In the Blood - Two

[darnedchild]

Summary: Some secrets are better left buried. Especially in the Holmes family. (I've always wanted to write a Sherlolly vampire story.)

Rating: M

A/N - Written for the 2017 Sherlolly Halloween fest.


In the Blood





Part Two

“No!” Molly gasped as her eyes snapped open. Her heart was pounding, but the ceiling fan lazily spinning above her was soothingly familiar.

She was in her own bed, in her own home.

She tried to shake off the last shades of terror and betrayal clouding her mind and told herself it was just a cruel trick of her subconscious that the monster in her nightmare looked like Sherlock.

“It wasn’t a dream, Miss Hooper.”

If her throat hadn’t been so dry, she would have screamed. She jerked and winced at how the sudden movement made her neck burn. As soon as she managed to sit up, her left hand reached upward to delicately prod at the gauze taped to her throat. There was pain, but it was dull and itching like a healing cut rather than the sharp white-hot agony she was expecting after . . .

The image of a pair of unnaturally blue eyes and red, red lips slipped into her thoughts again.

Molly clenched her teeth and willed it away. That—what she thought she’d remembered—couldn’t possibly have been real.

Someone had moved her father’s old armchair from the sitting room to the small space beside her bed even though there was barely any room. Mycroft Holmes had settled into it at some point. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him looking so haggard and unkempt. His suit jacket had been abandoned, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hair ruffled as if he’d run his fingers through it more than once, and there were dark bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

“What happened?” Her throat really was uncomfortably dry.

“Officially, there was a gas leak in one of the hospital labs. You were discovered unconscious but breathing. You are currently resting in your private room at Barts and are doing very well. If there are no complications, you should be released in another day or two.”

Mycroft leant over the arm of the chair and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on her bedside table. He passed her the glass without her asking, as if he’d been expecting her to wake up parched. She took it gratefully and gulped down half the contents.

“Unofficially?” she asked, although part of her was terrified to know.

“My brother. Thankfully, my people were already en route when Sherlock called to update me, frantic. He . . . kept your heart beating until they arrived and were able to administer aid.”

She reached up to finger the bandage at her throat again. “No. That’s not-not possible.”

“I am sorry to say that you have had the misfortune to stumble upon yet another of my family’s dirty little secrets.” Mycroft hung his head as if gathering his thoughts, then drew a deep breath. “I imagine you have questions?”

Molly stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What are you? Are you, I mean, are you like him?”

For a moment, he looked pained. “I am just as human as you are.”

Why, she wondered, did that make her feel as if there was something he wasn’t telling her?

“Sherlock, however, is not. Not anymore. Forget what you think you know about vampires, Miss Hooper. Most of it is pure rubbish.”

Vampire. The very thought was insane and yet . . .

She forced herself to try to focus on anything besides the memory of Sherlock and blood, so much blood, until she could calm the panic that was threatening to turn into full blown hysteria. “If Sherlock is a-a vampire, then how come I’m not dead?”

“My team had the first blood transfusion started within minutes of . . . the incident. Sherlock did what was necessary to keep you alive until-“

“Sherlock kept-He’s the one who almost killed me!” Somehow, of all the other things she wanted to say next, the only thing that came out was a heartbreakingly soft, “He hurt me.” After everything they’d been through together, after the broken way he’d whispered those three words six months ago and shattered her heart into a million pieces, after telling her he could never be the man she needed but he would always care for her, after every soft look and gentle smile. “He hurt me.”

Mycroft leaned toward her and put his hand on the blanket near her own, not quite touching but close enough that they would be if one of them moved just a fraction of an inch. It was the closest thing to sympathetic compassion she’d ever seen him direct toward someone who wasn’t Sherlock; and that, more than anything, made her realize just how upset he was. “I know, Miss Hooper. Believe me, I know.”

He looked down at their hands for a moment, his fingers twitched. “Sherlock was mortally wounded in an encounter with a vampire hunter. Without blood, he was going to die. His best odds for survival lay with the supply set aside for his use at Barts.” He waited a moment to see if she was going to make the connection on her own. “The bags reserved for Dr Williams.”

“The haematology research.” She’d never seen the elusive Dr Williams himself, only his assistants who periodically came in to replace the older bags with fresh ones; but she’d never been curious enough to go looking, either.

