AN: This was just an idea that has been floating around my head for awhile now and I figured I'd better get it down before it dissapeared on me. Hope you all enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, if I did we wouldn't have to wait so long between seasons.

It had been the week from hell, John mused as he stared unseeingly at the bullet hole ridden wall while trying to ignore the delicious scent wafting towards him from the kitchen and the Consulting Detective there producing it. And really, when had Sherlock begun smelling so good anyway?

Everything had started, as it usually did, with a case:

The body of a young woman had been found in an alleyway, drained of blood- she was the fifth such victim found in the last three days.

Lestrade called Sherlock in when the discovery was made and John had tagged along like always, it had been a mistake this time.

As soon as they arrived at the scene John felt eyes on him, but could never catch anyone looking.

Just as Sherlock began his spiel concerning the victim- she had been attacked by multiple persons, her wounds(dozens of small punctures all over her body) were caused by either a large gauge dual syringe or teeth implants- and as all eyes went to him a strong hand wrapped around John's mouth and he found himself being dragged backwards into the abandoned building the alley ran behind.

Tearing at the hand over his mouth, John managed just one muffled yell- no-one turned to even look his way- before he was out of sight of the crime scene and at the mercy of his attacker.

Then there was pain.

His neck was on fire, and then it went cold and John began to float.

The World was far away, sounds were distant, the dim light in the musty room he was in seemed to grow even dimmer; and then...

"Police! Freeze! Step away from the doctor!"

And then came an all to familiar Bang! and John was dropped to the dirty floor, blood from his attacker coating him from hairline to hemline. The spot that had hurt so much on his neck beggining to itch and burn as the blood hit it and then John was floating again, this time from the horribly familiar feeling of major blood lose.

Soon voices penetrated through the cotton wrapping him and John attempted to focus on them as a way to pull himself out of whatever rabbit hole he'd fallen down.

"There was a man, about a head taller than the doctor there, and he looked to be..." Sally began only to petterout.

"'Looked to be'... What? Spit it out, Sal!" Lestrade barked out.

"Drinking, sir. He looked to be... drinking from John's neck." If John could move he would have rolled his eyes at that. If Donavan wasn't careful she would get labeled as a nutter that belived in vampires, he thought.

"Sally... you do know how ridiculous that sounds, right?" Lestrade began only to be cut off by Sherlock.

"Ridiculous it may be but it is what happened. You can see for yourself that the wounds on John's neck match those of your other victums, and just like them the wounds show signs of... suction. Whoever attacked John is a part of the group who killed those other people, Lestrade, and if Sally here could shoot straight then we would have had one of them."

"Oi! I hit the guy and saved Watson's life, the least you could do is show a little gratitude!"

"You were only doing your duty, I see no reason to shower praise on something so insignificant. And perhaps if you did a better job of it then the attacker wouldn't have been able to get so close to John!"

"Now let's all calm down." Lestrade tried to interject but couldn't break though to the two verbal combatants.

"Yeah? Well, if you had been paying more attention to your one friend rather than the corpse on the ground then maybe he wouldn't have been taken!"

"That's enough!" Lestrade yelled, putting an end to the argument even as ambulance sirens finally made themselves known. And about this same time John finally gave up the fight for consciousness and let the darkness take him.

Waking up in a hospital bed was never a pleasant experience, but for once John was willing to overlook that aspect as it ment he was alive.

He'd received blood and been cleaned up, and then had a very energetic Sherlock pacing his room and questioning him about all he remember, which wasn't much of anything.

He had been released mere hours later- all thanks to Sherlock's whining and Mycroft's influence- and for the first time in his life regreterd it.

He began noticing small changes in himself that first night- he couldn't get his room dark enough and the thought of tea wasn't a soothing one, though he was getting thirsty- and the changes just kept piling on from there.

The morning after his attack, John woke up to the sound of the neighbors fighting- the neighbors across the street.

On his third day he had to clean the flat, twice, and he still couldn't track down were the weird smells he could swear were coming from the floor boards themselves.

His fourth day was spent trying not to climb the walls, he had so much energy stored up and he didn't know what to do with it all.

On the fifth day he realized he hadn't eaten or drank anything in two days and wasn't feeling weak as he ought to, and though that feeling of thirst was still naggingly there nothing seemed appetizing- well, except for Sherlock; but his friend wasn't edible, right? Right?

By the time a week had passed, John was half convinced he was going crazy, and Sherlock was absolutely no help to his peice of mind either. The lanky genius simply watched him and made notes, never attempting to help John understand what was happening to him.

And now here they were, Sherlock relaxed in the kitchen doing some experiment or another and John tense in the sitting room, neither having made a sound in hours- and in John's case not even having moved.

But that was about to change.

John suddenly stood and turned to head for the kitchen, not even he understanding his motivation to do so, when the door flew open and something small came flying towards the doctor's face.

Snatching it from the air, John tore into it before he even knew what it was and began drinking.

It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted, John thought as he sank back into his chair.

