Well! After a long, long, long hiatus I have finally returned from the dead. Pun intended. I decided this time to make a new crossover, this time with a show that's recently captured quite a bit of my interest. This is my first time writing for the Sherlock fandom, so please be gentle with the reviews. I'm trying my best to make sure the characters are true to canon, but I'm probably going to flounder a bit in that I don't have the best experience. Ah well. Practice makes perfect, eh? Hope you guys enjoy. Tell me what you think!

The sun rose, large and luminous, over the manor that morning. Golden light streamed through a massive window and onto a mahogany desk where shadow of a great chair, scratched and worn through many years of labor, fell upon a steaming cup of Ceylon tea. A head of long, platinum hair leaned over the morning's busywork. Nothing pressing. No new missions. How unfortunately peaceful.

The morning was too quiet.

The telephone rang. Long, tan fingers plucked the device from its mount quickly, almost as if they had anticipated such a call. In that household, peace never lasted long.

"Hello?" a woman asked. "Yes, this is she." A pause. "Indeed? Two of them, you say? And you're certain this is no coincidence?" Tan lips smirked around the cigar resting between straight white teeth. "I am not given to believing in them either, Holmes. Very well. I shall depart shortly."

After hanging up the phone, a pool of darkness that had once only lingered quietly in the corner of the room flickered. "A mission, my master?" a new voice asked.

Icy blues fixed on the spot. "One that will require your critical eye, my servant. Come out where I can see you."

A man, who in fact was not a man at all, slowly drew himself out of the shadows and gave her a sharp-toothed grin. His long black hair failed to obscure the excitement in his unholy eyes. Dutifully, plucked her coat off a nearby rack and held it out for her, which she slipped into. "Are we going on a field trip, Integra?"

Integra Hellsing paused by the door. "Something like that."

*.*.*

10 HOURS EARLIER

Sherlock snapped the plastic glove off his hand and tossed it casually away with a blank expression. He stared down at the dead body on the slab for a solid five seconds before he turned to John with an angry scowl. "It's not possible," he groused.

"Care to fill the rest of us in?" John asked calmly, folding his hands together.

"Exsanguination of this magnitude would require a larger gash for such a short period. Somewhere on her body. Somewhere bigger than the mark on her neck. But there's nothing. Bodies don't just spew blood from wounds so small!"

"The blood was drawn, then. There are plenty of machines that do that."

"There was no incision larger than the bite. Don't you see? There's nothing! It's. Not. Possible."

Molly Hooper brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear as she bent over the body, examining the mark. "Do you suppose the killer could have… sucked the blood out?"

"Unless they happen to be a living vacuum, no," Sherlock replied.

"So, what do we do?"

"We work with what we know. Her nails are trimmed and clean, with various faded markings about her hands; burns, cuts. A kitchen worker, a chef. But you'll notice the thick callous on her right middle finger, where you'd place a pen or pencil. Coupled with the dark rims under her eyes, you can speculate she wrote in her spare time, no doubt she had very little of it. A plain wedding band, worn on her right hand; further proof she works with food. But the right hand? Is she an adulterer? No; the ring is somewhat scratched, but well-tended and rarely removed, despite its obvious age. Is the spouse dead? No. There's a picture on her phone of her kissing a man her age on the lips. Happy wife. She's right handed, going by the callous on her middle finger, which means her ring is on the hand most likely to receive the most wear, so she didn't move it just for comfort. Heirloom? No. It's old, but not that old. She's been married about fifteen years; the ring looks about that age. Therefore, it's her culture. Bulgaria, Spain, India, Columbia, Venezuela, Austria, Norway, Germany, Poland, Greece, and Russia all include cultures where wedding rings worn on the right hand. Now to narrow down which one. Her nose is straight from base to tip, though with a slight bump on the bridge. Large eyes, thick lashes, brown eyes and hair, olive skin tone. Her clothing also gives it away; she's wearing a modernized one shoulder gown, native to Greece. Greek Eastern Orthodox Christian, then. So, riddle me this: why was her body found inside a Catholic church?"