“Your involvement was an unforeseen complication.”

“Complication!” How dare he!

His hand slid over hers, entreating her to listen. “You have to understand; the bagged blood would have staved off true death long enough to give us a chance to reach him. But it isn’t as potent as fresh blood from a living donor, and it was never going to be enough to heal him. Your proximity was more than he could resist in his weakened state; his primal self-preservation instincts took over. In all the years since he was turned, something like that has only happened one other time.”

Molly snatched her hand away. “Is that supposed to make me feel special? He couldn’t resist the temptation, so that makes it all right? Am I supposed to forgive him now?”

Mycroft gracelessly slumped back into the chair. “No one expects you to forgive him, Miss Hooper. Least of all Sherlock himself.” He shook his head and grimaced. “I suspect, even if you were willing to offer him absolution, he will never be able to forgive himself for violating you and destroying your trust.”

She rubbed her temples, trying to fend off what was probably the beginning of a tension headache. “All these years, how could I have not noticed?”

“You have.” Mycroft ran his hands over his hair, smoothing down the mussed bits. “Think about how skittish and flustered you felt you when you first met, versus how you feel now after spending so much time with him over the years.”

“He did that?” She was beginning to feel nauseated, and it had very little to do with the earlier blood loss. How much of her past with Sherlock had been a lie? “I thought it was just . . .”

“A mere crush?”

“Are you saying that what I felt-“ His eyes seemed to bore into her as if he knew she was lying. “Feel. It’s not real?”

“It’s very real. The fact that your . . . feelings for him have matured and endured through everything my brother has done is testament to that.”

She realized she was picking at the bandage on her neck and forced her hands into her lap.

“If it’s any consolation, it’s not something he has any control over. People recognize there’s something predatory about him and their instinctive reactions are strong. Sometimes it’s fear, hostility, distrust. Occasionally, as in your case, it’s the complete opposite and there is an immediate attraction.”

Molly flushed and looked anywhere but at Mycroft. It was true, she had been awestruck by Sherlock the moment she’d seen him. It took awhile—far longer than she was comfortable with—for her to remember that she was a mature, intelligent woman who wasn’t going to let her libido overrule her common sense every time he came into the room. Was that what Mycroft had meant? Had she been under the influence of Sherlock’s supernatural pheromones (or whatever Mycroft wanted to call it)?

“Tell me, Miss Hooper, do you remember ever being so distracted by his presence that you felt as if you’d lost track of time? Have you ended up somewhere unexpected, and you couldn’t quite remember how you got there?”

It had happened a few times. She’d told herself she had been really tired, or that her blood sugar must have dropped too low, or some other excuse that had made sense at the time. “Sherlock?”

Mycroft hummed in agreement. “He can influence someone into remembering an event differently than it happened, or even forgetting a moment entirely. It requires a great deal of effort, however, and it isn’t something he does lightly. I’ve only known him to do it in order to protect someone.”

“Protect me from what, knowing his secret?” She knew she came off sounding rude, but she felt she could be forgiven considering the circumstances.

Mycroft arched a brow and somehow managed to look down his nose from his seat in the armchair. “Do you honestly think my brother would have cared that you knew about his condition, if there weren’t outside forces to worry about? I have no doubt that he would have been delighted to impress you with stories of his outlandish escapades and ask your help with his research efforts. But that is not how things are done in the darkest shadows, Miss Hooper. You don’t get to know these things without being bound by certain rules. Ignorance really is bliss, in this situation.”

Molly gulped. “So, why didn’t he do it this time? Make me forget. Come up with some reasonable explanation for my injuries.”

He leaned toward her and held her gaze with his own. “Because this time it wasn’t some strange man waking up on your slab or another threatening to kill you because you witnessed the wrong thing. This time it was Sherlock. The only person he would have been protecting, if he’d taken your memory without consent, would have been himself.”

“And me? What if I don’t want to remember his eyes, the way he-“

The way he made me feel. Wanting his touch, his lips and tongue against my skin. Needing his mouth and fingers at my throat, between my thighs.

Briefly, between the shocking pain of his bite and the numbing fear of death she had felt desire so intense . . .

Even now, just thinking about it made her tremble. God, if she didn’t know any better, she would swear that she could smell him; as if his scent had somehow imprinted on her skin.

