Difficult to say, [he replies,] given my unfamiliarity with the needs of the undead. If you've blood to spare right now, it is worth a try.

[Hearts like drumbeats. A palpable distance between him and Jonathan, made worse by the man's clear discomfort. They might as well be on opposite sides of a chasm, for all the companionship he feels looking at the man. It is a miserable feeling. Does anyone actually love Sherlock, despite his desperate seeking of it? Despite all the ways he has changed, has made himself softer, kinder, more palatable, it feels irrationally, strangely, strongly like it is for nothing, and he is alone.

He extends his hand for the thermos.]