Chapter 1:
In his entire life as a vampire, there always came a time when he'd have to face the fact that he was a killer. A cold blooded, dead, killer - taking some human's life to prolong his own. It's exactly why he always tried to avoid feeding for as long as possible, to wait until he could break into a nearby hospital and take some nearly out of date blood. Naught but a scavenger. It really sickened him, but whenever he was on cases the hunger could completely hinder his deductions and that was something Sherlock Holmes detested above anything in the world.
Really, the fact he still needed to feed otherwise his work would come to harm was just detestable. It was late in the summer, the constant rain subsiding to make way for a thick and humid air, and Sherlock Holmes had moved towns once more to continue his work as a consulting detective. Rather annoying that he had to stage his death every twenty years (that was always painful to do, especially the physical after effects of being 'more dead' for a day or so), change his appearance and his name just because he couldn't age. He had advanced agility, sight, hearing and smell - oh and let's not forget he was unable to die - but he couldn't pretend to age. No. He always had to come up with some dramatic way to end his career, which was always trouble. A trouble which his brother Mycroft wondered why he even bothered with. The elder vampire had a private life in the British government, working in the 'Vampire logistics' department to ensure the general public were unaware of their existence and that other vampires didn't know about other vampires. There were a set number of guidelines the few vampires alive (well, dead if we're being specific) had to follow.
Sherlock always had a tendency to break a few, what with having a high-profile occupation which had him facing humans on a daily basis. Also there was the simple fact that Sherlock became bored easily and constantly needed the praise and attention of everyone in his company. It was a known fact, even to the vampires, that Sherlock Holmes was a genius and he had the ego to match. So it turned out that this summer, Sherlock Holmes (currently living under the name Altamont Yvole - a parting gift from his brother making him spend the next thirty-odd years with a fake Ukrainian accent) was on a trip to the neighbouring countryside of Bath to solve a most interesting case about a pair of murderers who stole the identity of Mr Richard Blake, and then proceeded to kill the only person who was able to identify the victim, Ms Charlotte Janes, and thus pin the murder on him. All in all making off with Mr Blake's fortune from the predominant care-home business in the village.
Needless to say, it was a very engaging case but it had dragged on longer than anticipated and soon he was reminded of the fact he was a vampire. He wasn't about to let a little starvation ruin his case but when he could no longer think through the dizziness, he was inclined to find some blood. 'And soon.' Sherlock thought, sagging onto a bench at the local park, his long coat and scarf out of place on the bright day. The visit to the local hospital had proven impossible to steal any blood plasma - the smaller establishments always had better security than the larger ones and stealing regular blood would make him ill - and he was starting to get desperate, tired and perhaps a little manic.
The more that time passed, the more he realised he would have to kill someone, but during his stay he hadn't noticed any homeless in the village so he'd have to hunt carefully. Finding someone who wouldn't be missed, had a dull life and was stressed enough that they would kill themselves (either literally or through a stress-related illness) was what he usually did. It always made him feel less guilty when he hunted carefully. In a village like this, however, it seemed like an impossible task. There was a high number of elderly... but none that he could kill without causing a huge media storm, especially as Mr Blake's care homes had a lot of press at the moment over the murder. Mistakes were best to be avoided. Once he had been pressured into a case to find the person responsible for killing this man suffering from depression - a man Sherlock killed - and it took months to convince others that the man killed himself and that it wasn't a soon-to-be serial killer. Not wanting a repeat of the incident, he needed to make a smart decision on who to take before coherent thought became impossible and he wouldn't be able to control his own instincts.
That was when he saw her sitting under a nearby tree. Judging by her uncomfortable posture, her trendier clothing and the styling of her ash-blonde hair she didn't live in the village. A complete and utter stranger to everyone around her and, judging by the discolouration on her forehead and the skin around her right wrist she worked in an office. A drone - they were rarely missed. The woman was clearly stressed with her work (perhaps the fact her mother was suffering from dementia, too, and could no longer recognise her - yet again more evidence the woman wouldn't be missed) and looked truly done out. This was his chance. A life to continue the case and then save more lives; that was Sherlock's reasoning as he watched the woman and her surroundings carefully. Blending into the few shadows was as simple as breathing, and Sherlock had had years to perfect the art of disguise even with such dramatic clothing.
As soon as the decision was made, Sherlock rounded on the woman and dragged her silently into the nearby foliage before taking her life with a sharp snap. It was a quick death, Sherlock hated to cause people more suffering than they needed, and he promptly drank his fill - the warm liquid feeling like gold on his lips. It was sweeter than usual, which meant the woman had only just eaten, but the metallic tang was a welcomed relief as his thoughts and strength came back to him. The woman fell stiller in his arms. It would be no more than five minutes later that Sherlock Holmes realised his mistake and would stop at nothing to take it back, to repair what he'd done, but it was too late. The woman had stopped breathing and her skin was clammy and growing colder by the second to mirror Sherlock's own skin. Dead. She would never come back.