She took a deep breath and realized she’d knotted her fingers together so tightly they had turned white.

“If that’s what you wish. But that window of opportunity won’t be open much longer.” Mycroft’s eyes cut toward the door and Molly knew with dead certainty that Sherlock Holmes was waiting on the other side.

Her heartrate sped up. She shook her head, almost violently. “No. I don’t want, not that. I don’t want to lose anymore memories.” She turned her gaze to the door and pitched her voice higher, louder. “Ever again. I don’t care how dangerous you think it might be. No more!”

“Calm yourself, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft blanched when the full force of her glare was turned on him. “I apologize. Your distress is understandable.”

“I should hope so!” Molly closed her eyes and tried to centre herself by taking several calm, measured breaths. When she opened them, she realized she was leaning across the bed, part of her yearning to be just a little bit closer to the man standing just beyond the door. It made her feel restless, uncomfortable in her own skin. “I can’t see him. Not right now. Please.” Something inside her protested her own words. Whatever it was wanted to see him, wanted to be close enough to touch him.

Mycroft was watching her closely, his face an expressionless mask. “Don’t fear, he won’t come in. Not without your permission.”

A thought occurred to her. “Can he? Walk into someone’s place without being invited, I mean?” Before he had a chance to roll his eyes or say something derisive, Molly corrected herself. “Obviously he can. I’ve seen him do it. And you said to forget all that stuff they say in the films. Probably a no on the crosses, too?”

He nodded. “Daylight, religious iconography, scattered grains of rice, roses and hawthorn, inability to cross a threshold uninvited. All stories invented to keep villagers from suspecting the pleasant farmer up the road might also be the beast that stalks the night.”

“Stakes?”

Mycroft looked down his nose again. “I imagine a stake to the heart would kill just about any man, vampire or not.”

If she didn’t feel so anxious, she might have found his deadpan delivery morbidly amusing. This time, however, her only reply was a lip curled in a barely threatening snarl.

“And that brings us to another complication, I’m afraid.”

Molly grimaced. “I don’t know if I’m ready for anything else.” At this point, all she really wanted was for both Holmes brothers to bugger off and let her clear her head and think; something she suspected wouldn’t happen as long as she knew Sherlock was nearby.

“You’ll want to know this, I can assure you.” Mycroft began to unroll his shirt sleeves, not meeting her eyes as he smoothed the material and fastened each cuff. “My brother fed off of you.”

She huffed, “I am aware of that.”

He ignored her and continued, “You were dying, Miss Hooper.” Molly paled but didn’t interrupt him again. “To keep you alive, he opened his vein for you.”

A wispy memory of something hot and wet trickled across her lips. The phantom metallic taste of iron filled her mouth. Molly thought she was going to be sick.

“It wasn’t much, just a few mouthfuls would have been potent enough to keep your heart beating.” If he was trying to reassure her, he was making a horrible mess of it. “You will likely experience some temporary side effects until your body has purged all traces of the exchange from your system.”

“What-“ She cleared her throat and tried again. “What kind of side effects?”

“I’m sure you’ve already noticed a new difficulty with controlling your emotional responses.”

That would explain why she felt like she had been bouncing from one extreme to another.

“You’ll be stronger, faster, greater endurance. Nothing superhuman, mind. Just more than you may be used to. You will heal quickly. I expect that you will no longer need that-“ He nodded toward the gauze at her neck, and Molly reached up to cover it with her hand. “-by tomorrow. The scarring should be minimal, if not non-existent.”

Perversely, she felt a sharp pang of loss at not carrying his mark, Sherlock’s mark. How wrong was that? Molly shook her head and forced the thought away. “Is that it?”

Mycroft frowned. “One more. You are . . . aware of him.”

That was an understatement. Her entire body nearly vibrated with the knowledge that he was in her home, close enough to hear her call his name if she wanted.

“Proximity will amplify it, but you will feel . . . something, regardless of where he is and how far apart you are.” Mycroft seemed as if he were about to reach for her hand again when she paled and drew in a sharp breath. He stopped himself and withdrew as far back as the chair would allow. “Unfortunately, that will take far longer to fade away than the others. It will become easier to ignore, over time.”

He knows. He’s talking from experience. He’s gone through this himself.

