thetube | Test Drive Meme: Feb/March 2016

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Welcome to the Underground test drive meme! This is where you can try out the AU version of your character, start some potential CR and get a feel for the world of the game. Choose your character's species, read up on the available factions and you're ready to go. Put your character's name in your subject line when you post, tag out, and have fun!

Note to current players: Activity in this meme counts as game canon! So you can use it for activity check. If you end up playing anything that you can't or don't want to use as game canon, it's fine to ignore it. (In that case you shouldn't submit it for activity check.)

Here are some prompts to inspire you:

1) COMMON PEOPLE. What do normal Londoners do every day anyway? Sometimes you just want to blend in with everyone else. Make friends with humans. Talk about the weather. Go on, try it.

2) PENTHOUSE SUITE. But wait. Maybe you want to see how the other half live. The elite of the elite. You've been lucky enough to be asked to a meeting, or a luncheon, or a date. Find out what the most powerful people in London are really like.

3) GET OUT YOU FILTH. Supernatural prejudice is a regrettable fact of life in London. It doesn't matter what you are, there's someone out there who hates you because of it. They'll shun you, heckle you, even hunt you down and kill you. Of course, you're probably not immune to a few prejudices yourself.

4) SPEED DATING. Oh god. Why did you sign up to this. You should have known it was a bad idea when someone mentioned it was supernatural speed dating. Help.

5) THE REAL UNDERGROUND. Down in the darkest corners of the Tube, there are supernatural vagrants of all kinds, especially vampires. That friendly busker may well be a fae. That girl waiting for the next train is a ghost. Once you've seen it, you can't escape from it.

6) IN THE SUPERMARKET. On the other hand, you never know what you might find just walking around your local supermarket. You haven't forgotten how to do normal things like groceries, right?

7) A CURSED EXISTENCE. Maybe you literally are cursed. Maybe you just feel like it sometimes. There are things you can't do, weaknesses that normal humans aren't subject to, but they make everyday life in London that little bit more difficult. Try not to get too mad about it.

8) CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE. Anything goes.

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_{[ Steak knives aren't exactly conducive to clean wounds; anyone would be a little worse for wear after that (although, admittedly, Sherlock only has himself to blame).

The steak knife has since somehow found itself in an evidence bag, away from prying eyes within one of his many coat pockets. Thankfully Sherlock is far too invested in picking off stray prints from it to ever use it as a weapon, so John can rest safe in the knowledge that if he does end up dying tonight, it won't be via steak knife.

Of course, that was never really the worry, was it? ]}

To be determined.

_{[ Which is perhaps not as helpful as being actively encouraging, but Sherlock has never been one to say things simply because it's what should be said.

John remains as stubborn as ever, and far be it for Sherlock to attempt to sway this doctor away from doing what he apparently assumes is his duty; it'd be counter-productive to engage in an argument, especially when he's invested in this particular outcome. At some point self-preservation has to kick in, and Sherlock certainly isn't immune to the basic fundamentals of continued survival.

Sherlock scoffs with the mention of patient, though. Surely patients are generally alive as opposed to definitely dead. One would hope, at least. ]}

How very noble of you.

_{[ Not that Sherlock's complaining.

The ability to be chivalrous has long since left him; he reaches out and takes the offered forearm carefully, frowning as his pulse practically courses through him. ]}

I'll try to pay attention to how much I'm taking, but you'll need to be aware too.

_{[ Because sometimes it's not as easy as just stopping. Is a safe word necessary? Probably. ]}

If you tell me to stop, I'll stop.

_{[ For his own benefit as much as John's - personal reassurance, the sentence repeated in his head on the off chance it might condition him into listening.

You can never be too careful. ]}

[If John hadn't shown up with his gun when he did, Sherlock would be full of more than just one steak-knife shaped hole, so yeah. John rescued him, therefore he is John's responsibility. That's always been the way it works in John's head.]

Not noble, just not a giant dickhead leaving you stabbed in the street. Any decent doctor would do the same.

[All the little hairs lining his arm lift up as soon as Sherlock takes hold of it, and he can feel the prickling crawl of his skin that means goosebumps are forming. An automatic response to being "caught" by a natural predator, maybe? John holds himself still, taking deep, measured breaths.

