A/N: Thanks to all who have reviewed so far. This is my first vampire AU fic, and your feedback has been really encouraging. Keep it up!


Mike Stamford reluctantly agreed to stay behind.

"I'll need you to cover for me at the surgery until I get back," John told him, referring to the part-time job he had taken to supplement his army pension. "If it looks like I'll be away for awhile, I'll ask Sherlock Holmes to send new information about Glasgow nests to you. I know you can handle them."

"All right. You'll ring or text as soon as you know more about what's happening?"

"Yes."

Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper had only told them that Holmes urgently needed to see John about London's vampire menace, which was on its way to becoming a crisis. John was confused: he read The Times along with the Glasgow daily, and hadn't heard about any mass murders or mysterious disappearances plaguing the city. But he trusted Sherlock Holmes without even knowing the man, and had yet to decide if that was a good or bad thing.

After leaving the deserted vampire nest, Lestrade hailed a taxi. They dropped Stamford off at his home before proceeding to John's tiny studio flat.

"The outbreak hasn't happened yet, but it's going to, now that Moriarty is back from Norway," Lestrade said while John washed up in the bathroom.

"Who?"

"Moriarty." The policeman (Lestrade had identified himself as a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard) grimaced. "I suppose you'd call him the undead boss. Sherlock says he's older and smarter than the others, and wants vampires to stop being a scary fable and start being the dominant species. He's making himself an army, but slowly, so humanity doesn't find out until it's too late."

"Christ almighty." John shivered. He imagined London, Glasgow, and other cities swarming with vampires each evening after darkness fell, and immediately wished he hadn't. The sensory kaleidoscope of gleaming black eyes, blood-coated teeth and claws, spectre-like faces, and unearthly screeches that passed for language swiftly overwhelmed him. He shook his head to clear it and prepared to pack.

"We're already seeing signs of it," added Molly. "I work in the Pathology Department at Barts. Last week two bodies were brought in that were clearly the victims of vampire attack. One of them started to transform right on the dissecting table: thank goodness I was holding the bone saw at the time."

John pulled his army duffel bag out of the closet, threw it on the bed, and began filling it with clothing. "Any reason why you won't tell me anything more about Sherlock Holmes?"

Molly looked quickly at Lestrade, who cleared his throat. "It's best if you just see him and talk to him yourself."

"See him?" John paused. "Why, does he look like the Elephant Man?"

Lestrade's eyes widened. "Oh God, no." Molly chimed in, "He's quite beautiful, actually."

So Sherlock Holmes was 'beautiful.' That wasn't much to go on, but it would have to do until John finally met the man.

"I'm presuming I don't need to bring any weapons?"

"No," Molly smiled. "We've got plenty of extras."

John packed his army revolver anyway. He hated the thought of leaving Glasgow without it.

When they left the flat, Lestrade took out his mobile and sent a text. To John's surprise, a sleek black sedan with shaded windows was waiting at the curb when they stepped into the street.

"This is your car?" he asked, impressed.

"It belongs to Sherlock's brother," Molly replied. "You'll like him. He's bossy, but nice."

The car took them to a private airfield south of the city. When John saw the helicopter that stirred to life at their approach, he exclaimed, "Don't tell me that belongs to Sherlock's brother too."

"Technically it belongs to the British government," Lestrade replied. "Which basically means that yeah, it's his."

After they'd all climbed into the machine and its ascent began, John slumped in his seat. So much had happened in the last eight hours – encountering fellow vampire hunters from London, being told that he would finally meet the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, flying across the country in a private helicopter – that he was mentally as well as physically exhausted. Twenty minutes into the flight, his eyelids drooped, and he reluctantly let them close. The steady hum of the helicopter's motor soon lulled him to sleep.


"We're here," Lestrade announced.

John jerked awake. "We are?"

He stared about, and saw that they had landed at another airfield, this one obviously in use by the military. Soldiers patrolled along the electrified fence that separated the airstrip and an adjacent building and hangar from a field, forest, and distant highway. As he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed out of the helicopter, Lestrade commented, "Sherlock said you're a military man."

John rubbed his eyes and reached for his own belt. "Yes. Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Must be why you've survived this long as a hunter. Most don't make it past their second or third kill."

"How many have you gotten?" John undid the buckle, grabbed his bag, and jumped onto the tarmac.

"I'm at twenty-two now, thanks to Sherlock."

"Here comes Mr. Holmes!" Molly exclaimed. "I didn't know he'd be here."

John turned around and saw a medium-sized group emerge from the sterile-looking airport building. They were an equal mix of uniformed military and suited-up civilians. Spearheading their approach was a tall, auburn-haired man wearing an impeccably tailored suit and carrying an umbrella. When he drew closer, the quickening breeze blew his overcoat away from his body, revealing a strange contraption strapped to his hip. It looked like a gun, with fluorescent tubing for the barrel. An attractive brunette tapping away on a Blackberry shadowed him so closely that she had to be his assistant.

"You called him Mr. Holmes," John said to Molly without taking his eyes away from the approaching group. "Is that Sherlock?"

"No. That's his older brother, Mycroft."

John was incredulous. The Times obituary had stated that the brother of the deceased Sherlock was named Mycroft. What was going on here? He was still trying to reach a logical conclusion when the imposing crowd surrounded them. Mycroft Holmes smiled pleasantly, but his blue eyes swept over John like searchlights.

