It was the same car. He was sure of it. Circling the edge of the crime scene. The windows mercifully shut. Keeping the heady scent of the downfall of angels within its blacked out windows. The plates did not exist. Well at least not on the Police data base. And yet the car was there in plain sight.
"What does he want now?" John Watson, hopping impatiently from foot to foot looked over at the car. "Sherlock, tell him to stop stalking you. Us."
"That would mean talking to him John. You tell him." Sherlock had not even looked up from his prone position, too engrossed in an oily puddle to bother.
"Sorry, do you know who owns that car?" Greg smelt the coppery thought processes of Sherlock's head.
"No one of any importance."
"His brother." They spoke at the same time.
"Brother? Oh God there's two of them?" LeStrade's bad night was getting considerably worse. One hyper-intelligent lunatic who could blow his cover at any moment he could deal with. But two of them?
"If anything big brother is worse. He has the entire secret service to do his dirty work for him!" John said it quietly but Sherlock heard all the same.
"That's because he's too fat and lazy to do it himself. LeStrade you are looking for a Sushi Chef in his late thirties. Goodnight." Sherlock pushed himself off the floor and walked off in the opposite direction to the car, which in turn began to slowly creep along after him. Greg prayed silently that the doors and windows would remain shut. But he braced himself for the inevitable.
"Sherlock. Get in! Stop arseing about!" The door was flung open allowing the silky voice and the overwhelming chocolaty scent out.
Greg tried to breathe through his mouth. Which was worse. He could taste him now. Sherlock's nameless brother. He closed his eyes, feeling his entire being pooling in his groin, feeling his skin begin to itch as his desire for blood started ramping up. Desire for that blood. Just a taste. He concentrated very hard on not looking. Remaining in control. But he found his head being wrenched by unseen hands in the direction of the open door.
He saw the eyes looking out at him. Painfully burning bright blue in the dark leather interior. The faintest impression of pale skin and a coppery eyebrow. That was all he saw before he felt his legs giving out and his head smacked into the concrete.
He smelt chocolate when he swam back into consciousness. Cheap, sweet, mass produced chocolate. Someone was forcing him to eat a Mars Bar. Instinctively he spat it out. He knew it was John Watson kneeling down beside him.
"Greg, come on mate. That's it." The Chocolate burned as it slid down his throat. Its plastic smell mocking him like fake aftershave.
"What happened?" Like he didn't know.
"You have the lowest blood sugar I've ever seen." John was in full Doctor mode now. The animal smell replaced with a more delicate scent of damp forests. "You need to eat regular meals. And I'd like you to have some tests for diabetes as well. Just in case."
"Yeah. Fine." Greg knew he would be fine if he could just get home to his flat. To his fridge. To the blood stored there. "Where's Sherlock?"
"Gone with Mycroft."
"Mycroft?"
"The Brother." And now the object of his desires had a name.