Weirdly enough, the hand he offered Sherlock is the one he still gets tremors in (career-in-surgery ending tremors at that) but right now, with long pale fingers curled around his wrist, it isn't shaking at all. Steady as a sniper's shot. John doesn't know what to think about that.]

How much are you likely to take per second?

[Because he'd much rather just count to twenty or whatever instead of relying on his own body to belatedly tell him when they should have stopped. He knows how much time emergency blood transfusions can take but that's not the same as someone getting their blood directly from the source, no machinery involved.]

_{[ But he did turn up. Why ruminate on the what-ifs when reality is so much more succinct? Sherlock could have absolutely handled the situation if left to his own devices, but the fact that John showed up when he did was... good. Better than good, really.

Sherlock would be more inclined to admit to being rescued following a healthy dose of blood, if only because it saved him the task of actively hunting in his less than cooperative state. ]}

Please, you're practically the definition.

_{[ The synonyms alone practically have Doctor John Watson written above and below. People don't tend to offer their blood up for a strange vampire that may or may not have a habit of getting into far too much trouble for his own good.

Sherlock notes the change, the way his skin reacts to the touch of slightly too cold fingers circling around his wrist; steady, pulse jumping up from underneath his skin in an inordinately enticing rhythm. He breathes through the urge to bite down and drink, but only barely.

Distantly, he hears himself answer. ]}

About an ounce, give or take.

_{[ It's becoming more and more obvious that Sherlock is slowly checking out of their conversation under the restraint of holding himself in check. He'd like to look up, to tear his gaze away from his wrist, but he can't, so when he talks, it's shamelessly aimed at his arm. Sherlock deftly nudges John up towards the wall with a careful press against his other shoulder (should he decide to want to collapse halfway through, which would be incredibly poor etiquette on John's part). He's not sure when his fangs decided to make themselves known, but he can feel the weight of them pressing against his lips. ]}

Don't hesitate to lean on me. I can take your weight.

_{[ Or more accurately, he'll be able to the moment he starts. ]}

Ready?

_{[ He doesn't wait for a response. The second the word's out, he lurches forward and presses razor sharp teeth insistently down until they pierce through skin like it's nothing; a stray pulse beats blood into his mouth and any attempt at being gentle is quickly forgotten as his eyes fill with blood and his teeth lock down, persistent as he coaxes mouthful after mouthful with his tongue.

He'll insist that acting when he did was far kinder than allowing John to count down and brace himself - it would have hurt more had his muscles been tight in preparation (and although this is absolutely true, something within him snapped and he couldn't stop himself even if he wanted to).

He remembers the euphoria of meta-human blood, the intense high that pulls at him just from feeding is fervent and far more invigorating than he remembers it being. With each passing second he can feel himself slowly being repaired, the warmth of John's blood practically scolding against his insides in the most delicious way.

It's like chasing a long-distant high that he rarely gets to indulge in but he's careful not to drown himself in it, to lose the quiet yet insistent voice that tells him to slow down, to be careful, to pay attention to the amount he's drinking and it's like he's waging war inside his own head; something tells him to keep going, keep dragging and draining until there's nothing left because he needs it whilst his logical brain reminds him slowly and methodically to keep one foot firmly in reality.

Life is systematically being forced into him, and it's nothing short of bliss. ]}

Edited (words. words everywhere.) 2016-04-07 17:35 (UTC)

[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.

And so oddly satisfying.]

_{[ As the seconds tick by, the way in which he draws the blood out stops being quite so desperate - he falls into the rhythm of John's pulse and he pulls on every dull thud.

Forcefully aware of every passing second to stop himself from tumbling further down into the rabbit hole that is unquenched bloodlust as his abdomen actively works to heal itself, the sensation tingly and maddeningly itchy as skin begins to repair itself piece by piece. Already he's able to stand up straight, the pain diminishing alongside the more he drains.

There's a quiet hum of approval as he shifts slightly, watchful of the angle of his fangs to ensure the steady stream of blood continues unbroken.

