AN: This is also found on Archive of our Own. Here: archiveofourown(.org)/works/862181

The year was 1922. The Graveyard would be silent if it weren't for the slight rustling of tendrils from the willow tree. Under the willow there was a headstone isolated from the rest and next to it, there lay a lone man. Top hat in one hand and the other hand down at his side as if unsure on how to proceed. He had had few friends in his life; in fact, he could count the number on one hand. This knowledge never bothered him though. Alone was safe, alone protected him. Only now with his oldest friend beneath his feet did he realise that alone was not always good. The man lifted up a gloved hand to the headstone and ran his fingers along the epitaph.

In Loving Memory of

John Watson

July 7th, 1848-May 18th, 1922

Goodbye, Dear Friend

"I never took you as one to succumb to sentiment, brother. I thought you would be above all of this nonsense, I can see that this no longer holds true."

"And I, dear Mycroft, never expected you to last so long. Yet here we both are."

Mycroft gazed down at his brother with inscrutable emotion. "Sherlock, you knew that Mr Watson was knocking on deaths door. The late Doctor has gone calling since his youth."

Sherlock gently lifted himself from the ground, his knees cracking from the effort. "I am well aware of his dispositions. I do not need you to inform me of such things."

"And yet here I am." Mycroft replied with a sardonic smile waiting for his brother to turn around.

"Quite. Why is it you are here?" Sherlock inquired with his back still turned away from the other man. "I never knew you looked so kindly upon John." He said forgoing the usage of the late doctors' surname, it is too impersonal given the circumstances.

"A sense of duty you might say."

"Well, how honoura- What have you done." Sherlock had finally turned around and examined his brother.

Mycroft was deathly. His aged face chalky white and gone was the hint of grotesque weight from his youth. These were not the concerns Sherlock had, however. It was the silver sheen to his brothers' eyes, the renewed vitality in his expression, and the straightened stature that he held himself with.

"What have you done to yourself?" Sherlock hissed as he stepped ever closer to Mycroft.

"In the words of another, I have given myself new life and have evaded the veil of death indefinitely."

"That is impossible."

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

"Do not twist my words against me." Sherlock ran a gnarled hand through his greyed hair. "I have eliminated the impossible and nothing remains."

"Rethink the impossible." Mycroft said with a curl of his lips.

"They are the daemons of folklore and have no place here."

"Oh, Sherlock, so obtuse at times. What are these daemons you speak of? Surely you must have some semblance of an idea."

"It's. Not. Possible." Sherlock spit back.

"Don't be so sure of yourself, brother. Now tell me, what are these daemons?"

"The only impossible figment that could fit is the creature described in Stoker's novel."

"By that do you mean Vampire, Sherlock? How sharp of you if that is the case." Mycroft's voice turned patronising.

"You're a figure found within the pages of a novel?" Sherlock began to sound sceptical and wondering what demented dream this could be.

"There is a Vampire found within those pages, yes, all stories contain a trickle of the truth."

"Not if the story is reserved for fables."

"Oh, Sherlock, at times your ignorance is as plentiful as your knowledge. May I hasten to remind you that however improbable…"

"If I were to believe this farce of Vampirism, is this the only reason you came here, to show off your evasion of death? There is the other problem of immortality not being suited for the decrepit, such as yourself."

At this, Mycroft laughed. "Do you really imagine that I would do a thing such as this if I were to forever remain in my current state?"

"So you are trying to tell me that my eyes are deceiving me?"

"Not at all, dear Brother! I would never insinuate such a thing."

Sherlock would not let himself be deceived by his brother, and repeated the unanswered question. "Did you only come to show off?"

"Never, I came with a proposal."

"Ah, how interesting." Sherlock mused as he stepped closer to his brother and steepled his fingers under his chin. "You've come to offer me a taste of the immortality you claim exists? The answer is no, I will have none of it."

"You misinterpreted me when I told you I had a proposal." As this was said, something shifted in Mycroft's eyes which caused them to look feral. "When I said proposal, I was not giving you a choice."

"And you must have misinterpreted me when I said I'd have none of it." Sherlock said curtly.

"I'm truly sorry for what is about to occur." Mycroft told the other with a hint of remorse in his eyes.

