He had never meant for it to go this wrong. Head spinning, he struggled against the alley walls. His body was at war with his mind; his mind was roaring at him, spitting out deductions about everything he heard, felt and touched.
The walls. Mud, mixed in with brick. Recent rain. Petrichor.
No, no. He must not think. He must not feel.
With effort, he straightened himself against the alley walls, his dark curls now damp with cloying, drying blood.
Her tears were the first thing he heard. Her form was the first thing he saw. Her dress was cheap; something more akin to the garments of prostitutes than the garments of a logically-minded pathologist.
Yet that was what they had come for. That was why she was dressed in such a manner. Was it not?
Yes it was. Guilt ticked away at the back of his frantic, blood-fuelled mind.
His gaze swept over the rest of the scene that lay before him, as he pulled his hand across his now wet mouth. Blood shined on the material of his coat—the same blood that the man once known as "The Butcher" was soaked in.
He closed his eyes and tried to remember.
Ten past the hour, it had been, and she had been quietly patrolling the alleyways for some time; he had been following her all the while, as they had agreed, hiding himself away in the shadows. The prostitutes that they passed occasionally called out to her, chiding her as nothing but fresh meat, innocent and unplucked. Yet she continued on, her back straight and her eyes suitably wide. But she still was not suited to such haunts as these. The prostitutes were right; she was too pale, too pure, too inexperienced. Hardly ideal for field work. Stupidly, he had thought that the purity of her appearance would tempt the killer. After months of searching, and pursuing useless leads, this had been the last resort—and one that had clearly failed.
He made to step forward and take her home when it happened. Hands gripped at her throat, pushing her towards the floor. Her breath caught, and then spluttered as her soft features hardened into a vivid red.
Sherlock had little knowledge or memory of what had happened afterwards. If he could remember anything, he only remembered the rage that had flooded him; the rage of knowing that his sweet pathologist was being harmed.
His lips tingled with the memory of his teeth sinking and tearing at the man's throat. All over again, the metallic taste stung at his nerves and at his brain cells and his ears pumped with the sound of her horrified screams.
Now however, there was silence. And as his mind raced through eons of deductions, he saw how the blood had spattered around her, droplets covering her face and garments as she cried, fear enveloping her. Carefully, he stepped forward. Just the mere sound of his footsteps caused her to shrink back.
"Stay… please… stay away from me…"
"Miss Hooper, you have been harmed enough already this evening."
The cold, familiar tone of his voice seemed to somehow comfort her and slowly, she leaned forward and hooked her arms around his neck, embracing him tightly.
He didn't speak, nor did he attempt to push her away. Instead, he carefully scooped her up into his arms and moved quickly back down the alley. He had put her in harm's way; it was now his duty to protect her.
He took her to his lodgings, where thankfully, Mrs. Hudson had already turned in for the night. Quietly, he moved up the stairs. Along the way, he glanced at Miss Hooper. She was now sleeping, her tear-stained and blood-spattered features set into a look of near peace.
On entering the parlour, he lay her down onto the only sofa in the room and as she slept, he entered into his bedchamber and poured out a small bowl of water to clean himself. It was only removing his coat and waistcoat that he looked into the mirror and saw himself. He had the look of a madman, eyes wide and hair unkempt. Dried blood covered his mouth, chin and neck, and there were scratches on his wrists and arms from when the killer had tried to fight him. Quickly, he looked away and removed his shirt. Bending over the china bowl, he splashed at his face with the cold water.
Why couldn't he remember? Usually, he could so clearly remember when he killed—it was what caused him to resent the way in which he needed to survive. He splashed himself with the water again. This was ridiculous. He wasn't some monster; he was Sherlock Holmes, the genius detective. He was not a madman.
Somehow, he could think of nothing but his brother.
All lives end. Caring is not an advantage.
He had said those words soon after the two of them had been turned; turned by their father in a fit of rage. It was with a wry smile that Sherlock recalled the night it occurred. Although the two of them had already been born with vampire blood within their veins, their mother had been unwilling to turn them until both he and his brother had turned eighteen. Their father, however, had different ideas. It was better to strike while young, he had claimed. When their mother continued to disagree, their father had stormed into their shared bedchamber and turned them both. Both he and his brother still carried the scars.
