From the day John moved in to 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, he knew there was something weird about this guy. He was a self diagnosed "high functioning sociopath" who solved crimes to get high, for cryin out loud.

But as the time passed he started to pick up some more little weird habits.

He rarely ate, for starters. He claimed it was because eating was slowing him down. But how many days can you go without eating and still funnction properly?

John didn't knew much about Sherlock's sleeping habits but from seeing him the morning after in the exact same position he was in the night before, for days, he assumed his flatmate wasn't the type to sleep a lot. Sherlock always said that he couldn't sleep while he was on a case.

Also there was the bloody body parts in the fridge. It was for an experiment, Sherlock would say when asked. But what kind of experient would justify a severed head in their kitchen? Also the packs of blood, also for experiments.

And he was pale. So pale that there was no way a healthy person could look like that. He looked like the corpses in the morgue that John was quite familiar with. It must've been the effect of sleepless nights, excessive working, malnutrition and past drug abuse. That was what John told himself anyway.

In addition to all of these, Sherlock was cold. He would always try to avoid physical content with anyone but once , John had accidently touched him and he was shocked by how cold his friend's hand was. Sherlock, obviously, had jerked his hand away really fast that the speed of it had startled John.

Of course John was a sane and rational man, so rational that he couldn't read the signs right in front of him.

You see but you do not observe, that was what Sherlock had once told him. How painfully true it was. All the clues were right in front of his nose and yet John Watson couldn't deduce anything from them. Or maybe he chose to ignore. He was able to do that until that day...

Sherlock was paler than usual that day. More irritable, more tired looking. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. Hell, he probably hadn't. He looked like he was trying to keep his distance, more so than usual. He even hesitated a bit when Lestrade called and told him there was a murder. Sherlock Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes, hesitated to accept what seemed to be an interesting case.

That was what made John start to worry. Surely there had to be something wrong with his friend. He had to be ill or something.

"I am fine, John." Sherlock said firmly when John asked if there was anything wrong.

"Are you sure? Sherlock, you don't look fine. Look, we don't have go if you don't feel well."

"I said I am fine!" Sherlock snapped, grabbing his coat he started to walk out of the flat, leaving a confused John who tried to catch his friend by walking faster.

Sherlock's weird attitude continued at the crime scene. He wasn't as eager to investigate the corpse, he was rather reluctant.

The murder was a particularly gory one. The limbs of the woman in front of them were severed from her dead body. There was blood everywhere. It was enough to turn anyone's stomach upside down.

But it wasn't disgust John saw in his friends eyes when he covered his mouth and nose with his coat's collar in an attempt to avoid the horrid smell. His eyes were shining, pupils bigger than ever. Looking interested, almost ...hungry?

John shook his head. He was being ridiculous. It was probably Sherlock's usual interest in face of a compelling new case. Still he couldn't shake off the fact that he saw something animalistic, something predatory in his friend's eyes.

"Well, won't you examine the body?" John asked after a few uncomfortable minutes on silence, in an attempt to get rid of his suspicions.

"There isn't left much to examine, is there?" Sherlock stated, without any emotion behind his words. "Let's get out of here, shall we? The case doesn't look that interesting and I need some fresh air." He tried to sound nonchalant but John couldn't help but notice that his voice sounded a bit strained.

"Are you kidding me? A woman found dead with severed limbs in an abandoned cottage is not an interesting case to you? I would say it's almost an 8." John knew it would probably be wiser not to push Sherlock but he wanted a confirmation of everything being fine that he didn't care.

"If you think it's that interesting, then why don't you examine it? Be my guest." Sherlock gestured the lifeless body in front of him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Go ahead. Impress me with your deductions."

"Very well." John looked kneeled beside the dead body, trying not to get blood on his clothes. "Woman, mid thirties. She was tortured. Her limbs were severed while she was still alive, judging by the splatter of blood." He looked up at Sherlock.

When he did, he saw Sherlock licking his chapped lips. And for a brief second he could've sworn, sworn, that he saw something in Sherlock's moth that wasn't supposed to be there. It looked like a pair of fangs.

John quickly dismissed the thought. It had to be his imagination playing tricks on him. He continued his examination. "Looking at how jagged the ends of the severed parts look, I would say they were cut with a saw or something similar to that." He shuddered at the thought. Someone had severed this woman's limbs by a saw while she was still alive. What kind of a monster would do that?

"And what is your deduction?" The detective asked, realizing John had paused.

"Only someone strong would be able to do that."

"And?"

"Probably a man, since not many woman would be strong enough to sever someone's limbs alive." John concluded.

"Very well. Though you forgot to mention the killer had some sort of an personal vendetta against the victim. No one would bother severing someone's limbs if they just wanted to kill someone. No, this is personal. Maybe an ex-boyfriend, or someone she betrayed. Case closed. Told you, not that interesting. Let's go back to the flat." He turned around to leave.

That night, John couldn't manage to sleep. He was thinking. The thoughts that were occupying his mind were about Sherlock. What was up with him?

Suddenly he heard the door of the flat closing slowly, a noise he probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't so on edge. Sherlock must've left. But where did he go?

Why would he leave in the middle of the night? Was it a new case? No, then he would have woken up John. It was as if he wanted to leave quitely, in order not to wake John up. Was it a problem about his family? No, Sherlock wasn't the type to leave for family problems in 2 a.m.

While laying in his bed, one word was on John's mind. But it couldn't have been, could it? It was preposterous.

"Once you eliminate the impossible whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Yes it was impossible, but could it have been true too?

In the back of his mind, John knew he was right. His flatmate, his friend, Sherlock Holmes was a vampire.