Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not anything you recognize.

The lengthy A.N.: First of all, Happy Birthday Sendai! So many happy returns, my dear.

Second, I do so apologize about this story being incomplete today, my dear. I honestly thought it would be a nice oneshot. Instead, the Muse had other plans – and I have learned never to argue with the Muse, whether she's in the mood for 221Bs or a rewriting the length of the Odyssey (which, hopefully, this won't be!).

Third, all hail Chrwythyn for agreeing graciously to the hard work of betaing and britpicking my story.

Lastly, the meaning of the title: it actually is Tibetan for 'endless knot', symbol of a)eternal love and friendship; b)the eternal continuum of mind; c) Samsara, i.e. the endless cycle of suffering or birth, death and rebirth. It seemed to fit the boys. Enjoy! (Hopefully).

Dpal be'u

Sherlock Holmes is dead. No, not in the 2012 sham you might have heard about. He died in 1891, 4th May. You could even have read the account of that. If you like him, really, you should have. What the XIXth century doctor Watson didn't know was how his broken, barely alive body was found by someone – something – Holmes would have sworn fell into the impossible category at the time. A vampire. And God help him (not that He would, of course – not anymore), but Sherlock had accepted his offer, desperate to get back to one John Watson, MD.

He had spent the following three years with his sire, mastering his new body, its urges, necessities and capabilities, and learning to mimic perfectly a normal, living individual. He would – hopefully – be living with a doctor again. It worked as well as it could be hoped; and if in the subsequent decades he had to make large use of his disguising prowess, or move before people noticed things were weird, it didn't matter.

When he lost his doctor, he left England and all its memories behind. But less than a century after, he was back home, in the wake of a different Mrs. Hudson. The lure of Mrs. Hudson and London and 221B, Baker Street had been simply too strong. And if he called his government-issued handler Mycroft – he hadn't known at first that the British Government was now aware of the existence of preternatural creatures like him – the bout of nostalgic irony was allowed. Finding a different Lestrade (an actual relative, this time) had been an added bonus, and for a moment he'd thought that life could pick up seamlessly as in 1881.

Well, not seamlessly. There couldn't possibly be any Watson this time. So he had firmly believed, only to be proven wrong. Mustache-less he might be, but this John Watson was so very like the man who had captivated him in his human life that Sherlock had wondered about reincarnation. Asked himself if he might have missed an in-between avatar of John Watson, and how could he ensure to find him each and every time from now on, because he needed John. Simple as that.

Things were never easy, though. Not only because of the feelings he was so sure he had buried with his friend. What was he supposed to do with them? Confused or misdirected as he tried to tell himself they were, they were still powerful. But John wasn't his Watson, and he (loudly) wasn't interested in being his anything. Hell, to Wilkes John had even denied being a friend. (Of course he wasn't yet; too soon; that had been a pathetic slip of tongue.)

Because he had soon determined that this Watson wasn't quite human, too. It might have been a cause of mirth, finding each other in other species, if one of them had been some other sort of creature. But nobody observant could mistake the current John for anything but a werewolf. And his sire, in the crash course he'd provided before leaving him on his own, had informed him that Weres – or dogs – hated and despised their kind, and were heartily reciprocated. Sherlock thanked fate that he had already perfected his human impression. Still, the fear that he'd slip or come short against John's heightened senses clogged constantly the back of his mind. He couldn't have John – any John – hating him. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

For a time, he was happy. Once again, John and he had instantly clicked. He had found (recovered?) a friend. It was a heady feeling. Sherlock had even managed to trick himself into ignoring the homonym (because it couldn't be anything else) of his old nemesis. Until the game was on, again, and the sheer pleasure of being evenly matched after so long left him almost giddy. If the others had known that he had waited more than a century for that, they would have been more forgiving towards his enthusiasm. A lot more freaked out by him too, obviously, so he wasn't about to tell them.

He was made to pay for his inappropriateness, though. For a heartbreaking moment of uncomprehending agony, he'd really believed that his – flatmate – could possibly have betrayed him since the very start. Even then, over the, "It's not supposed to be like that," inside him roared the, "It's my fault." Because, Moriarty? It meant that John had found him out. Researched him, his nature, his past. And he had decided to strike accordingly.

When James – Jim – had showed himself, Sherlock had to consciously refrain from sighing in relief, even while he tasted terror because being blown to smithereens would kill John, never mind his kind's strength. And a different fear crept on him, hearing Moriarty make pet jokes and casually mention that his snipers had "blessed silver bullets". He knew. At the very least about John. How did he know? People not involved with the supernatural didn't usually contemplate such things. Just their luck that Moriarty would.

When John had jumped on Moriarty with a guttural growl, admiration and love had surged overwhelmingly inside Sherlock, even knowing such a move wouldn't work. The snipers had aimed at him, instead. The blessing on the bullets would have inconvenienced him, probably. He'd never been subjected to them, and wasn't sure. He needn't worry, though, because John stood down.

Moriarty had laughed. "You've rather shown your hand there, doctor. Though I thought they were harder to train, Sherlock. Especially for your kind. Does he know to what he's being so fiercely loyal?"

"Shut. Up." The sleuth had ordered angrily. He was going to be outed. His arm trembled with the temptation to blow them all up. End them before John could know and hate him. His friend deserved better, though. He waited for doom to come.

"A dead...sorry, undead leech. A vaaampire," Moriarty sangsong. "I thought dogs didn't like ticks."

Sherlock's eyes closed. He didn't want to see understanding and disgust dawning on his friend's face. Silence – hopefully disbelieving silence – set in. Then Staying alive sounded, incongruously. Moriarty hissed something (must have been his mobile phone, then, as he wasn't talking to them or his snipers) and then purred, "Laterz. Not sure how well playing dead will work for you, Sherly, but it's surely appropriate."