With this said, Mycroft closed the gap between them with surprising speed. The suddenness of the movement caught Sherlock off guard and his brother took advantage of this by wrenching Sherlock's arm up to two pristine fangs that had appeared. There was a slight hesitation before Mycroft sunk his teeth in quickly draining a sufficient amount. Once enough blood had been consumed, he then raised his own arm to his teeth and punctured the wrist. Red began to colour the area as he pressed it to his brother's mouth, forcing the oozing liquid to enter. Sherlock began to stagger before collapsing on the ground and convulsing. He drew deep shuddering breaths that grew more and more staggered. The gangly limps relaxed as the great detective drew the last breath he would ever take as a mortal.

It was over the grave of his last friend that Sherlock died. It was over the same grave, that he became renewed. He had been restored to the image of youth that he carried in his twenties, albeit paler, even if this was only due to the excess blood running through his system and the image would eventually fade without proper sustenance. Sherlock Holmes was now a member of that which he labelled daemon and folklore.

…Thy Soul Shall find itself alone…

**1932**

The first ten years of Sherlock's new existence showed change in a rapidly encroaching modern society. The resentment he faced towards his brother was still there. He hadn't actually talked to the man for eight years now. The thirties were fascinating though, he couldn't deny that he was eager to have the opportunity to learn even more. The technological advances! The advances in science! The year 1932 brought on so many changes it was incredible! James Chadwick discovered the neutron, there was talk about 'television' and the BBC began to experiment with televised broadcasting for the first time. This was all despite the Depression that was plaguing the country. Food was easy to come by as well. With the depression came a large number of unemployed and homeless which Sherlock interpreted as those who wouldn't be missed. He could be described as a vigilante of sorts in the area of Whitechapel. He did not prey on those who were 'good' he reserved the hunt for the immoral vipers who roamed the unsavoury bowel of London. He did avoid the men who frequented brothels, there were far too many diseases that came about from that kind of activity at the moment. Yet, no matter how progressive the world became, boredom and loneliness cursed Sherlock wherever he went.

...Not one, of all the crowd, to pry…

**1941**

He'd have to start from scratch. Siren's blared in the background and smoke consumed the sky. Sherlock paid no heed to this. Instead, he stared at the destroyed home that contained his life's work, or rather had. A single device boarded on a plane had destroyed his current home and nearly everything he held dear. His chemistry set he had for nearly sixty years was now various twisted lumps. Photographs he might've kept over the years were now gone. He only hoped that the chest survived.

Sherlock wiped soot and ash from his face and cautiously entered the burnt shell and ventured to his old bedroom to try and see if anything has survived. His movements were slower than usual due to the fact he hadn't fed in nearly two weeks. He hadn't felt the motivation since the bombings had begun. This thirst caused his face to be deeply lined, the hair on his head to be dusted with grey. If anyone were to see him, they would guess his age at being approximately fifty years old, if not more. With each step looking to be a struggle, partly from thirst and partly at the fear of disappointment, Sherlock finally made it to the old room.

He rushed over to a burnt hole in the floor and peered down inside before giving a relieved smile, the first one in a while. Sherlock lugged the chest out of the hole, ignoring the heat tingling his palms. A faint click was heard as the lid popped free and a deep breath of unnecessary air was expelled from his body. One gnarled hand reached in and pulled out a stack of journals and photographs. Part of his life's work was saved, and the pictures were safe as well. Thank the god that Sherlock didn't believe in. He rubbed a thumb over one before placing it back in the chest.

"John is safe." Sherlock's hoarse voice said aloud. He latched the container shut and heaved it back into the hole. That would have to do for now, at least until he could find a safe area to move it to.

Outside was worse, if that were possible. The smoke was even thicker and screams could be heard from all around. Silvery blue eyes darted around their surroundings and fell upon a shaking lump by a brick wall. Upon further inspection, Sherlock saw that it was a frazzle haired youth in their mid-teens. The said youth was bleeding profusely from the nasty slice down their forearm. Sherlock froze mid-step, tensed up, and lunged not even allowing the child time to scream.