Sherlock sighed. Even in his younger years, his father had regularly chastised him for being "so eager" to connect with humanity. So he cut it off, and filed it away in some deep, dark corner of his mind. For years, he lived in that state, his heart cold as he hunted and chased and deduced. Forever searching for that high that only the blood of a human could provide.
An irony then, that his humanity should be brought back by a small, quiet woman who secretly admired the stars.
And that same woman was currently asleep in his parlour. With a quick efficiency, Sherlock replaced his blood-soaked shirt with a new one, poured fresh water into the bowl, took a flannel from his drawers and went to attend to his guest.
When he entered, she was still asleep, but only slightly. Noiselessly, he placed the bowl of water and flannel on the side table. It was when he touched at her shoulder that her eyes opened. Seeing him, she gasped, but before she could speak, he pressed a finger to her lips.
"Careful, Miss Hooper. There are dangerous people out here tonight."
She made no reply, but her eyes went wide with disbelief.
"Come now. Sit."
Still making no reply, she straightened herself up, allowing him room to sit beside her.
With a touch more considerate than his usual, he examined her features. Aside from the blood spatter, she was not injured. It was merely a small case of shock. Understandable, given what he had put her through this evening.
"Take the bowl, Miss Hooper. Hold it in your lap."
She obeyed his instructions with a small nod of the head, and as he watched her, he again noted the grace of her movements. He had to admire her. The only people he had ever known to have this much calmness in a situation such as his were his brother and himself.
And as he cleaned her face and neck, she still remained as graceful and as silent as ever. It was only when he took the bowl from her that she spoke, her gaze focused on the floor.
"Are you going to kill me, Mr Holmes?"
He could not help but let out a laugh. "Why should I kill you? You have done no harm to me."
"The killer did no harm to you."
The sentence hung in the air, an unspoken question hidden beneath her words. A question he was not prepared to answer.
"Miss Hooper, considering that you are currently wearing a dress covered in the blood of the killer, I suggest that you remove it so that it can be cleaned."
"Won't there be questions?"
"I'm very persuasive," he said with a smile. She attempted to return the sentiment, but it did not quite reach her eyes. So she instead stood and left for the bedroom.
It did not take her long to remove the dress, and soon, she returned, now dressed in nothing but a long chemise and his blue silk dressing gown. Sherlock smiled again and moved towards the fireplace, pouring coal into it. He could feel her gaze locked onto his back as she sat on the sofa, tucking her legs under her chin.
For a while, she watched him make up the fire until eventually, she spoke. "Why did you kill him? That was never part of the plan."
"He was going to die anyway."
"So you were being merciful? Somehow, I can't see that."
"Miss Hooper, tell me. Why are you mourning him? He committed several horrific murders—you yourself confessed that you thought of him as nothing but a 'vandal of women's bodies'—and he attacked you this very evening! If anything, you should celebrate his death, not grieve over it!"
"Well," she murmured, her fingers fidgeting with the folds of his dressing gown. "Perhaps I am as not used to witnessing murder as you are."
"You deal with corpses every day!"
"But I don't put them there."
That silenced him. With a heavy sigh, he sat against the wall and without thought, he picked up his violin, and his fingers gently strummed the strings to some indefinable tune.
Human. That's what he was feeling. So… incredibly… human.
That was why he killed the man. The rage that had overwhelmed him wasn't rage at all; it was need. An incessant need to protect the woman who had drawn him out of the shadows.
He shouldn't feel like this. He couldn't. For so many years, the overgrown wilderness of his humanity had been hidden away in his mind, locked away from sight. But ever since meeting her, ever since their first meeting in that library, the lock on the door had been slowly ebbing away into nothing, allowing the wilderness to break free, its vines growing and reaching into even the most impenetrable of rooms.
And he couldn't—wouldn't—stop it.
