Chapter Text
Sherlock has been dead for a year and a half when John sees him again. The first time it's easy enough to dismiss it out of hand. John is in Tesco, picking up the bare minimum of food that he can get by with before his next pension cheque is deposited. He reaches for the store-brand beans on the bottom shelf, and catches a flash of black coat out of the corner of his eye. He whirls up and around, heart pounding, just in time to see a flash of dark curly hair duck around to the next aisle. He almost goes to follow, but shakes his head at himself. Pathetic, John Watson, he thinks to himself, it was just a tall bloke with dark hair and a long coat. Don't start hallucinating now. Your therapist will have a field day. With that, he straightens his shoulders and makes his way to the cashier. By the time he gets back to his sad little flat, he's nearly forgotten all about the incident. It isn't until four days later that he realises his pantry holds several items of his favourite foods that he does not remember buying.
The second time it happens, it's a rainy Tuesday, and John's umbrella has broken in a strong gust of wind. Sighing, he resigns himself to walking the twelve blocks back home without any protection from the sheeting rain. He's passing a park when he sees the man, standing under a tree, back straight as a rod, hair plastered down with water, coat lying sodden and heavy around his shoulders. John does a double-take, and the second time he looks there is no one there. You're starting to get paranoid, he scolds himself. He wipes the rain out of his eyes as best he can with his soaking jumper sleeve, and trudges the rest of the way home. He curls up with a mug of hit tea and a towel, and falls asleep on the couch, still sopping wet. When he wakes up the next morning, with a crick in his neck, there is a parcel outside his door. It has no postage or addresses on in, but when he opens it, inside he finds a brand new umbrella. His breath catches for a moment, and for the first time in over a year, a small spark of hope blooms somewhere deep inside his chest.
The third time, John chases the man who looks so much like Sherlock. It's been a tiring day at the clinic where he works, and all John wants to do is go home and crash. Maybe he'll watch some crap telly and shout in his mind all the things he thinks Sherlock would have said. He really wishes he had a good book, but the only one he's interested in reading has a six week wait list at the nearby library, and shilling out £20 for a brand new, hard cover copy is an unjustifiable expense, especially with rent due at the end of the week. He's almost back to his miserable little flat when he sees a man at the other end of the block, long black wool coat swirling dramatically in the wind, curly black hair wild and unruly on his head, speaking with a young homeless man. It's too far to see their faces from where John is standing, but he sees them both look up - at him - and the taller man quickly turns and strides away. With a shout, John finds himself giving chase. The homeless youth has disappeared, but John follows the whirl of black coat until it ducks around a corner into what John knows to be a blind alleyway. Gotchya, he thinks, rounding the corner to find nothing more than bins and a pile of old wooden pallets. He whirls around, trying to figure out how someone could have gotten out from here without being seen from the street. After several confused minutes, he gives up, and goes back home. He is not terribly shocked when, the next day, there is another parcel waiting for him outside his door. He tears it open, and finds a brand new copy of the book he'd wanted. He grins, and steps back into the flat, mind racing at the implications.
The fourth time, everything comes undone. It has been two weeks since the incident with the alley and the book, and John has done his very best not to dwell on the impossible somehow coming true. He spends the day at the clinic, trying desperately not to die of boredom while listening to a mother explaining how her child is dying - John tells her it's a cold, and to go home and leave the urgent care clinic for actual urgent care - or a man trying to explain that he must have a brain tumour, because his eyes are so itchy and the throat feels clogged - John gives him a prescription for eye drops and recommends he find a new home for his cat. By the time his shift is over, he's decided that he deserves a sainthood for not strangling any of these idiots, and is wondering if it was this annoying before, or if he's just gotten less tolerant of other people's stupidity since living with - since after Afghanistan. He heads home, contemplating whether he should just give up and retire, maybe move north and take up dairy farming or something. He is still smiling wryly at the idea of him wanting anything to do with cows, when he reaches his front door. It takes all of ten second for him to realise that something is off.
His boot mat is skewed, pushed slightly by someone stepping on it. He knows it wasn't him, because it would have been pushed the other way by someone exiting the flat. He wishes for a moment that he had his gun with him, but pushes forth regardless. It's never been in his nature to back down from a dangerous situation, and for all he knows it's only Mycroft, deigning to travel up to drop in unannounced, make John miserable, and disappear once more. Sighing, he unlocks the door and lets himself in, and is almost knocked flat on his arse by what he finds in his living room.
There, sitting in John's chair, looking thoroughly bored and unimpressed, is a dead man. He looks surprisingly lively. He is, in fact, using John's laptop and drinking a cup of tea. John has frozen in place, unsure if this is some hallucination or dream that will dissolve the moment he moves. The dead man speaks.