…Be silent in that solitude…

**1953**

Sherlock sat at the edge of his bed staring at the telly screen. It was utterly fascinating technology, too bad the only thing on was the coronation.

Boring

The black and white specks were going absolutely wild and the Union Flag was being flashed everywhere.

How dull

People this decade were utterly predictable so far. Social niceties began to get thrown out the window. It was strange for someone who had grown up to Victorian conformity to experience. Sherlock was getting the hang of it though. It wasn't terribly hard, but this era was to be dreadfully optimistic and materialistic, as far as he could tell. They grew too confident with the economic prosperity that was ahead of them. Sherlock paused as a carriage showed on the screen.

Utterly mundane

…The Spirits of the dead, who stood…

**1967**

Oh, how the world changed. The Sixties epitomised change, and vampires were no exception to this idea. They had been discovered. Combustion at noon while walking through Piccadilly did that, and right outside the Ritz. After the 'victim', others had come out of hiding and shown how they were just like humans. That was more to the benefit of the food supply, seeing how most of the vampires had complete empathy erosion. Sherlock scoffed. If there was any time to come out as being reanimated flesh, this was it. Hippies were either too stupidly invested in peace, or too high to take much notice.

'Give it a few years' Sherlock muttered as he examined a group of protesters with the moon leering down at them. These particular people were picketing the Science community who began to round up those willing to aid in tests. Sherlock himself had gone to facilities to help lessen the damage of certain weaknesses. Sunlight is still a huge issue. You won't die right away from exposure, per se. It depended on the Vampire; Sherlock could last approximately five minutes before his skin began to crackle.

The gathering of people had increased to around a hundred, it would be easy to take his pick. If people granted Vampires rights, that was fine. If they feared them, that was fine as well. Both, however, would be fantastic. Who shall it be? The person to his right with the family trauma? The woman with a history of drugs? The man flying on cocaine? Injected cocaine, this could have potentially interesting results. Sherlock's eyes flashed a bright silver while his fangs became even more prominent inside his mouth. How shall he lead the man away? It wouldn't be difficult at all. Sherlock ran his eyes up the other man to find a weak spot.

Perfect

He led the young man away to an alley after planting in him the idea that certain services would be given. The addicts head slammed against the brick wall as Sherlock lowered his head to the pulsating point of the neck and bit. Gurgled protests began to die off. Blood rushed through Sherlock's veins causing them to sing. His vision was sharper, his mind even clearer. This was no mere 7% solution. The blood gave him youth, the drug gave him respite. He needed more.

…In life before thee, are again…

**1976**

Bodies writhed everywhere in the club. The place was an inferno and unfortunately, the outside was a circle of hell. An underground world sprung up for vampires. Clubs where they could be as twisted as their souls and the food supply came to them thinking they would be blessed with immortality.

Fools

Sherlock prowled through the crowd, dressed similarly to that of his fellow clubbers. He had to find an isolated person. They didn't necessarily have to be high, there was a filled syringe in his pocket that could fix that issue. Problem was, no one was alone! Men and Women were dancing lasciviously against each other making it near impossible to navigate the area. The edges of the old warehouse had vampires plastered on top of humans. Sherlock twisted through the crowd to a darkened corner. Ahah! There was one. His short dark hair was plastered to his head and his disproportionately large brown eyes showed signs of an oncoming crash.

"Do you require a hand?" Sherlock inquired as he sat next to the man and waved a small syringe. The man's eyes widened as he took in the syringe and the person holding it, then a manic smile broke across his face.

"Got a tourniquet?" A surprisingly soft lilt came out of the man whose smile only got bigger as a band was dangled in front of his face. "Now, you first."

"No, you can go, I insist." Sherlock hated when they wanted to go after him. Injecting it into himself did nothing, he needed to have it come from a secondary source.

"What if that's shite, darling? Or poison?" A smirk formed as the equipment was snatched.

"You should be satisfied that I am lonely and you are here. I doubt you would be able to buy a bag anywhere given your financial situation. Better finish packing." When Sherlock saw that the human had no intention of shooting up until he did, Sherlock decided to take another route even if he wasn't fond of resorting to hypnotism, it was too easy. "Take the needle"

The human watched, mesmerised, as Sherlock stared into his eyes. He subconsciously raised a hand to grab the needle as Sherlock tied the band around the right arm. The man sunk the needle into the crook of his arm.

