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Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Part one of three, inspired by this gorgeous piece on Tumblr. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine…. Happy Hallowe’en/ Samhain Shona Doibh! Musical inspiration for this chapter is here

SLOW WATERS

All Hallow’s Day,

Molly tightens the knots. Sets the looking-glass just so. 

Even if she can’t be physically present, she wants to be able to watch.  

Moonlight streams in through the window, painting everything with a pearlescent, ghostly glow. Asleep, dreaming, the mortal man- now her mortal man- frowns, face puckering into an oddly youthful expression of distress. 

He is, she finds herself thinking , so very, very beautiful. 

Ans as if to display himself for her, he pulls at his bonds in his sleep, arms protesting their position. Were things different then she would release him at this first sign of discomfort but tonight she won’t. Tonight, she can’t risk it. When he wakes he needs to be secured, bound.  

All rites must be properly performed if he is to be found acceptable by her Court, she reminds herself grimly, and she will not risk his safety because of her own impatience. 

At the thought she sighs, shaking her head and sitting down on the bed. This close he smells mouth-wateringly good, and it’s all she can do to keep her control. Still, she cards her fingers through the mortal’s hair, soothing him and whispering sweet nonsense into his ear. Like a beast being petted, he calms in his sleep. Leans into her hand. He smiles and it is blindingly lovely in that quiet, dark room. He stretches, turning, body lithe and strong and oh, but Molly is grateful to her sister’ scheming in that moment. She is also grateful for the fact that he’s not wearing a stitch. He’s in the easiest part of it now, she knows, he’s in the soft, dreaming sleep which precedes the upheaval of transformation…

The rest will be painful. Difficult. Not every mortal makes it through the process. 

He’s strong, she reminds herself, parroting her own advice to Anthea not long ago- And even if he wasn’t, you can’t do it for him. 

Her sister’s rather blunt reaction to that advice echoes through her head and despite herself she snorts in amusement: for all her grace and poise, Anthea can be every bit as wilful as Rosamund when she feels she has a need to express herself.   

The mortal lets out a low, pleased hum then, his emotions chiming to match Molly’s own. She can feel his presence in her chest now, a sweet bass note that echoes through her bones. Pleasure, warm and possessive, moves through and despite herself she leans down. Presses a soft, hungry kiss against her mortal’s carotid artery. He tastes of salt and flesh. His pulse pounds and she licks it; in his sleep the mortal whimpers, reaching for her. His hips cant towards her, needy and aching, and were they in any other place at any other time she would answer him, she would show him what precisely his body was for and who precisely he belongs to now- 

Alas however, she can’t. Not now. Not yet. 

Patience, she tells herself again. Patience. 

That is what you’re always telling Anthea and Rosamund- Best you take your own advice. 

And so schools her wilful nature. Reminds herself of the pleasures to come. Once he’s fully across you can lock yourselves inside Rakesback Manor for at least a month, she tells herself. Once he’s across you can demonstrate all the wonderful advantages his new nature has bestowed on him to both your hearts’ contents. You’’ll fuck and feed and sleep and talk and if anyone tries to interfere then you’ll rip their throats right out, content in the knowledge that you’re well within your rights to do so. He is hers to keep, after all, after this night. At the thought Molly smiles, running her incisors along his carotid artery this time, tracing the path her tongue took. He shivers in his sleep, and beneath the thin sheet she can see he’s growing hard. 

This pleases her immeasurably. 

“I’m going to take such care of you,” she whispers. “I’m going to take such good care of you, my fine, sweet boy…” 

And she kisses his lips. Tasting him. Savouring him. The time for devouring is later. His mouth falls open, lips begging to be kissed more, begging to be bitten, and it is only with the greatest difficulty that she pulls herself away. He frowns, unhappy as she puts some distance between them, but as he does so she feels pain knife suddenly through him, feels it as if it were her own. He hisses, back bowing as his limbs spasm, eyes fluttering beneath his closed eyelids and there, there, she feels his pain again. It is agonising . Every protective, possessive instinct within her hisses into life, all of them demanding that she find whatever it is that’s hurting him and and put a stop it- She will not allow what is hers to be harmed- 

She moves towards him but even as she does, the door slams open behind her and suddenly her sister’s arm is like a vice around her waist. 

“He has to go through it,” Rosamund whispers, “you of all people know that he has to go through it.” 

And then she’s being pulled backwards, pulled away from the room, pulled away from her mortal. Irene has one of her arms and Anthea has the other- “Not yet,” Rosemund is whispering soothingly in her ear, “Not yet, Molly, you have to stay away, you have to let him get through it without you-“ 

The mortal’s howl of pain rips through her though, wrapping her heart in a fist. Making her snarl and show her teeth. Making her claw and fight. But her sisters hold onto her with a grip as harsh as iron and salt. Her sisters murmur that all will be well, that her mortal is strong, that her Sherlock will survive. There is a reason that they chose him, after all . Molly feels bloody tears on her cheeks, screams in impotent rage at her own helplessness but it makes no difference, she can’t get free… 

One way or another, it was going to be a long night. 

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks to all who have read, commented, kudoed and enjoyed, and thanks in particular to Mel-Loves-All for the inspiration. Sound track song is here: Enjoy!