"Watford? Really, John? I can't say I'm terribly impressed." He stands and makes his way over to where John is still frozen.
"You- you-" John manages to splutter out.
"Yes, yes, me. I'm alive. Moriarty is dead, his network mostly dismantled, and I'm back."
"You BASTARD!" John shouts, lunging forward and landing a fist square on Sherlock's jaw, "You complete and utter bastard! I thought you were dead! I buried you!" He counters Sherlock's attempt to grab his wrist, and ends up on the taller man's back, arms around his neck. "And now you just waltz in here like you've only been gone a week? I should kill you! And I'd bloody well make sure you stayed dead this time!" He flips himself off of Sherlock's back and slams the other man up into the doorframe. A pair of ice blue eyes stare back at him, and John feels something in himself break, and then he's holding Sherlock around the shoulders in a fierce bear hug, trying valiantly to hold back sobs. Sherlock stands stock still for a moment, and then his arms come up tentatively around John's back, and John could swear he hears a soft sigh from the detective.
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispers, voice thick, "I wish I could have told you, that I could have stayed, but..." John takes a steadying breath and pulls back to really look at his friend.
Sherlock looks tired. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he seems even paler than John remembers. He looks thinner, too, and there are creases in the corners of his mouth that are new. The past year and a half had obviously not been easy on Sherlock either. John sighs, and turns to the sad excuse for a kitchen in his flat.
"I'll make us a fresh pot of tea. You can explain what the hell happened, why you didn't tell me earlier, and what on earth you've been doing all this time. And then you're going to eat something. Good god, Sherlock, you look like a corpse." He stops, realising what he's just said, and turns back to his friend. They both stare at each other for a moment, and then the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, and they're lost, laughing helplessly. As they both calm down, John feels the tears behind his eyes threatening to well up again.
"God, Sherlock," he breathes, "I'm so glad you're alive. You have no idea." Sherlock gives a sad smile, and goes back to the chair he'd been in when John had arrived.
"Make the tea. I'll explain everything." John turns back to filling up the kettle.
"I'm guessing that was you, leaving me little presents?" He asks over his shoulder. "Thanks for the umbrella. It's definitely come in handy this week."
"Well, I saw what happened to yours, and judging by your grocery selections and choice of accommodation, you don't have much money to spare. I was planning on sort of... coming back slowly. To let you get used to the idea." John seats himself on the sofa while waiting for the water to boil.
"Well, showing up unannounced in my flat isn't exactly slow. Did something happen?" Sherlock gives a one-shouldered shrug.
"I got bored." John chuckles.
"Of course you did," he shakes his head, same old Sherlock, "Now, care to explain what the hell happened when you... that day at the hospital?"
Sherlock gives a brief summary of the events leading up to his apparent suicide, from the assassins after John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, to Moriarty shooting himself in the mouth, to the awful, gut-wrenching phone call. John has to ask him to stop at that point so that he can take a moment to breath and wrap his head around everything.
"How did you do it, Sherlock?" He finally asks, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, "How did you fool everyone into thinking you were dead? I saw you. I saw you fall, saw the blood on the ground, the way- the way your skull looked... I took your pulse, for god's sake! How did you survive that fall?" Sherlock looks uncomfortable, almost unsure of himself, for a moment.
"Well, the pulse was actually the easiest part. A little hard rubber ball, under the armpit. Temporarily stops the blood-flow, eliminating all signs of a pulse. Rather uncomfortable, but elegant in its simplicity." He pauses, and John gives him an expectant look. "Well, the rest... It's a bit complicated." John rolls his eyes.
"Contrary to what you seem to take no end of delight in telling me, I'm not actually an idiot. I'm sure that I will be able to keep up."
"I don't think you're an idiot, John," Sherlock says quietly, "Quite the opposite, in fact. Which is why this next part is so difficult to explain."
John raises a questioning eyebrow. "Try me."
"Hmm..." Sherlock starts, "Well, I'll start simply. I didn't die that day because the circumstances that happened were not sufficient to kill me." John gives him a disbelieving look. "I'm not just saying that because I have an absurdly high opinion of myself. Though, even so, it wouldn't be unjustified." John lets out an amused huff of air. "A fall from a building cannot kill me because there are only three things that can. Dismembering my head from my body, burning me to ash, or destroying my heart." Now it's John's turn to sit in stunned silence again.
"Um, Sherlock, maybe we should take a break, have something to eat," he ventures cautiously, "You look like you could use a good sleep, and several thousand calories." Sherlock looks annoyed.
"I haven't gone insane, John. Here, I'll prove it." And with that, he produces a viciously sharp knife from within his coat, and before John can even shout "no!" brings it down against his left forearm, leaving a shallow, ten centimetre long slash in his pale skin.
