I spent the night alone, reflecting upon the decision I had reached, trying to find an alternative. The Countess had not sought to cause either of us harm; could I really kill her just on the basis that she might kill another vagrant? How many people had she killed, and how many more might there be? How long do vampires live, and how much do they need to drink?

I had so many questions, and no answers. So, I did what I always do when I feel lost – no, not the cocaine bottle.

I went to find you, Watson.


Watson flinched and snapped awake in an instant at a light tread upon the floor of his room. He blinked his vision into focus – it was late afternoon, and enough sunlight still seeped in through his drawn curtains for him to readily identify his visitor by sight as well and smell.

"Holmes," he murmured, kicking off the blankets of the bed so that he could sit up, "what is it, old fellow?"

"I have reached my conclusion, my dear Watson," Holmes's voice held an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty, "I very much fear that we must locate the Countess, and… possibly… kill her."

Watson hesitated. The same thoughts had been looping around his mind before he had fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Could they simply let this murderess go, knowing that she would simply kill again and again? But what other choice did they have – arrest her and put her on trial as a vampire?

"Tell me, Holmes," Watson said, quietly, "why must we kill her?"

"Is it not the logical choice, Watson? Is she not a monster who will prey on mankind and feed on the blood of innocents?"

"What about me, Holmes? By the same logic, surely I must die too…"

"Watson," Holmes said, firmly, "you are not a monster. You have never shown any inclination to harm another..."

"Except at full moon…" Watson cast a nervous glance at the diary which sat prominently on his bedside table.

"And we can control that – you wish to control what you are. The Countess does not."

"We should at least offer her the chance…"

"We will. But if she does not take it…"

"I understand," Watson said, quietly, as he got up and crossed to his wardrobe, "but I still don't like it, Holmes! Does any alternative present itself?"

"If one does, I shall be sure to take it," Holmes responded, quietly, "come, Watson – I could use your assistance, in whatever aspect you may choose."

"As I am will draw less attention," Watson decided, pulling out a clean suit, "Holmes, it has been a dry day – if we retrace our footsteps of earlier, I may be able to detect the Countess's trail."

"No need – I have deduced her location," Holmes replied, turning away, "I shall meet you downstairs as soon as you are ready."

Watson dressed quickly, but Holmes was still fidgeting impatiently in the hallway when the doctor finally joined him. Watson selected a sturdy, solid wooden cane from the rack. He no longer needed it to aid his walking, as he might once have done, but he always felt better carrying it, despite its relative uselessness as a weapon compared to his incredible strength and terrifying transformation.

Holmes led the way out of the house, donning his grey hat even as Watson snatched up his own coat and bowler. He followed Holmes in relative silence, each grimly focussed on their task. Holmes hailed a cab, and ordered the cabbie to the West India Docks in Tower Hamlets. Watson glanced surreptitiously at Holmes – as ever, the detective's face was an emotionless, grey mask, but Watson could sense the tension.

"Are you armed, Holmes?" he asked, in a low voice, "I know you're carrying that gun – I can feel it. Effective as it may be against her two wolves, will it work on the Countess?"

"I do not know," Holmes admitted, "trustworthy empirical evidence on the successful killing of a vampire is somewhat hard to come by."

Watson permitted himself a small smile – despite the very real circumstances, to hear such a line spoken in all seriousness by Sherlock Holmes amused him. The cab eventually rattled to a halt. Holmes leapt out and strode off, leaving Watson to pay the cabbie. The doctor waved away the offer of change, knowing it was an extraordinarily generous tip but unable to bring himself to handle the silver coins that were offered, despite the relatively low silver content. He had neglected to bring his usual precaution when handling money – his gloves. Quickly, he followed Holmes towards the Steam Boat Dock.