THE CRIMSON PETAL, AND THE WHITE

The Embankment, October 29th 

People called them the Three Sisters, and to be honest, Sherlock has always assumed they were a myth. 

For London is a place which thrives on creating legends, which gorges itself on them. Making monsters real is what this city does, it  lionizes itself into legend as easily as it rebuilds itself from wattle and daub to brick and concrete and glass. And that being the case, why shouldn’t the Three Sisters be real? And why shouldn’t that wanker Sebastian Wilkes have disappeared while hobnobbing at their (admittedly legendary) establishment? If the city is, as Sherlock once poetically claimed, a beautiful, rancid sewer into which everything eventually flows, then why shouldn’t it have a floating gambling den run by three ageless beauties? Why shouldn’t there be some nights in the year in which the Thames freezes into hoar-frost and twists itself into a palace of dark water and music and ice? 

For a city like London, Sherlock muses, such happenings are simply on-brand. 

Despite himself he snickers, imagining Mycroft suggesting as much for London’s next tourism campaign. Even as he thinks this though, his stomach gives an odd, uncomfortable swoop, his skin breaking out into goose flesh. Sherlock frowns, drawing the Belstaff tighter about himself, and peers into the darkness, trying to ascertain the cause. While he may be willing to listen to Wilkes’ wife’s theories about Supernatural London (the capital letters always implied in Sabrina’s conversation), he has never, for a moment, taken the woman’s theories literally. Even being here, looking for her errant husband, is more of a favour than anything else. 

And yet… 

It’s odd: this section of The Thames, with its closeness to both the Embankment and Temple, is never quiet, but as he looks around he realises that the street has become utterly still. There isn’t even a whisper of wind. The street is bereft of both cars and people, which is… incredibly bloody unlikely at this time of night. 

As if to underline the thought a sudden cold breeze starts up, flaring around him and bringing with it a smattering of...snow? Hale? No, he realises, stooping down to examine some of the detritus now spattered against his coat. It’s not snow, it’s… moths. Tiny, white, moths, no bigger than his thumb-nail. 

They flutter and flop, ungainly with their thick, furry bodies and gossamer light wings and he holds one up to examine, fascinated as always be something new- 

“You came.” A snort. “Told them you would.”

The voice comes out of nowhere, female, wry, and Sherlock tells himself he doesn’t jump at it. He doesn’t. Rather, he makes a point of releasing the moth, following its trajectory as it flies free from him and comes to land on the woman who spoke to him. Its fellows do likewise, settling around her shoulders almost like a shawl. 

She coos to them, as a mother might to her child. 

The woman is small, impish. She has short blonde hair and a bright smile, her body wrapped in a pearlescent white sheath dress, every bit as delicate as her moths’ gossamer wings. Her blue eyes dance with mischief and it doesn’t happen often but Sherlock feels an instant liking for her. 

“I’m Rosemund,” she says peremptorily, grinning. “You’re looking for Wilkes, aren’t you?”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, crossing his arms. Someone is trying to show off, now isn’t she? Still- 

“A+ effort for the special effects,” he says, gesturing to the moths. “D- for bringing up the obvious.” He sniffs theatrically. “If you’re looking to impress me, you’ll have to do better, my dear.”

Rosamund laughs at that, a bright, warm thing, and without any invitation walks over to him, hooking her arm through his. Sherlock shoots her a look- “We hardly know one another,” - to which she grins and starts walking him down a gang-plank towards the river, a gang-plank he hadn’t seen just moments before. 

He stops, unsure and wrong-footed, something he rarely is. 

Something crawls up his spine, something… odd. Something like a thrill that has curdled. 

“It’s a walk, Sherlock, not a shag,” Mary laughs though, tugging him playfully towards the ramp. At her words the strange… whatever-it-was disappears, replaced with a sene of calm. “Unclench a little,” she’s saying, “I’m about to bring you to the man you’re looking for.”

He snorts. “I’ve heard that before.”

“I’m sure you have, with those cheekbones.” Another, light laugh and despite himself, Sherlock smiles, allows himself to be towed towards the water and onto the gang-plank. He’s about to ask how she knows Wilkes but as soon as he sets foot on it the pressure must set something off: low, warm lights sputter into brightness, soothing and soft as so many fireflies. They form a snaking tunnel around him. 

The effect is rather... beautiful. 

“I’ll let you in,” Rosamund is saying, “and then we’ll let Wilkes out.” She makes a face. “He’s not what I would call good company, that one.” 

You have me there. Sherlock’s about to say as much but before he does a doorway lights up a few meters ahead of him and he sees Sebastian Wilkes lounging against the doorframe, tired and ruffled and (as usual) looking immoderately pleased with himself. 

A small, dark-haired woman is standing beside him, examining her fingernails. 

She’s wearing a Victorian evening gown of dripping, bloody red and an expression of absolute boredom. 

“Sherlock!” Wilkes calls and his speech sounds slurred. “So glad you could make it!” He looks at the woman beside him. “Did I tell you, or did I tell you?”

“You told us,” the woman in red says. “Repeatedly.” A look at Sherlock. “Are you satisfied that he’s alive, and that no permanent damage has been done to him?” 

She sounds as if she is absolutely ready to be done with this entire encounter. 

