Edited to add disclaimer, I do not own these characters. The story is not for profit.

This story is set in a True Blood Universe. It's not categorized as a crossover because there is almost no characters from True Blood (except on AWESOME and fitting surprise!) You don't need to know True Blood at all to enjoy this. I was just the perfect vampire setting. I do borrow shamelessly from the True Blood soundtrack, it has SUCH good tunes! It's gonna be a wild ride!

So what, somebody left you in a rut

And wants to be the one who's in control

But the feeling that you're under can really make you wonder

How the hell she can be so cold

So now you're mad, denying the truth

And it's hidden in the wisdom in the back of your tooth

Ya need to spit it out, in a telephone booth

While you call everyone that you know, and ask 'em

Where do you think she goes

Oh ya, where d'ya suppose she goes

(Denial Twist – The White Stripes)

In a remote shadowy corner, hidden away in his Mind Palace, Sherlock Holmes knew what was happening to Molly Hooper. And if this were anything like one of his typical cases he would turn his thoughts inward so he could eagerly explore all the evidence available to reach a definitive conclusion. But for the first time in his life he turned away from the evidence and actively pushed it down deep, far down into the cobwebby dungeons of his thoughts. Perhaps to find a room beside his fear in the guise of a tethered and bound Moriarty.

The distraction of the Magnussen case had turned his thoughts away from Molly Hooper, but it proved only a temporary diversion. As his plane banked and landed, returning him to London to explore the possibility that Moriarty was still alive (Blood, brains and skull fragments upon his sudden suicide made this highly doubtful) his thoughts were brought back once again to his most recent obsession.

Molly.

Something was terribly wrong with Molly. He wanted to know. He didn't want to know. He knew already. This was the war that was now waging in his mind. And when did he ever let anything deter his pursuit of the truth? When did he let feelings mar his better judgment? If Molly was in trouble wouldn't it be in her best interest if he could just be honest with himself and admit that she was- Shut up!

But no. It wasn't that. Couldn't be that. Molly was just Molly. Helpful. Clumsy. Brilliant. Infatuated. Trustworthy. And one of two people he could trust with his life. Always there when he needed her. And if he somehow missed something like this, let something like this happen to her, what kind of friend would that make him? So no, he refused to see the evidence. He shut his eyes to the truth and continued his association with Molly Hooper in the capacity to which he had grown accustomed.

In the past there were two reactions Sherlock could elicit from Molly Hooper and they were tears and arousal. These days Sherlock tried his best in the name of friendship to not abuse this. But being not the most tactful of people he had his lapses to old ways.

He remembered well how these emotions influenced her behaviour, how she would stammer when he would flirt with her to procure items from her lab. She would blush and smile nervously as she played with her hair, making brief anxious eye contact before looking away.

He also had memories of the tears he had caused her. It was hard not to feel a stab of guilt now that she was – no she wasn't! Not that!

There were a few occasions when he had made her flee his presence, but more often she stood her ground, looking at him with sad reproach as the tears coursed down her face. He used to get so angry at the way it made him feel ashamed of himself, like he was small and mean and petty while she held her head high in the face of his cruelty.

These days Molly fled his presence at the slightest provocation and he was entirely too proud to admit how much this upset him. He just wanted their old friendship back. That wasn't sentiment. It was a reasonable logical desire. He needed her to aid him in his work. He would be equally upset if it were John who was a- shut up!

As he sat in front of his favorite microscope viewing an array of tissue samples in Bart's lab, he covertly watched Molly as she flitted in and out of the room. It was getting late, past eleven, but that is just how it was with her these days. She only worked nights. Ever. This granted her the advantage of being the pathologist with the most seniority present for any interesting cases that might arrive in the night. But she also missed collaborating with her colleagues which was something that exclusively occurred during the daytime hours. All opportunities to distinguish herself in her field happened during the day. She would never achieve notoriety on an exclusive night shift schedule.

Sherlock knew she was ambitious. Why would she sabotage her career this way? He knew why. NO!

He needed to stop this foolishness and find out (confirm) what was wrong with her. And so the very next time Molly pushed through the doors, Sherlock found himself jumping to his feet to block the door before she could scurry away once more.

Molly looked up at him, clearly startled. Her eyes widened and Sherlock couldn't ignore her ghostly pallor nor the deep shadows that bruised the skin beneath her lower lashes.

"Sherlock!" His name squeaked from her lips, as if he had materialized in front of her unexpectedly from thin air. Her eyes met his briefly before darting away again and she brought a trembling hand to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind one ear.