Suddenly, Holmes grabbed his arm and pulled him down one of the streets, towards a decrepit-looking pub. The paint was peeling from the sign to such an extent that Watson could no longer read the name. A beggar with one leg sat in a pile of rags outside, his hand outstretched for change, looking hopefully at the two well-dressed men. Holmes ignored him, pushing his way into the guest house. Watson hurriedly tossed him a few coppers, and then followed the detective inside.

The working day was clearly over – the bar was filled with a vast assortment of people, mainly in the lower to middle classes. A few beggars and prostitutes were working the crowds, who comprised the slightly poorer passengers awaiting their ships, to the wealthier sailors who were of a higher class than the deckhands without being rich enough to be officers. As such, nobody spared either of them a second glance, if they had even bothered to take a first one.

Holmes crossed straight to the bar, and waited his turn to be served. The barman smiled a tired greeting at his new customer.

"I am looking for a woman," Holmes began, and the barman laughed, bringing a meaty hand down on the bar top with a heavy thump.

"Aren't we all, mate!" he exclaimed, with a suggestive leer, "Well, there are plenty in here tonight – take your pick. My speciality is drink – so what's your poison?"

Holmes curled his lip in distaste at the suggestion; "I seek a very particular woman whom I believe is lodging here. She wears mourning black and has two large hounds with her."

"Ah, yes! Our resident lady… she said she was expecting visitors. Second floor, last door at the end of the corridor – our best room, you can't miss it."

Holmes nodded, and left a few coins on the bar, as he turned back to Watson, and led the way through the crowds to the staircase.

"She expects us, Watson – be on your guard!"

Watson nodded as they climbed the stairs together. They gradually left behind the din of the bar, though the background noise was still audible as they crept down the corridor towards the Countess's room. Holmes hesitated outside the door, listening intently. Watson did the same, and they shared a look – there was no sound of movement from within. Watson pushed Holmes behind him, reaching for the handle. Holmes tried to object, but Watson silenced him with a fierce glare.

"If either of those wolves are in there, I stand a better chance than you do, even with that," Watson told him, eyeing the gun Holmes had drawn, "ready?"

At Holmes's nod, Watson pushed open the door. When there was no sign of an assault, he flung the door wide open, assuring himself that no-one was hiding behind it, as he stepped fully into the room. It was a respectable, tasteful room, in a shabby, tired kind of way. A settee, that would once have been quite luxurious, sat with fading glory and a threadbare appearance in the middle of the room.

There was a writing desk in one corner, a small table and two chairs for dining, and a badly scratched wooden four-poster bed occupied most of the wall to the left of the room. Beside the bed the rest of the wall was occupied by a massive old wardrobe that was riddled with woodworm. To Watson's right, there was a fireplace set into the wall, and in one corner was a door to what was probably the bathroom. A couple of paintings by artists of mediocre talent adorned the walls, all thick with dust. The boarding house was clearly falling into decay, as it had once, apparently, been quite an opulent abode.

Opposite to Watson, the lone window stood wide open – Holmes crossed to it, and found that it led to a wrought-iron outside staircase, no doubt intended as an emergency escape route. He checked the bathroom and shook his head to Watson.

"She has flown the coop, Watson – we are probably too late."

A thought occurred to Watson.

"Do you think she can fly?" he asked, "Or turn into a bat, maybe?"

Holmes gave him a withering look; "We will have to ask her when we find her, won't we?"

Watson was about to reply when Holmes suddenly ducked and stepped through the window, out onto the metal fire escape. He scanned the horizon – the sun was already beginning to set, and this worried him slightly. Sir Bryce, the only other vampire he had encountered to date, had preferred to work at night, and it seemed that the Countess had not only correctly predicted that they would be coming, but had, in all likelihood, set a trap for them.

"Watson, I think that we must…"

A sudden thud behind him announced the arrival of another party to the fire escape, from above – of course! The roof! She had been waiting up there… the realisation was accompanied by Watson's warning shout; "Holmes! Look out!"

Holmes turned. All he saw was a fist that connected solidly with his left cheekbone, and coloured sparks exploded across his vision, fading away to darkness.