Holmes thinks it an odd question but still, he closes the gap between him and the other man, leaving Rosamund behind. He crouches down, peers closely at Wilkes, examining him and wondering to himself just how much of a pain in the arse he’s going to be in the taxi back to his darling wife- 

“What did you take?” he asks tightly. 

He knows the signs too well not to notice them. 

Wilkes blinks slowly at him. “Fruit,” he says. A dreamy, drowsy smile slides over his face. “Strawberries. And wine and honey and-” 

“It’s not a metaphor.” Rosamund speaks over him. “We didn’t give him anything illegal. Just… strawberries.” 

She and the other woman share a smile; By now she’s caught up to him, and she’s pulling Wilkes upright with a great deal more strength than so small a woman would normally possess. 

“Tell your friend you’re alright and then I’ll pour you into a cab, Sebastian,” she says loudly, as if she’s speaking to an imbecile. Sherlock supposes she is.  “You may consider your debt to us paid, alright?” 

“What?”

Sherlock suddenly rounds on her: His presence here is payment for a debt? 

He tenses, preparing himself for a fight. This is not the first time an acquaintance has been used in order to draw him in. Wilkes just smiles that imbecilic, irritating grin as Rosamund nods to the woman beside him, though. He seems blissfully unaware of how much trouble he has caused Sherlock. 

“Swap you,” Rosemund says, pulling Wilkes to her side and stepping away from Sherlock. “This is Anthea,” she says, gesturing to the other woman. “She’ll take you inside-” 

“I’m not going inside.” 

And Sherlock rocks back on his heels, preparing to lash out. The tightness of the space might make things difficult but he’s definitely not setting foot in any place that would use Sebastian Wilkes to get him there. Rosamund and Anthea exchange another look, some nameless communication passing between them, but before anything they can say anything a voice starts drifting through the door of the club. It’s sweet. Soft. Utterly, unbearably heartbroken. 

It seems to wrap around Sherlock as sweetly and as tightly as hand-woven silk. 

Without his willing them to, his feet take a step forward, Wilkes almost forgotten. His heart is thumping loudly, the voice vibrating sweetly down his spine. The two women exchange another look, but this one is pleased. Satisfied. 

“Told you,” Rosamund mutters, and Anthea rolls her eyes. 

Sherlock knows he should be suspicious- angry- at that but he finds he just can’t be. He just doesn’t seem to have it in him. That thrill from earlier, that thrill that slid down. his spine, it’s back. It’s thrumming through him. He feels like a violin string that has just been plucked. 

“Step inside,” Anthea says softly. Her voice has an odd echo to it. “Cross over my threshold willingly, and leave some of the joy you bring behind.” 

And she takes his elbow, bringing him forward. Sherlock nods, feeling dazed. Feeling angry- or at least, that he should be angry. What on earth is wrong with him? And yet that voice, that sweet voice. It sings to him. Calls to him. 

It feels as if it’s balming something sharp and hot and angry, a raw ache buried deep inside him. 

Without thinking about it, without quite deciding, Sherlock steps past Wilkes, past Rosamund and Anthea and in through the door before him. Into the darkness. 

He doesn’t notice the door disappear behind him, nor would he care if he did

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Please note, this chapter contains kinky vampire sexy times, so,if that’s not your bag, consider yourself warned. For the perverts among us, though- Enjoy! Musical accompaniment here... 

THE BLACK HARE’S WALTZ

Sherlock travels through the space, unable to really focus on anything around him. 

All he can hear, all he can concentrate on, is the sound of that lone, sweet voice. 

Oh, he sees raised floors, sees dancers in various states of undress. They writhe and twist together, in pairs and threes and groups so large he can’t help but think of them as packs. The music they’re dancing to must be loud, percussive, he can feel the thud of it travelling up through his feet; in the dark their eyes glow like a fox’s or a cat’s, in the dark they coo at him, show him teeth that are sharp and distended. Animal. Unnatural . 

Some part of Sherlock knows that he should fear them, but he does not. 

Because he tells himself that these fangs are fake, that they’re prostheses or makeup. Tells himself that the glowing eyes are contact lenses, that all he’s witnessing is a common or garden sex party-cum-gambling den and not something supernatural- 

And yet, he still can’t hear anything but that woman’s voice. Can’t stop his feet from moving forward. 

The word “enchantment,” dances on the tip of his tongue but he dares not say it aloud. 

So his feet- and that voice- carry him through the cavern of dancers, to a set of spiralling stairs. Up, he goes, up, past balconies moulded from solid ice, smaller rooms branching off them and leading deeper within the cavern. Childhood memories of mazes and Minotaurs tug at his mind. When he looks down he sees the Thames through the frozen floor beneath the dancers’ feet and he is overcome suddenly, with a wave of dizziness at the unreality of everything around him. He sways on his feet for a moment, feeling sick, but as quickly as it comes the nausea passes. The voice drives it away. He turns to his right, pads through a darkened doorway and then there she is, the singer. The woman who drew him to her. 

Setting eyes upon her feels like a bell has been struck within him, like something askew inside himself is suddenly set right. 