"Jesus Sherlock!" John shouts, sprinting to the pantry for a tea towel, "What in god's name did you do that-" he brings himself up short when he reaches Sherlock, and, low and behold, his arm is unmarred, save for a small smear of blood. The skin is unbroken, and looks as though it had never been cut at all. "What in blazes? Let me see that!" John grabs the knife before Sherlock can stop him, and inspects the blade. It looks perfectly normal, very sharp in fact, but John presses the tip into the pad of his thumb to check, drawing a small dot of blood. Sherlock lets out a soft hiss, and is suddenly on the other side of the room. How the hell...?
"I apologise," Sherlock murmurs in a strained voice, "I haven't been very good about feeding regularly, and..." He trails off, and John is even more confused.
"Okay, let's pretend for a moment that I have no idea what on earth you're talking about. How did you do the thing with the knife?" Sherlock looks irritated when he answers,
"I heal very quickly. A shallow cut like that, almost before I can even start to bleed."
"And you were in that chair, then you were in the other side of the room before I even blinked. How is that possible?"
"I am very, very fast," Sherlock deadpans, "Significantly faster than any human." John blinks rapidly, trying to wrap his head around the new information.
"Wait, are you saying that you're not human?" Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Obviously."
"O... kay... And... feeding? You wanted to feed on my blood?" At this, at least, Sherlock has the good grace to look uncomfortable.
"Blood in general. I have no intention of feeding from you. It just... took me by surprise."
"So, what you're saying is, you're a... vampire." John finishes, and Sherlock nods curtly. John starts to laugh, and once he's started he finds that he cannot stop until he has collapsed back onto the sofa, arms around his aching stomach. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous!" He gasps, "Did you seriously expect me to fall for that? Good god. I forgot how hilarious you can be when you want to. Seriously, though, what actually happened?" Sherlock looks anything but amused. If John didn't know better, he'd say that his friend is insulted.
"I'm glad to know that you find my deepest secret so amusing," Sherlock snaps. John is brought up short.
"Wha- are you serious?" Sherlock says nothing. "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but that's patently absurd. There's no such thing as vampires." At this the detective glares, and launches himself at John, who is pushed back into the couch, blinking.
"You want proof? Here!" Sherlock opened his mouth, and right in front of John's eyes, the impossible happens. Sherlock's two upper canines, up to this point perfectly normal, begin to lengthen, the ends sharpening to dagger-like points, until they are a solid finger-width longer than they had been previously. John has no idea what has just happened.
"What? How? What?" He intones, earning a put-upon sigh from Sherlock, who settles back into the chair. "What?"
"Any other clever questions, or shall I simply remain mute while you stutter through your crisis of scientific faith?" John is still too stunned to do anything but gape. This isn't possible. There are no such thing as vampires. What in the heavens is going on? He takes several breaths, calming himself, and manages to ask a coherent question.
"How, scientifically, is this possible?" Sherlock gives him a small smile for asking something actually relevant.
"It's essentially a symbiotic relationship. I have no idea how long ago - no one does - but at least five thousand years BCE, a human was infected with a blood-borne virus. Whether by insect bite or contact with an animal, it doesn't matter. The virus reproduced in the human, fueling itself with its host's blood, until it reached the point that the equilibrium was upset, and there was more virus present in the human's system than could be supported without killing the host.
"Now, in most cases, this would simply lead to anaemia in the human and, eventually, death, but this particular virus, for the same reason that any organism evolves, had mutated. Instead of killing its host, it gave the human a near-insatiable craving for blood. Thus was born the first vampire, or vampire-ancestor as the case may be. This early evolutionary stage had nothing but the craving for blood, so used the tools available - knives, swords, implements used for killing. At some point, this blood disease was transmitted from the first carrier to a second, and so on and so forth, until it achieved another mutation that benefited both host and virus." At this, Sherlock opens his mouth, allowing his teeth - his fangs John thinks - to descend once more, then retracts them. "Humans with the teeth were more likely to survive, to pass the virus to another. This continued, mutations flaring to life and thriving when they were beneficial - strength, speed, hearing, vision.
"Things got more complicated then. Somewhere along the line, a massive change happened, and the virus went from simple alterations and parasitism to repairing the damaged cells of its host. Suddenly, the early vampires found themselves healing faster, living longer, and eventually, they achieved immortality. Well, relative immortality, at least. There are some things that not even a very efficient virus can repair." He pauses, and fixes John with a hard stare. His brain is spinning. It almost makes sense, really. It's a far more plausible explanation than magic, at least.
John takes a moment to process, trying to wrap his head around all of this new information. It sounds... possible, if not plausible, and is certainly a better explanation than demons and spirits or the like. "So... Moriarty didn't know," John says. It's not really a question, but Sherlock answers anyway.
