The snow on the pavement was a beautiful shade of white.
Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself as he walked towards his flat, milk in hand. How could John have forgotten the milk and then get himself sick to the point where he couldn't go get it? How careless of him. He held his phone in his hand, texting the sick doctor to make him feel better.
"Sentiment." He muttered to himself and his eyes wandered to the moon. The night always made him feel so safe, since he was younger. Not too many people around to bother him, to cloud his thoughts. Sherlock took a short cut down an alley way, wanting to get out of the cold as quickly as possible. His thoughts wandered to the flat, the warm fire that was waiting for him and he let out a sigh.
Life had been so... boring, since Moriarty's death and Sherlock's return. A murder here, a kidnapping there. But nothing... fun.
A hand gripped Sherlock's neck, throwing him into a brick wall, cutting the skin protecting his skull. He gasped, eyes wide and choked out. The man looked down at him, hushing him softly. He was utterly gorgeous, pale skin shining in the moon light, the green eyes looking down with a shimmery sorrow. "Relax, puppet." His accent was foreign- a rough contrast to his gentle tone. Some sort of cross between German and Slovak. "It will only hurt for a little- and then... well, then we'll be here to take care of you, little bird."
Sherlock moved to try to kick him, unable to breath, but the man was unmoved. "Don't do that... little bird, please, I don't want to break your wings. I want to watch you fly."
"C-can't... br-breathe!"
"But you won't have to soon, puppet love. I'll take care of that."
Without warning, the man cut open past his coat and shirt, breaking skin. His forearm gushed red liquid, staining the snow and Sherlock tried to cry out in pain. The man threw Sherlock to the ground, covering the detective's body with his own, drinking up the blood from the wound. His arteries had been severed, his bones broken in his fall, he would not be able to get away from this sick, deranged individual. He was going to die here, victim to some nut case who had read too many Anne Rice novels.
His sight was growing blurry, his breath shallow, and he only regretted that he hadn't finished his cup of tea that was sitting in the study next to a probably vomiting John who would be waiting for Sherlock's return. His lips were cracked, open in a desperate attempt to continue pushing the oxygen through his lungs and the man leaned over him, lips tainted with Sherlock's blood.
"Little bird, little bird, you're alive, you're still alive, please, let me help you, let me change you, make you better. Little dove, sweet dove, two deaths are better that one. Let your body die but your spirit live, live, live among the damned, the sons and daughters of Cain. Drink little sweet, drink."
Copper liquid made contact with his lips and he couldn't help it, he needed to breathe, needed to live, to get rid of the putrid invader of his mouth. He swallowed and swallowed all he was given until his body erupted in sheer pain, a scream of torture leaving his cracked lips.
"Yes, yes, little dove, welcome, welcome, welcome home."
Sherlock's head hit the snowy pavement one last time, his eyes shadowed over. The snow was a beautiful shade of crimson.