Sherlock whirled around and pointed a finger at the mortician. "Molly!" The woman jumped. "What do you suppose this is?"

"W-Well, ah… if her body was found in another church, maybe the killer is trying to send a message? Maybe this is a hate crime?"

"Excellent." Molly brightened at the compliment. Her smile quickly vanished with what followed the comment, however. "I mean, you're completely wrong, but it is a good theory. She was found roughly two hours after Sunday mass, inside of a janitor's closet. If the killer wanted to make this an obviously prejudiced murder, she would have been placed somewhere more public."

"So why was she in the church?" John asked. "Was she with friends?"

"That seems the most likely cause. We find whoever went to church with her to discover her missing, we find out more about the case…" he trailed off and glanced down once more to the incision on her neck.

After a long period of silence, John shook his friend by the shoulder. "Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, though John could see his eyes dancing wildly back and forth beneath his lids.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed.

A picture. A man, mid-thirties, led through the crowd. The newspaper captures his cold, sadistic sneer. In his smile, there are fangs. The case report shows a woman with glassy green eyes lying dead in her kitchen. There is no blood. No other wounds, save for the bite around her throat and the bullet through her brain.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. His voice is barely above a whisper. His older brother's head snapped to him and he quickly shut his laptop. But the picture had already been seen.

"What is it, Sherlock? I happen to be very busy."

"Are vampires real?"

Sherlock snapped out of whatever came over him. "What?" he asked, looking around the room. Both Molly and John were watching him carefully, and the worry in the room was palpable. He shook off the memory, then took a deep breath. "Quit gaping, you two. I'm fine. Just… remembering something, is all."

*.*.*

He hated waking up in the daytime. The sun was a nuisance, though it didn't hurt like it used to a century ago. It was still morning, and the sunlight pouring through the open window to his left caused him to squint irritably.

A policewoman placed a steaming mug of black coffee in front of him. "Not a morning person, I take it?"

He did not reach for it. He wasn't a coffee person when he was alive, anyways. It tasted like bitter bean water. He never understood why humans liked it. Or tea, for that matter. Although, he does like the aroma, especially on his master. "Not at all," he replied, eyeing her carefully. The tag on her suit read Sgt. Donovan.

"You're with that woman, aren't you? The tall blonde?" He tilted his head, suddenly interested in what she had to say. "I don't believe I've heard of the Hellsing organization before. What makes you privy to our information?"

He smirked. Donovan blinked. Was it just her imagination, or were his teeth a little too sharp to be considered normal? "As your Inspector put it best, this case isn't your division."

"He says that a lot. So why is it yours?"

"Hellsing handles many cases like the one your department is so underqualified to handle."

Rage sparked in her serious brown eyes. Just before she voiced an angry retort, the door to a nearby office opened. First, out stepped the tall blonde that Donovan mentioned. Following her came Lestrade, eyes wide but not disbelieving. He had to give the man credit for that: he took to the news rather well. Normally his master spent much longer having that particular chat. "Get at least ten people down to the morgue," he barked, ushering Donovan to a stand. The urgency in his tone took her by surprise.

"That won't be necessary," the woman said. "I've already sent my men out to deal with the problem. Luckily, it's just the one."

"Just the one, what?" Donovan pressed.

The woman smiled, but ignored the question. Instead, she turned to Lestrade. "And you said that this man, this Sherlock Holmes; you think he'll be of any use?"

Lestrade nodded. "Oh, yeah. He'll love this. Give him five minutes, Integra, and you'll walk away with more information than what you'd get with a team working for five hours. The only problem is, you have to try really hard not to punch him in the face."

Integra chuckled dryly. "Don't worry. I have experience with that sort." He didn't miss the glance his master sent his way. He smirked, though it was unfortunately closed-lipped. She was very adamant about being careful about smiling. "Time to leave."