He loses track of time entirely as he holds John in place; he just breathes him in and feeds, each gulp elevating his euphoria to new, dizzying heights. ]}

[It's quiet, apart from the muffled sound of Sherlock feeding and John's laboured breathing. He thinks he should probably be closing his eyes right now, that it's expected to close your eyes while donating blood to a hungry vampire. It might even be the polite thing to do, John's got no clue of the etiquette for this kind of thing.

But he can't seem to tear his eyes away from where Sherlock's mouth is sealed over his wrist, watching avidly even as his head starts to cloud and buzz. If he had both hands free he'd brace against the wall, just to avoid leaning on Sherlock and perpetuating any embarrassing cliches about swooning. But he needs one hand free for the gun at his back, and Sherlock's got possession of his other hand so...he compromises and only rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder, doubled at the waist so that the wall is propping up most of him.

27......28......29......

His vision blurs and he blinks heavily, trying to clear it.]

Okay, that's enough.

_{[ Politeness isn't exactly at the forefront of Sherlock's mind, although he's aware that John's watching - he's just more invested in his current food supply.

Sherlock is only moderately aware when John's head falls onto his shoulder, gaze shifting along with the movement automatically. The word 'pale' hazily comes into focus as he takes in the doctor's condition and his teeth clench down further in subtle defiance; he isn't done yet, but subconsciously he knows what that means.

When his voice breaks through the extended silence, Sherlock doesn't immediately move. The words don't quite register, except he knows on a fundamental level that when John speaks, it means stop; it takes him a few seconds to force his fangs to retract and to physically force his face away from his arm before he can have a change of heart.

The movement skews his perceptions for entirely too long and he has to brace against the wall with a breathless laugh.

When he straightens up, he's practically manic. ]}

That was- um, that was... yeah. Good. Really good.

_{[ On the one hand, Sherlock is absolutely strong enough to bear the majority of John's weight... on the other, he is quite clearly blitzed out of his head. ]}

You are definitely not human.

Edited 2016-04-07 23:21 (UTC)

[John's just starting to wonder if he'll need to grab for the gun in his waistband to emphasize that snack time is over when the fangs retract from his skin, stinging more on the way out then on the way in. Then there's an awkward moment of just Sherlock's mouth on his skin, licking up the last traces before he pulls away.

Which jostles John's position slumped half against it so he glares as much as he's able to with things being so soft-focus and digs his free hand into the sleeve of the vampire's coat for balance.]

Dunno what you're talking about.

[He's definitely human. The sluggish way his pulse is echoing in his ears is proof enough of that. He feels shaky, unsteady. Pretty damn fragile. Hypovolemic shock the medic inside reminds him. You're going to need to heal some of that before you go tachy. Which...yeah. Would not be good. Okay.]

Don't let me fall on the ground.

[He gives the warning with as much sternness as he can muster, seeing that his mouth doesn't seem to want to form words. Honestly, he's not sure how much the other man is taking in right now. He seems drunk quite frankly, and do all vampires react the same way to a pint or two of blood as a normal person would react to a pint of beer?

Either way, getting a concussion on top of going into shock is the opposite of what John needs right now, so he hopes a drunk Sherlock is at least as competent at being a support system as the brick wall.

Focusing on the same spark of healing he discovered on the day he got shot, John coaxes it into a brighter flame, a warm glow of healing that travels through depleted cells, replenishing and restoring. It's harder to do on himself than when he's working from the outside on someone else's injuries. He manages to pull himself out of tachycardia and replace some of the lost fluids before exhaustion pulls him out of the healing and back to the alley where he's no longer supporting his weight at all.]

_{[ Sherlock drags himself together, the slowed sound of John's heartbeat pulling him back into reality with enough sense to realise that talking about whatever John is out in the open probably isn't the best idea he's ever had so he promptly shuts his mouth and decides to pay attention to the meta-human instead. With a steadying breath, Sherlock really looks he's wary he might have taken too much because John is looking increasingly worse for wear.

Sherlock grumbles a quiet 'obviously,' in response to John's instruction, carefully ducking underneath the doctor's arm with the intention of providing what looked to be much needed support. Which is apparently just in the nick of time, because it's not long before the doctor slumps against him quite unceremoniously.

With a definite air of interest, Sherlock notices as John's heartbeat slowly but surely turn into a louder, steadier beat. That is very fascinating, and definitely worth further investigation when the time is right.