"W-what, uh . . . I mean . . . C-can I get you a-anything?" Her stammer had reverted to a severity Sherlock had not witnessed since the first day he had met her all those years ago.

"I was about to ask you the very same question, Molly." He stood tall, peering down at her with his sharp intense gaze, trying to see her, to truly see her and his brow furrowed at what he observed.

"I-I don't understand." She looked almost panicked.

"A simple gesture of friendship, Molly. Do keep up. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? I was about to get some myself. So?"

"So?"

Sherlock moved in closer, as close as he had the night she had asked him the very same question that was on his next breath.

"What do you need?" He asked, trying to put as much meaning, to communicate the true intent of the words by the tone of his voice. Her reaction was immediate.

.

Snick

A faintly audible sound emitted from behind the hand she had suddenly clasped to her mouth and Molly became quite agitated, avoiding any eye contact while trying to push her way past the consulting detective.

"Please Sherlock." Came her muffled tone from beneath her shaking fingers, "I-I don't need anything, thank-you." She tried to step around him to access the door but Sherlock remained rooted to the spot, eyes narrowed as he studied Molly's reactions.

"Please Sherlock!" She said more insistently. "I n-need to get back to the morgue."

"You've already finished the only post mortem on your schedule. Your only plan for the remainder of the night is to run a toxicology screening on the Pelman case - it will yield no signs of substances ingested or injected – and to file the Death Certificate for the fellow that succumbed to a brain aneurysm this morning. You want to have it ready to accompany the rest of the paper work required by the crematorium. It should have been filed by Dr Halfield as he was the attending pathologist when the body arrived at the morgue long before your shift. You are covering for his negligence. You shouldn't. He will never become competent if you do his job for him."

Molly tried to push past him again, ignoring the uncanny accuracy of his assessment of her night's duties.

"I forgot my lap top down-"

"It's over there, Molly." Sherlock pointed at the long table lined with beakers and sample bottles.

"Please, please, Sherlock, just let me through. I-I'll get something to eat myself. Thank- you! I-I don't need any help!" Once again she tried to push her way past Sherlock and he grabbed her wrist as she shoved at his arm. Sherlock felt the terrible coldness of her flesh.

"Something has happened to you, Molly and I intend to find out. So you could save us both the time and trouble and just tell me now." He spoke to her in his most authoritative tone.

Molly was still clasping one hand over her mouth and now her eyes slipped shut. Sherlock was hard pressed to decipher the emotions that twisted her features – he had never been especially astute when it came to interpreting feelings. He felt her arousal, but it seemed to be threaded with whispers of sadness and fear. She stood like that for a moment and then she leaned towards him and did the strangest thing. She sniffed him. Her nostrils flared and she inhaled deeply.

When she opened her eyes Sherlock could not miss the look of absolute terror on her face. Though his cool facade remained intact, inside he felt his own responding stab of a nameless dread. It was so foreign to him. He had faced so many formidable and destructive people along the path of his life but never something that left him feeling so powerless.

"I want to leave. Let me go!" She cried.

Sherlock would not budge so Molly pulled her hand from his grasp and used it to shove him. To Sherlock's utter shock he was flung from his feet far across the length of the lab where he came crashing down into the stools at the end of the table. There was a smashing sound as several glass beakers jostled by the impact tumbled over the edge of the table shattering against the tiled floor. The glass showered Sherlock's long coat as he lay in a tangle of upturned chairs on the floor.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried.

He looked up at her too surprised by this impossible display of strength to respond to her shout. He struggled to his feet and took a tentative step towards her but before he could get far she held up both of her hands in a warding off gesture.

"I'm so sorry!" She sobbed and Sherlock could finally see her mouth. Her extended fangs were long and sharp, the pointed tips gleamed in the florescent lighting of the laboratory and bright red blood tracked down her cheeks in place of tears as she cried.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock. You can't help me, so just leave me alone." And with that she turned and ran from the room leaving Sherlock alone with the chaos of his thoughts.

His biggest fear was confirmed. He knew it. He had always known it, for months, every since her change. But for once in his lifetime he had desperately wished he was wrong and he had found himself living in denial of the truth because it meant that Molly was right. He was too late and nothing he could do would help her now. He couldn't save her. He couldn't jump off of a building or take down a criminal network to protect her. The damage was done and he had not been there to help.

No matter what he did now the fact remained that Molly Hooper was a vampire.