"Johnny!" Harry squealed, leaping off the couch to hug her brother.

"Harry—it's…good to see you." John replied, taking a moment to look at her; her blonde hair styled into a bob, eyes lined in thick winged eyeliner, a fashionable shaggy shrug jacket thrown over her thin frame. She looked exactly the same as ever.

"Were you expecting me?"

"The dreams, yeah. We knew you were looking for us."

"Cool, it worked!" She beamed, turning to Sherlock. "May I?" She asked, wiggling her gloved hands, held out as if he would take them off for her.

He glanced at John, then turned away, going to turn off the music.

"Is this your new place, then?" She asked, flopping down into Sherlock's chair.

"It is at the moment – well, it's Sherlock's anyways."

She sighed, scrunching up her nose. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Harry." John warned, sitting on the sofa. "So…how long do you think you'll be here?"

"Not sure." Harry hummed. "I don't suppose there's much to do but catch up with you and Dracula over there. The three of us, together again."

"No." Sherlock said, giving her a hard glare as he sat beside John. "Absolutely not. You're not staying here."

"Sherlock," John cut in over Harry's protestations, "It has been 87 years." He ran a hand up Sherlock's neck, squeezing his leathered palm against the tensed muscle.

"Are you still mad about Paris?" Harry asked incredulously. "Still? John, are you still mad?"

Sherlock was silent, still staring at her, his jaw clenched, and John sighed.

"What? I'm just asking! A girl has a right to know about her brother's well-being. Speaking of, do you have anything to eat? I'm famished."

"I'll get it." Sherlock said, disappearing into the kitchen.

Harry's eyes glinted. "Can I see where you keep it?"

"No." He and John said at the same time.

"Harry," John began, "what are you doing here? I thought you liked L.A."

"L.A. is boring, John, and besides, I'd much rather hang out with my big brother."

"L.A. is full of soulless dregs, I'm surprised you weren't right at home." Sherlock said dryly, handing her a glass and sitting down beside John.

Harry glared at him, and John squeezed his knee lightly.

"Think what you will, Sherlock, but at least L.A. has something fun to do at night." Harry sniffed, then knocked back the entire glass in one shot.

"Easy, Harry –" John started, watching her head fall back to the chair in bliss, fangs extending at the taste.

"Let her choke on it." Sherlock muttered, and John shot him a narrowed look.

"That's good stuff." Harry slurred, coming up out of her haze. "What is it, O?"

"O Negative."

"Fantastic. Can I have another?"

"You just ate."

"She's hungry, Sherlock." John cut in. "One more won't hurt. But just one more, understand?"

Harry nodded, eagerly holding out her glass for Sherlock to fill from the pewter canteen.

"So, what have you both been up to?" Harry asked, relaxing against the arm chair.

"We've been busy since Paris." John said calmly, not broaching the subject but leaving it open for apology she might have. He brought his thumb against the nape of Sherlock's neck, brushing the soft hairs in a soothing circle.

"I'll say – here I am thinking I'm a world traveler when you've got me beat by miles! I mean, I thought you were in Morocco last I heard; I didn't think I'd have to project myself all the way over to bloody Pakistan! Really, John, you couldn't have picked some place better? Without so many flies?"

Sherlock nearly smirked; they agreed on one thing, it seemed.

"I happen to like Pakistan." John said defensively. "I think it's a beautiful country."

"Yeah, when you're not bursting into spontaneous combustion from the heat I bet the scenery's quite lovely." Harry snickered.

"I'm going to bed." Sherlock announced, standing as he gathered the glasses and the canteen.

"Are you really?" Harry said, glancing up at him. "I'd like a teensy bit more before you go."

"No, Harriet."

"Just a teensy, itty bitty bit more? John said—"

Sherlock frowned at her. "John said no. I'm going to bed. Don't touch my records."

He strode off down the hall and John could hear the clinking of glasses as he laid them in the sink. With a click of the door and a faint rustle of air, he was gone.

"Off to hide in his coffin, then?"