When John begins to come around, Sherlock's rounding the corner of Baker Street. ]}

Oh, good, you're awake just in time for the stairs.

The clinic doesn't have stairs...

[John blinks away the last of the fuzziness, head lolling against Sherlock's shoulder before he realizes that he's being carried like a child and he stiffens up, face reddening.]

You can put me down now. I'm fine.

[Or fine enough that some salty snack and a juicebox will get his sugars and electrolytes back into normal levels. He frowns, looking around the unfamiliar surroundings.]

Where are we?

_{[ Sherlock doesn't care about your human sensibilities, John. Having blood drained consistently and rapidly will often leave humans dazed and light-headed, so he doesn't exactly mind that he's holding him up.

He did just donate a considerable amount to Sherlock's cause, so he's not exactly put out at the prospect.

With a scrutinising look, Sherlock slowly deposits John to the ground (ready to act should he sway dangerously on his feet, but allowing enough space between them should John want to reclaim his wounded pride). ]}

My flat. It seemed like the lesser of two evils.

_{[ Has John forgotten that the clinic is full of sick humans that may or may not be close to death? That is far too tempting an offer for a semi-wounded vampire, so he's decided not to take the risk.

He pushes the door-knocker to make it crooked before he lets himself in, dusting his shoes off on the mat.

Sherlock hopes that Mrs Hudson is around because he really doesn't fancy handling human food at the moment. ]}

[John doesn't sway but he does look about as pale as Sherlock at the moment, and one of them is dead. It's not the best sign. He fingers the puncture marks on his wrist gingerly, trying not to itch at the skin. Even fully healed he can still feel the phantom sting of fangs buried in the vein. Hopefully that will fade soon because it's damned distracting.

He frowns at the answer he's given, shaking his head.]

You've got a flat? On...Bakerstreet?

[Seems an odd choice for a vampire's lair. John's a bit miffed that Sherlock sweeps inside as if he just expects John to follow without a hint of protest, but he ends up stepping inside anyway. They're in a respectable flat and he's already allowed himself to get bitten.

What else could happen?]

You could have just dropped me off at a cafe or something. I told you, I'm fine.

_{[ Sherlock has half a mind to slap John's fingers away from his own arm, but the marks will get infected the more he touches them. Thankfully for John, he's too far away to go through with the urge, so he settles on frowning pointedly instead. ]}

Yes. Problem?

_{[ That's the point, John. Being obvious would hardly serve him well; having a hulking great Gothic castle in the middle of Baker street would be quite an obvious give away. Once John is finally inside, Sherlock shuts the door and very pointedly attempts to usher him upstairs. If he's so fine, clearly he won't have a problem. ]}

You were unconscious.

_{[ Sherlock says it like the concept of leaving him anywhere when he's unconscious is the stupidest idea he's ever heard, because it's certainly up there. ]}

Rest assured, should a next time ever occur, I'll be sure to prop you up against the nearest Starbucks with a pair of sunglasses and an empty cup.

Temporarily unconscious.

[The stairs seem more daunting now that he's standing in front of them. He makes sure to brace one hand against the wall and grip the banister with the other.]

You could have told them I was diabetic and hypoglycemic. The symptoms are pretty much the same, and so's the cure. They would've given me some sugar packets or some juice.

[And possibly called him an ambulance, not that John needs it. Really, a small snack and a nap and he'll be back to full health again. All the fussing isn't really necessary.]

That's what I need, you know. Sugar? Sodium? I don't suppose vampires keep sports drinks handy...

_{[ Sherlock breezes past the temporarily unconscious mark with a quiet eye roll, watching doggedly as John begins to climb the stairs. Suspiciously enough, Sherlock appears to be hovering down in the hallway as John makes his way up to the landing. ]}

And you could have left me for dead, but now we have to live with the consequences of our decisions.

_{[ There's a level of fondness there already, but Sherlock will blame the ever enticing effects of meta-human blood currently filling his system. He's not as giddy as he once was, the dull ache of his stomach going largely ignored thanks to the euphoria accompanied by the combination of John's unique blood and the sensation of having fed. ]}

Mm, there's a coke in the fridge you can help yourself to. I'll grab something from the shop next door, just make yourself at home.

