Chapter Text
His skin was pale but hardly lifeless. Except, perhaps on his driver’s license. He smelled strongly of death. But, as they were in a morgue, that wasn't much of a surprise. They sat at either side of an empty slab, as all of the tables were taken. A small, nervous-looking morgue attendant flitted around them, attending the deceased patients.
“It’s symbiotic really,” The vampire explained in a voice that wasn't at all like Bela Lugosi’s. “This arrangement will benefit both of us. I will suck the life out of you, yes. But you will not go without proper... compensation.”
“Money, right?” John was at the end of his rope in many ways, but mostly financially. He managed to convince himself that once he had some money, he could sort all the rest out. Once he could afford to live, he could work on wanting to.
“If you like. Money, lodging, food, medical and dental care, if you prove to be a valuable asset to me, I can give you anything you need to sustain your life.” Anything I need to keep his food supply high, more like. John wouldn’t let this ‘Sherlock’ character fool him into thinking he’s anything more than livestock in this deal. “As well as the more… traditional forms of compensation.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, you really are new to this. In the short term, the endorphins in vampire saliva is known to cause a high which, I’ve heard, feels like a prolonged orgasm.” The mousy girl in the lab coat dropped a petri dish. She squeaked when it broke against the ground. Sherlock let out a low groan and shot a slow glare her way.
“...sorry.” She disappeared under a table to pick up the pieces. “he’s right, by the way.”
His only response was an exasperated eyeroll. “And in the long term, I could offer you a good death.”
John tried not to be too horrified. Mark told him these people had a few... cultural quirks.“...I think I’ll stick with the money, thank you very much.”
Sherlock smirked, his eyes narrowing cattishly. “Molly, draw his blood.”
----
John watched in morbid fascination as Sherlock drank the small vial of his blood like a frat guy drinks a shot. The vampire said it was just to get a taste of what he was buying, but he tipped the contents down his throat so quickly that John wondered if he tasted it at all.
Sherlock hummed his approval. Then, after a half second's pause, tipped the vial back over his mouth to shake out the last few drops. When it was clear there was nothing left, he began licking the rim of the receptacle for whatever traces were left over. Even Molly seemed to be shocked.
“That good, is it?” John smirks, ready to grab a stray scalpel should the vampire forget the formalities and lunge for him. Sherlock pursed his lips, sucking them clean.
“If you were that hungry I-” He cut off the morgue attendant by pushing the empty vial into Molly’s hands. Then reached into his jacket pocket. Despite his better judgement, John found himself watching his every move closely.
“You’re a bit anemic.” Sherlock pulled out a small black notepad and began to scribble something into it.
“Yeah, I could be eating better.” That was the entire point he was here, after all.
He continued writing without a moment’s pause. “You haven’t been on any drugs, prescribed or otherwise. Low alcohol content too, but that doesn't say much as the human body metabolizes alcohol rather quickly.”
“You can tell?” It briefly occurred to John that hospitals could save so much time and money by hiring a vampire to do blood taste tests. But he doubted they would consider it entirely sanitary.
“How do you feel about the violin?”
He was thrown so off balance that he briefly forgot what a violin was. “I’m… sorry?”
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”
“And I’m left-handed. What does that have to do with... anything?”
He ripped a page out of the notepad. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other, wouldn't you say?”
John was sure that the qualities listed didn't come close to Sherlock’s worst. “Who said anything about flatmates?”
Sherlock just flashed him an infuriatingly knowing smile. As if he’d just told a joke and didn't even know it yet. The brilliant green of his eyes seemed to whisper ‘slap me, you know want to’.”You’re a soldier recently discharged due to an injury. You’re living in a bedsit which you can barely afford and as a consequence feel cornered enough to sell your life’s blood to keep it, even though you hate it so much you often consider just sleeping on the street. You have nothing to live for, no one to miss you but no reason to die. As far as I'm concerned, we've been talking about nothing but flatmates." Sherlock grinned viciously, his eyes gleaming green under the sterile hospital light. John sucked in a breath and held it. He was angry. Seething. Furious. He felt like putting a bullet through the man's laughing eyes or slitting his throat and letting him drown in his own arterial spray.
Months later, he'd look back on this moment and remember that he had never felt more alive.
"This should cover your unpaid rent. With some extra for... food or whatever.” The vampire spat out the word ‘food’ as if it were some petty adolescent fad as he quickly wrote out a check and folded it into the page he had ripped out of his notepad. He placed it neatly on the middle of the slab and swept out of the room, pulling on his coat and gloves as he went. “I’ll be seeing you.”
John felt like he should ask something before he left. About the deal. About this flatmate business. About him in general. But before he could catch hold of a thought and pin it down, Sherlock was gone. “Yeah, he’s always like that.” Molly chirped apologetically.
"Is he?" He mumbled in response, his mind already pre-occupied with the note laying on top of a check written out for enough money to buy a small palace.
"221b baker street." Read the note in neat, looping handwriting. "Bring your gun."
John was out the door so quickly, he almost forgot the check.