Sherlock and John keep walking, scenting, listening, sensing every disturbance, every displacement of air. Though so in tune to the city and each other, they haven't found a slayer in over an hour (though they did sense Violet shooting one over near Brixton. This is, after all, their city.)

Leinster Gardens. The empty houses. Sherlock feels it first, the instinctive twinge of something not-quite-right. The door is open, just slightly, just enough for Sherlock's lean form to slip inside, John guarding the rear. Whisper of fabric, squeak of wool against the stone. He feels the shot as it's fired, the vibrations in the air, hits the ground as the bullet clips his shoulder. Wooden bullet. The wound smarts, stinging with each minor movement. Superficial after all. This guy's a professional, but miscalculated his aim. Some hope there.

Lights are off - a blessing. Sherlock slithers silently along the floor, unperturbed by the dust and grit embedding itself in his clothes. His ears perceive the click of a gun newly-cocked and he jumps up, simultaneously knocking the pistol away and slitting the slayer's throat. (Mycroft was the one who insisted that he bring one of his father's knives, and in this moment Sherlock finds himself grateful.) Hot, sticky blood sprays over his face, his hair, his clothes, and he grips the slayer tight, lips automatically clamped to the carotid, swallowing down one mouthful, two, (no point wasting all of it) before dropping the body and walking out, feeling rejuvenated.

John meets him as he comes back through the door, and his pupils dilate when he sees the fresh blood. Instinctively, he reaches up and tilts Sherlock's head down, carefully licking the blood off. Sherlock doesn't complain, and when John is finished he presses their lips together. One kiss, before hitting the trail again.