"Obviously not, or he'd have done far more to ensure my death. No, Mycroft, mother, and a handful of other vampires are the only living people who know... and now you." John thinks on this for a moment, before Sherlock breaks the silence again. "Come on, I know you have questions. You might as well just get them all out of the way now." He sounds as though he's preparing for a particularly unpleasant trial.
"How old are you?" John asks, earning a chuckle from the detective.
"I was thirty one when I was changed."
"And how long ago was that?" Another small laugh.
"Don't you know it's rude to ask someone's age?" He obviously isn't actually offended. "Well, King George was on the throne at the time."
"So, World War One." John extrapolates.
"Ah, no. George the Third." John knows that his jaw is hanging open in what must be a very unattractive manner, but he can't bring himself to care.
"George the- but he hasn't ruled since the early eighteen hundreds!"
"Very good, John. Your history teachers would be proud. No, he hasn't."
"Were you in the Napoleonic wars?"
"No, I was already a vampire by then, and had absolutely no interest in joining some stupid war for some mad monarch. I had better things to do."
"And Mycroft?" Sherlock smiles at this.
"He is indeed my brother, through blood, but not in the human genetic sense. We have the same... maker, for lack of a better word, to whom Mycroft refers as 'mummy' because it annoys me. Mycroft is some seventy years older than I, and takes great delight in reminding me of such at any available opportunity." John hides a smile behind his hand. Yes, definitely still the Sherlock he knew. (And loved, some treacherous part of his brain whispers. He ignores it.)
"So, obviously sunlight doesn't bother you. Pretty sure I'd have noticed you hissing and catching fire every time we were outdoors during the day." Sherlock rolls his eyes again, and John has to bite his tongue not to say "careful or they'll get stuck like that". God, I've missed you.
"A myth, though barely based in fact. The sun does a surprising amount of damage to the human body. It makes the virus work harder, and increases need for blood. And before you ask, churches are dull, crosses are nothing more than religious symbology, and garlic is excellent in most savoury cooking. Oh, and all splashing me with holy water would do is get me wet."
"And probably send you into a tantrum," John mutters. Sherlock raises an eyebrow imperiously. "Okay, how about blood? Do you.. ah... who do you drink from?"
"Preferably, bagged blood, taken from blood banks. Don't worry, Mycroft has a system in place to make sure our meals don't cause problems for the medical system. Lately, however, things have been rather... complicated."
"You've been dashing all around the globe taking down Moriarty's web. God, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me? I may not be Captain John Watson anymore, but I could have helped!" Sherlock shakes his head.
"No, it had nothing to do with me not thinking you'd be useful. I couldn't put you in that kind of danger. It was... unacceptable to me." John sighs.
"Alright, well, can't change the past I suppose. Are there lots of you? Vampires, I mean."
"Not a huge amount, no. For a great deal of human history we were actively hunted, you have to remember. And there are certain laws that must be adhered to." John tilts his head in an unspoken question that Sherlock, of course, immediately understands. "Don't draw attention to your status as vampire, never create more than three new vampires throughout your lifetime, don't kill if you can avoid it, that sort of thing. Basically, keep a low profile and don't be an idiot." John chuckles at that. Of course one of Sherlock's societal rules would be "don't be an idiot".
"How are these rules enforced?" John asks. Sherlock gives a martyred sigh.
"There's nothing official. Basically, screw up badly enough and some powerful vampire or other will come after you. Wouldn't do for our secret to get out, cause all sorts of problems, not the least of which being we'd all end up strapped down in labs somewhere." John nods, thinking that it made sense, in a weird sort of way.
"You said this was your deepest secret," John hesitates, drawing a nod from Sherlock, "Then... why tell me? Not that I’m not honoured that you've trusted me with this, but... why bother? Why come back at all?" That last question is the most painful one. What could Sherlock possibly have to gain from associating with a plain, boring human like himself?
"I had to come back," Sherlock says quietly, "I couldn't just leave and never see... everyone again." he pauses, and then adds, "In two hundred and fifty years of existence, you're the only real friend I've ever had." John has no idea how to react to this declaration, and feels a bone-deep sense of compassion for his friend. Two hundred and fifty years is a very long time to be alone. He reaches out and places his hand over Sherlock's, causing the other man to start and meet his eyes, conflict and doubt written in the detective's face.
"I'm glad you came back," John says, smiling warmly, "I'm glad you managed that one more miracle that I asked for." They smile at each other, and spend several minutes in silence, just drinking their tea and enjoying one another's company, until John's curiosity gets the better of him, and the next few hours are spent with John listening intently as Sherlock tells him about everything he's been doing for the past year and a half.
It's well past midnight by the time John heads to bed, and as he shuts the door, watching Sherlock's still, reclining form on the couch, he can't help the warmth that spreads through his chest.