I have made as great a study of vampires as I have wolves, and they are a truly terrible race. Lycanthropes are comparable to mankind – you are as variable as humanity; we have met wolves who would rather tear out the throat of another than bid them greeting, and others who were as amicable as an old friend, despite their generally blood-thirsty ways at the full moon!

But vampires… they are not really dead, nor are they alive. They have feelings, true, but I have never met a vampire that I could trust. There is something in their very presence that provokes the basest instincts of fear; a cold, other-worldliness that marks them as different to any other creature that walks this Earth.

Their strength is incredible and their talents variable… and the Countess was a formidable foe indeed.


"Holmes!" Watson cried out.

The Countess hissed at him, baring her fangs, before she reached down, picked up the unconscious Holmes with one hand, and flung him through the open window with superhuman strength. Watson caught the detective easily, lowering him to the floor, checking for injury. A livid red mark from the punch would soon form into an ugly bruise, and the cheekbone might well have a small fracture, but there was little that Watson could do without his medical kit. He crouched protectively over his friend, glaring at the Countess as she stepped gracefully inside, keeping her fangs bared. She carried an odd bundle, tucked under one arm.

"Dogs!" she called, "Attend to your mother!"

Isaac and Ishtar bounded through the window obediently, and stood at the Countess's side. They growled menacingly, but Watson could smell their fear and the less-than-convincing warning implied by the growls. They were definitely afraid of the Countess… but they were also afraid of him. Good.

"They can't harm me," Watson warned her, "I have already proved I am stronger then they are. And I will not allow them – or you – to hurt Holmes."

"Perhaps at full strength you might be a challenge," she agreed, "but I am what you might call a professional hunter. Catch!"


There is an age-old war between the two species. How it began is a long story… it suffices to say that, generally speaking, a wolf will not tolerate a vampire in its territory, and vampires will make sport out of hunting down a wolf. Sir Isaiah Bryce boasted to us of the number of wolf-pelts and heads adorning the halls of his home.

However, vampires cannot readily identify a wolf when he is in human form, while a wolf knows a vampire immediately by scent. Either side has their own significant advantages and disadvantages, which is possibly why this war was never fought as a large scale battle – it seems to be an ongoing series of personal vendettas between the local factions.

The Countess was different. She hated your kind with a deep, burning passion… my poor Watson. What she did to you was unforgivable.


Countess de Silva flung the bundle from under her arm. Watson leaned protectively over Holmes instinctively, but when the net fell over him, he realised that the detective had nothing to fear from the intricate netting. He staggered to his feet, pulling the trapping device away from Holmes but unable to free himself. Suddenly feeling drained of strength; he fell to the floor, as if forced down by an oppressively heavy weight.

The Countess laughed at his efforts, as Watson groaned, and tried to move. He felt like he was being crushed, and his whole body ached under the weight of the net. It was only when he forced his eyes open that he fully saw what it was that trapped him. The net was laced with silver wire.

"Silver," he moaned aloud, "How… why…?"

"I told you. I am a professional hunter," the Countess replied, "I know what you are, you stupid mongrel. I don't keep these two around for their scintillating conversation – they identified your scent immediately to me."

"What do you want with us?" Watson asked, hating how weak his voice sounded, even to himself. It was like being sat on by an elephant – the weight of the net felt incredible, as the silver seemed to leech away all of his energy, like rain down a storm drain.

Countess de Silva arched an exquisite eyebrow; "I decided that I would trap you before you could trap me. I had a feeling that your friend's logical mind would conclude that I simply had to be killed. I will therefore kill you before you can kill me. That net will deal with you quite entertainingly, before you feed my dogs… I would not sully my mouth with your filthy blood. No, Mr Holmes here will be quite enough to sustain me well into my journey overseas."