"Well! That could have been a right disaster." If the Irish lilt in the voice wasn't a give away for who had thrown the small dark bag at John then the expensively besuited man who soon was pushing the door all the way open was a dead giveaway.

"Sherly, dear, you should take better care. I won't be able to save you from your own foolishness everytime." Jim Moriarty said as he made his way inside, a black insulated bag slung over one shoulder.

"What are you doing here? What have you given John?" Sherlock demanded as he positioned himself between his friend and his arch nemesis.

"You really don't know, do you? I thought you of all people would have been able to figure out what he's becoming within days, but you've had a week and nothing! Honestly, I'm disappointed." John looked up from the empty bag in his hands in concern at this.

"'What I'm becoming'? What am I becoming? Sherlock?"

"Ah. He really is slow, isn't he? You're becoming a Vampire, pet, one of the bloodsucking undead. Get used to it." Tossing another dark bag from his satchel to John, Jim turned a smile on Sherlock.

"Vampires don't exist." Sherlock stated with finality even as John stared in horror at the blood bag in his hand.

But John just couldn't resist the scent coming from the thing and so, with a grunt of disgust, John bit into the bag and gave a moan of delight as the amazing flavor washed over his taste buds.

"Well, if they don't exist then have a good time explaining Johnny-boy's new set of teeth. Their wicked!" Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock looked down at John who looked up from his second empty bag of deliciousness and was now fingering his teeth curiously.

Pulling his lips back, John showed off the razor sharp fangs that had descended where his canines had once been.

"So... Vampires..." Sherlock began only to trail off, his Mindpalace in disarray from this newest development.

"I'm a Vampire. Really?"

"Yep, Johnny-boy, you're an accidental Vamp- which is why you've been so slow in turning, usualy it would only take minutes not a week- but one nonetheless. Soon you'll be feeling the unstoppable pull of your Master and killing everyone in your way so that you may swoon by his side!"

"What?!"

"Oh, didn't you get that memo? Well, let Daddy fill you in. You see, Vampires organize into groupings called Nests, each Nest is comprised of one Master and all his Fledglings. The Fledglings have no life outside of protecting and serving their Master- who can sense where they each are and what they're each feeling- and are completely subjugated by their Master's will. All he has to do is speak and they jump to fulfill his every whim." Moriarty looked distant for a moment, as if savouring the thought of that kind of power.

"Then how are new Masters made if all new Vampires are slaves?" Sherlock askedasked in confusion, breaking the silence and pulling Jim back to the here and now.

"What? Oh! Yeah, well, when a Master dies, for any reason- be it suicide, at the hands of another Master or a cleaver Human, sometimes even by accident- then all their Fledglings are instantly released and become Masters themselves... after going insane, killing any and all other Vampires in the immediate area and turning any and all humans that they come across and don't just kill for food."

"How do you know all this?" John asked even as his eyes were drawn back to the black bag Jim was holding that he was sure held more blood, and as sick as it was he wanted more.

"Oh, you know, I've been around the block a few times. You come across a few... unsavory characters now and then when building a Criminal Empire from the ground up." Rocking on his heels, Moriarty then dropped his bag into John's lap and began backing up for the door.

"Well, this was fun but I gotta go before I get my throat ripped out. Buildings to see, people to blow up; you know how it is. Sherlock, try not to get yourself killed by your pet, I still have plans for you. And Johnny? Nice knowing you. Bye!" And he was gone.

Taking another blood bag from the left behind bag, John bit into it and drank while he thought about all Moriarty had said.

"JOHN!" Looking up at Sherlock- who had obviously been calling him for a while now- John pulled his fourth- or was it fifth?- bag of blood away from his lips and raised a brow.

"As I was saying... I will find a cure for this, just give me time." Giving a small smile and nod to the lanky genius, John grabbed up the now only half full bag Moriarty had left and went upstairs.

Half an hour later, Sherlock went to go check on him- and take a blood sample- but found only empty blood bags and an open window.

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"Are you sure about this, Johnny-boy? You could just kill yourself, you know, it would be a lot easier."

"Just tell me where they are."

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In an abandoned hotel on the outskirts of London a Nest sat in wait of their newest member, their Master having sensed his approach.

They waited with open arms to welcome him in, and in John came- a gun in each hand and an ax on his back for the clean up.

It was disappointing that a bullet to the brain wouldn't kill them permanently, but taking they're heads...

As the last of the Nest went down- he had shot them all so fast that they hadn't even had time to react, not even the Master- John began chopping.

And it hurt. It hurt him.

Every member of the Nest he killed felt like a limb he was cutting off, a brother or sister he was slaughtering, until only the Master was left.

John swung his ax high and brought it down on the, his- he could feel it now, the pull to protect and please this one man over all others- Master's neck... and then he began to scream as his mind emptied of thought and filled with a firery need to... not be alone.

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Jim Moriarty sat straddling his Motorcycle on the hill above the blazing inferno that had once housed the newest Nest in London and which one little ex-army doctor had taken out.