"Come off it Harry, you know how he is. Paris—"

"Paris was ages ago, John! It was, like, nearly a bloody century! Is he still mad?"

"Yes, he's still mad. Truth be told, I'm not too pleased either."

"You sound like mother." Harry said, rolling her eyes.

John stood, hands clenching.

"You don't know anything about our mother, Harry, so I suggest you let it lie."

"But—"

"Let. It. Lie." He said, staring at her hard for a moment.

"Okay, sorry." She muttered, chastened.

"Thank you. I am still…happy to see you. I guess you'll be taking the sofa, then?"

-/-

He was startled awake by a knock at the door. The room was engulfed in darkness, blackout curtains blocking any trace of sunlight.

"Wazzit?" He mumbled, tucked against Sherlock's chest as his long fingers played with his hair.

"Harry." Sherlock said lowly. "Our morning wake-up call."

"John?" Harry called quietly, opening the door and popping her head in. "Wakey wakey. You've been having a lie-in forever."

John groaned, rolling over to look at the clock. "It's only past six, Harry."

"It's long enough! Come on, the night's wasting!" She said, leaping up into bed with them, jumping around for a few moments before bounding off again, hurrying outside and down the stairs.

"I hate her." Sherlock sighed.

"Oi," John said, burrowing further into the junction of his neck, "none of that now."

"Is sororicide still in fashion?"

"It was never in fashion." John mumbled. "Not even in the Dark Ages."

Sherlock hummed. "One can dream."

He glanced over at their side table, the canteen and the two empty glasses. "She drank a lot of blood last night."

"I know." John sighed, yawning. "I couldn't tell her no. She's been travelling…you know how that fries us out."

"She only needs as much as we do, John."

"It'll be okay, love. She'll be on her way soon. She never stays long."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

-/-

"So what do you do?" Harry asked, flipping through records in her nightgown. Her fangs had just begun to ascend, poking through her lip after her morning meal.

"What do you mean?" John said as he lay back against Sherlock, lying supine on the couch, an arm wrapped around John's chest.

"For fun, to pass the time, what is there to bloody do around here?"

"You're too young to know." Sherlock muttered and John elbowed him in the ribs.

"Other than that, which I do not want to know any more about, thank you. Do you guys go out?"

"Well, we went on a drive yesterday…" John offered.

"Oh, a drive?" Harry rolled her eyes. "A drive sounds great. God, you two are so fucking boring."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"Not if I have anything to say about it. Sherlock, do you even take him anywhere?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Let's go out," Harry huffed, throwing herself into the plush armchair. "Let's bloody go somewhere – come on, you two are like old nans!"

"I wouldn't mind seeing the town."

Harry pounced. "Yeah! Let's go see some music, catch a show or something!"

"We are not catching a show." Sherlock said lowly. "Think of something else."

-/-

They caught a show. A local band, nothing too ostentatious. Billy met them at the bar, beer in hand, and they sat at a table in the corner, far enough away for privacy, all three wearing sunglasses to hide their eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm really glad you could make it out tonight." Billy beamed. "I mean, this is wonderful, truly."

"Thank you, Billy, that's nice to hear." Sherlock replied, although it looked like he'd just bitten into a lemon. "This is my partner, John."

"Nice to meet you. Billy, Billy Wiggins, hi." He held out his hand towards John, who looked down at it for a moment, then took it, gloves still on.

"A pleasure to meet you, Billy." He smiled. "This is my sister, Harriet."

"It's Harry." She corrected, shooting John a look one would reserve for their father. She stepped forward, taking Billy's hand in hers, bare.

Sherlock squeezed John's leg under the table, but the moment passed without interruption.

"Can I get you guys a drink or anything? I'm afraid it's all domestic but it's not too bad."

"No need," Harry announced, pulling out a flask. "I brought my own." She took a deep swig, ignoring the pointed looks from across the table.

"Harriet, where did you—" Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"I'll have some of that." He said, leaning forward and taking a long sip, passing it to Sherlock, who took a hesitant drink.

"Can I try it?" Billy asked, watching Harry take the flask back.