As if he knew where her thoughts had gone, Mycroft cleared his throat and changed the subject. “You have several different choices on how you wish to proceed from this point on, Miss Hooper. Obviously, you could take your new knowledge to the media; but no one would believe you. At best you’d be a laughing stock. Think of your job, your family, the risk to your very life if the wrong people thought you knew their secrets.”

That was a threat if she’d ever heard one. She wanted to ask who those wrong people were, and how many of them worked alongside Mycroft in the British government but thought better of it after she met his eye again. “That doesn’t really sound like an option at all. What else do you have?”

“You will be offered a position at a hospital of your choice anywhere in England. You will also receive a generous inheritance from a distant relation that will cover any relocation expenses and leave more than enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life, considering your current lifestyle.”

Molly’s thoughts whirled and raced as she listened to his offer. That was far too much for a simple pay off to get her out of the way. Sherlock came from money, she’d never once seen him worry about paying the rent (no matter what he might have told John when they’d first met), but there was no way he could afford to set her up for life just to get her out of his hair. Mycroft, though . . . He might have the money, but did he have the influence to get her a job anywhere the whim took her? His authority could only stretch so far without the backing of something, or someone, even more powerful. Which meant this wasn’t strictly about outing Sherlock. That could explain how haggard Mycroft had looked when she’d first woken up, if pressure had come down on him to keep her from spilling what she knew and shining a light on the creepy things that lived in the shadows of London.

Part of her wanted to agree, to run as far away from London as possible, but she couldn’t do it. “No. I like my job, I like my life here. I don’t want to leave.”

He nodded as if he’d been prepared for that answer. “Then certain concessions will have to be made.”

What did that mean? Certain concessions about what?

“Aside from the blood supply stored in the lab coolers for my brother’s emergency use, which will not be relocated under any circumstances.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes and studied her, as if waiting for her to object.

She didn’t, but she did set her jaw and give him a look that promised they would be talking about it again later. There would be a long discussion about locking doors and safety protocols because she was damned if she was going to let something like that happen to anyone else. Not tonight, not when she still felt as if her world had been turned upside down and inside out, but soon.

Mycroft remained silent for a long moment, then nodded. Message received. “Aside from the stored blood, Sherlock has been using the hospital facilities to work on find a cure for his condition.
Unfortunately, his work has proven futile up to this point. It is imperative that he continue to have access to his experiments and research. I . . . won’t allow him to give up hope after all these years.”

“I wouldn’t want that, either.” Molly drew in a deep breath and straightened her spine and her resolve. “So what are you suggesting?”

“You will receive advance notice when Sherlock is en route to the hospital if at all possible. Once he is in the building, a member of security will be on alert to ensure your contact will be kept to the absolute barest minimum. While Sherlock hopes that you will continue to work with the Yard on the cases he has been invited to consult on, in any capacity that you feel comfortable with, he fully understands if you choose not to.”

That seemed reasonable. Was it reasonable? Or did it just seem like that because Mycroft said it with such authority and her thoughts were so clouded and confused, half of her mind fixated on whether or not she ever wanted to see Sherlock again.

“I-I am willing to give it a try.”

“Thank you, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft stood and reached for his suit jacket.

“And Sherlock? What is he going to do?” Molly found herself asking before he could finish slipping it on.

He sighed and pursed his lips as the garment settled around his shoulders. For a second, she thought he looked disappointed in her. “I know this must be a lot to adjust to in such a short time period, but we did just establish that my brother will continue to have access to the hospital. He has agreed to give you as much space as you require and-“

“No.” Molly shook her head. “What about Sherlock? Will he be all right?”

Mycroft hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “What do you mean?”

“I remember his face, before I lost consciousness. He didn’t want to do what he did.” She wasn’t ready to forgive him. She honestly didn’t know if she’d ever be ready. But she couldn’t bear the thought of him punishing himself over and over for something he hadn’t been able to control. She remembered how he had been after Mary died. He’d given up, somehow managed to convince himself that it didn’t matter what happened to him because he didn’t deserve Mary’s sacrifice. “Make sure he doesn’t . . . Tell him that I will find him when the time is right, and that I will be very cross if he’s done something stupid in the meantime.”

His brother nodded, the very corners of his lips tilted up in the hint of a grateful smile. “I shall pass that along. Good evening, Miss Hooper.”



Part 1 / Part 3