"If you had just listened. You should have known what was coming from you not obeying a Vampire." Sherlock informed the other as he waited, the blood tasted best after five minutes of being in the bloodstream. It would seem that the man turned drowsy when under the influence, it's easier to leave them alive and passed out when they won't put up a fight. He hated having to do disposal work and the club did not take kindly to ending the night with dead bodies everywhere. Once the five minutes passed, Sherlock practically lunged at the other and stopped just as the body in his arms slumped. A hand went to a pulse point, faint, not dead. Not my problem. Sherlock swept out of the club to get back to his flat, willing the high to last as long as possible.

The flat was a tiny thing, rent was practically non-existent and cockroaches littered the corners. Sherlock approached the door and then froze just as he was about to lay a finger on the handle. Someone was in there.

Mycroft.

The two hadn't properly chatted since one time back in '47 and that had not ended well at all to say the least. He took a deep breath and calmly entered the room with the perfected air of the Victorian Aristocrat he had once been.

"Mycroft, you should have told me you were dropping by. I would have tidied up and bought a nice bundle of hawthorn as a gift." Mycroft gave a brief glare at the mention of the toxic plant.

"How courteous. If you would be so kind as to change out of those awful clothes. "

"And what is wrong with my clothing?"

"Unbecoming, I always knew your interests lay elsewhere, but where is your decorum?" Mycroft hissed as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, I do believe it vanished when the sixties arrived." Sherlock said as he fulfilled his brother's wishes anyways. "The archaic ways of our youth have been thrown out the window by everywhere else."

"You are a Gentleman, or rather, once were." Mycroft paused "I see that you have found an alternative method for administering your drug of choice."

"As if you weren't aware already. You're still a minor government official and you will be that until the day you disappear, a day that cannot come soon enough." Mycroft shook his head sadly at his brother's words.

"If only Dr Watson could see you now."

"Yes, well, he is dead, isn't he." Sherlock stated turning stoic as he always did when his John was mentioned.

"Dr Watson may be gone but that does not mean that you can't evaluate what his opinion of you might be. If it won't be me, at least imagine how the one person who was fond of you would feel with you going the areas of London filled with other Vampires and those begging to be turned."

"I highly doubt John would want to be privy to such knowledge. Good bye, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, you have to do something with your time. If you won't forgive me, at least do something meaningful." Mycroft told his little brother as he crossed the room.

"If? I will never forgive you, Mycroft. You lost me my peace. There is a grave plot that should have my body in it. There is a headstone that should have had my name on it for nearly fifty years! This is why I will never forgive you." Sherlock waited until his brother was fully out the door and shut it with unnecessary strength.

…The Night –Tho' clear- Shall frown…

**1984**

Haphazard stacks of paper covered most of the floor space in the small room with articles hanging out at random spots. Sherlock focused his eyes on the visible articles.

New Discovery Enables the Dead Amongst Us to See the Light

Margaret Brighton

Scientist in Heidelberg, Germany have developed a new Hypodermic treatment that, when used on necrotic tissue of vampiric origin, may minimise the effects of UV rays. Vampires, when placed under ultraviolet lights, undergo a severe allergic reaction which can be fatal in mere seconds. The science community hopes that this will enable those with Vampirism to be able to perform routine activities and maintain a life not so different from those of their living counterparts.

Hans Bachelor, the lead Scientist in the programme, tells us that "While not eliminating the pain experienced with sun exposure entirely, it will prevent most cases of Sun shock and rapid degeneration of the skin. This makes it so the fatality rate in vampires will become all but obsolete when they are-"

The article vanished back into the stack and another was pushed out.

Siring, rules and regulations.

In ordinance with Act 57b of the Articles of Vampiric Conduct (1979) those who wish to sire a Homo sapiens must do so through an in depth application process. After the application has successfully been approved, a competency test will be issued. If there is no familial tie to the candidate, a court case will be carried out. This is to ensure that the new society of the Vampiric race is to not be tainted wi-

The next one sticking out showed an image of a woman (clearly Vampire) and a man (clearly her servant, judging by the eyes and stance) holding hands and smiling. The headline read:

Modification of the Relations Act of 1971

The relations act of 1971, banning intermingling of Vampires and Humans has been modified. This controversial act prevented Vampires and Humans from entering relationships with no intent of Siring. The punishments of this act for the Vampire ranged from eternal imprisonment to death. Today, outside of Parliament, hundreds of Vampire/Human couples revelled in being able to express their affection.

