Warning: some minor disturbing imagery.

They ended up back at the flat. Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his palms pressed together under his chin, thinking in silence. John looking out the window at the street below.

Everything seemed so normal. Everyone going about their business as usual. Cabs, cars, people walking, the air and the grey overcast sky, the buildings and the pavement and the road. All just the same as before. So why did John feel as though he were looking at a completely different world altogether?

Another species. Human and yet not human. Alive and dead at the same time.

And the venom sealing the wounds on the victims' arteries, what the hell was it with the venom? And the blood, drained from the bodies, Moriarty and those poor kids. Who does that? Who the hell does that?

What does that?

"Oh god," whispered John. He felt suddenly drained of energy as an almost paralyzing fear swept over him.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I've come to much the same conclusion. Although I'm sure with less lurid imagery than you're thinking of right now."

John turned away from the window with an expression of shock. "But they don't exist!"

"They do exist, you should know. You've seen them, talked to them, touched them." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. "Even fancied them."

"Shut up." John heaved a deep breath. God, his heart was going full speed. "Vampires?!"

"That would be the common name for them."

"Why aren't we panicking?"

"Because we're still alive."

"How is that even an answer?!"

"Oh stop being so melodramatic." Sherlock got up and started pacing.

John gesticulated wildly. "You're saying vampires exist and I'm being melodramatic?!"

"They're fighting their own turf war over London, we're not important enough to worry about," said Sherlock. "Or we'd already have been silenced."

"You're saying they know we know? Already?"

"If they know my reputation then they knew I was bound to put it together. But it was a calculated risk, they wanted me involved. I'm always dealing with strange crimes and we've had a run-in with Moriarty already, that's why the first message was set up to look like a locked room murder. I would get called in, not be able to solve it, something would get in the press, our two friends who aren't from Interpol would find out but there wouldn't be too much scrutiny because it's just another bizarre case associated with Sherlock Holmes. Want to hide something strange? Hide it in plain sight. On your blog, for instance."

"Hold on, what about my blog?"

"You post cases I can't solve on your blog, to make me sound more 'human'. Blogging about Moriarty's murder blended right in. Made it look almost ordinary."

"Well I wouldn't go that far." John was beginning to calm down now, he always felt a bit better when Sherlock left off his long thinking silences and became vocal again. "So the men who aren't from Interpol heard about the murder and came to see for themselves at the morgue. Message received."

"Exactly. And what did they get? A warning to leave London. A warning they evidently opted not to take." Sherlock pressed his hands against his head. "Think, think, it's more than that. Why did Moriarty have to die? Was he helping the recipients of the message? Was he important to them? Their contact in London?"

"Wait, you said the second message was meant for the Volturi group….so the Volturi family killed Moriarty and used us to help deliver the message?"

"Oh god you're slow! Yes, of course. Because Aro Volturi is such a huge fan of your blog."

John couldn't help feeling a little pleased at the thought. Then shook the feeling off as being completely inappropriate considering the circumstances.

"We have to warn people, Sherlock."

"That's the last thing we should do."

"But if this is a turf war, aren't there going to be more victims? People need to be alert, protect themselves. We should bring the army in…."

"Listen to me, John, listen very carefully," interrupted Sherlock, turning sharply on John and towering over him. "If we notify any of the authorities, they will know, and many more people will die as a result, because they will do anything to remain hidden."

John looked defiantly back at Sherlock's intense expression. "So we just sit tight and do nothing? While blood-sucking monsters kill innocent civilians?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, and John could hear the barely-restrained excitement in his voice. "We offer our assistance in ending this conflict."

"Help the vampires?" John asked incredulously.

"Help the Volturi. They're the peacekeepers here, obviously."

"Well they're not doing a very good job of it so far."

"That's because they don't know what they're fighting against yet."

"And you do?"

"I have absolutely no idea." Sherlock grinned suddenly, enthusiasm overcoming his desire to appear cool and above it all. "It's a complete mystery!"

They quieted suddenly, hearing footsteps racing up the stairs, then relaxed when Lestrade entered, out of breath.

"There's been another one," he said. "Same method."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. One excited, the other anxious and just a little reproachful.

The woman had been beautiful, in a sharp, almost dangerous way. The body was slumped on the floor and propped up against one of the ornate sofas in the elegant and pristine townhouse sitting room.

Broken neck. The body drained of blood but no visible wound until Sherlock leaned in and twitched aside the woman's collar to reveal the small incision in her neck, now smoothed over with that same strange seal of venom.

Sherlock stepped back, his eyes flickering over the scene.

"It's bad enough about the kids," said Lestrade. "It's all over the press now, you know. Everyone's demanding answers, and just when I'm trying to provide them, this happens. By the way," he turned to Sherlock. "What about the Volturi Group? Did you get anywhere with them?"

"Dead end," Sherlock said shortly.

John suppressed a small grin.

"Don't giggle, it's a crime scene," murmured Sherlock.

"Her name is Irene Adler," said Lestrade. "Professional dominatrix, would you believe?"

