Walking sleepily into the sitting room at eight o'clock the next morning, John found Sherlock contemplating a new and rearranged display of papers on the wall.

'Find anything?' he asked yawning.

'Other than that the police are idiots? No.' He showed John a set of new photographs on the wall. 'I hacked into the victims' Facebook and email accounts, not their main ones of course, but easy enough to find if you know what you're looking for. They knew each other, John. Its all there, mentions of different modeling agencies and a whole string of emails showing how they were all recruited by Peter Sayers to do some slightly below board modeling for adequate financial and pharmaceutical compensation. There's even an email from the first victim to Rachel saying that she's getting scared, and one back from Rachel to her telling her that she can trust Peter Sayers, he is apparently a good man.'

'Apart from he wasn't,' John said.

'Obviously not,' Sherlock said.

'Any news from Mycroft?'

'Not yet, my guess is that the elusive Mr White will make his move today.'

'So what do we do until then?'

'Watch and wait.'

The watching and waiting didn't take long. Less than three hours later Sherlock's laptop showed that the package and the jacket were both on the move. Both had stopped outside a cafe in a residential district of the new town, stayed there for twelve minutes, then the package had moved to what turned out to be a large gated house in a run down part of Prague. A brief phone call from Mycroft's office confirmed that they were also aware, and that full surveillance was already in place.

'So what now?' John asked.

'Now we go home,' Sherlock said, heading for his bedroom.

'What? Why?'

'Because thats exactly what Sherlock Holmes the reporter would do, and we need to sustain the illusion that I'm going to publish that article, complete with the full set of pictures that I was emailed last night. We're being watched John.'

'Now that makes a nice change,' John said sarcastically.

...

Sherlock gave a good imitation of being asleep in the car on the way to the airport, then when the car stopped at a red light, suddenly got out with a quick, 'I'll see you at the departure gate,' to John as he slammed the door behind him and the car sped off.

'Great,' John muttered. But sure enough twenty minutes before the plane was due to leave, when John was wondering whether to get on the plane without him, Sherlock came sauntering up to the gate, walked straight past John and showed his boarding pass to the air crew on the gate.

'I wish you wouldn't do that,' John muttered. 'You realise that I had to lie and say I'd packed your bag myself? I hope you don't have any knives in there.'

'No, just a few illegal substances,' Sherlock said smoothly as they walked down the ramp to the plane, John hoped that he was joking, but with Sherlock you could never be entirely sure. Business class no less, Mycroft was obviously feeling guilty, or impressed with their work, possibly both.

'So are you going to tell me whats going on?' John asked.

'Not here, no. When we get home.'

Sherlock was asleep before the plane had even taken off. John took advantage of it to eat two excellent meals, and drink Sherlock's share of champagne. There had to be some advantages to being dragged round Europe and receiving death threats from mafia bosses.

...

Back at 221b, Sherlock slept for the best part of three days, splitting his time fairly evenly between his bed and the sofa, and leaving MI6 to continue the facade of his journalistic career. Never a man to take his responsibilities lightly, he did check his fake email account and the responses from the MI6 operative pretending to be him, pretending to be a journalist regularly, as he migrated from his bed to the sofa or back again.

Two weeks after they had returned home, a surprisingly triumphant Mycroft arrived at 221b while they were eating breakfast, and deposited a stack of newspapers in front of Sherlock.

'Well done,' he said, sitting down, and helping himself to a cup of tea and a piece of toast and marmalade, using the plate and cup that had appeared in front of him as if by magic via Mrs Hudson. While she would never admit it, Mrs Hudson was almost as fond of Mycroft as she was of Sherlock, although if it came to a fight there was never any doubt about which Holmes boy she would back.

Sherlock tossed half of the pile across the table to John, trying not to look smug and failing. 'Mafia boss arrested after involvement in Pre-Raphaelite vampire killings,' the head lines screamed.

'So they got their headlines after all?' John said, 'what happened to keeping it out of the papers?'

'The press will always turn in the end, John, if you don't keep feeding the rabid hound,' Mycroft said. 'Better to give them what they want at a time that is convenient to you, than to have them turn on you at an inappropriate moment.'

'So now are you going to tell me?' John asked Sherlock. 'Homeless network presumably, after you left the car on the way to the airport.'

'Of course. They knew the house, it used to be a squat before it was renovated apparently, provided the Czech police and MI6 with a floor plan, including of the convenient cellar. After that it was easy enough to continue surveillance, provide a convenient victim, ensure her safety, keep Mr White's little executioner safely in the house while we lured in the rest of his circle. The vet - not a medic after all John, that was just a fortunate coincidence, and the embalmer, plus several other interested parties, all members of the League of Vampires of course, and dedicated to their cause.'

John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and waited in silence.

'What?' Sherlock asked.

'Oh come on, with you two involved it can't possibly be that simple.'

'Vampires, Pre-Raphaelite murders of young virgins, or not virgins as the case may be, a league of people wanting to emulate the undead, what could you possibly mean John?'

And whatever else may have been going on, neither Mycroft or Sherlock Holmes were telling, and John was left to write up the case for his private records, rather than for the website for obvious reasons. Perhaps when he was old and retired, and keeping bees in a nice farmhouse on the South Coast then the truth might finally be allowed to emerge. Until then the Holmes boys were keeping their secrets.