[It's not really nobility that has John offering himself up this way, but Sherlock doesn't need to know that, and why should he care if he did? John's reasons are his own, as fragmented and ludicrous as they are.
He watches the man--vampire, his mind corrects--direct all his comments at John's arm with something approaching nervous exasperation. An ounce a second, which would translate to about 32 seconds for two pints of blood if John does his maths correctly. He decides he'll give Sherlock 30 seconds while a two second buffer in case he needs to persuade him to let go a little more vigorously.]
You can't even take your own weight.
[He mutters as he's backed up against the brick, the position a little more nerve-wracking than simply standing in the street would have been. He doesn't like it, but there's not really time to protest when Sherlock's hunching over his wrist, fangs extended.
John is barely able to nod in response before Sherlock's on him, teeth so sharp he can't feel the bite until the man starts to suck, and then the pain is stinging and burning and he can't help the embarrassing gasp that falls from his mouth.
I'm supposed to be counting, he reminds himself. So John counts, slowly in his head, and tries not to squirm or whimper or concentrate too much on the euphoria of blood leaving his body.
He assumed it would feel more like being attacked than it does. Like something he needs to brace himself against. But having Sherlock's mouth greedily pressed to his wrist and hearing the frantic gulping feels more intimate somehow. Like nursing a hungry child. Sherlock's cheeks flush with colour and that's John's blood making him seem more healthy and alive and it's just...so odd.
no subject
He watches the man--vampire, his mind corrects--direct all his comments at John's arm with something approaching nervous exasperation. An ounce a second, which would translate to about 32 seconds for two pints of blood if John does his maths correctly. He decides he'll give Sherlock 30 seconds while a two second buffer in case he needs to persuade him to let go a little more vigorously.]
You can't even take your own weight.
[He mutters as he's backed up against the brick, the position a little more nerve-wracking than simply standing in the street would have been. He doesn't like it, but there's not really time to protest when Sherlock's hunching over his wrist, fangs extended.
John is barely able to nod in response before Sherlock's on him, teeth so sharp he can't feel the bite until the man starts to suck, and then the pain is stinging and burning and he can't help the embarrassing gasp that falls from his mouth.
I'm supposed to be counting, he reminds himself. So John counts, slowly in his head, and tries not to squirm or whimper or concentrate too much on the euphoria of blood leaving his body.
He assumed it would feel more like being attacked than it does. Like something he needs to brace himself against. But having Sherlock's mouth greedily pressed to his wrist and hearing the frantic gulping feels more intimate somehow. Like nursing a hungry child. Sherlock's cheeks flush with colour and that's John's blood making him seem more healthy and alive and it's just...so odd.
And so oddly satisfying.]