Her servant rose from his chair as Donovan veritably fumed. "You're already putting Freak on this?" she accused as soon as the odd pair vanished behind a closed door.

Lestrade shrugged and opened his fingers, a sure signal that this was officially "out of his hands". "I'm not. She asked, and I gave her a reference. This is all on the Hellsing Organization now."

*.*.*

John opened the door to their apartment refrigerator, took one look at the eyeballs floating in what looked like a glass of water, and promptly shut it again. "Can you stop storing human parts where we keep our food? Yesterday I almost made a ham sandwich until I realized that it wasn't ham."

"I'm doing an experiment," Sherlock replied. He was spread out on the couch with his hands pressed together, as he was wont when contemplating something important.

"Yes, yes; I know you're doing an experiment. I just think you should do it, I don't know, elsewhere."

Instead of a reply, he was answered by the sound of buzzing. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and both men looked towards the door before looking back at one another. "Were we expecting anybody?" Sherlock asked.

"I could ask you the same thing."

Sherlock's eyes lit up with intrigue. "Oh, now this is interesting. A client at ten o'clock in the evening, how utterly fascinating!"

"And bloody irritating," John muttered as Sherlock practically flew off the couch. "I was hoping to see a girl tonight."

"Oh, you can see a girl any night. Now this, this doesn't happen every day."

"Doesn't it?"

*.*.*

Mrs. Hudson ushered a tall stranger through the door (Although tall would be a large understatement. His hat nearly brushed the top of the doorframe). "Oh, come in, come in! It's a bit nippy out there, isn't it, dear?"

Beneath the cover of his coat, the man smiled fondly. She reminded him of someone. "It is indeed. Though I'm perfectly fine; thank you for your concern."

She waved a hand. "Of course. With this cold front coming in, it's such a danger to be out on the streets. Hmph! I tell the boys, "Don't you go running amok when it gets too cold, or you'll get ill". And Sherlock, oh, the boy just never listens to me! It's no wonder I'm so wrinkled with all the worrying he has me doing!"

The man arched an eyebrow. "Indeed? Surely such a thing is inconsequential."

"All the dangerous cases he does takes years off my complexion, I tell you!"

"I think you look beautiful," he replied. "You shouldn't disparage that which marks the passage of life."

Mrs. Hudson wondered for a moment whether there was a joke somewhere in the compliment, but realized that he was sincere. She blushed and touched the lines on her cheeks. "Really? Oh, thank you, dear. How very kind of you. Such a nice young lad. Would you like a nice cupper to bring up with you? I think the boys may be out."

The man shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll be on my way. I've important business to discuss with Mr. Holmes, after all."

"Alright, they're right up the stairs."

He tipped his hat to her and moved towards the steps. Mrs. Hudson froze when, just out of the corner of her eye, she saw a drop of red behind his glasses. As he passed her, she clasped her hands together to fight off the sudden chill in the room. How strange, she thought; it seemed colder inside after speaking with the stranger than it did when the open door allowed the winter air in.

*.*.*

The man standing behind the apartment door was the most fascinating person that Sherlock had the pleasure of deducing. Mostly because of how much of him was covered up. That clued him in that this person, this tall, strange man, was definitely going to present him an interesting case. "Mr. Holmes, is it?" he asked, orange glasses flashing in the florescent light of the apartment.

"Mm," Sherlock grunted in disinterest. "Who's asking?"

The man tilted his head, drawing Sherlock's eye to the ridiculous hat resting there. "Weren't you informed? Lestrade told us that you were the man to go to. You viewed our case this morning."

That case. Ah. "And who is 'us'?"

"Later," the man says, lips twisting upwards in a grin. Even with the large hat, upturned collar, and orange glasses, the smile in his voice is unmistakable. "First, I want to see for myself if that brain of yours truly is something half as remarkable as your policeman friend seems to think. So go on, detective. Why don't you impress me, first?"