Santine Lloyd, pictured above said "This is a day we will look back on with t-

Sherlock groaned. He was bored out of his mind. The social revolution for Vampires was occurring and he found that he simply couldn't be bothered to care. Most Vampires were only participating as a way to manipulate the people into thinking they were harmless, anyways. The only thing that was of interest to him was the treatment so he would no longer be hindered by that damn star. He would begin treatments in a week, by the time next month rolled around, he would be a free man! Able to roam alleys and go to the morgue whenever he pleased. Goodbye exorbitant cab fare to St Bart's.

He had paid heed to Mycroft's words, to his own annoyance. Sherlock had set up a little area in an abandoned room at Bart's, but really needed to find a new mortician to work in the morgue. Henry Jennings was a competent man and a tolerant one when it came to Sherlock being a Vampire. He was not, however, tolerant to Sherlock making himself at home in the room of the dead and using all the equipment.

Bored

If this were still the seventies, he would already be out at a club trying to coerce some poor man into taking cocaine. Due to Mycroft's meddling, he was now completely off of the drug addled blood. He'd been clean since 1981 when he started buying bags of the white powder to just dump in the blood bags he received from the hospital each month (A programme was set up to reduce the siring and deaths of Humans, they thought it worked. The missing persons list just got bigger). Sherlock realised he had a problem after pouring nearly ten grams of cocaine into one of his bags. Withdrawal was horrendous, even when the drug is acquired second hand. On top of it, whilst he was still addicted, newspapers began running PSAs on being safe at clubs. Why? Because other vampires got the same ideas as him. It becomes a lot harder to get high via blood when the blood supply becomes cognisant that you are drugging them to drain them. Sherlock lifted up his head and glared at the stack of papers between his feet. Non-existent god, did he hate public media.

…From their high thrones in the heaven…

**1999**

It was decided, he would return to the work. He would venture to Scotland Yard, no, he would find a crime scene. Abigail Potter, a politician's daughter, was brutally murdered, investigations were underway. He could find the crime scene with little hassle. The news reported she was murdered on Charing Cross outside of a bookshop. He would be there in 22 minutes if his calculations were correct.

They were.

'The Police are still completely inept at guarding crime scenes, I see' Sherlock gleefully thought as he ducked under the yellow tape to where two policemen stood. By the time he arrived next to the body, he already had five theories eliminated down to two.

"Does this woman have any personal relationships in politics?" The police jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" The younger man, a Detective Sergeant, half shouted.

"I am here to help." He debated for a second on how to proceed "My name, is irrelevant until I learn how competent this division is."

"Oh, I see, that's all cleared up. Some crackpot has come to try and do the police's job." The man replied with biting sarcasm.

Oh, this one has potential

"That woman, Abigail Potter, has been dead for two days now. She shows signs of strangulation, not the act that killed her, however. On her neck you clearly see the entry point of a needle, judging by that and the swollen lymph nodes, lab reports will come back positive for Ricin Injection. Normally not fully fatal, or if it is, it would take longer for death to occur. If that were the case, the body would show signs of having been moved. The killer, who is male, those are bruises caused by distinctly masculine hands, injected an extremely high amount which would have killed Potter in less than an hour. Am I only trying to do the police forces job?" Sherlock inquired with a smirk upon examining the two gobsmacked detectives.

Who would talk first?

"Do you have previous experience in investigations, son?" The older man questioned. Sherlock scrunched his nose at the usage of the word son. Maybe he should not have drunk from that woman on the way over. Next time he has to try to get on a police forces good side, he would make himself look middle aged.

"Yes, sir. I was a rather renowned Detective in the late 19th century and the beginning of our current one." The two detectives were both wondering if he was a vampire anyways, might as well be out with it. It wouldn't be too much of a problem anyways, there were at least four vampires in this division alone.