Steps, and then silence again, and he couldn't take the uncertainty. He swallowed around the lump lodged in his throat and opened his eyes. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, and John seemed frozen. "Can I?" he whispered throatily, but acted before he received an answer, ripping the bomb from his friend and throwing it away. If he was rent apart for daring to touch John, it would be what he deserved.

John laughed weakly. "Christ, he's really mad, isn't he? You, a vampire."

The sleuth didn't believe it. He was safe. He could breathe. Then again, Moriarty was still free. What if next time he forced him into doing something that would prove his allegation beyond reasonable doubt? He wouldn't, he'd rather die, but... 'Moriarty' had threatened John already. What if he did it again? Sherlock would do anything for John Watson. Every avatar of his. And there was part of him that had hated to lie about this to John (and to Watson, before, so much). Better to test the waters now. He could always laugh it off if things turned out as sour as he expected. So, with false bravado, he said, "And what if I was?"

"Oh, well, that would be...Are you saying you are?" John replied, rather inarticulately.

"That would be what, John? Disgusting? Hateful? Horrific? Or maybe even freakish?" the sleuth blurted out, sidestepping his friend's question.

"I might surprise you, Sherlock," John answered with a smile. "No, if you are, I have to say the only point which troubles me a bit is how and on whom you choose to feed."

"You wouldn't need to worry. Nobody would. Let's just say if I was, Molly woldn't supply me only with random organs," he revealed, still holding onto hypothetic sentences he could pass off as a joke. There wasn't anything so convenient in place at first, of course, but he would not be delving into what he'd been forced to do at first.

"That sounds like a good arrangement. Yeah. For the sake of the argument," John replied, looking at him with a soft, amazingly accepting look in his eyes, and yet a humorous glint that said he didn't entirely believe they were discussing a mere academic hypothesis. How he could manage to convey so many emotions without a long and winding speech baffled the sleuth. Then again, he'd always trained himself to hide his feelings, rather than show them – for his and everyone's safety.

"If that was how it worked, and you weren't going to try and bite me or one of our friends...then basically you would still be you, Sherlock. Still the same amazing, annoying creature. It would be all fine. I couldn't reasonably complain. You know, always for the sake of the argument, if mythical creatures truly existed…then I would not be exactly normal either," the doctor revealed, ending in a chuckle. His brave John. Was he going to confess his nature, even given the way vampires normally considered weres mindless beasts? Was he even aware of that?

Sherlock spared him the necessity of admitting. "I figured that out a long time ago. Really, John, it was obvious. Let's put our cards down for a moment, give up the 'ifs' and talking as if it didn't concern us at all. I know what you are, but that's rather the point. Moriarty was right. Werewolves generally don't like...bloodsuckers," he gritted out. Giving him a chance to realize the enormity – the error – of his earlier acceptance.

John laughed again, loudly and unmistakeably fondly. "Obvious. Naturally. Well, only to you, I hope. But Sherlock, there's something else that should be obvious. You're my pack...unless you have objections, of course," the doctor ended on a sheepish note.

The sleuth's heart swelled at the unexpected lack of rejection – and more, so much more than that –, suddenly too big for his ribcage. "It's an honour, John Watson," he replied earnestly. Objections? He wasn't raving mad.

"Let's go home, then. Before Moriarty decides to barge in. I'm still smelling him near," the werewolf warned, frowning.

"Yes, John," the detective agreed meekly. Better to, before he forgot everything and everyone – most of all himself – and attempted to cuddle John here and now. Moriarty notwithstanding, being pack still did not allow him to rub against his friend…or did it? The only instructions he'd received about werewolves from his sire said 'stay away and engage only if necessary…but if so, make sure they're dead and that you make the body disappear.' None was applicable in this situation.

The cab ride home was a quiet affair, both apparently evaluating the new truth. Acceptance aside, certainly not having to hide anymore would have consequences?...Or maybe not, because as soon as they were inside the flat John put on the kettle, and asked, "It might not nourish you, but will you drink it still?"

Sherlock, instead of humming a vague assent, opted to quip, "I am still a British gentleman, you know."

"Of course," his friend laughed. "Maybe even a proper lord, uh? I could believe that easily."

"Ah, no…besides, I am rather certain that even if I had been, the death I faced before my rebirth as a vampire would have stripped me of any claim to my hypothetic title. What you consider 'absurdly posh' is just the effect of me being awfully old, John," the detective admitted playfully, trying to fight the ridiculous happiness John's – just as Watson's – praise always caused, even when he knew it would be in vain.

"How old, if I may ask? There's not some… vampire etiquette rule against that, is there? You're not a lady, at the very least," John asked, offering the sleuth a cup of perfect tea and looking uncertain and curious at the same time.

"Not for you. If you were a vampire, too, I'd think you were trying to compare ages and somehow claim that being older – which you could very possibly be – meant that you were superior in other fields, too, and I would certainly take exception to that. Even counting my human life before changing, I am a bit under two centuries old. I might be a toddler in nosferatu's perspective, but it doesn't stop me from feeling ancient sometimes," Sherlock revealed, taking a sip of his drink. He had started to ramble, hadn't he? Someone stop him.

"A toddler, uh? Not that I can claim any old age – got bitten fairly recently too, actually – but I can see their point. Maybe. Did they catch you mid-sulk?" his…blogger (not pen-and-paper biographer anymore, nowadays) teased fondly.

Still, the sleuth was very tempted to pout at the goading. Didn't he deserve a bit of respect, at his age? But that would only have confirmed his friend (still friend, at least)'s insinuation. He simply sniffed, "Don't be ridiculous, John," and took his violin to show his displeasure in a more refined way.