"Sure," she smiled, "why not?"

"No." Sherlock interjected, quickly swiping it from her hand before he realized Billy could see it, but he just laughed.

"I didn't know you did sleight of hand man, that's cool."

"Just a cheap trick." Sherlock muttered, pocketing the flask.

"So how do you know Sherlock, Billy?" Harry asked, eyes half-lidded as she smiled at him. Sherlock tensed – if she kept her mouth shut, he wouldn't be able to see her teeth.

"Uh, it was a pretty random meeting, just one of those things, you know? I was driving a backroad round midnight and I saw him pulled over with his hood up, so I stopped to help him."

"Really?" John asked, turning to look at Sherlock.

"Mmm…engine overheated."

"Yeah, it was a really old model, like my grandfather's kind of car. Anyways, he was playing this great music so we got to talking; I knew some people in town and I ended up helping him find some rare instruments. And we went from there."

"Will you excuse us for a second?" John asked, taking Sherlock's arm as he got up from the table, dragging him through the bar and out the fire exit in the back.

They came out in a narrow alley between the bar and the next shop over, the bartender leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette.

"Leave." John said, and the man obeyed, flicking the butt and going back inside without protest. John whirled on Sherlock, frowning. "You were going to drink that boy? Just there in the street?"

Sherlock swallowed. John couldn't see his eyes through his sunglasses but he knew he had closed them. "John, it's not –"

"Don't tell me I'm wrong, Sherlock Holmes. I know you. You were laying bait."

When Sherlock did not defend himself, but looked at his shoes, John knew he was correct.

"You bloody idiot!" He hissed, shoving at his shoulder. "What if someone had seen you? What if Billy had people looking for him?"

"I had a plan, John. Do give me some credit. Haven't when been here before?"

John paused, brow crinkling. "When?"

"The stag."

"That was an animal, for Christ's sake! Billy is a human being – I know you know the difference between the two. You knew this was wrong, and if you didn't care about it, you knew at the very least I'd be upset. We don't do this anymore. Times have changed."

"I was going to do it that night." Sherlock said quietly, and for a moment John wasn't sure he had heard right. He started at his husband, eyes shielded by the black lenses. "I thought…if it was my last meal, I may as well treat myself."

"No—you…you couldn't have done it that night. You said Billy gave you the bullet. You didn't have it before."

"There are other ways, John. Surely you know that. The bullet was just a failsafe."

He barely ducked as John's fist flew at him, striking the brick wall and leaving a dent in the rock.

"You—you—" But John seemed at a loss for words, pressing his face in the heel of his palms, striding around in a quick circle.

"I thought I was going to die on the train to Amsterdam." He said quietly into his arms. "Do you remember?"

"Of course I remember."

"I thought—this was it. It could never get worse. I thought about you, and how I couldn't do anything to stop myself from leaving. I thought about how stupid I was to go to Russia – knowing what was happening – and staying anyways. I thought about how I'd failed you, how you'd be all alone, because of the choices I'd made and the mistake of my actions. I wanted to talk to you, tell you I was sorry, give you some sort of closure before I went, but I was too weak to use the bond."

John looked up at him, standing silently against the wall, head tilted back as if it couldn't support his own weight.

"You weren't weak that night. You weren't dying when you drove out there, parked the car, put the hood up. What'd you do, gun the gas pedal until it overheated?"

Sherlock didn't answer; a fine trickle of dust fell from the crumbled brick where John had broken it.

"You knew that was your last night on earth, and you didn't tell me. All our time together, all the centuries we've spent, the bond, our marriage…and you didn't tell me."

"John—" Sherlock reached out his hand to lay it on John's shoulder, but he shirked away.

"Don't touch me. Not now." John snapped before he took a deep breath through his nose. "You were going to leave, and kept me in the dark. What do you think I would've done?"

"You're strong, John."