The challenge was equally unmistakable. And everyone who knew Sherlock Holmes knew he did not back down from a challenge. So, he straightened his spine, looked the stranger in the eye, and began his evaluation. "Going by the obvious measures you're taking to conceal your face, normally I would say that you would prefer to remain camouflaged, likely because your identity is one easily recognizable. However, the flamboyant and frankly appalling shade of red and the uncommon fashion of your glasses suggests that you want to be seen. Maybe you think your face will make me or others uneasy. But I don't think you care about that. You mentioned 'us' and 'our'. So, I can only assume your boss told you to do it."

"Boss?" he questioned, both eyebrows raised.

"Clearly. You're something like a hitman, going by the gunpowder residue on your coat and the bloodstains the red is meant to conceal. And you work for someone higher up, too, someone noteworthy. I would say you worked for a criminal organization, but you mentioned Lestrade. And though I believe that the police are incompetent, I don't believe they are quite at that degree, though I've been taken by surprise once or twice. Normally you would enter an apartment unannounced, but you were asked to behave. Oh, and you wore that coat in particular just to test me."

"How do you know?"

"It's old- manufactured in the later 1800s, likely. But it's in mint condition, meaning that it's either been at the back of your closet for over a hundred years- which is highly unlikely, or you just bought it."

Long ago, when Sherlock first met John Watson and deduced him, he was complimented.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

Instead, in this instance, his reply was insidious laughter. "Oh, that's good. Real good. You would be completely right, in different circumstances."

"Am I wrong?" Sherlock demanded. The laughter was beginning to grate on his nerves.

"On a few points. But for the most part, well done! Integra thought you wouldn't be worth our time, but I think if given the proper information, you'll be very useful."

Before he stepped inside, Sherlock blocked his path. He glared up at the newcomer, eyes sharp and piercing. "Where was I wrong?"

The stranger quietened, though the smirk was still evident in his voice. "You don't have all the facts. Which is completely understandable. Not many do. You'd have to be crazy or very, very unlucky to have gotten everything right." And with that, he swept past Sherlock and entered the apartment, only to notice that there was another man standing inside. He paused.

"Don't mind me. The name's John Watson, I'm-"

"-his roommate and partner. Yes, I was told you would be here too."

John cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably under the tall man's scrutiny. "Then who are you?"

As Sherlock began to walk around the stranger, he once again set his eyes on the odd markings on the back of his white gloves. He hadn't mentioned them in his deduction, because those were the only bits of information he couldn't quite decipher. The stranger took off his glasses.

John was the first to react. He stood there, frozen in shock, at the bright red eyes looking right at him. "Sh-Sherlock…" he murmured, stepping back.

"Contacts," Sherlock said, completely unruffled.

The stranger chuckled and unbuttoned his coat. "And next you're going to say that my fangs are fake, hmm? A little trick anyone willing to pay enough money could do."

Before Sherlock could ask, the coat was removed and the man smiled, revealing incredibly sharp teeth. There was a pause before he replied, "Naturally."

The man tossed his coat onto the nearby rack and his large, floppy hat soon followed suit. He was left in a formal black suit and red cravat. Sherlock wondered just what it was that struck him the most about this stranger; his height, his pallor, the sharpness of his smile, or the deep, dangerous red of his irises. "Or surgery. Or a mutation…" Sherlock murmured. John sent him a worried glance. He detected uncertainty in his friend's voice.

"Really?" the man purred.

A cold wind swept through the room as the lights flickered and dimmed. The pale stranger's face was concealed in shadow, save for his ominous eyes, which seemed to burn just a little brighter. "Tell me, Sherlock Holmes…" The shadows in the room seemed to dance around his figure. Hundreds of red eyes opened within them and around his person, which seemed to have become incorporeal within the blackness. "Have you ever seen a real monster before?"

*.*.*

"No, of course vampires aren't real," Mycroft said. "They're a childish fantasy. Perhaps I underestimated you. I thought you were above believing in fairy tales."

All around him, Sherlock read one word.

Liar.