Suddenly, Isaac let out a low bark in response to a knock at the door. The Countess swore, vividly – Watson was surprised to hear such words from a woman, even if she was evil! She crossed to the door, and opened it only part-way, conversing with the barman beyond. Watson strained to overhear, even as he clawed ineffectively at the silver-wound ropes that held him in place.

"I shall be down momentarily," the Countess replied, "just allow me a moment to… to powder my nose."

She closed the door and turned a scowl on Watson; "Who followed you here? Who did you bring with you?"

Watson merely stared at her in confusion, when the Countess suddenly reached down and lifted him up, shaking him like an errant child; "You were followed here! Who by?"

"No… nobody… I don't know!"

The Countess hissed a curse, and opened the wardrobe door. She flung him inside, amongst the hanging dresses, and fixed him with a glare.

"Mark my words. If you make one sound, you will pay by watching my hounds tear your friend Holmes apart, limb from limb!"


Lestrade was uneasy about so many things, and with such vague thoughts troubling his mind, he suddenly found himself walking down Baker Street. He had some distant notion of confronting Holmes with his questions, but he hesitated – he had no idea what was bothering him, but his instincts were screaming at him that something simply wasn't right – Sir Isaiah Bryce's disappearance, Gregson's monstrous dead dog, Holmes's own odd behaviour… well, more odd than usual, at any rate.

He was still hesitating, trying to concoct some reasonable excuse for a visit, when he saw Mr Holmes and Dr Watson step out of their lodgings and flag down a cab. Without really knowing why, he quickly hailed another, and gave orders for the cabbie to follow the Holmes's carriage. A flash of his official badge convinced the driver to keep an even pace and do as he was told. Lestrade kept a keen eye on where they were going, still uncertain as to why he was following the pair, but trusting his policeman's instincts. When he saw them pull into the West India dockyards, he quickly had the cabbie take him down a side street, where he paid the man, tipped him heavily, and sent him on his way.

Sticking to the shadows, Lestrade followed them as they headed to a pub. No doubt this was one of Mr Holmes's private cases, but Lestrade's curiosity was piqued. Besides, he had come this far, he reasoned.

"Giles, I hope you know what you're doing, man," he muttered to himself, and then, straightening up, he strolled nonchalantly down the street and walked into the pub. He was suddenly glad he was not in uniform – he would have stuck out like a sore thumb. He crossed over to the bar, leaned on it, and pulled out his badge – he could see no sign of Holmes or Watson in the patronage.

The barman obediently crossed over and hunkered down; "What can I get for ya… oh."

This last comment was at the sight of the badge. Lestrade met his gaze evenly; "I don't want trouble – I just want to know about two men who arrived a few minutes before me – one tall and pale, dressed in grey; the other shorter with brown hair and a moustache, carrying a cane…"

"Oh, they went up to see the lady, so they did," the barman replied, helpfully, "second floor, room at the end…"

"I'd rather they didn't see me here," Lestrade told him, quickly, feeling a cold stab of fear at the thought of Holmes's reaction to him barging in on a private meeting with a client, "um… could you go up and tell them that Inspector Lestrade of the Yard is here to see them, as and when it is convenient?"

"Oh, sure, everybody's messenger boy, that's me," the barman snorted, but obeyed, shouting to a younger lad and a barmaid to watch the place for a few minutes. Lestrade, thinking that he might be in for a long wait, ordered a pint of ale. He had just taken his first appreciative sip when the barman reappeared; "The lady's on her way down to see you. No sign of your two men."

Lestrade frowned, but nodded and thanked the man. Ten minutes later, he was being pointed out by the barman to a woman dressed in mourning black with a veil covering her face.

"Inspector?" she said, demurely, holding out a silken-gloved hand in greeting, "I understand that you are here to see me?"

"Ma'am," Lestrade greeted her, taking her hand and giving her a polite bow, "I had hoped to converse with Mr Sherlock Holmes, if you are acquainted with him? I had no intention of disturbing a private meeting…"

She laughed, daintily, raising her hand to politely shield her mouth as she did so; "I am sorry, Inspector – I don't know anyone of that name. If you saw him come in here, maybe he was one of the two men who have just broken into my room… perhaps you would be good enough to come upstairs?"

