“Not again.” John gave a long-suffering sigh, but let himself be led to the black car anyway. “What does Mycroft want this time? He doesn’t scare me, you know. All this pomp and ceremony – it really is unnecessary.”
He spoke to Mycroft’s assistant, sat next to him, staring out the window. What was her name today? Anthea? Holly? Or was it Chloe? It didn’t matter. She ignored him. As always.
Mycroft stood at the window of the office block he had instructed John to be brought to. He had his hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on the city skyline, the sunset obscured by high-rises and architectural experiments like the Shard and the Gherkin. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, as if mocking him. Contrary to popular culture, vampires do in fact have reflections. But their eyes are reflected back without their soul, without any spark of life in them – dead eyes. Mycroft avoided his own reflection as much as possible.
He knew he was being dramatic, bringing John to these places, having these clandestine meetings behind his brother’s back, but he didn’t care. Sherlock could always find him if he needed to. Mycroft was intrigued about the latest addition to the Watson bloodline, interested for his brother’s sake. But also for his own.
John Watson had been the one to turn Sherlock, who had turned Mycroft. Mycroft shared the Watson blood, just as Sherlock did.
He had heard of the Original family’s pact (of course he had – he had the entire British Government at his hands, he was always well informed about everything): Always and forever. It applied to the Holmes family too, and by extension, John Watson, both past and present.
He didn’t look up when John entered. He could hear his footsteps, smell his blood. “I suppose you are wondering why I brought you here. For once, it has nothing to do with my brother.”
“Oh, I know exactly what I am doing here, Mycroft. And let me tell you, it has everything to do with your brother.”
Mycroft stiffened. That was John Watson’s voice, all right, but not the right one. He took a moment to compose himself, making sure not to betray any sign of emotion, and then turned around.
He had not seen this John Watson since his disappearance and presumed death in 1891. Over a century of who-knows-what had changed him almost beyond recognition.
Most noticeable, even before the jeans and England Rugby shirt he wore, was the glint in his eyes; homicidal, crazy – call it what you want. It was a sign of a humanity-less vampire, and was definitely not good.
Watson smiled, revealing sharp, white fangs. “It is nice to see you, Mycroft. The twenty-first century looks good on you.”
Mycroft found his voice. “What have you done to – “ Here he faltered, unsure what to say. The other John Watson? It was too weird to comprehend.
“My counterpart?” Watson laughed, harsh and empty. “He’ll be fine. If you cooperate, that is. It was interesting seeing him. To see his eyes widen, his mouth gape open as I turned.” The veins under his eyes seemed to grow as he spoke, his eyes going almost completely black. “It will be amusing to watch what happens now. There aren’t meant to be two of us in the same city, you know. Us John Watson’s, we are more than mere mortals, even the human ones. Come, Mycroft. Shall we visit dear Sherlock?”