"Dr. Watson," he said in measured, aristocratic tones. He did not offer his hand. "I'm Mycroft Holmes. Thank you for coming. I presume that Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Hooper have explained why you're here?"

"For the most part," John said cautiously. "I understand that your brother Sherlock sent for me. What I'm not so sure about is how. The only Sherlock Holmes I found online has been dead for two years now."

Mycroft's smile broadened. "Don't believe everything you read online."

"Why would the Times lie in an obit?"

"Money."

John didn't know what to say to that. Mycroft gave him a final once-over and relaxed fractionally.

"I understand that you've been throwing a nice bit of the terror into Glasgow's vampire element all summer."

"Who's been saying that?"

"Let's just say that your actions have come to my brother's attention and therefore mine. We'd like to have you on our team, Dr. Watson. Our sources tell us that we may be mere weeks away from extinction of the human race in Britain and quite possibly the modern world." Holmes glanced at Lestrade and Molly. "Did either of you tell him about Moriarty?"

"Just the basics," Lestrade replied. "I figured we'd let Sherlock tell him the rest."

Mycroft nodded. "It's a long story, and I have to be on my way to Liverpool now. My sources indicate that a vampire community is being formed there. I need to investigate and, if the intel is correct, put a stop to it before the situation escalates."

Before he could reply, John's mobile signalled an incoming text. He fished it out of his coat pocket and opened the message, which was from an unknown number.

Welcome to London, John. Tell Mycroft to stop monopolizing you, as we need to talk. Sherlock Holmes.

"What the hell?" John stared at the elder Holmes. "Sherlock just texted me. How'd he know my number?"

"Get used to it, John," Lestrade sighed. "Keeping anything secret from the Holmes brothers is like trying to… well, do something impossible."

"Just so, Gregory." Before turning away, Mycroft Holmes gave John a final once-over and said, "I can see you favour your right arm in battle because of a shoulder wound, Dr. Watson, but the damage is mostly healed, so do start using your left more often. You also drink far too much coffee and it makes your aim unsteady although your muscle tone ensures that your blows are lethal when you do connect. Still, any type of weakness in this fight is an invitation to die early. I advise you to remember that. Good day."

Then he was striding back toward the airport with his entourage, his very silhouette proud and commanding, leaving John with a myriad of unspoken questions.

The answers would have to come from Sherlock, it appeared.


"This is it?" John asked as the car Mycroft had supplied rolled to a halt in front of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock's address.

"Yup," Molly answered cheerfully. "I hope Mrs. Hudson's in. I'm feeling peckish, and Sherlock doesn't keep any food in the flat."

"He doesn't? What does he eat then?"

"Nothing," Lestrade said. "That's one thing that didn't change when he-" He stopped himself.

John was about to ask what he meant when the building's door opened and an attractive older woman waved them in.

"Detective Inspector! Molly!" she beamed. "And this must be Dr. Watson. Come in! Come in!"

"This is Mrs. Hudson," Molly supplied. "She's the landlady."

John looked at all three of them. "Why do I get the feeling that I was the last one to find out I was coming here today?"

Lestrade laid a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go see Sherlock. He'll explain everything."

The entrance hall at 221B Baker Street was so dark that John was temporarily blinded. The curtains were actually stitched shut, keeping out the slightest trace of the early afternoon sunlight, and the lights were off except for a dim bulb at the foot of the stairs. "Sorry about that, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson sighed when he nearly tripped over a crease in the rug. "But it's easier for Sherlock to get around the house like this."

"Is he allergic to light?" John was only half-kidding, as the condition did exist. But it was extremely rare.

"You could say that," Lestrade replied as he led the way upstairs. "Exposure to sunlight would definitely kill him."

"What?"

Before anyone could answer him, a rich and deep male voice floated down from the second floor. "Ah, splendid, you've brought John at last. I was concerned that Mycroft was being more overbearing than usual. Come up, please. I'm sure John's quite curious by now."

That was an understatement. John would have bolted up the staircase if Lestrade hadn't been in the way. He was nearly dancing with anticipation at the thought of meeting his mysterious informant at last. He had so many questions that he was hard-pressed to decide which one to ask first.

The door to the second floor flat was open, revealing what must have been a sitting room. Like the downstairs, it was cloaked in shadows, with only a heavily shaded floor lamp providing illumination. Books and overstuffed file folders were piled everywhere, even on the floor, making the place resemble a neglected stockroom. A gaudy Victorian-style wallpaper pattern and multitude of framed maps and charts amplified the impression of chaotic genius.

As they stepped onto the landing and approached, John spotted a man standing in front of a silent fireplace, his back to them. He was tall and extremely slender, and had wavy dark hair that brushed the top of his purple shirt collar. He was also pale, if the slender white fingers rummaging among the objects on the mantel were any indication. Despite the stuffiness due to the closed windows, he wore a tightly fitted black jacket and trousers.

"Welcome, John," he said in a voice that was all darkness and velvet. "I'm glad we are meeting at last. I hope Lestrade and Molly were pleasant company. They don't always succeed at that, but they do try."

Sherlock Holmes turned around.

At the sight of his face, John dropped his duffel bag and dove for his gun.