Lestrade followed her, a sense of trepidation coiling a cold tendril around the nape of his neck. He wondered, nervously, exactly what the hell he was letting himself in for…


It seems to me that my narrative is becoming somewhat introspective, but I seek to share such insights as I have made into what you have become, Watson. You are more than either man or lycanthrope, and yet you retained your most basic humanity. I profess my own amazement that you were able to carry on your professional practice as a doctor. Of course, there were a number of changes – many of your patients were no doubt surprised that you no longer relied on aconite as an anaesthetic, or that you refused to accept payment directly, asking them to pay Mrs Hudson at Baker Street – especially when they tried to present you with silver coinage!

Silver. Such a precious metal to so many, yet what it can do to you… I do not like to think of it. I cannot begin to imagine the pain…


Watson, bound in the lethal rope-and-silver net, lay curled up in the bottom of the wardrobe, feeling distinctly ill. His head was pounding and his breath rasped in his throat as he fought for every breath, resisting the urge to close his eyes and slip into beckoning unconsciousness.

He had heard the Countess roughly shove Holmes's still unconscious form under the bed, as around ten, maybe fifteen minutes later she had gone to meet their mysterious follower, having veiled her face to disguise herself. He heard the door to the rooms open, and voices reached his ears. He suppressed a groan. Lestrade! What was he doing here? He suppressed a cough; he did not want to risk Lestrade becoming embroiled in the matter, for fear of what the Countess might do to the poor Inspector.

"As you can see, Inspector," the Countess was saying, "There is no-one here now. But only a few minutes ago, two men broke in here. They seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see them! I suspect that they were looking for someone. They asked me to let them out through the window, and I obliged… They went in that direction, if it is of any assistance?"

"It is, indeed, ma'am," Lestrade responded, as Watson closed his eyes, willing the Inspector to leave, and get himself out of danger, "I hope their intrusion did not startle you too much?"

"Oh, no, Inspector – I have my dogs to protect me while I travel. These men are not criminals, are they?"

"Believe it or not, ma'am, they are on the side of the law," was Lestrade's weary reply, "I hope that you do not mind if I avail myself of your window?"

"By all means, Inspector," the Countess replied, amused.

Watson heard faint scuffling sounds, and then a long moment of silence. Very distinctly, he heard the scrape of a window being closed and a click as it was locked. There was a dragging noise – Holmes being pulled from under the bed, no doubt. Watson took a deep, shuddering breath; it was getting even harder to breathe, and he felt horribly cold. Without warning, the wardrobe door opened, and Watson tumbled out, sprawling on the floor, still tightly bound in the nets.

"Whether you planned that little distraction or not, the Inspector is not likely to return, Holmes," the Countess hissed.

Leaving the detective where he lay, she crossed to her back, and drew a wickedly-sharp silver knife from one of the compartments. Isaac and Ishtar cringed back, whimpering, as the Countess tested the blade with one gloved finger. She turned towards Watson, who no longer had the strength to keep his eyes open.

"Werewolf fur is very tough to cut through, unless you use the right tools," she purred, conversationally, to no-one in particular, "You are a fine specimen – I have time enough to skin you for your pelt – the rest of you I will leave for my dogs…"

Too ill and too exhausted to be able to protest as the Countess advanced, Watson managed a low groan, and the darkness took him.


The Countess leaned over the unconscious, man-form wolf, the knife held tightly in her hand, her lips parted slightly in excitement as she advanced on her fallen prey. However, a slight creak of a floorboard behind her, and a very significant, metallic click, made her hesitate.

"Drop the knife, Countess."

The Countess turned, letting out a low, angry growl, even as she released the knife, letting it fall the to floor with a heavy clatter. Holmes advanced up slowly, arm outstretched, gun levelled at her chest. Only the finest tremor of his hand belied the effect of her concussive blow to his face, as he very slowly approached her wit caution.

