"You know what I could really use right now?" Sherlock sighed, curled up in an improbably small ball in his PJs and one of his more decadent satin dressing gowns. Nothing hits the spot quite like the blood of someone who truly wants you to have it. He wasn't entirely sure if it was something about the chemical make-up of the blood itself or the psychological effect of having someone sacrifice something so vital to their existence so willingly that made it so damn satisfying, but he honestly couldn't remember the last time a meal felt that good. He took a deep breath as his stomach rumbled, reminding him of the heat still inside him, still waiting to be assimilated into his body. "A cigarette."

"Not happening, Sherlock." John said over the edge of his laptop. By his rumpled forehead, he was probably filtering out all of the important and interesting bits out of the last few days so he could transcribe the remaining watered down dregs onto his blog. Sherlock wondered how he might adapt the events of last night for the eyes of the general public. Perhaps the human version of himself which lives in John's fictionalized world had contracted a cold and needed the help of a doctor. Or maybe he'd… forgotten to eat while caught up in the chase again and John ordered take-out. Both options were adequately boring and inaccurate.

"I know. Just… saying. It'd be appreciated." He didn't really need one. Smoking just goes so well with a good drink. Maybe he just needed to give his mouth something to do.

John ignored him, instead pecking out some bland little lies letter by letter onto his keyboard. God, it'd be quicker if he'd chosen to write out the blog entry by hand one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five times, tied it to the feet of one thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five pigeons and flew them out to his readers. Although it would've been a tad embarrassing when ten of those pigeons circled back around to their front door. Eleven, actually. Mrs. Hudson reads the blog too.

Sherlock snapped to attention when the somewhat hypnotic clicking of the keyboard stopped. He looked up to find John rubbing at his temples, wincing from a mild headache. The saliva must be wearing off. Time for another dose.

"I think I'll make tea, you want a cup?" Sherlock asked, uncurling himself. He would've liked to administer it the old fashion way, by mouth. Or perhaps even the Victorian way, curled up in each other's arms reveling in the sheer joy of shared body fluids. But he doubted John would be up for that.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." John replied. Sherlock pulled out two cups anyway, spitting generously into one of them with practiced silence. As the kettle boiled, John's typing slowed from two words a minute to a word every two minutes. Eventually, he saved whatever progress he made and shut his laptop a little harder than usual. Sherlock shut off the kettle just as it began to simmer, dunking a tea bag in the barely hot water and wringing it gently to speed up the steeping process.

Finally, he swept back into the living room and shoved John's tea into his arm so he'd have no choice but to take it.

"God, why do I ever let you make tea? This is awful." John grimaced as Sherlock pretended to drink his own cup of vaguely warm water.

Sherlock watched silently as John took another long sip. And another. Just as the lines in his face began to loosen and soften, there was a knock on the door. A precise, pretentious sort of knock that could only mean one thing. Mycroft.

And he was having such a good day.

Sherlock drew himself from his chair stormily, throwing the door open with barely-restrained fury. His brother stood in the doorway with a smile that was just slightly too sugary. As much as Mycroft enjoyed mocking his younger brother's less than successful efforts at assimilating himself into human society, the supposedly more experienced and knowledgeable vampire was awful at replicating human facial expression.

"Sherlock, how lovely it is to see you up and about so soon." Mycroft somehow managed to say sarcastically, despite being entirely sincere.

"How dare you cross my threshold without permission." Sherlock growled, flashing just a hint of teeth. He was in no mood to be receiving any visitors, especially not family. Which was why he had taken the precaution of turning off every function phone in the house and hiding John's between the couch cushions. "I could call Mummy right now and have you beheaded."

"That only applies if the dwelling belongs entirely to you, which it does not."

"But you still have to get permission to cross the threshold of a dwelling in which a vampire resides from the owner of the dwelling and Mrs. Hudson has been out for the past week."

"True, but she sent me this text roughly four months ago which states clearly that I am 'welcome any time, dearie'." Mycroft responded, coolly flashing his phone which had been scrolled down to that particular text before he had even approached the door.

Sherlock glared. "She was just being nice, she didn't actually mean you were free to break into her house while she's away and harass me."

"It would stand up in court though, should you choose to press charges." Mycroft pointed out, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "Now, would let me in?

"No. The house might belong to Mrs. Hudson, but this flat belongs to me."

"Well, I'm not here to talk to you." Mycroft peered over Sherlock's shoulder, making eye-contact with the army doctor by the fireplace. "John, could I speak with you for a moment?"

John, having become much more impressionable under the influence of his tea, shrugged. "Sure, come in."

"I'm going to my room!" Sherlock announced after shooting his flatmate an incredulous and scandalized glance. "And no one is welcome in!"