Her back is to him, song flowing out of her. She is slight. Small. Wrapped in loose, iridescent black silks. Her eyes are closed, fingers tracing patterns which Sherlock recognises as piano chords. She wears an expression of such heart-breaking sadness that it makes Sherlock ache to look. He has to look away- Takes in the room around him. It’s lit by candles, a fire flares in the grate. Along the walls and ceiling someone has painted a huge hunting scene, three hares- one white, one red, one black- being chased by men with torches. Men on horseback. At the head of the hunt is a curly-haired figure in Elizabethan finery; the house in the background looks almost like Musgrave Hall… But that can’t be right. Sherlock steps closer to examine the image and suddenly the woman stops her song. Turns to him. 

The absence of her voice feels deafening. 

Faster than he can blink she’s across the room, lips drawn back from her teeth in an animal snarl.  

One small, clever hand wraps around his throat and suddenly, suddenly Sherlock is lifted off his feet. 

It’s no mean feat for one so small. 

“What is this?” She hisses. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” 

And she tightens her grip, nails digging into his throat. Sherlock gasps, tries to answer and she shakes him hard, as a hound might a rabbit. His pulse thuds, excitement flushing through him and he really doesn’t want to but he feels himself getting hard. Oh,Christ, no. For if there’s one thing he’s always been vulnerable to, it’s a woman who’ll handle him roughly. Other men may crave a sweet, soft girl but that’s never been Sherlock’s particular poison… Not when the opposite is so very enjoyable… 

And maybe it’s the tenting in front of his trousers she notices, or maybe his pupils’ dilation gives it away, but suddenly… Suddenly the woman leans into him. Suddenly she meets his gaze, her own so dark and deep it feels bottomless. She presses her nose to that spot where his throat meets his shoulder, breathes in deeply, sighing, her grip on his throat gentling as a sweet, crooning sound tumbles from her lips…  

She doesn’t put him down, oh no, but her grip on his neck eases. 

Slowly, slowly she presses him back against the wall. Slowly, slowly, she steps in closer to him, the scent of her perfume fanning around him. The solidness of her body is delicious against his own. 

Sherlock can’t help it: he feels himself go lax beneath her gaze. 

She looks up at him with wide, sweet, smoky-brown eyes and slowly, teasingly, she brings her mouth to his. Kisses him so sweetly. He moans, unable to help himself and he feels her grin against his mouth. Feels her grip on his throat tighten. She presses her hips into his, teasing, teasing and when he doesn’t object her free hand scratches harshly down his chest to cup his cock. To squeeze him. He chokes out a pleased growl and suddenly, without warning, she nips his lower lip. Bloodying it, opening it. Sherlock would object but before he can say anything she sucks it into her mouth, soothing the hurt, her free hand squeezing and caressing him. Making him moan for her. He feels her tongue dart out to lick the wound and immediately warmth seeps into him, calmness too. 

It feels like nothing so much as the first time he took a hit of heroin, and though he knows that shouldn’t excite him, it does. 

Oh, God. 

“There you are,” the woman whispers, “there you are…” And she pulls back from him, letting go of his throat. Without his even deciding to, Sherlock falls to his knees. Gazes up at her. He knows the helpless picture he makes but he can’t bring himself to care. And she must like what she sees because she grabs the back of his head, fingers curling sharply in his curls, and kisses him again. Her nails rake his scalp and it’s delicious. She presses him to the floor, her thighs on either side of his hips. His fingers twined in hers, arms stretched out above his head like a sacrifice, like a plaything.  He struggles slightly- he so loves to struggle when he’s like this- but despite her small size she holds him down. Holds him tight. It feels so fucking good that his cock begins to ache in its hardness- 

Not that she seems to care. 

For she gazes down at him, her eyes glowing amber in the darkness. Shifts herself so that her centre is pressing down on his hardened prick. She moves her hips in tiny circles and Sherlock whimpers aloud, desperate to have her hand on him again.

“You like that, don’t you little one?” She murmurs and he nods. 

“Yes-,” he says, and “please,” he says, and “can you, I want you to-”

“What do you want me to do?” She asks coquettishly, and her voice has that strange echo to it, the same echo he’d heard from Rosamund downstairs. 

Sherlock can’t think straight, can’t really form words when she talks like that. 

All he can do is push himself desperate up into her, his message obvious, his need obvious. 

Christ, he wants her so badly… 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” The woman says. “Is that what you want?” 

Sherlock nods desperately. “Please,” he mutters. “Please…” And again he presses up into her. He feels filthy and desperate, aroused and wanting. The woman cocks her head to the side, looking down at him. Assessing him. 

She’s still moving her hips in those tiny, teasing little circles and it’s driving him insane. 

“And what will you give me if I fuck you?” She asks sweetly. Her eyes are dancing. “What will you do for me, if I give you what you want?” 

“Anything,” Sherlock huffs out. “Anything- Anything-“ 

She leans down, breathing the words into his ear. “You shouldn’t make promises like that, little one,” she whispers. “Not when you’re dealing with a creature like me.” 

And yet, before he can ask her what she means she reaches down. Runs her tongue along his carotid artery. She hums with pleasure as she does it, her tongue leaving behind the same wave of pleasure her suckling at his bitten lip did. Sherlock can’t help it, it’s instinct: he drops his head back. He feels his eyes flutter closed. 

“Please,” he whispers again. “Please. Please.” 

Take me, he wants to say. Use me as you will. 