_{[ Pause. Should he tell him about the hand in the cupboard? No, it'll be fine.

Sherlock waits for John to reach the top of the stairs before he begins to head out the door. ]}

The kitchen is just through the living room to your right.

_{[ And with that Sherlock disappears once again, seeking out sports drinks and a certain landlady to supply John with a healthy dose of snacks. ]}

No, I couldn't have.

[Which is just another way of admitting that Sherlock's right. For better or worse, they've both decided to trust each other. John struggles his way up the stairs, trying not to look as heavy and clumsy on his feet as he feels. He could use a kip on the sofa instead of a chair in the kitchen, but sustenance comes before rest. If he lies down now, he's not going to get up for a while.]

You're leaving me here by myself? Not scared I'll snoop around your place?

[Although he wouldn't. Frankly he's too tired to be curious. Sherlock doesn't seem too worried about it either as he points out the way to the kitchen and then leaves in a dramatic swish of coat.

Shrugging to himself, John enters the cluttered living room and looks over the myriad of science paraphernalia, books and papers, and newspaper clippings littering every surface. It's a cozy space, a lot warmer than the bedsit John's currently staying in. Could be very nice if it weren't such a mess in here, he thinks to himself.

The kitchen turns out to be even worse than the living room, with beakers of mysterious liquid and tweezers and microscope slides. John's careful not to touch anything as he skirts around the piles on his way to the fridge. Inside are packs of blood, neatly stacked. Disturbing but not too unusual for the fridge of a vampire. The human hand on the second shelf however, is a little more unsettling.

John reaches gingerly for the can of soda sitting beside it, as if the fingers might come to life and grab for him. They don't but it's still creepy.]

Jesus Christ, what'm I doing here?

[Heaving a sigh, he pops open the can and takes a long drink before heading back to the living room and lowering himself into a chair that only happened to have a few newspapers and unnecessary cushions on it.

Hopefully Sherlock won't be too long.]

_{[ John's words merit a self-indulgent smile - he doesn't bother saying the words that are on his tongue (affirmations of the truth, quiet I told you so's that don't need repeating, although they're definitely there). ]}

Didn't your mother ever teach you not to snoop through a dead man's belongings?

_{[ Which is as much a word of warning as any - feel free to snoop, but if he finds something he doesn't like, don't say Sherlock didn't warn him. His unique perspective on the world has allowed him ample time to collect far too many things that are both ludicrous and fascinating in equal measures; there's really no telling what John might end up discovering.

Whilst John made himself comfortable, Sherlock's busily been mithering Mrs Hudson for acceptable foods to give humans that are suffering from a distinct lack of blood in their systems. He ends up returning with a mug of home made chicken soup, some bread rolls, raisins and a pint of whole milk.

He also has a bottle of Lucozade and a packet of Quavers, just in case this isn't acceptable.

When he finally shows his face again, he's apparently discarded his coat downstairs (leaving him with a very ripped, very blood-stained shirt hanging down at his midriff). He piles the tray onto John's lap with very little warning before straightening up and surveying the lounge with a quiet horror at the state of it. He picks up a few stacks of paper and places them on his desk, grabs a bunch of letters he's yet to respond to and slams them on the mantle (stabbing a knife down to keep them all in place) - Sherlock Holmes is, for lack of a better word, fussing in a vague attempt to make his flat look that much more presentable.

He's not even sure why he cares how messy the lounge is, but he's struck by the notion that he definitely does. ]}

There.

_{[ Having done most of the work to make the lounge actively liveable, Sherlock then decides to set about warming a bag of blood up for his dinner (because he's still not one hundred percent and it'd be nice if the damnable itching could cease to a pleasant tingling instead). In between the time it takes the microwave to heat up his meal, Sherlock opts to change into a purple shirt whilst he waits. That familiar ding sounds and it's not long until Sherlock's settled opposite John in his favourite chair, although he refuses to sit in it like an actual human being, instead choosing to crouch on it (which looks infinitely more uncomfortable than it would be just to sit). ]}

Sorry about the mess. I don't really...