"Madam," he said, in a cool tone, "step away. This gun is loaded with silver bullets – you may not have a werewolf's aversion to it, but I am assured by my readings that such a bullet can still render you with a fatal wound. I suggest that you do not give me cause to test that theory."


Holmes felt himself wavering a little – his face burned with a hot pain that warned of a magnificent bruise appearing, and he still felt the lingering sluggishness of involuntary unconsciousness coupled with the persistent headache that was trademark of a concussion. Still, by taking a deep breath and steeling his incredible resolve, Holmes regained control of himself as he calmly threatened the Countess with a weapon he was not certain would have any effect on her.

The Countess spat a curse at him, but obediently stepped back. Holmes's eyes quickly flicked around the room – the Countess's two tame wolves hung back, whining and growling; clearly they wished to act, but they apparently understood the threat to themselves and the Countess. Holmes's gaze then came to rest on a familiar figure, lying prone on the floor.

"Watson!"

The Countess smiled serenely and merely sat down on the settee as her hounds crept closer to her, to lie at her feet. Holmes ignored this, keeping the gun in one hand as he tugged at the knots that held the heavy net around his friend. He did not fail to notice that the rope net was augmented with spun silver wire; expensive, and extremely dangerous to werewolves. He switched the gun to his left hand as he picked the knife up with his right, working to sever the cords and knots that bound his unconscious friend.

"Why? Why would you do this to him?" Holmes snapped, as he worked to free the knots, "What kind of evil is this?"

"No more evil than you came to dish out to me, once you learned what I am," the Countess coolly quirked an eyebrow, "do not deny it, Mr Holmes – you came to dispatch me, as I suspect you have killed others like me before. I simply struck first in self-defence. I am a hunter by nature, and his mangy type are my speciality. That net has killed no less than five of his kind – it will be good to add a sixth."

Holmes bit back a curse, as he fumbled, one-handed, to untie the bonds around the poor doctor. The Countess examined her fingernails with apparent disinterest in Holmes's actions.

"I must say," she remarked, conversationally, "It is rare for a mortal to keep such a pet."

Holmes managed to get a stubborn knot free, and fought to wrestle back the nets. The Countess laughed at his efforts.

"I would not bother, Mr Holmes," she told him, airily, "he's been in that net for more than twenty minutes at least. He is dead by now; all energy sapped from him until his heart stopped. Rather a slow death, though no less than his kind deserves."

"I bid you be quiet, madam," Holmes told her, through gritted teeth, "Your ancient grudges are of no interest to either myself or Watson!"

"One less of their kind plaguing the world," the Countess waved her hand dismissively, unconcerned, "Mr Holmes, I have yet to decide whether I wish to drink your blood, or convert you to my own ilk… it is a shame we fed so well last night, it will be a good few days before the blood hunger comes upon us again…"

"Then it was indeed you who killed the homeless man last night. I suspected a female vampire when I observed the footprints of a woman, and drag marks of a long dress in the dirt, along with the presence of at least two dogs. It did not take me very long to deduce who and what you are."

"Indeed. Despite his poor appearance, his blood was particularly rich. We fed well."

Holmes suppressed a shudder at the thought as he clawed loose the final knot and wrenched aside the netting. He pulled Watson free of the infernal silver web, bundled it up, and threw it into the corner of the room, to a yelp of protest from Ishtar and an amused laugh from the Countess. Holmes pressed two fingers to Watson's throat and held his breath…


Poor Watson… I know that you would not garner such sympathy, but the effect of that net upon you was truly devastating. When I first pulled you free of the bonds, I sincerely thought you dead… Had that been the case, I would have killed the Countess there and then in cold blood.

Perhaps if I had, we might have spared the suffering that followed.


A/N: Is it me, or are these chapters getting longer? I hope you enjoyed it...