NOTE: What you're about to read is my first fanfic ever. English isn't my first language so I hope I can improve by sharing my work... I'd be more than glad If you'd leave your thoughts on this.

- 1 -

"Looks like you've got yourself a case." John glanced at Sherlocks vibrating phone. The consulting detective looked up from his microscope. "Let's find out if it's worth getting up. Would you be so kind and read it out to me?" In a swift movement John shut his Notebook, reached for the phone and, after unlocking it, started to read out loud "Lestrade says that theres been quite a few murders comming in lately. All of them showing the same pattern."

"How many? What pattern?" Sherlock said, not raising his voice, sounding as indifferent as always.

"Three so far and uhm... Well it doesn't say much except that they're very much clueless."

"They're always clueless. Get your coat, John."

And with that he swung from his chair, grabbed his scarf and coat and rushed out the door in a fluid motion. John would never get over how ridiculously majestic Sherlock looked and sounded in every way he moved and spoke. Sherlock was indeed quite a stunning individual - not only for his wit. As John slipped through the closing frontdoor, Sherlock was already getting into a cab, signifying him to hurry up. It's been a while since their last case and gods- since when did John adress Sherlocks cases as 'theirs'? In fact, thinking about it, all he ever did was watch in amazement how Sherlock almost solved all of these cases on his own. Little did his comments ever really help with solving anything. Ever since moving into 221b John kept wondering about why Sherlock chose to live with a flatmate, why he chose to live with him, in particular. He could easily afford living alone, judging by his wardrobe and the absurd amount of money he was sometimes donated. What was so special about John that Sherlock didn't get bored of him? Or maybe he did? The cab ride was silent, except for the monotonous but familiar typing noise. Oh, how he had missed it. The stifling silence of John's phone, not recieving texts wich demanded a pen from across the room, anymore almost drove him mad. He had even missed the simple noise of Sherlock typing, Sherlock playing the Violin, Sherlock staying up for three days to observe the density of fingernails under the influence of vinegar. But when he came back, and John knew that he would, he became much more aware of these simple but familiar habits. Habits of Sherlock that he would never want to miss again.

...

Their arriving at the crime scene caused Donavan and Andersons eyes to roll, as usual. But they took a step backwards and neglected to comment on Sherlocks behaviour since their false accusations came to meet the truth when he returned and unrevealed the circumstances of his 'death'. The only thing wich remained a mystery is the disappearence of Moriarty and/or Richard Brook. He simply vanished, much to Johns relief, though. Sherlock never talked about Moriarty, also much to his relief. Somehow, watching Sherlock playing games with him made him feel a very strange kind of jealousy, deep inside. The same kind of jealousy one experiences when being excluded from playing 'Rock-Raper-Scissors' in elementary school for there could only be two players participating. Ripped out of his thoughts by the stiging scent of chlorine, it was only now that he noticed they had entered a natatorium. He gazed at the reflection of the slightly reddish tinted pool, causing beautiful patterns to ripple along the cealing. Sherlock moved across the tiles like a dancer, dramatic, taking turns but observing every little detail. He clasped his hands behind his back and rose an eybrow at the sight a barefeet corpse, wich obscured the scene. "I assume you found her in the pool and then moved her out." It was a statement, not a question. Lestrade turned around "Oh, you're here." He looked surprised. "Yeah, it was a bloody mess - literally. We got her out to have a closer look at-" Sherlock was already kneeling next to her, his eyes flicking from one spot to another. John almost stumbled over a pair of high heels, wich were neatly placed at the edge of the pool. She was young blonde, probably not older than 25. Her white, expensive-looking dress was tinted red with blood and soaking. John couldnt help but notice how shockingly pale she was - even for a corpse. He knelt down next to sherlock. Her lips were a light blue, almost purple and her eyes had lost their natural glance, reducing them to a jaded grey. His gaze shifted to the wound on her neck, wich suspiciously looked like a... a bite mark? Some of the flesh had been torn away and it was a horribly deep and ragged wound, washed clean by the water, but he could definitely spot the outlines of teeth around it. John observed her face and body. "She's been dead for about twelve hours" Sherlock didn't utter a sound let alone a simple reaction. "Cause of death: blodloss."

"How much blood?" Sherlock finally returned to reality.

Lestrade shifted from one foot to another, opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head and finally said "Thats the thing... There isn't any left."

"It's in the Pool?" John suggested. A brief moment of silence was broken by Sherlock jumping up from his crouching position and switching into lecture mode.

"Take a look around. An adult has approximately a blood volume of 4.7 to 5 liters. Judging by her weight and apperence, the former is more likely. The blood in the pool and on her dress doesn't even make up the one third of it. I would have assumed someone let her bleed dry by positioning her upside down but there are no idications for that whatsoever. She's wearing matching underwear and her legs have been recently shaved - obviously, she had a -fairly sucsessful- date. Find out who she is and fetch me her organizer."

"Fairly sucsessful?" Lestrade looked dazed.

