If Mycroft bites you," he said deliberately, "I'll- well, I won't kill him, my mothers would be dreadfully upset. But I can make his next several years exceedingly painful without ending his life."
"Is this you being protective?" Lestrade asked. It's fairly horrifying, and it's exactly like what you'd expect if a vampire fancied you a bit. Oh God. What was wrong with John, that he was so in love with this maniac? What was wrong with Lestrade, that he was actually finding this offer of maiming on his behalf kind of sweet?
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, and the moment was over, Sherlock's expression and voice back to their baseline irritation with all of humanity.
"Is that what you've been thinking about, holed up in here?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow. "How to butcher Mycroft?"
He was going for levity- he knew Sherlock was not going to discuss his feelings about what had happened to John directly and it was insane to try- but from Sherlock's expression it wasn't a joke. “I’ve been considering how to kill Moriarty,” Sherlock said calmly. “It isn’t complicated, but it does require special effort.”
Ah. He got to Sherlock's feelings by the roundabout route after all. “He’s one of you lot, isn’t he?” Lestrade asked carefully. “Moriarty?” Lestrade wasn't stupid, but it still hadn't been explicitly spelled out, even when Mycroft was delivering his barely-controlled rant back at the compound.
Sherlock looked at him sharply, narrowing his eyes. “In the same sense that Jack the Ripper was one of you.”
Lestrade shrugged one shoulder- perhaps that was a bit unfair, although from what he'd seen Sherlock and Mycroft were hardly sterling examples of sanity and peace. “Point, I suppose. So how would you kill him?”
“Decapitation, clearly,” Sherlock said. “It’s the only real way. We just heal otherwise.”
“No stake to the heart?” Lestrade asked.
Another failed attempt at humor. Sherlock just gave him a scornful look. “Please. And if you suggest holy water or garlic next, I’ll know you’re every inch the idiot I persistently accuse you of being.”
“What about burning?” Lestrade asked. He had done quite a bit of reading on the mythology of the undead, even if he was never quite forward enough to start questioning Sherlock about it until now, with John both the focal point of their attention and the one thing Sherlock was desperately trying not to talk about.
“Limited effectiveness,” Sherlock said. “Even severe burns are survivable, so the fire would have to consume the body entirely. Decapitation is more sure, although we do use fire to dispose of the pieces when we kill each other.”
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Does that happen often then? Killing each other?”
“No,” Sherlock said shortly. “Our legal system, such as it is, was established primarily for the purpose of forestalling feuds.”
Lestrade repressed a snort. Kidnapping, murder, arson: yeah, clearly the modern bloodsucker was well beyond anything so petty as using violence to resolve interpersonal disputes. “Your brother mentioned the law earlier, but I didn't realize you had a system. I thought vampires were solitary creatures.”
“Ina,” Sherlock corrected irritably. “Of course we have a legal system, we’re not savages. Well, some of us aren’t.” His eyes glittered, and Lestrade repressed a shudder. For a moment, he wasn't sure if Sherlock was referring to Moriarty, or to himself.
***
When Lestrade stepped out of the hospital room, Mycroft was nowhere in sight. Simon was leaning against the wall opposite, frowning with concentration at his phone. "All right?" he said, looking up at Lestrade.
"Knackered, actually," Lestrade admitted, scrubbing his hand through the hair. "I suppose I should find somewhere to kip, no point in getting a cab back to mine when I'll just be coming back in a few hours anyhow." Not to mention the fact that he had no bloody idea where he was.
"I can find you a place to sleep," Simon said. He waved a dismissive hand when Lestrade just stared at him. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Trust me, butterfly, if I was coming on to you, you'd know it."
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his forehead. He might have taken it that way. He might have been sizing Simon up just a little bit. He might be very, very tired. "Sorry. Don't you have to look after-" he groped for the right form of address. "Mr. Holmes?"
"Nope, I've been told off. Anthea claims to be further ahead on sleep than I am, the lying bint." Simon's tone is affectionate, despite the insult. "So I'm to go back to Mycroft's parents' place and get at least six hours of sleep, and I've decided to get even by kidnapping you." Simon smiled winningly. "Trust me, night jack, it's a lot closer than your flat or my house."
Simon could have fooled Lestrade about needling sleep- he looked and acted as perky as if he just drank a pot of coffee, whereas Lestrade felt like he'd been run over by a lorry. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Lestrade was still paranoid about Sherlock's megalomaniac brother disappearing him for convenience's sake. But really, there would be no point in bringing Lestrade into this in the first place if Mycroft was worried about him blabbing, Mycroft had given no sign of wanting to silence or even threaten him, and fuck he was tired. Too tired to turn down a free ride and a free bed.
Lestrade rubbed his forehead again, right between his eyes, where the headache was building. "All right," he said.
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