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"John, please, I need to feed!"
"And I need to go to work!" the doctor snapped. "Stay in bed and don't go do anything stupid. I'll have your blood bags in the afternoon."
Sherlock's eyes darted around, nervous and uneasy.
"I called Y/N to sit with you."
"You did NOT!" The detective was growing even more agitated.
"Yes, I did. Now get in bed and stay there."
You had been friends with the two crime-solvers for two years at that point. You worked from home, so moving your laptop to another place wasn't too difficult. John had called you in the morning with something about Sherlock being difficult about being sick, so you went to Sherlocksit.
To your surprise, the detective was tucked in bed, turned away from you.
"What happened, Sherlock? John said it was pretty bad." He just groaned in miserable pain. You leaned in to press a hand to his forehead...
Only to find yourself with your back to the wall, a pair of fangs close to your neck. Predator on prey. Just that... You weren't exactly easy prey. He instinctively froze when the tip of a silver knife pressed into his belly.
You were from a family of witches and quite open about it. While Sherlock mocked your occult traditions on a daily basis, the look on his face when something worked was priceless. He had developed a grudging respect for your practice. The reason you had a silver knife so easily summoned was that at your baptism, when they did your fortune, your mother found out that a vampire would feed from you regularly, so she had taken extensive measures to protect you against their kind.
"Please don't do that," you begged, voice shaky in fear. "I don't want to hurt you." His breathing was uneven, trying to control himself. "I drink holy water every morning. You don't want to drink from me."
Sherlock stepped back and hunched over, dry heaving. He was paler than usual, body shaking. Starving.
"I'll... I'll go get you something."
"I'm sorry," he managed to choke out.
"Stay right there."
After you closed the door, you quickly fixed a spell that wouldn't allow him to escape.
You called John, berated him for letting his friend starve, then took a cab to and from the hospital to get the blood.
Sherlock looked half dead when you returned with 5 blood bags, which he quickly drained, visibly improving after each one. He looked normal after the 4th. You released the spell and allowed him to join you in the living room.
"How old are you, really?" you asked him after a few moments of silence.
"I was turned 5 years ago."
"Ah, newborn. That explains things. Older vampires don't let themselves get this bad." His glare was short lived.
"Thank you. I don't know if I would have survived until John returned."
"You probably wouldn't have. When you're starving, you can get killed by sunlight." Ironically enough, it was ridiculously sunny in London that day.
"You seem to know a lot about this."
"I could lend you a book." He scrunched his nose. "Or I might miss something that could kill you."
"Alright. Book."
You grinned.
"Glad to know you agree."
The next morning, you skipped the holy water. It would take a while for it to be out of your body completely, but you wanted to help your friend. Your mother would flip if she knew.
The first time he fed from you, he was in a similar, though nowhere near as severe state.
"I need to work on this case before John arrives."
"What you need is to stop lying and admit that I'm a tasty snack." His pupils dilated. You could tell that your words had hit a bit too close to home. Speaking of which... You looked around the room. He'd pulled on the drapes. Huh. Increased light sensitivity.
"You need another blood supplier."
"Certainly."
Again, he was on you, fangs out. Again, your knife was against his skin, this time at his neck. He inhaled deeply, lids lowering over red eyes.
"Your smell is not helping, especially since you stopped drinking holy water. Don't try and pretend you don't want this. You would have kept your defence otherwise."
"I didn't want you to die next to me while I'm unable to do a thing," you admitted. "And I have other things to keep you at bay."
Regularly. The fortune teller had said regularly.
"This is an emergency."
He did look pretty hungry.
"Wrist." He groaned in frustration. "It's still blood."
"Fine."
You lowered the knife and lifted the opposite hand. He took it in his, first kissing your palm, then the wrist. A few tiny veins were visible, but he wanted a bigger one. He licked at your skin, eyes opening, never leaving yours, even as his fangs came out and...
You had to fight against everything you'd been taught and not burry the knife into his neck. That said, it didn't hurt. His eyes slid closed and he moaned against your flesh. After a few moments, you relaxed, too, letting his venom work its magic. It was quite pleasant, not as much as the neck, you knew, but that wasn't something you were willing to try. Too many chances of you... ending... up...
"Sherlock, enough."
His eyes opened and he pulled away, pressing on the wound while he looked for two bandaids.
"Thank you." You nodded, a bit dizzy. He had to catch you when you stumbled, weak. Your body would soon get used to the blood loss, but you could milk it for a bit. Sherlock, although, well, dead, was a good pillow.
They'd said regularly, you thought months later, as Sherlock dug his fangs into your neck. Regularly, you mused when he groaned, your blood sweeter there as it never reached your brain. Regularly, you remembered when you moaned and weakly pushed him away. Regularly. The word spun around your mind even as you kissed him, his mouth tasting of your sweet, sweet blood.
They'd said regularly, but they never said you would do it willingly. A very important detail.