He hears the woman laugh, feels her breath on the skin of his throat. Her nails rake down his torso and then suddenly she rips at the fabric of his shirt, tearing the buttons asunder. Baring his bare body to her gaze. He feels cold air on his skin, feels the raking of her nails as she scratches tracks into the flesh of his chest and then suddenly, suddenly… ‘

Suddenly there’s pain at his throat, fierce and raw and fiery and exquisite. 

It feels so bloody good that his eyes roll back in his head. 

The woman’s hands find his fly, tearing at the buttons as she had at his shirt. He feels her hand on his cock, feels soft skin and sharp nails and then she’s taking him inside her. Forcing him onto his back as she rides him, as she fucks him the way he begged her to. The pain at his throat crescendos, transforms, until it feels almost like a note being struck or an arrow finding its target… 

It’s pleasure, and it’s pain, and it’s nothing Sherlock’s ever felt before. 

It drags him down, surrender drowning him and for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes gives entirely into his body and leaves his mind behind. 

It feels exquisite, and it’s just the beginning…

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read by the lovely MizJoely but all mistakes are still mine. More smut ahead, you have been warned :-) Musical accompaniment here... 

IN THE ARMS OF THE SLOW-SWINGING SEAS

It could be hours or it could be days, Sherlock’s not certain. 

Pleasure piles on pleasure piles on pleasure-and-pain-and-pleasure until he can’t be at all certain about the passage of time- 

Nor does he care to be. 

Wilkes, the world outside, Rosalind and Anthea, all of it is forgotten. Instead he lets himself go, hands all that he is over to the woman who’s taken charge of him so thoroughly- The woman who still hasn’t even told him her name . On his back, held down and sweat-soaked and panting with exertion as she makes him howl for her, he can’t honestly remember when he's ever felt so free… 

He never has, he realises , and the thought scalds something inside him that feels almost like tears, it’s so acute. 

For she uses him as she wishes, taking him inside her as she opens up his throat again. Letting him taste his own blood in wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave him breathless and her blissful. Panting. Amber-eyed and feral. 

She looks down at him through hooded, sated eyes and Sherlock swears the sight might incinerate him.

At first their bouts are rough, fierce and energetic. She holds him down, tying his hands with the belt of her dress and dragging him roughly to where she wants him. Scratching sharply at his scalp and pulling his hair, snarling orders as she brings his lips to her bare breasts, smeared with his blood. Forcing his mouth this way and that as he eats her out, fucking his mouth and jaw while his tongue laps and laves sweetly inside her and he begs her for more. 

She tells him it is bliss. 

Slowly though, slowly they become gentler in their trysts. Lazier. She opens his wrists, suckling sweetly as she rides him to completion. She licks the places where she’s bitten him, closing the wounds, and the pleasure which floods his system is better than cocaine. Her kisses grow sweeter, gentler. More drugging. She nuzzles his throat, takes his cock in her mouth, hot and wet and Christ, he can feel her fangs sliding deliciously along his length. Pricking him. Teasing him and using him. 

He knows it shouldn’t feel nearly as good as it does. 

So when she opens her wrists, smearing her blood across her bare breasts, across her bare belly, Sherlock can’t help himself. He doesn't want to.  He laps it up, he sucks and bites and licks her breasts, teasing the sweet, peaked nipples until he feels like his body is throbbing with energy. With more feeling and happiness than he’s ever let himself feel before. Christ but it feels good. Slick with sweat and blood and both of their juices, every cell in his body buzzing, he and the woman writhe together, kissing and touching and biting and loving. Giving one another more and more until he can’t tell where she ends and he begins, the intimacy between them feels so all encompassing… 

When they come this last time, they come together. 

Eyes locked. Chests heaving. 

Her heat and nearness feels so overwhelming that Sherlock knows he’ll be dreaming of her for the rest of his life. 

Wordlessly, she brings her little hand to his face and he kisses her palm. Her fingertips. Her knuckles. “You’re beautiful,” he tells her,  and it seems so little, such an enormous understatement but he has to say it. “Thank you,” he tells her, “thank you, thank you…” 

He doesn’t think he’s ever meant the words as much, before. 

She takes his face in her hands, her thumbs brushing small half-moons beneath his eyes and this is how Sherlock realises his face is wet with tears he doesn’t even know why he’s shedding… 

“We lose this,” she says softly, and her voice is achingly sad. Achingly lovely. “We lose our mortal tears when we lose our mortal hearts.” 

And she leans down. Kisses his lips, then his tears. His eyes flutter closed and she kisses his eyelids. His cheekbones and mouth. Sherlock frowns, not understanding her sorrow. “Tears aren’t all that useful,” he says, trying to make her smile. 

“You only think that because you can still shed them,” she says softly. “I hope you never have cause to understand differently.” 

And before Sherlock can argue she kisses him, soft and sweet and longing. Aching. 

It feels almost indecently intimate, for all they’ve done together. 

“Sleep,” she murmurs softly. Her voice has that odd echo to it, that one he noticed earlier, that one he heard from Rosamund. “Sleep, and recover. All Hallow’s Rite is over, no more harm will come to you.” 

And she presses him back, wraps her arms around him. Sherlock means to ask her what she’s talking about, means to tell her that what she’s done to him is no more harm than puzzles or deduction but he doesn’t. He can’t. 