"Is that so, why haven't I seen your face before, then, don't you vamps like ter continue your old professions?" The older man's voice turned gruff while the DS said at the same time.

"Sherlock Holmes. That your name?" The younger man's eyes became even wider.

"Ah, you know me." He had come across the occasional person who was fascinated with Victorian mysteries and ended up stumbling across the cases John wrote up.

"Yeah, My great granddad." The man stuck out a hand "DS Lestrade."

I must say, I was not expecting that

"I won't bother saying my name if you're already aware. Your great grandfather was an incongruous man at times, but he did provide me with access to crime scenes." Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down "I see you are a bit more capable in your job, you have potential."

"Thank you?"

"Interpret it as a compliment, I haven't given one of those since the fourties. Now, Miss Potter. My original question has not been answered. Does she have a male cousin or partner in Politics?"

"There is a boyfriend who works under the girl's father."

"Excellent, if he owns a pair of size 8 Oxfords with mud on the sides, arrest him."

"Oxfords?"

"There is a shoe print next to the body, the pattern is found on the bottoms of Oxfords." Sherlock kneeled by the body and obscured the neck from view as he took a sample. "Here is my card, contact me if anything is found. I can be located at the morgue in St. Bart's as well."

"Will do, sir." Young Lestrade said, taking the card while his superior still examined Sherlock with suspicion as the vampire hailed a cab.

Well, he hadn't been arrested. All in all, this went much more smoothly compared his encounter with the late-Lestrade. He did not like the older Detective Inspector. That wasn't a huge concern, the man was retiring in a few years and the Detective Sergeant Lestrade was a shoe in for the position. Good, that man was much more willing to listen, that shows he is not as idiotic as most of the population. Sherlock stepped out of the cab and made his way to Bart's. Damn, the equipment he needed was a permanent fixture in the Morgue, he would have to try and convince Jennings.

"Jennings, I need to use the Morgue!" Sherlock shouted as he burst the door open. Where Jennings should have been, there was a woman instead. She was in front of the slab and was meticulously examining a body's face. "Ah, intern. Where is Jennings?"

"Ehm, sorry. He isn't here, anymore?" She was hesitant and said everything with a questioning tone as she turned to face Sherlock. "He retired."

"What do you mean the man retired, he can't do that" Sherlock snapped.

"He worked here for thirty five years. I'm the new mortician, Molly Hooper." She raised out a hand to shake which was ignored.

"Sherlock Holmes, when did you turn?" He asked, she was a rather new Vampire.

"Er- 91'. I was coming home from the library when I was attacked. My Anatomy Professor found me and saved me."

"You haven't changed a single thing about your behaviour compared to your old self, other than the blood. That is quite unusual for a Vampire, you have killed people, so there is something. You were twenty-two, you took a gap year before starting University. This makes you middle or upper class, your shoes determine you to be middle class. You had a disappointingly stable family life, if we ignore the death of your brother. Your father passed away from cancer, prostate, you're wearing the light blue ribbon associated with the cancer. Anything wrong?" Sherlock just watched Molly shake her head mutely. "Now, your lab equipment, I need it."

Sherlock liked this Molly Hooper woman. She didn't interfere, and she agreed to grant him complete access to the morgue. She did look over at him an unsettling amount, however, he could use this knowledge to his advantage. Sherlock decided that she was the perfect person to take over for Jennings. She let Sherlock be, and she even had a good knowledge of chemistry which was useful when he had to ask for certain chemicals. She helped him confirm that the poison was Ricin. Always useful to have a second set of eyes, even if you knew you were right.

The door to the morgue opened just as Sherlock was finishing up. Lestrade was here, good. That meant the boyfriend was the perpetrator and he was going to begin to grant Sherlock access to the crime scenes.

"You were right about the whole thing." Lestrade said as he walked over to Sherlock.

"Obviously, I trust that the woman's partner is locked up with no chance of a reprieve?"

"I've also been given permission by DI Gregson to allow you access to crime scenes, but only ones we send you in for."

"Be warned, I won't go to your inane little crime scenes. If you want me there, don't make it boring." Lestrade looked a little shocked but it was quickly brushed off and looked around the morgue.

