Had this idea while watching A Scandal in Belgravia, right after I watched Interview with a Vampire. Lol...trust me...it will make sense when you start reading. Anyway, here we go.
I do not own BBC, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Loo Brealey, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and saddest of all...Benedict Cumberbatch. *goes to the corner to sob*
Enjoy!
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The very last bit of air left his lungs, his life snapping from the thin cord that had kept it together. She held the scissors, so to speak. She sunk her sharp fangs into his carotid artery, and began drinking from his still warm blood. He was older, had been ill for some time, so the death wasn't unexpected. She was always so careful about who she chose. It was vitally important, for herself, but also for the victims involved. As she felt his blood begin to cool, she stopped drinking. Cool blood was like drinking luke warm coffee, it was disgusting. With careful precision, she retracted her teeth from his neck, and swiped her tongue over the puncture marks, instantly healing it. That was the other important thing, making sure to hide the wounds.
She was filling out the paperwork for his death when he strolled in. She had always had a difficult time when around him. He looked more like a vampire than she did, and he was human. His ghostly pale skin was even paler than hers, which seemed so impossible. His eyes were deep, intense with a hidden power that seemed stronger than her own. Those high ridging cheekbones underneath his skin, he was all sharp angles, and it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. However, the thing that perplexed her most was his scent. He was all of her favorite things, rolled up into one. A combination of cedar, tobacco ash, and her long lost love, coffee, and some sort of chemical she couldn't quite place. He peered over the man on the slab as she approached him.
"How fresh?" Oh that voice, how could she possibly have forgotten that voice?
"Just in. 67, natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him, he was nice." Molly responded, smiling her best as she tried to shove down a bit of guilt. He had been nice. It was sad he was so ill, and she really had wished that he would have either been a complete dick in life, or that he would have died with family near. However, he had tasted nice, and she was glad she could be there for his last moment. 'He wasn't truly alone then, in the end.'
"Right. We'll start with the riding crop." He stated, giving her a smug grin. She retreated to her office, watching with fascination through the window as her late meal had been bashed and bruised by the eclectic Sherlock Holmes. She bit down on her lip, one of her fangs accidentally reappearing to pierce it. She flinched, and tasted her own blood begin to spill from it. Molly quickly licked it away, savoring the spiced flavor it gave off. She came back in when he had finished, her curiosity getting the better of her. For some reason, she couldn't seem to keep herself away from him, wondering what it would be like to touch him, to taste him.
"I need to know what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. Text me." Sherlock fired off, his voice calm and flat. Molly couldn't resist. It was one of her comforts, not even being able to drink it anymore, but she could still smell it, so she asked.
"Listen I was wondering...maybe later..." She began, but he interrupted.
"Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before." Sherlock gazed at her in curiosity. Molly's eyes widened. 'Shit.' She thought. She could feel the lingering liquid of her blood and saliva on her lips, realizing it must not have wiped away as well as she'd hoped.
"I uh...I refreshed it a bit." Molly came up with the excuse, even if she wasn't confident in it. Sherlock had picked up on that as well, she could see, based on the accusatory look he shot her way. He brushed it off quickly however, and continued.
"Sorry, you were saying?" He asked.
"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." She could just smell it now. Beautiful black roast with a bit of sugar, combined with his lovely smell of cedar and smoke.
"Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs." He nods upward, indicating the lab, before turning away and leaving her there. She sighed out an 'okay', before walking away to retrieve his drink.
'That could not have gone worse.' Molly thought.
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Molly had been in the game a long time. Well, not a long time, by the standards of her kind. But she had seen far more history than that of a person of her 'age'. She had seen the past 50 years pass, people aging, people dying, people being born, growing to adulthood, and then dying years later. It was part of the reason that around the 40th year, she decided to go back to school (again) and become a pathologist. Far too many ways to depart, and seeing as she couldn't, Molly saw no reason why she couldn't at least understand how other people did.
It was there that she met Sherlock. Her first year out of school, and she was already one of the chief pathologists in the department, and was highly sought after. He had whisked into the morgue, trailing behind, yet not following, the nice Detective Inspector with the silvery hair.
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"Oh, hello Molly. Sorry to call you in at such a weird time, but this one's sort of a rush." Greg Lestrade, chief detective at Scotland Yard, had been so sweet to her since she started just the few months prior. He always gave her a winning smile and his undivided attention when she would discuss the cause of death for his different victims. Usually he came alone, or with that rather impish looking fellow, Anderson. However, this was someone entirely new to Molly. She had detected his scent upon his entry into the room, and she could all but taste the blood that ran underneath those perfectly sculpted arms in veins that were too easy to see. She took in a deep breath, trying to contain the sudden urge to taste him. Devour him.
"Oh, that's okay. I always lead such weird hours anyway." She replied. She lifted the sheet off the body, revealing the utterly wrecked body of a young man. His cause of death had been blunt force trauma to the chest and head, due to a car collision. She stood back as this new man scanned his eyes over the body, seeming to take in every detail at lightning speed that was only matched by her own. After a moment, he stood upright, turning to Lestrade.
"He was pushed. Probably some accidental altercation that provoked the attacker to make the move, but he slipped off the curb, and fell in front of an oncoming truck. You're looking for a young man in his twenties, probably friends or colleagues with the deceased. I'd check somewhere around the university scene, judging by the logo on his sweater. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must go. Apparently there's been some sort of fire at my flat." Sherlock spat out the deduction without a second breath, all before looking down to his phone and once again pocketing it. He looked up at her then, sort of giving her a glance over, and then turned to make his leave. At the door, he rounded the corner one last time.
"Ah, Miss Hooper, you seem competent enough, I'll require your assistance for certain experiments and cases, don't go anywhere." He pointed a long finger to her, and gave her a sly wink. He was once again out of sight, before she could react. She turned to her older friend, and gave him an odd look. Greg shrugged and let out a long, hard sigh.
"That's Sherlock Holmes. Yes, he's always like that, I suppose. Just... just make sure he doesn't make a huge mess." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, before nodding a goodbye to her, and following the tall stranger through the door of the morgue. Molly let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and felt her ice cold blood rushing through her crystallized veins.
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She felt hungry, not surprising after having an interaction with Sherlock. She knew she couldn't have blood as sweet as his, but she could at least quench the thirst with a quick option. Molly carefully made her way to the darker corridors of St. Bart's, down to the coolers of stored blood. She always hated when the thirst reached this point, as it meant not only stealing from the hospital, but stealing from a patient who potentially needed it. Molly had learned early on that she had a preference in the type, but she forced herself to choose the most common and best supplied. Today was A positive, which she didn't mind so much. She carefully stuffed two bags into her oversized bag, and swiftly walked out of the room. Soon, Molly found herself on her way home, trying to avoid as much eye contact as possible. It was these moments, the moments when she was hungriest, that she feared her potential. She knew the slightest glare or look could send her into a spiral tantrum, thus killing several in her path. So, head tucked down, and her brown hair flowing freely to hide the scent of human blood, she went home to enjoy what she could of the blood bags in her purse.
As she drank from the sanitary pouches, her eyes flooded with a darker color, having been satisfied enough with the flavor of blood. She wiped the remnants of red from her lips, thinking back to Sherlock's comment earlier that day. With a deep sigh, Molly decided she was in desperate need of a shower and bed. 'Just because I can't sleep, doesn't mean I can't at least enjoy my wonderful sheets.' Molly thought to herself.
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Well, I hope you all like it so far. I'll be posting the other chapters throughout the next week, so look out for those! And leave me a review, please? I love reviews! Pretty please leave reviews? For Me?