He and Stefan had bonded over more than a mutual love-hate relationship with Katherine. Stefan’s Elena situation was a lot like Sherlock’s John situation. No doppelgangers here though. Just a family. He was back in Baker Street after sending Lestrade back to the station to deal with all the paperwork. John was out with – what was her name? Sara? Sarah? It didn’t matter. Sherlock was not jealous. John was a Watson. He would come to Sherlock sooner or later.
Sherlock had never been to Mystic Falls, but he knew that Katherine had turned both Damon and Stefan there. Another thing he and the Salvatore’s had in common. He stood facing the window, rain pelting the glass. His nimble fingers moved across the violin, the music melancholy, as he recalled his last night as a human.
Despite Watson’s uncharacteristic pleas for him not to pursue this particular case, Holmes was currently in pursuit of a suspect in the latest string of serial murders across London. The bodies, currently twenty two in number, although Scotland Yard’s finest, Gregson, thought there could be more that hadn’t been found, had all been hung upside down, their throats slit and then drained of blood. Bite marks had been found in various places on most of the corpses. The more suspicious of the investigative team had crossed themselves, and taken to eating lots of garlic. The word ‘vampire’ was whispered in corners, but nobody spoke their fears aloud.
Holmes was not a believer. Science ruled out the supernatural. When Watson had voiced his fears, Holmes had laughed. “Whoever this person is, he is a psychotic murderer, but not a vampire. Come, Watson, I thought you were better than that.”
He had to eat his words when they caught him. His suspect had led him right into a nest of the creatures. With his wrists tied behind him, his gun and dagger confiscated, and faced with the very real fangs of the very real supernatural creatures, Holmes was the closest he had ever been to terrified. His thoughts were cloudy, unable to comprehend exactly what he was seeing.
One of them, a man, his waistcoat stained with fresh blood, knelt beside their captive. He gripped Holmes’ chin with a strength not human, forcing him to look into eyes as black as the souls of the living dead all around him. He found himself drowning in the liquid darkness, his mind slowing.
“Are you alone?”
The voice was hypnotising. Holmes couldn’t even consider the possibility of lying. He nodded, unable to resist.
“Does anyone know you are here?”
Again, he nodded.
The words were pulled from him. “My friend. He is not dangerous. Don’t hurt him”.
The vampire gave a harsh laugh. “No promises there, mate. Nobody can know about us, and we will do anything to keep it that way.”
He walked away, leaving Holmes in a dazed heap on the stone floor of the warehouse they had brought him to. Voices came to him out of the fog in his mind.
“ – have to kill him.”
“Couldn’t we just compel him to forget us?”
“We cannot risk that, Juliana. Besides, what’s one more body? London’s full of death. I’ll even let you feed on him.”
The girl, Juliana, gave a delighted squeal. “Really? I haven’t had a proper meal since that street rat. You and Rick keep them all to yourself.”
Holmes couldn’t concentrate anymore. His eyes closed, wondering what Watson would do when they found his body. He heard footsteps and looked up. The girl was thin, her lacy dress obviously too big for her. He suspected she had stolen it, probably from one of their victims. She knelt down next to him, her fingers slipping through his hair, gentle touches at first, before grasping and pulling his head up. He gasped and squeezed his eyes shut to avoid them watering.
“No, no, pretty one,” Juliana crooned. “Open those pretty eyes for me.” She tugged once more on his hair, and his eyes flew open. “That’s better. Are you gonna scream for me?” She ran her fingers over his lips, and Holmes tasted dirt, and the metallic tang of blood. She glanced back at where the other vampires were standing and gave a petulant sigh. “I suppose you shouldn’t scream.”
She manoeuvred him so she could look in his eyes, and that same sluggishness came over him. All his resistance simply melted away, and all he could do was stare into her eyes.
“Don’t make a sound.”
With that, she bent her head to his throat. He felt her breath hot on his skin, and then his world narrowed to the twin pin pricks as she bit him. He could feel his blood being sucked out of him. His eyes closed and he slumped in her grip. Soon, he could no longer feel his limbs, a darkness closing over him like a storm cloud. Facts swirled through his head, but he was unable to grasp them.
The average volume of blood for an adult male is approximately 5.5 litres.
Mycroft was going to kill him if he died here.
Watson told him the rest of the story when he woke up. He had arrived just as Juliana was raising her head. He could hear Holmes’ heartbeat fading, and had rushed him out of there as quickly as supernaturally possible. Having tried and failed to re-start his heart, Watson had bitten his own wrist, forcing his blood down Holmes’ throat.
Then, he died.
He died with Watson’s blood in his system.
He woke up several hours later with a ravenous sense of hunger and a burning in his throat.