"Oh, hello. Greg Lestrade, sorry for burstin' in, police business." Lestrade told Molly and sent her an awkward smile which she returned.

"Now, listen, Sherlock. Do I have a chance to make it to DI?" Lestrade asked and he turned his brows up.

"Guaranteed. I have to go. If you have any exciting cases pop up, tell me." With that, Sherlock swept out of the room.

..But their red orbs, without beam…

**2009**

God, Sherlock hates press conferences. He was seated in a corner away from view as he listened to Lestrade and Donovan answer questions the reporters spewed at them.

"There's no link been found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one."

Sherlock sighed and whipped out his phone and typed in Wrong. In a few seconds, the whole conference room began to buzz and chime as everyone began to check their phones. Sally looked up at her phone and glared at the corner she knew contained Sherlock.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them."

"It just says, 'wrong'." A man told her bemused.

"Yeah, well, just ignore that." Sally continued the press conference and Sherlock let his mind wander to his experiment with the lung tissue.

Then, he heard Lestrade say "We've got our best people investigating". Sherlock smirked as he fired off another Wrong. Lestrade looked up from his phone and looked over at Sherlock while slightly shaking his head. A few minutes later, Sherlock had the pleasure of typing out another set of Wrongs and a more personal message to Lestrade, You know where to find me –SH, before ducking out of the conference room to go to Bart's.

"Sherlock, hey, Sherlock!" A voice called from behind him, Mike. Sherlock rearranged his features, he could tolerate Mike.

"Mike."

"So, how's the flat search going for you?" Sherlock got kicked out of his previous flat, again. He knew Mike had been moving and went to ask him about his flat a week ago, it had already been sold to a couple in their twenties.

"I've found one I am thinking of renting. The issue is the cost, I have a deal on it, but I would need to get a flatshare." He had, in fact, found his old flat. 221b Baker Street, to his amazement, never left the ownership of the Hudson's. The current Mrs Hudson was not a Hudson by blood, however, she was married into the name.

"There's no problem then!" Mike, for what it's worth, was an infuriatingly optimistic man.

"Who would want me for a flatmate?" Sherlock asked as he began to walk away from Mike.

"You never know!" The man laughed "Good Lord, is that the time? 'fraid I have to go teach my next class."

Humans, so excited about everything. Sherlock restrained himself from rolling his eyes as he walked through the morgue doors. He needed to find Molly, where was that socially awkward Vampire? A case depended on bruise development. Molly walked out of her office with steaming cuppa, Sherlock sniffed the air, AB-.

"Molly, do you have any cadavers? I need to have access to one." Sherlock watched as she flushed and put down her cup.

"The body on the table." She clumsily gestured over to the body bag.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. Sixty-Seven, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice." Molly said joining Sherlock.

"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." Sherlock smiled sweetly at the mortician, his face falling as soon as she turned. The body was relocated and crop in hand, Sherlock began to strategically whip the body so he could examine what marks formed. Once done, he made the required small talk with Molly and went up to the computer lab so he could finish filling out various emails.

Sherlock heard two people enter the room. One, Mike, judging by the footfalls, was talking light heartedly to another with a cane. Sherlock sighed and continued to rapidly type on his keyboard, they better not stay long. Sherlock read the next email, damn, he needed a phone.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock asked still not having looked at the two men behind him.

"And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text" Less interaction that way.

"Sorry, it's in my coat." Sherlock heard rustling from the other man.

"Er. Here. Use mine." Sherlock stood up and once he fully turned around, froze.

John

AN:

Title and the quotes at the end of each decade are from Edgar Allen Poe's poem Spirits of the Dead.

Hello! I hope you enjoyed the first chapter, please feel free to leave a comment! You can also find me at my tumblr, AccioJohnlockintheTardis.

In case this is at all confusing, most characters Sherlock meets again are relatives of the ones he knew in the 1800's. There will still be a few reincarnated characters (John, for example). This will also be minimal smut, nothing super graphic. So if you are looking to ready steamy Johnlock vampire smut, I'm sorry, that will not be found here. If, for some reason, this story pushes the M rating and ventures into the realm of explicit, the cleaner version will be posted here at .