The Awakening (A Sherlock/Moriarty Vampire Fic - Canon AU)

Chapter One

    With a shaking bloody hand, Jim Moriarty turned the door-knob of two-two-one-B-Baker Street. He quietly opened the door - midway, a dizzy wave made him sway towards it. Gritting his teeth, he stopped it from slamming against the wall. He had to be quiet. He needed help and wouldn't get it if he were to be discovered by their Land Lady, Ms. Hudson. There may have been screaming, possible things being thrown at him, and then the Police would have been called.
     No-no. His words were breathy as he said, "Too soon. Not yet." He kept his back to the door as he took in a few deep breaths. He was tired, sore, and it took ever bit of his remaining strength to keep himself upright. After what he'd been through this was cake. That's what he told himself as he closed the door. The blatant lie evoked an involuntary huff of amusement.
     Even that sounded tired.
     He braced his palms on the closed door and shut his eyes. Dizziness threatened to slam him in to unconsciousness. "Almost there," he whispered. His chest moved quickly with struggled breaths. He was so tired.
     White spots in his vision didn't stop him from going to the stairs. He slid his hand along the wall to keep standing, and then he used the banister to go the rest of the way up. It was slow going. Deprived of air lungs made his sore muscles burn as he went up. Sherlock being home was a gamble - the Flat turned out to be empty.
     He closed the door, went to the Seating Room, grabbed the blanket from Dr. Watson's chair, lay on the couch and covered his entire body. They may forgive him for dripping blood everywhere. Probably not. It wasn't like it'd matter. He hadn't turned on a light and the darkness made him feel relaxed - Free.
     He could finally just stop, and he had. Dizziness crashed over him and this time he didn't fight it. His awareness abruptly dropped and then swirled down - clockwise around, and then his covered body took on a heavy appearance. A few vehicles outside went by. Silence swelled in the darkened room, bringing the refrigerators hum to attention.

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     "I can't wait to go to sleep," John said.
     "Well, it has been over twenty-four hours, so it's understandable," Sherlock said.
     They were on the sidewalk, heading for the door. John's exhaustion made him even point at it. "Yes," he said and walked faster.
     Sherlock's eyes were heavy lidded, with light gray circles just beneath his bottom lid. His curly hair was barely frizzled though. He'd looked a lot worse and still stayed up much longer. John reached for the door and he grabbed his wrist to stop him. "What," he asked, no longer sounding tired.
     Sherlock rarely touched anyone, so the shock caused a burst of adrenaline. "There's blood on the door-knob and the door," he said.
     John looked at it and yes, there it was. Sherlock, with an ever gloved hand when outside, turned the door-knob. He slowly opened the door, John peeking under his arm. There was no one inside and there were no sounds hinting at Ms. Hudson being home. But that didn't mean she wasn't.
     Bloody footprints started at the door and went up the stairs. "Do you think it's Ms. Hudson's blood here," John asked.
     "No. The footprints are too big and if Ms. Hudson was injured, it wouldn't make since for her to go outside and then come back in to the Flat. She'd of called Emergency, rather she was inside or away from here. Or someone else would have," Sherlock said.
      Relief flooded him and after taking in a deep breath John followed him to the stairs. Sherlock used his clean glove to touch below lines of blood on the wall as he went. All signs pointed to the injured person going to the Flat. It hadn't been the first time something like this had happened, but there'd never been this much blood. They'd even come home to find a dead body in the Seating room.
     It was the victim's dying wish for them to solve their murder. John may have been a Doctor, but he'd just eaten and he was tired. He wasn't sure he could handle seeing a corpse right now, and with this much blood, he was pretty sure it's what they were about to find. The Flat's door was open - blood was on it's knob as well, and a bloody hand print above it. Sherlock studied it then said, "The palm is more bold than the fingers, which makes since."
     "The person could be five-three at most, but the thickness on the knob means they squeezed it hard, and pushed the door open in an up-like manner. Like the evidence shows, they're obviously wounded, most likely already dead. They had to have been leaning over, so most likely a stomach wound. Although, it could be broken ribs, but if that were the case, they wouldn't have pressed up. They would've pressed forward."
     "They were so weak that they shouldn't have been able to get here. Who ever they were, they were determined."
That Sherlock said they 'were' confirmed the victim was already dead. Also, that he didn't say 'boring' meant he was, at the most, curious. The flat was illuminated only by the lit building across the street and the street lights, but the Flat was higher, so they could barely make out the shape of things. Sherlock clicked on the standing lamp and he blinked. "The couch," he said tonelessly.
     A small crease appeared between John's brows. As many dead bodies as he'd seen he'd mostly developed a tolerance for the sight of them, but none affected him as much as a person who appeared to have died peacefully, when it'd been anything but. This one had most likely been stabbed and had used their last bit of energy to come to them for after death retribution. They were hidden beneath his personal blanket, curled towards the couch. "They couldn't have been there long," he said.
     "There's no stench."
     "Yes," Sherlock said distractedly. He was walking towards the couch, predatorily focused on the covered body. He worked a part of the blanket over their middle, which left their face and legs concealed. "It came free easily. The body isn't stiff, but the blankets not warm."
     "It feels room temperature. It makes it impossible to determine the length of time they've been dead. Strange." He uncovered their face and his eyes squinched up. Blood was splattered on their right cheek, over their nose, and on their forehead.
     The corner of their lip was busted and bruised, blood had run down their chin and dried, and blood had dried in their nostrils. His initial reaction to exactly who this was should have been dramatic, but it was too improbable for him to process, much less accept. "John, can you confirm something for me," he said, once again, tonelessly.
     He'd remained a reasonable distance back. Immediately walking forward he said, "What?"
     "I just... Just do it. Tell me who this is." He stepped back enough for him to see.
     One glance and he knew. "My God," he said. "It's Moriarty."