His eyes tip closed and he falls into sleep as if plummeting off a cliff into the ocean… 

He doesn’t see the woman holding him. Stroking him. Healing him. 

He doesn’t hear the dry, tearless sobs she gives as she winds him in her arms. 

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Beta read, once again, by the lovely MizJoely, but of course all mistakes are still mine. Thank you to the hardy few who have read and reviewed, I hope you enjoy this chapter (the next one is the last one). And thanks again to Mel-Loves-All for her gorgeous artwork, which inspired this :-) Also, this is the chapter's theme. 

HALLOWMASS

All Hallow’s Eve 

Her Sisters come, they ask her what she thought of their gift and she hisses at them to leave her be, to leave them be. 

They’ve done enough damage, Molly snaps, bringing him here to her, without any warning. 

The least they can do is let her heal him in peace. 

“We thought you’d like it,” Anthea says sensibly. Being Anthea, she shows not an ounce of contrition. “You’d not fed in so long, it was becoming ridiculous.  It’s our job to take care of you, Little Sister, even if you’re being-“

“Thea,” Rosamund warns. Ever the eldest , Molly thinks caustically, even at moments like this. The blonde moves to sit beside her and instinct takes over: Molly places herself between her sister and the mortal. 

She can still feel his blood, his energy, throbbing inside her, and her kind are nothing if not possessive. 

Rosamund should know better than to try and get close. 

But she is, like Anthea, utterly unaware. “It’s not like we thought you’d truly kill him,” she’s saying soothingly. “We know you. We love you.

We’d never put you in a position where you might end up hurting someone-“  

“Really?” Molly gestures to the man in her arms. “And what if I had lost control? What if history had repeated itself?” 

Her eyes go to that painting on her wall, three hares and their pursuers. Red fur, black fur, white fur running, and Sir Guillaume d’ Holmes on horseback, sword raised, determined to end his childhood sweetheart and her Sisters before Molly’s bloodlust could endanger him further… 

Molly looks down at the man she’s holding in her arms: the resemblance is extraordinary. The thought makes her heart lurch in guilt, a guilt she hasn’t permitted herself in centuries. Rosamund must have known how much this mortal looked like his ancestor. Anthea must have known that. And yet they- 

Enough . 

She shakes her head, gritting her teeth. Her Sisters have never understood her decision to abstain, not really. While they may not drain others to the point of death, they still see no harm in feeding from a mortal, even one on whom they have placed a Binding with their voice. “A lion doesn’t feel guilty when it corners a lamb,” Anthea is fond of saying, to which Molly might point out that, being a former lamb herself, Anthea could show a bit more understanding. And yet, she doesn’t. She isn't capable of it. Molly knows her Sisters are what they are- She is what she is-

Lions or lambs, they’re in this together. Always . 

So she sighs. Looks at her Sisters in exasperation. “Next time, ask me,” she says quietly. “And next time, don’t use the Rite of Hallowmas as an excuse.

It will be easier on the mortal population if you do.” 

Anthea rolls her eyes, still not understanding her younger Sister’s upset, but Rosamund takes Molly’s hand and nods. “Point taken,” she says. She looks down at the mortal in appreciation, her expression wolfish. “Though you do have to admit, he is very handsome for a Hallowmas Offering.” Her smile turns wicked. “Maybe we could-“

Molly’s fangs are out, face snarling, before Rosamund can even finish. 

The blonde blinks, surprised, and again Anthea rolls her eyes. 

“Leave her be, Ro,” she says. “Let her have her mortal and her righteous  indignation…” A pointed look at Molly. “Since at least now, she’s well-fed enough to manage them.” 

And with a tart smile Anthea leaves, off to charm another official or power-broker who can’t match her in either wits or learning. 

It’s a hobby that has always mystified Molly. 

“Will you be alright?” Rosamund asks quietly, trying to be conciliatory, and Molly nods. The mortal stirs in her arms, smiling in his sleep, and she can’t help it, she smiles back, brushing his hair from his forehead to place a kiss there. 

Gods, but he’s so very beautiful…

“We meant no harm,” Rosamund is saying, “we just thought you might.. That you should… And then, once I saw him…” 

She whistles in appreciation, only to look contrite when Molly glares at her.

“I know, I know,” she says, getting to her feet. “I’ll leave the two of you together… Just let me know whether he’ll be able to make it home under his own steam, or whether we’ll be asking Irene for another daylight run-”

Which is when the mortal gasps, eyes flying open, and suddenly, suddenly there’s gold and red beneath his skin. Suddenly, suddenly, magic is flooding through him, fiery and burning as it tumbles through his veins. His thoughts. Those rush into Molly’s head like a tsunami, pleasure and arousal and loneliness, so much awful loneliness… A loneliness so like her own that if she could, it would make her weep… She snarls, overcome with a tumult that’s clearly not hers, that’s coming from the man before her. It can’t be, she tells herself, it can’t be.

And yet…

“Fetch Thea,” she snaps. There’s a wilful, gorgeous, awful spark of what she realises is hope inside her, and, given what she realises she’s hoping for, it makes her so ashamed. But still…. “We have a problem,” she tells Rosamund. “Call Rakesback and tell them not to send anyone tomorrow…” 

She thinks of the other coven seeing her mortal and it makes her hiss protectively: 

He. Is. Hers. 

