The Vampire in the Sitting Room
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: There's a vampire in his sitting room. Naturally, Sherlock is enthralled.
Rating: T (for a dead body)
AU for obvious reasons

Disclaimer: Characters and Sherlock do not belong to me, but to Moffat, Sir A.C. Doyle and all associated thus. I am responsible for creating the alternate universe, the OCs, and the storyline only. Please do not take and use or post elsewhere without my permission.

For all of his powers of deduction, and all his ability to read people, Sherlock Holmes finds himself dumbfounded by the man in the corner of the room. He's blond, with blue eyes and an open, kindly face. An uncomfortable smile that he flashes the dancer girl with growing confidence every time she comes near. She's taken a shine to him, and checks on him every once in awhile.

Before him on the table is a full glass of water that he hasn't touched, and Sherlock can't figure out what it is about the man that's just... wrong.

Those eyes are kind, merry; the corners crinkle as he smiles. The dancer is back at his table again, and she reaches out, fingers almost brushing the lip of the untouched glass of water. Sherlock imagines she's asking why he hasn't touched it. A sturdy, calloused hand reaches out and clasps briefly at her wrist before pulling away again. An intimate gesture; reassurance that she wasn't leaving just yet.

Despite this, the man doesn't even seem to be concerned that she will, and she looks rather reluctant to do so. She's been smiling more than him, and more, and more, every time they've spoken over the last hour and a half.

She finally pulls away when she's summoned by another dancer, and the man in the corner waves her off good naturedly. He watches her go, smiling faintly to himself, before turning his head and looking right back at Sherlock.

The consulting detective stiffens in his seat, eyes narrowing and face paling all at once. That calm gaze is curious as he takes in every nuance of Sherlock's face, and the tall man comes to a startling realization. The man he'd been watching had known about it, probably the entire time.

For some reason, this shakes Sherlock terribly. Perhaps it's the feeling that he, the deducer, had been deduced by someone else for once. He gets up, pays his tab and leaves as quickly as possible. He doesn't notice the blond man simply walk out after him.

xXx

The next day, Lestrade demands his help for a murder. As soon as he reaches the scene, Sherlock goes still. It's the dancer from the night before, nestled in the corner between a dumpster and the wall of an adjoining building. She's wrapped snugly in a blanket, eyes closed and legs curled half under her body. Almost as if she'd sat down and just... gone to sleep.

Lestrade is too busy muttering about budget cuts to notice how pale Sherlock has gone. Actually, he probably wouldn't have anyway. Sherlock is always pale, after all. There's never any predicting his behavior, either, so Lestrade doesn't notice the stillness.

No, what he finally notices is Sherlock's expression of horror. Because Sherlock, clever boy, has already figured it all out. Of course he has, it's all there, right on the body. The human teeth marks in her wrist, resting upturned in her lap as it's examined by a coroner. The holes in the midst of them, as if she'd been bitten by something with long canines. The lack of blood at the scene, only a few drops spilled onto the ground by her left hip. But worst of all it's the lack of blood in her body. As if something had drained it away.

"But it can't be," Sherlock whispers to himself.

"Sorry, what?" Lestrade asks, blinking at him. "Sherlock, are you alright? You ill?"

Sherlock takes a step back, turns away. "I'll consider the evidence," he says weakly, and hurries off to catch a cab.

On the ride back, he can't help but think that it's the perfect disguise, that man's visage. He's so kindly, and open, and happy-looking. The perfect hunter, all but forcing those around him to just automatically trust him. Even Sherlock had dismissed him at first, and that never happens.

Perhaps he's jumping to conclusions, he thinks as he climbs the stairs to his flat. He doesn't know that the man he saw the night before had done this to the girl. Perhaps it was a random animal attack. Vampires- He almost chokes on the the thought, but forces his mind to continue. Vampires were reported to bite on the neck. If that was the case, then, "Why bite the wrist...?"

"It's easier. Less mess," an amused voice spoke up from the dark depths of his apartment.

Sherlock's hand is on the lightswitch immediately, heart hammering in his chest. It's not hard to find the man standing in the corner, with the least access to light. He grimaces as the fluorescent floods the room, and Sherlock takes it as a good sign. Light sensitivity. Perhaps allergy to sunlight. That was good, right?

"Do you have to turn that on? It's painful," the blond says, lifting a hand to shield his eyes.

"I'd like to see where you are," Sherlock responds almost poisonously, even if his heart is hammering in his chest with excitement at this new twist. Vampires, hah!

The other male releases a put-upon sigh, frowning behind his hand. "Can you use a dimmer light, then? My eyes are very sensitive."

"That's it!?" Sherlock blurts, somehow offended by the admission.

The vampire in his sitting room is clearly confused by this, and lowers his hand slightly to look at Sherlock properly. "What?" he echoes, brows furrowing. "Yes, of course it is. Why do you think I chose such a poorly lit place to hunt in?"

And of course, now Sherlock is distracted, so much so that he actually takes an eager step forward, eyes narrowed and calculating. "So you did kill her, the girl from the club."

"Kill-? What?" The vampire is suddenly standing and halfway through the room, startling Sherlock into almost taking a step back (but he irrationally remembers the first lesson he had ever learned; never run from a wolf). "She's dead?"

Sherlock blinks at him, bemused, but that's honest shock on his face, for sure. The vampire isn't faking, Sherlock would know. So he nods. "Yes. The only injuries were the bite marks on her wrist," he says.

The vampire grimaces and starts to pace. "I left her alive. Drugged, but alive. Does this mean someone's here...?" He was quite clearly talking to himself, almost as if he'd forgotten Sherlock was there.

"Sherlock Holmes," the consultant detective says quietly, drawing the vampire's attention. "My name."

Dark blue eyes are staring at him, bemused. "Oh," he breathes finally, and gives Sherlock that smile of his. The kind one, if a bit awkward. "John Watson. Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

He finds it absolutely fascinating how... human John is. But he hardly has time to think over the blond's particular allure before there's a banging on the door downstairs. He races down them and throws the door open, revealing Lestrade. And he perks. "Another murder?"

"Yes," Lestrade replies, brows lifting at Sherlock's expression.

"When was it committed?"

Lestrade blinks a few times, before managing to get out, "Around ten this morning, according the coroner."

Which meant that John was off the hook, and these murders were not of vampiric origin. Sherlock couldn't have been more thrilled.

xXx

Yes. That's it. I didn't have inspiration for anything further, so I thought I'd post it as is. Please review!