"There are several hickeys on the other side of her neck aswell as the inside of her thighs. The fact that her shoes were taken off before she got thrown into the pool and the oddity of the crime scene make it to obvious... I'm sorry but this is dull. Not worth having gotten up, as it turns out." Yes, it was obvous and dull. Some guy with a neck fetish went serial killer. And yet he whirled around to, maybe out of simple curiosity -he dare not to think out of instinct-, pick up one of the girls shoes. As he turned the shoe around to observe its sole his expression froze. Small but visible there were three letters carved into it:

I O U

He never told John or Lestrade or anyone what it meant. Rather than, like Lestrade was about to mention, think that it were the girls initials, he knew exactly what it meant. He knew exactly what to do next. Lestrades voice began to fade into audible frequenzes again as Sherlock rose out of his trance. "Yes, her Initials, probably. You'll have to work with that for now." he lied and turned to face Lestrade "You said that this was a series? I'll be heading to the mourge then. Alone." he half-lied. John didn't get the chance to protest and he honestly didn't even want to. He added 'Sherlock simply disappearing and wanting to be left alone' to the list of habits he most certainly would'nt miss. Another dinner alone it is, then.

...

"So, is this some kind of vampire thing?" Molly stroked her ponytail aside and took a step forward. "What?" He raised his head in confusion. "Don't be ridiculous, Molly."

"I'm not, I just... How can you know?"

"How can I-?" He rolled his eyes and turned around, facing away from the corpse he had just been observing.

"Do I really need to break this down to you, Molly?"

"Then give me another explanation. We don't know what's out there... do we?"

"I have four, so far. And I can't get rid of the feeling that I am constantly repeating myself by telling people to build up theories based upon their facts rather than adapt their facts according to their theories. Having a soft spot for a sparkling, gay vampire doesnt make every blodless corpse a 'vampire victim'" He spat the words in her face and they hit like bullets, forcing her against the wall. Something inside her broke again. Why was he always being so cruel to her? She thought it had changed after the fall, after he had confessed to her that he needed her. In a way, deep inside, she knew that it was only her assistance he required, and not herself. And it hurt.

"Anyways, I'll have to be somewhere." Sherlock left her, unable to respond, stammering and helpless and walked away. But she was used to that.

...

It wasnt like he didn't feel bad about himself. He was well aware of the way he treated her but he just coulndt help it. There was no way of holding back his words once his tounge was given the order to form them, they simply came out. He slipped his hand inside his pocket, pulled out his phone and glanced at the time.

11:35 pm

It's been exactly 146 minutes since he left the crime scene. This should be a sufficient amount of time for Moriarty to 'prepare' for their encounter. The message he had left for Sherlock obviated the need for a text, setting a time and date. Sherlock knew exactly where and when to meet him. Moriarty was quite the drama queen, a lover of symbolism too... and a lunatic. It was an all to familiar situation on the rooftop of St. Barts. Only this time, he would be the one waiting. He turned around, facing Londons shillouette, thinking back on the day Moriarty drove him off the edge. The door sqeaked, almost inaudible for Sherlock, and footsteps approached him.

"And they call me lugubrious..." Sherlock, still facing the edge of the rooftop, laughed at the choice of his words. His lips curled into a wide, teethless grin as he turned around in an almost theatrical manner, the coat following his movement, making it even more dramatic. Moriarty pursed his lips "Did you miss me?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh come on. Don't be such a party pooper, Sherlock. Do you want me to excuse?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Fine. I'm sorry I made you kill yourself." He raised his hands in surrender, kept them up a while and then changed his expression into a feral grin.

"Why are you here?"

"Excuse me, where exactly does it say that this is your rooftop? It's not like you obtained some sort of ownership just by jumping off of it."

"How did you do it?"

"Excellent question."

"I saw you blow your brains out. I saw it."

"And I did."

His mind raced, trying to connect bits and pieces of information. What did this have to do with the murders? He decided to change the subject.

"So... you switched careers? I didn't know you were into blondes."

"I was rather aiming for your taste... you know, petite blondes."

Sherlock couldn't help laughing out the breath he was holding in.

"He is indeed a very lucky man, you know. Allthough I must admit that I'm a little jealous. I thought we had a special something."

"What, the murders were arranged just to cach my attention?" Allthough he knew the answer, Sherlock kept asking. He wanted Moriarty to spill just a tiny little bit of his secrets.

"Did they? Tell me, Sherlock, where did their blood go? Where did it go?" He aked with a childish curiosity as if he was questioning a dog. "How did I survive my brains being blown out? How did I do it? What is the connection, Sherlock... the connection?"

"I don't believe much in folklore." Sherlocks answer was plain and simple. He was not in the mood to give into what Moriarty was implying.

"Then learn to." It was only now that he realized Moriartys chest had neither been rising nor falling the entire time and in the blink of an eye Sherlock was tackled to the ground, the soft fabric of Moriartys suit brushing his skin. His eyes spread in disbelief as Moriarty rolled up his sleeve and exposed a pair of pointed incisors before ripping his own wrist orpen. Pinned to the ground and unable to move Sherlocks thoughts crashed into eachother, leaving a mess inside his head. The last thing he remembered was blood dripping all over his face and into his mouth, then Moriarty snapped his neck and the world went black.