Perhaps their bond warns Rosamund what’s happening, perhaps it’s merely that she, too, recognises the signs, but in the blink of an eye she’s away, calling for their other Sister. Telling Irene to leave her wicked games and help. Molly picks the mortal up, carries him to her bedchamber at the back of her quarters. Red is surging like lava beneath his skin now and for the first time in so many lifetimes, Molly swears she can feel her own heart beat… Again she feels that awful spark of hope as she lays him on her bed, as she presses another kiss to his forehead. 

His skin is burning hot beneath her lips. 

“It’s beginning,” she says as Anthea bustles her away inside, Irene at her heels, to check the mortal for signs of Turning. “It’s beginning- He’s beginning to-”

“We don’t know that,” Anthea snaps but Molly doesn’t need their bond to hear the lie in her voice. 

She knows, they both do. 

They’ve both seen it happen before, and they’re about to watch it happen again. 

Oh, Gods.

Chapter Text

Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Think of this as a slightly smutty distraction for anyone taking part in Thanksgiving, or trying desperately not to think about it. The chapter song is here. Enjoy the smut-adjacent bloodlust. And as always, thank you to everyone who has read, given kudos and commented. Thank you so much! 

HONEYED MONSTERS

He sleeps. 

He dreams. 

He survives . 

His Turning is fucking beautiful. 

Molly stays as close to him as she can, watching over him. Guarding him. The Court at Rakesback demand an audience and she tells them to bugger off. He’s hers. Hers . Her mortal. Her New One. She requires no permission to add to the numbers of her Family and that upstart Moriarty knows that. 

She will protect what’s hers. 

When she thinks that, for the first time in centuries she swears she can feel her heart beating. 

The thought makes her smile, as she waits for her New One to awaken…  

All Hallows’ Day 

When Sherlock finally opens his eyes, he thinks, for a moment, that he’s underwater. 

For the world around him seems uncertain. Translucent. Wavering. Everything ebbs and flows, each object surrounded by a glowing corona of green or blue or purple that burns and dances like the Northern Lights. 

It all feels rather… odd. 

Odd, but incredibly beautiful. 

The air is bitterly cold, dry ice against his skin; when he breathes in, it burns his lungs, makes him cough. He tries to bring a hand to his lips and that is when he realises that he is wearing leather restraints at his wrists, ankles and throat. 

Being who and what he is, the realisation makes his belly flip and his cock harden, and his embarrassment does nothing to help. 

So he frowns, twisting this way and that, testing his bindings. They elongate and stretch queerly, moulding themselves to him no matter how he moves. Testing, he yanks sharply with his wrists, only for them to tighten, yanking him back onto the bed. The one at his throat tightens, and that does nothing to help his nascent erection. There’s a hiss of annoyance and a door opens behind him, he smells salt and flowers- jasmin? Meadowsweet? - and then Rosamund is before him, frowning. Worried. Her eyes are almost entirely white, a pearlescent sheen to them that’s oddly lovely. 

Sherlock knows that should disturb him but somehow it does not. 

Instead it makes something warm and sleek and velvet settle in his belly. 

“Sherlock,” she says softly. “Sherlock, do you know where you are?”

The detective tries to smirk at her. “Of course I know where I-” But his voice falls dead, because he realises he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here . Memories slither through his mind, a woman singing, pleasure and pain and tenderness. Longing. A pair of beautiful brown eyes and a sorrow so deep he could drown in it, lose himself in it. His heart lunches drunkenly at the thought. 

Blinking, he tries to master himself, only to see Rosamund look over his head at someone else. She frowns and then Anthea is beside him, still dressed in scarlet velvet, though this time it’s a business suit.  

Like Rosamund her eyes are almost entirely one colour, a deep, dark ruby that burns like hellfire. 

“Get Molly,” she’s saying, “She’s the only one who can really tell-“

“He might not be ready yet.” Rosemund frowns. “He mightn’t be able to control himself-” 

Anthea crosses her arms. “Then the sooner we know that, the better.” 

“I am here, you know,” Sherlock snaps, entirely irritated by their speaking about him as if he were not present. If they hear him, however, the Sisters give no indication of it. Rather, they glower at one another, their communication having apparently turned nonverbal. Eventually Rosamund sighs, throwing her hands up in annoyance and darting out of the room, her movements so swift that Sherlock is surprised he can follow them. 

Again, something about the sight seems profoundly unnatural. 

Nevertheless he closes his eyes. Tries to calm himself. He’s had worse trips than this, he tells himself. He’s been in worse situations. Still, he can feel his pulse speeding up, his body turning tense, and something tells him that this is not a good sign. He tries to school his breathing and as he does, he feels a hand at his forehead: when he opens his eyes the third Sister- His Sister- is leaning over him, frowning. This close he can see that her eyes aren’t entirely black but an achingly deep, dark brown. Flares of gold and copper and amber glow in their depths. She frowns at him, worried, and brings the hand at his forehead down to stroke his cheek. His lip. 

Her touch feels wonderful. 

“Sherlock?” She says softly. “Sherlock, do you remember me?” 

“Of course.” With every small caress he feels his body calming.That velvet, soft thing inside him is starting to stretch. To warm. “You never told me your name,” he says softly. “But I don’t think I could forget you…” 

“My name is Molly,” she says quietly. “That- that is what my dear ones call me.”