John let out a ghost of a laugh. "I don't feel strong right now. I wouldn't have then, either. When the bond's shut off, you assume the worst. I would've come here, months too late, and found out what happened to you. And you know what I would've done? I would have followed."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He had wanted to believe that John would endure, he would survive; he had placed a great deal of investment in the idea that John was strong without him. He had twisted facts to suit theories, and hearing evidence to the contrary made it all unwind in a low, trembling thread in the pit of his stomach.

"I don't want to live in a world that doesn't include you." John continued softly. "That doesn't mean I haven't considered it; watching everything pass us by, the patterns, the endless path of nature that we can't change…humans have done terrible things, and so have we. It's hard to live with that, and to see it happen over and over. But I never thought about leaving you without telling you why. It never got to the point after we met where I wouldn't have told you about what I was doing. We promised to be in this together, and you shut me out."

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said quietly. "I am, I have always been…a selfish person. I want the things that I want, at whatever price it comes to. I saw you, and I had to have you, so I did. You left, and I felt lonely, so I made you come back. I wanted out, so I found a way. Do you know what stopped me?"

John shrugged aimlessly, "Witnesses, maybe. Two cars to handle."

"No. I had already planned for that. I didn't do it because I felt you through the bond. You were in Tehran, at Roudaki Hall, watching the orchestra. You were happy, and you wanted me to be there with you, and I wasn't because of my own selfishness. I made you witness the beauty of the world alone. That's what made me stop; you. Not the thought, but the presence. That's always what makes me stop."

"You would've liked the violinist." John murmured. "She was very good."

"I don't doubt that."

John sucked in his cheeks, thinking for a moment. "What are we going to do about the bullet?"

"Lock it away and forget about it forever."

He chuckled. "I think you of all people know the dangers of saying forever. There's always going to be a day when it seems like a better alternative."

A moment of silence passed between them.

"Do you remember when I asked you to marry me, the first time?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course."

"I hadn't been able to wait, just asked you right there. I'm not one for patience."

"No, you're not."

Sherlock smiled a little, fondly. "You told me no."

"I did. The foot of the Tower with the heads of Catherine Howard's lovers on spikes could hardly qualify as romantic."

"I think commitment in the face of betrayal has a certain romance to it, and we did have an audience—"

"Sherlock."

"Right. Well, you told me no. I couldn't figure out why at first, but the more I thought about it, I came to the conclusion that you didn't want to marry me because you saw yourself as a burden. I told you as much, although in hindsight it was a mistake to ask you again in the next breath."

He stepped forward, holding John at the crooks of his elbows. "I have never seen you as a burden, John. You are always, and continue to be, the greatest and most precious thing. You keep me human, you remind me of what it means to live with selflessness and kindness, with compassion for others. I may not act on those feelings, but they are there, and it's all due to you. I was never a good man; I'm selfish, condescending, I rarely think of others, I have a superiority complex the width of the Thames…but you make me want to be good. I've always been grateful for that."

"Sherlock…" John shut his eyes, fisting the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. "How can I stay mad when you say these things? Honestly…"

"I've been told by a very reliable source that I have the soul of a poet."

"Yeah, you might want to get your ears checked."

Sherlock smiled. "Are we...good?"

"I'm still mad." John admitted. "But we'll get through it. You're not off the hook, though."

"I would be a fool to think otherwise." He answered, leaning forward to kiss John in the middle of the forehead, wrapping his arms around him.

When they went back into the bar, Harry and Billy were gone, empty beer bottle still on the table. John glanced at his husband, then broke away to circle around the small bar, glancing in dark corners and knocking on the one bathroom door. Sherlock strode outside, if only to confirm his worst suspicions.

After a moment, the door to the bar opened, and John came up beside him, staring at the empty parking space.

"She took the car."

-/-

The taxi dropped them off at the foot of the driveway. John had gripped Sherlock's hand so tightly that he thought he might have broken the bones if he could have.

As the car came to a stop, John bolted out, leaving Sherlock behind to pay for once. He couldn't see any lights on inside the cabin, slowing to a stop as he strode up towards the lawn, turning to Sherlock quizzically.

"Where's the car?" He asked, looking around as if it might be hidden somewhere in the bare grass.