The Consulting Criminal gave over a moment to wonder if the Pet had managed to escape in his Masterless madness before the bomb he had caroled from him had gone off. Not that he cared at all, but it would be nice to know if there was going to be a new Nest popping up anytime soon.

And really, it was getting harder and harder to keep those pests out of his city. Maybe now that Johnny-boy had fallen to their ranks he could count on a little help from the Ice Man on keeping them out, if only for the poor younger Holmes brother's sake.

Kicking his engine into life, and with eyes blinded by the flames before him, Jim neither heard or saw the figure that had circled around behind him before he was grabbed.

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Mycroft carefully studied his younger brother as they rode in silence, following the course that one John Watson had taken not too long before.

It was a measure of how much whatever was going on was affecting Sherlock that he had asked- politely even!- for his brother's help before anyone had died.

"Sherlock, you must calm yourself. Now, do explain to me just why we are out here in the middle of nowhere tracking down your runaway flatmate." Sherlock, who anyone but Mycroft would think was disinterested in the proceedings by his nonchalant attitude- but Mycroft could see the underlining worry in the tense line of his shoulders and his overall quietness- looked over at Mycroft and then went back to staring out the window.

This, more than anything else, convinced the elder Holmes that whatever was going on was serious- Sherlock would never pass up a chance to insult him if it wasn't.

Just then the car rolled to a stop a safe distance away from their blazing destination and Sherlock jumped from the vehicle and began running towards it.

"John? JOHN!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, but he was stopped from following by his door being opened and a familiar figure leaning onto his personal space.

"Dr. Watson."

"Mycroft." Mycroft had barely processed this turn of events before John lunged.

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"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, and he would forever deny the panic that laced his voice at that moment.

"John! Damn it, answer me!" The Consulting Detective then began to head towards the fiery building but was brought up short by a voice behind him.

"He's not in there, Sherlock." Whirling around, Sherlock stared in shock at the sight before him.

"He killed them all and then escaped before the flames took over." Sherlock's stare turned from shock to wonder as he watched the shredded skin of Moriarty's neck quickly knitting itself back together.

"You do remember when I said that an orphaned Fledgling goes crazy and becomes a Master on a mission, don't you?" As Moriarty spoke, Sherlock felt a familiar hand wrap around his neck and pull him back.

"You know, this is really going to change the rules of our game, Sherly." And with that John sank his fangs into Sherlock's neck.

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Six months later:

"You are all idiots, I hope you know." John stated affectionately, the three men he was addressing simply cuddled closer at his words.

"We wouldn't end up like this if you three would just agree to live under the same roof-"

"No!" Three voices yelled out at the same moment.

"Idiots." John murmured happily as he snuggled back into Sherlock a bit more.

They were at Baker street so Sherlock had place of honor behind John and against the headboard and was able to wrap fully around him whereas Mycroft and Jim had to content themselves with simply cuddling into his sides, though this was made up for by the fact that when John was staying with either one of them then they had the place of honor and could snuggle him as much as they wanted.

"Could we at least discuss setting up a schedule for this? I mean, if we could do this, say, once a week before it becomes necessary to do, then that might help to keep it from interrupting everyone's schedules every two weeks when you three reach your limits and are forced to seek me out for a... cuddle meeting." The three geni surrounding him gave thought to John's request.

"That would be... acceptable." Mycroft started, but Jim cut him off.

"But only if you change residences after each 'meeting' we have. We have a few hours of cuddling to reassure ourselves that you, our Master, is still alright and then you leave with whoever you're staying with for the next week. Does that sound good, John?" John pulled the two men closer in appreciation.

"That sounds great. How about you, Sherlock? You okay with this?"

"You can read my emotions so you know how I feel on this subject, you don't need to ask." John sighed, this was already an old argument by now.

"I ask because it's polite, Sherlock, just as I let you all live your own lives and not demand you stay with me 24/7 and ask you all things rather than simply commanding you to do them. So please, just answer the question."

"Fine. I am dissatisfied with the whole situation. You should just stay here, this is your home."

"Technically we're in Mrs. Hudson's flat, we just bought her out and made it over just for John. Just as we put in the lab in the C flat for you and gave you all of B flat for yourself." Jim corrected with the ease of long practice. Even though they were all now part of John's Nest, Jim and Sherlock were still at odds with each other; though now they fought over John's affections rather than who was smarter- though there was some of that still too.

"You are with John more than any of us, dear brother, as you continually take him out to crime scenes with you even when he is not staying with you. So do try and grow up, would you, and stop being so petty."

"Boys, stop it. You know I don't like it when you fight while we're all in bed together."

"Sorry, John."

"Sorry, Johnny."

"Sherlock?"

"Fine, yes, sorry."

"Okay then. So... who wants to tell me about what they've been up to?" Relaxing back into Sherlock as Mycroft and Jim began explaining an election they had been working on- from different sides and against each other- John felt contentment wash over him.

Carding his fingers absently through Jim's hair, John sighed happily as he felt the affection for him washing over him from all three of his genius Fledglings.

He had his geni surrounding him and a fridge full of blood in the next room, life couldn't get any better, John thought as he drifted off to sleep.