“And am I to be one of your dear ones?” 

The words come out of nowhere, he doesn’t know why he says them. He never chases sentiment, he’s never wanted to be dear to anyone. Still, Sherlock shifts, pulling against his bonds. He feels restless, suddenly. Needy. Needing. He wants- no, he needs- to touch her. He wants to be hers again, to put himself in her hands. If he is to be her Dear One then that is what he will be. From the corner of his eye he sees Rosemund and Anthea exchange worried looks but his Molly merely smiles. Presses her forehead to his. She strokes her nose along his cheek and very, very softly breathes him in, beaming as if savouring a fine perfume. 

The sweetness of it is making Sherlock almost unbearably hard. 

“So beautiful,” she murmurs in his ear, setting his blood singing. “So beautiful, my darling…” And with deft, swift movements she unlocks the restraints at his wrists, bringing each pulse point up to her mouth to kiss. As soon as her lips are on him Sherlock can’t help himself, he takes her face in his hands and pulls her bodily to him. He kisses her, long and sweet and deep and tumbling. 

When they pull apart both of them are trembling. 

“Satisfied?” Molly asks and though Sherlock nods, he realises that the words are for her Sisters. Her Sisters, who are still watching him with detachment. Wariness. Nevertheless Rosamund laughs while Anthea rolls her eyes and nods- Whatever it was they were afraid he would do, Sherlock seems to have passed the test.  

With another nod of agreement, they slip out of the room as silently and quickly as they came. Rosamund squeezes Molly’s shoulder as she goes. 

Once they’re gone Molly unclasps the restraints at his ankles. His throat. Taking his hand she pulls him towards the mirror in front of his bed and sets him before it. It’s been covered with a sheet but she pulls it off with a flourish and whispers at him to look at his reflection. 

“Tell me what you see,” she says, and her voice is oddly… shy. 

Sherlock doesn’t understand why she would ask but nevertheless he looks into the mirror. Examines his reflection. If it’s important to her then it might as well be important to him. He sees his own face looking back at him, his own naked body; He knows he should perhaps be embarrassed by how hard he is but he can’t bring himself to care. 

Instead he spies bruises and bite marks, sees the omni-present smudges under his eyes from his sleepless nights. Sees track marks, veins. Veins. Veins… The memories come back to him again, Molly biting him, Molly taking him. His blood pumping into her, the sweetness of her blood filling his mouth as he licked and lapped at her breasts. Her wrists. He shivers in pleasure, recalling her mouth on him, her fangs against his flesh… God it had felt so good… 

As he thinks this his cock hardens further, the aquamarine blue of his irises flooding out both iris and sclera. Sherlock blinks, unsure, but Molly’s hand is at his wrist, her voice soothing him. Telling him it’s alright. Telling him not to worry. 

“Show me,” she says quietly. “Show me, darling…” 

She takes his face in her hands and looks into his eyes. 

It makes his heart thump. 

“Show me how beautiful you can be,” she tells him gently and it feels like coming home. 

So Sherlock pulls back his lips, sees the- He can see and feel the fangs now. They look long. Thin and elegant. Beautiful. Fierce. Though they’re sharp he likes how he looks with them, he likes how they make him feel. “I’m… I’m like you now,” he says in wonder and when he looks at Molly he can see the fear in her. The worry. The guilt. 

“Did you mean to make me like you?” He asks and she shakes her head. 

“I- I couldn’t help myself,” she says quietly, “I couldn’t… Not with you…” 

“I couldn’t help myself with you either,” he whispers, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips to kiss. Holding her gaze he presses his lips to her knuckles, his fangs sliding against her flesh and slitting her open. Making her bleed. Acting on impulse he licks her blood and she gasps, her eyes fluttering shut. She rakes her hand through his nape, pressing his mouth harder against her skin as he laps gently with his tongue. The pleasure is profound: grabbing his head she yanks it back and kisses him harshly. Desperately. When they pull apart she takes his hand in hers, looks up at him solemnly. 

“We’re not monsters,” she says softly. “Or rather, we don’t have to be- You see that. Don’t you?” He nods, and her voice becomes fierce as she says the next. “I won’t let you become a monster, you don’t need to be afraid of that..”

“I’m not afraid,” Sherlock says, and he isn’t. He honestly can’t find it in himself to be sorry, or ashamed, or, indeed afraid. He has always considered himself extraordinary, so why shouldn’t he become more extraordinary still? Molly peers at him again and again he feels that sense of homecoming, a homecoming he will never want to leave. A homecoming he never expected.  

“I was born for this,” he says, and when the words are out he knows they’re true. He looks at Molly. “I was born for this…  

I was born for you, I think.” 

And quicker than sound, quicker than laughter, quicker than anything mortal Sherlock pulls her to the bed again. Gives himself over to her again. They make love in the darkest part of the shadows, whispering one another’s names and shivering in the dark. Nipping and lapping and loving and feeding, too wrapped up in one another to think of anything else… 

In the coming years- and decades, and centuries- there will be troubles and adventures and wonders to face. There will be friends to find and enemies to vanquish, but they will face all of them together. 

A white hare, a red hair, a black hare, a blue hare, darting through story and history…  

That’s what the ballads will sing of, and Sherlock would not ask for more than that.