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Summary
Sherlock laid on the sofa, fingers steepled underneath his chin. John was sitting in his armchair, chunnering on about something Sherlock wasn't really listening to. He was focused on the tug in his stomach, the hunger that simmered underneath his human form. The hidden part of him that craved blood, desired the hot richness sliding down his throat. It was an unbeatable thirst. Well, not unbeatable. It could be slaked, but Sherlock refused. The only thing that would soothe the thirst, give him a respite from the burning underneath his skin, was John's blood. If Sherlock drank it, he would bind John to him forever. Sherlock refused to do that, refused to turn John into whatever he was. For this John wasn't the first John.