But the other man had remained at the bottom of the sloping hill, looking in the opposite direction as the taxi drove off down the mountain.

"Sherlock?"

"Lights, there." He said, pointing in the distance. "Two beams, stationary." He looked down at John, eyes glinting in the weak moonlight. "Headlights."

John could see them at a distance, burrowed in the thick trees of the forest. They set off down the road, breaking through the underbrush. As they got closer, John could hear music, blaring from the inside of the car, its doors left wide open, left in park. The brake lights were still on.

He glanced into the car; it was Sherlock's, his driving gloves still in the console. It looked as it normally did, save for the absence of its driver and, most likely, its passenger too. The white rabbit's paw dangled from its keychain, still hooked into the ignition. John disconnected it, handing them to Sherlock as he turned to scan the forest.

The woods were still. He concentrated, listening to the birds in their nests, the wind through the trees, the quiet of the night.

"John." Sherlock's voice, from behind the car. He had popped the trunk, looking at whatever was inside. John rounded the car to join him.

"Jesus."

Sherlock reached in, pulling out a blood-soaked rag. He sniffed at it carefully, bringing it to his face and touching his tongue to the stain. "Not our supply." He concluded.

"Do you know his blood type?"

Sherlock shook his head, dropping the rag back into the trunk as he peered into the car, scanning the seat cushions, running his hands under the seats. He popped the dash, reaching in and pulling out a familiar object.

"That's your gun." John breathed. "You didn't–"

"No." Sherlock shook his head, checking the chamber, still loaded with the one bullet. "Harry must have taken it in her coat, put it there when we weren't watching. She planned this, John."

"Harry, I know her, she wouldn't–"

"Wouldn't what? Find someone to use and then dump them off somewhere remote, with a guarantee of protection if she couldn't handle them? Yes, she would. She's been using people for the past century, even before she was turned. Remember Paris? Remember when she got here? She asked us where we kept the blood. She was using us, because we let her."

"Using me, you mean."

"Yes. I was…trying to be kind."

John turned his head, scanning the horizon.

"Do you hear that?" He asked, tilting his head. Sherlock froze.

"That's my music."

-/-

The sound of a crazed violin rent the air through the open door as they slowly came up the driveway. All of the lights in the cabin had been turned on.

As they stepped into the den, John felt Sherlock stiffen beside him, going ramrod straight. The place was a mess – broken records, shattered guitars, busted amplifiers tossed and bullied over. Someone was laying on the sofa, head turned away, but they didn't have to see it to know it was Billy. His shirt was unbuttoned, twin gashes on the side of his neck still sluggishly oozing blood from a rapidly purpling wound.

"She drank Billy." Sherlock said tonelessly.

"I'm sorry, love." John laid a hand on his shoulder. "He seemed like a nice person."

"She drank him."

"I know. We need to find her."

Sherlock looked away, his mind already racing through the scenario. Harry took the car, and Billy willingly went with her, flirting, hoping for sex. She missed the entrance to the cabin, but swerved off the road for privacy; she'd fed on him then, probably killed him in the car, tried to mop up some excess blood so she didn't spill and ruin the upholstery, an oddly considerate thing for her to do. She carried his body back while they found the car, inebriated with the alcohol content of his blood; she put a record on – his record – and then gone somewhere to sleep it off.

John crouched over Billy's body, feeling for a pulse that was no longer there. Sherlock stormed upstairs, throwing the door open as the breezy air rushed in. Their bed was empty, looking as it had when they woke up. He crossed the room towards the closed bathroom door, opening it. The shower curtain was drawn around the tub, and he yanked it back, freezing at the sight.

Harry lay in the empty bath, blood streaked down her front, her head resting against the back. She looked as if she were passed out, but he knew it wasn't possible, not with the foot-long stake buried in her chest, leaking a thick, tar-like blood.

Fear – true fear – jolted through him as he ran from the room, towards the stairs.

"John!" He called, barreling through the door into the cool night. "John, he's not dead! He's not dead—"

The gunshot sounded as he reached the last step.