"No surprise there," said Sherlock caustically. "Everything about this place screams power play." He scrutinized the victim's face, then stood up and looked behind him.

"What is it?" asked John.

"She was looking at something before she died, something important to her that was about to be taken away." Sherlock moved towards the mantlepiece carefully. "Allowing for the angle of her neck, it should be right…here." He placed both hands under the mantlepiece and pressed. The ornate mirror above it slid upward to reveal a hidden safe. Sherlock leaned in and examined the keypad, then froze.

"Sherlock?" John came closer.

Sherlock let out his breath in a long sigh. "Interesting."

He reached out and carefully lifted the front of the safe off the wall. It came away cleanly. John could see the breakage line on the safe front and how it had rested together with the safe itself, so finely and gently broken that the whole thing had remained practically intact.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Lestrade.

John stared, breathing hard. He could tell right away that the safe hadn't been cut into, it had been snapped apart. Like Irene Adler's neck.

Sherlock placed the piece on the floor and then felt around the inside of the safe. "Clean," he said. "They took what they came for."

"And what did they come for?" asked Lestrade.

"No idea," said Sherlock, stripping off his gloves. "Come on," he motioned to John.

"That's it?" exclaimed Lestrade, hurrying after them as they left the room. "Don't you have any theories?"

"Not yet," said Sherlock. "We'll be in touch."

"What? John?" Lestrade appealed as they reached the front steps of the townhouse.

"I'm sorry," John said apologetically, "he's, well, you know." Then he had to run to catch up with Sherlock's long strides.

"What did this message mean?"

"Nothing, it wasn't a message."

"But, the blood loss..."

"It's a murder plain and simple, designed to blend in with other recent activities. It was made to look like the same method as the teenagers but the killer couldn't quite bring himself to attain that same level of cruelty, hence the broken neck administered before the blood was removed."

"You mean, like Moriarty?"

"Precisely, it's undoubtedly your boyfriend's handiwork again."

"Sherlock, could you not...keep doing that?"

"Sorry, couldn't resist." Sherlock grinned and John glared at him.

Just then Sherlock's phone chirruped and he pulled it out. "Text from Lestrade," he said, and then stopped suddenly.

"What?"

"We need to go to the morgue. Apparently the death of Irene Adler did send a message after all. There's already been a reply."

Molly Hooper pulled the sheet back carefully, revealing the head and shoulders of a young woman with disheveled hair and streaked makeup. It took John a moment to recognize the polished and sophisticated executive secretary of the Volturi Group.

"It's Gianna…." he said. "But we just saw her earlier today. What happened?"

"Yes, well, she's lost quite a lot of blood," said Molly. "And then someone put her on one of the lions around Nelson's Column. Um, over the paws." She imitated the lion's pose, arms outstretched.

Sherlock said nothing, bending over the body with his pocket magnifying glass to examine the patch of sealed up skin on the woman's neck. He sighed and straightened, resting his hands on the edges of the slab.

"This is getting tedious," he said.

"What does it mean?" asked John.

"That they're very, very annoying people who don't know what they've got so they're making a big show of nothing. If they actually had something, they'd get on with it but instead we get these silly melodramatic spectacles."

They all looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching and Lestrade entered with a dark-haired man in an elegant black suit and overcoat.

John swallowed hard and moved around to the opposite side of the slab.

Aro Volturi.

"Mr. Volturi is here to identify the victim," said Lestrade.

Aro nodded to John and Sherlock who stood back politely. He looked gravely serious, not at all like their genial host of the morning. He walked up to the slab somberly. Both Sherlock and John noticed his right hand brush across Molly's hand as he stepped past her. Sherlock hissed a little, as though restraining himself from warning Molly.

"No damage to the body, as you can see," said Lestrade.

"Yes," said Aro quietly. "This is indeed Gianna Lombardi. My secretary." He leaned over the body and stroked the mussed hair gently. "Poor child," he said sadly and regretfully.

"Thank you, Mr. Volturi, I'm sorry for your loss," said Lestrade. His mobile started ringing and he turned away to answer it.

Molly drew the sheet back over the body and fiddled about with her equipment, hoping to catch Sherlock's attention, but he appeared distracted, putting on his coat and drawing up the collar.

Aro looked up and gave John a small, unsettlingly beautiful smile. John shivered but didn't look away, in the same manner that he would have faced down a gun pointed at his head. He forced himself to keep watching as Aro turned to walk in the direction of the doors. Sherlock moved quickly after him, catching up with him and partially blocking his path.

"Don't you think," said Sherlock in a low voice, "that this has gone on long enough?"

Aro gazed at him in silence, motionless, and Sherlock looked back with narrowed eyes. John hovered close behind Sherlock, watching the two of them size up each other's intentions, each in their own way.

"Yes," said Aro finally. "Come, I'll buy you a drink."

Sherlock smiled, the thin smile he always had when he was getting his own way.

Lestrade looked up from his phone call and gave John a questioning look. John shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in response, then followed Sherlock and Aro out of the room.

Obviously it was going to be a long night.