_{[ do this sort of thing often? No. Make a habit of bringing humans over? No, that's probably distasteful. He'll leave it there, trailed off and awkward. ]}

Edited 2016-04-21 23:50 (UTC)

[To be honest, John pays more attention to the bloody rip in Sherlock's shirt than he does to the bounty of food being plunked into his lap. Some doctorly part of him still wants to leap into action at the sight of blood, examine the wound, probe and stitch and generally clean the man up. He knows it's unnecessary now so he restrains himself to simply looking Sherlock over as he flits around the living room, moving messy piles of things into other equally messy piles in some sad attempt at 'tidying up'.

He's also ruining an antique fireplace mantel with a knife. John decides that whoever Sherlock's landlady is, she must be a saint or just as mad as he is.

The soup is rich and hearty though, and quickly replenishes the warmth he'd lost along with most of his blood, settling nicely in his stomach which sets about reminding him just how long its been since he had a good meal. John quickly polishes off each item on the tray, drinking down the milk in small sips and the Lucozade in great gulps until he fairly sloshes. The beginnings of a dehydration headache fade with every swallow and when he's done he feels better than normal. Healthy.

When Sherlock swans back in with a change of shirt, John feels energetic enough to glance at his surroundings with more interest. It's a bit like a mad scientist's laboratory in here, he thinks to himself, eyeing the vampire who is perched in the chair across from him like a gargoyle. A gargoyle in designer clothes and curly hair. Clutching a blood bag.]

No, it's fine. What's all this stuff for anyway?

_{[ The blood bag is... underwhelming. Sherlock knew that it would be, but that doesn't stop him from wrinkling his nose against the synthetic taste as he drains the contents, looking more demonic than human. Once he's finished, he sets the used bag aside and settles down into his chair properly, his now human eyes following John's as he takes in the flat.

Generally speaking, Sherlock doesn't like to drink blood directly from the bag. He'll try and put it into an oversized mug he bought for that exact reason just to ensure that Mrs Hudson doesn't get an eerie fright when 'cleaning' (or as Sherlock likes to call it 'pointlessly moin. He just didn't have the patience tonight, too wired from the thrill of live blood singing through his veins to actively fold back into routine without hesitation.

Somewhere, he registers that he's feeling slightly nervous about this whole affair, but he pointedly ignores picking it apart in favour of engaging with the human that risked his life to save Sherlock's. ]}

Research, mostly.

_{[ Which isn't the whole truth by any stretch of the imagination, but it's certainly not a lie either - most of it's trinkets, things he's picked up throughout the years, strange yet sentimental. He sweeps over the majority of it with the intention of looking at it all with John's perspective, and it occurs to him that some of it might be vaguely menacing, but then he is a vampire, and that's the sort of thing John should get used to if he's going to continue to associate with the likes of the undead.

Not that any of that's exactly on the cards, but Sherlock isn't so stupid as to dismiss the idea entirely.

He might have underestimated this man in any other circumstances, but as it stands, he's really quite impressed. Sherlock watches John thoughtfully as his lips quirk up into an amused half-smile, his expression somewhat mischievous as he leans forward. ]}

So, how was it for you?

_{[ Oh, vampire humour. Because it was obviously quite spectacular for Sherlock, and he definitely didn't see John complaining, not until he'd taken perhaps a little more than necessary. He's been told it can be somewhat euphoric, although he's not sure how much of that he can trust due to the inconsistency in reports. He may have phrased it as a joke, but it's something he's genuinely interested in, his eyes alight with fascination as he studies John's reaction avidly. There must be something in it, because there are junkies addicted to the thrill of being drained; crack dens once full of doped up idiots now hooked up to IVs as they replace the lost plasma, dazed and confused as their sated vampires care for their well being.

It's the strangest sort of symbiosis, where one feeds from another and then the vampire works to heal them up only to do it all over again.

Sherlock isn't entirely sure how he feels about it. It's... clever, in a way. Eliminates the need for a hunt, cuts down on needless casualties, and both parties are consensual. It's the blood farms that Sherlock's wary of, and yet he still picks up blood from them on a monthly basis because it's easier to source and the constant comfort of knowing he has blood waiting for him is a luxury he can't afford to live without. ]}

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Test Drive Meme: Feb/March 2016

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