John Watson was 7 when his mother was murdered. It had been a beautiful day in August when she decided to take him and Harry to visit her mother, who had been slowly growing more and more demented much to the boy's aggravation. The young boy hated visiting his grandmother as she always called him Silvia (John had no idea who she was but he was certain he looked nothing like a girl did) and there were no other children there. Today had been his friend Joseph's birthday party and he had been invited, but his mother insisted they both tag along - Harry was 16 at the time and had been more than thoroughly annoyed she couldn't spend the day at a Blondie concert with her friends.
If John had succeeded with persuading his mother not to go visit, then perhaps none of this would have happened and the world would have been a much more different place. Perhaps in another universe John had convinced his mother not to go and she would still be alive. They went, however, and there was no changing that. The slumbering countryside village never seemed to change and remained in a constant static: a dull stone surrounded by bright and shining ones determined to never change. John could see how his grandmother was going insane here, it was just so quaint and boring that as soon as their car entered it, the young boy had sat having a tantrum. Harry just looked unimpressed, but after seeing that a local music fair was going on at the park she begged to go see it.
Their mother agreed, as long as the agonizing visit to their grandmother's happened first. It seemed like an age they were at that house, and the newly-named Silvia and Harry were allowed to go to the park - Harry going off to the fair straight away and John staying nearer his mother, unsure of the older teenagers attending. "Go along and have fun, Johnny dear, I'll be right here watching." His mother had smiled to him, as she shooed him lovingly off towards a nearby fountain. Giggling to himself, John ran over and proceeded to catch invisible fish in the fountain. The cool water was a welcoming relief to the warm day and it didn't seem so bad to be at the dreary village anymore, as fishing was just too fun.
Little did he know that those words were the last ones he would get from his mother. An hour or so later his stomach interrupted his game with a loud grumble and he wondered if mummy would let him go to that cafe again to get some cheese and onion pasties. On his way back to the tree his mother had been at, he was shocked to see she was no longer there. Was she hiding from him? John was good at hide-and-seek but he didn't know mummy was playing it at the time. Either way, he decided to start looking for her as his stomach really was rumbling.
"Mummy? Come out, come out wherever you are!" A small voice had called from nearby, and Sherlock peered around the edge of a tree to see where it had come from - a small sense of dread prickling the back of his neck. It was a young boy, about the age of 7, who was looking around a nearby tree with a determined look on his face. A tree which the woman who was now lying dead before him had been sat at moments ago.
Shit.
It didn't take a genius to tell what had just happened and it took all his willpower not to throw up. A child. The woman had a child. How had he not noticed that? The stress had come from looking after him, not from her work! He was so stupid, of course no one was going to get stressed working in an office. The boy walked in his direction, growing a little more confused now, and Sherlock swiftly hid behind some trees to await the horrible moment the boy saw his mother dead. Not just dead, but covered in blood. Her blonde hair turned a rusty colour as the metallic smell permeated through the damp air. The foliage nearby was splattered in red at sharp angles and contrasted to such a violent degree. Danger, wild, savage. It was everything he was running from laid out in front of him for the world to see and it made him want to run faster but he had to see this. Had to remind himself. He could hear his brother's words in his head: 'Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Humans don't care about their food after all.' Sometimes he felt like the only vampire who did care, even if he denied it. The few he had met through Mycroft saw humans as just food and considered farming them. It was disgusting, and Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off of the scene he'd just caused. One step, two step and the young boy was stood over the body of his mother, frozen in place. The look of determination crumbling into something painful, stiff and ever-so-vulnerable as the first of many tears began to form in dark grey eyes. Small legs gave out a moment later and the boy plummeted.
He sat there, clinging to his mother and whimpered her name over and over again. This was wrong. This woman was meant to have no one, yet she had a child... Whoever this young boy was, Sherlock had just destroyed his life and the thought of that alone caused his throat to clench up, let alone the sight of the boy. He really did feel like being sick, to take back everything he'd just done, but it was impossible. Sherlock knew that much - he dealt with life and death on a regular basis. He'd seen families cry over their loved ones they could never get back, children too, and had never understood the sentiment. But this was different. It was like someone had stabbed him low in the stomach and wrenched the knife so the wound couldn't heal. It would only become infected and fester with time.
When other people found the boy and his mother, he knew it was time to leave.
John Watson was 7 when Sherlock Holmes murdered his mother.
