A/N: This chapter is dedicated to akuma-river, ceen, RoxanHolmes, KingHerod, and dankangel1211. You guys are the best! Special love to my amazing beta, chasingriver.


John was amazed at the reception he received from the University College Hospital representatives. They were so deferential that one would have thought he was the Queen's physician dropping by for an unofficial inspection. A pretty administrative assistant brought him a cup of tea and biscuits with the Harrods imprint in their chocolate surface while he sat in an over-polished meeting room and waited to meet Dr. Sebastian Moran.

He sent Sherlock a text.

Waiting to interview the doctor who treated Amy at A&E. JW

Sherlock responded immediately.

Take plenty of notes if your memory isn't perfect. How are you enjoying the tea and Harrods biscuits? SH

John nearly choked on his mouthful of organic Earl Grey.

How could you possibly know about those? JW

Oh, no need to thank me. Thank Mycroft. He arrived from Liverpool an hour ago and made some calls to ensure that you receive full cooperation. He will pick you up when the interview concludes. Just text me when you're finished. SH

Confused, John typed back, What's your brother got to do with biscuits from Harrods? JW

A lot. Didn't you notice his waistline when you met him? SH

"Dr. Watson?"

John put down his phone and looked up.

A man his own age stood in the meeting room doorway, eying him speculatively and, John thought, a little warily.

"Yes." John pushed his chair away from the table and stood.

The man approached, hand extended. "I'm Sebastian Moran."

Dr. Moran was at least six feet tall, had the muscular physique of an amateur athlete, and wore his sandy blonde hair so short that the skin peeked through. It was definitely a military-style cut. His measured stride and crisp vocal delivery were also army issue.

John gripped his hand firmly. "Please. Call me John. If you don't mind my asking, are you ex-military?"

"Yes. I've been out for two years now."

"What branch were you with?"

"RAMC."

John was surprised. The Royal Army Medical Corps was not a fighting branch of the British Army, and Sebastian Moran had the tense, restless aura of a man constantly seeking action.

Seeking to draw him out, John produced his military identification. "I served in Afghanistan. With the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Moran peered at the credentials. "Captain, eh? I was a Lieutenant-Colonel when I left." He pulled out one of the chairs and sat. "My chief says you want to talk to me about the girl who was shot this morning. Amy Murphy."

"That's right." John sat too and delivered the story he and Sherlock had rehearsed. "I'm assisting the family with their private inquiry. We're aware that some people brought Amy here last night for emergency medical treatment."

"That's correct." Moran winced as if in pain and rubbed his left eye. "John, would you mind if I turned off the light? I feel a headache coming on."

"By all means." John watched him get up, flip the switch, and plunge the room into semi-dimness. "I imagine you've had a rough morning, what with the murder and the police and all."

Moran sat back down. "Yes, it's been difficult, but I get migraines a lot anyway. When you work at a hospital with a busy A&E, it comes with the territory: double shifts, difficult patients, colleagues who love skinning your last nerve with a broken scalpel."

John offered a smile of commiseration. "I remember."

"About Amy Murphy." Now that the lights were out, Moran seemed comfortable enough to proceed. "Two off-duty police officers brought her into A&E just before eight last night. They found her wandering around the edges of a dodgy area in Wapping. She'd been assaulted –not sexually- and had bruises and abrasions all over her body. Most were minor, although she had a cut on her thigh that required stitches and antibiotic treatment."

John glanced at the admission report that the hospital administration provided. "It says here that one of your colleagues from Psychiatry wanted to give her a mental health evaluation."

"She went into hysterics when another patient came in: an anaemic man with dangerously low iron levels, who looked whiter than Jack Frost. She screamed something about him being a vampire coming to take her back. The nurses managed to reassure her, but she nearly required sedation."

John feigned incredulity. "She was implying that a vampire inflicted her injuries?"

"That's what it sounded like. But when she calmed down enough for me to examine and assess her, she said she didn't know why she'd blurted such rubbish. I convinced Dr. Lambert that Psych did not have to get involved."

John took notes. "What time was she discharged?"

"After midnight. But here's where the plot thickens." Moran crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward John. "She stayed in the hospital for nearly six more hours. The officers who brought her in gave her some money, and she spent a lot of it at the coffee machine. She wouldn't leave until daylight."

"Maybe she wanted to wait until the Tube started running?"

"Probably. But she certainly seemed to be frightened of someone or something. She kept pacing through the waiting area, watching the windows." Moran shook his head, and then hissed as if the movement hurt. "Sorry. Headache's getting bad."

John made a sympathetic noise. "Well, you're in the right place to get some painkillers."

"Yeah, I'll probably have to go to the dispensary before leaving."

"Did you see Amy leave?"

"No. I was finishing up with a patient."

"One last question. Where were you when she was shot?"

Moran's eyes narrowed but he answered the question without hesitating. "On my way to the hospital coffee shop to have a bite before going off shift."

John wrote that down. He'd already spoken to the nurses and receptionist who'd dealt with Amy, and this was his last interview. He suspected that Sherlock would be disappointed that no obvious connection to Moriarty had been made at the hospital.

"That's all for now, Sebastian," he said, stuffing his notebook and pen in his coat packet. "Would you like me to walk with you down to the dispensary? You're looking worse."

Moran, whose face had gone a bilious shade of green, said, "No, I can make it. God damn these things. They're getting worse. Stomach's off right now too, so I think I'll get a sumatriptan injection. That should sort me."

They parted outside the meeting room. Moran went to seek treatment for his migraine, keeping his gait soldier-steady despite the pain, and John rode the lift down to the main level. As he headed for the main exit, he sent a text to Sherlock.

Just finished interviewing Dr. Moran. Seems fine. Couldn't detect anything suspicious about staff conduct. JW

Sherlock replied with his usual speed and sarcasm.

I hope your notes were detailed, because you're obviously missing something. No matter. It's what I'm here for. To do the thinking. SH

The sliding glass doors parted for John, who stepped out into the brilliant morning, tapping fiercely on his mobile.

Are you always this modest? JW

Not really. Lestrade used to call me an arrogant sod when I was alive. I believe I've improved. Where are you? SH

Outside the main entrance. JW

Stay there. Mycroft will arrive shortly. He's been annoying me for the past hour, so detain him as long as you like. Ask for a tour of London. SH

No sooner had John read this message when a silver Bentley with tinted windows pulled up. The rear passenger window rolled down and a pale young man peered out at John.

"Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes." John pocketed the phone.

"We've been sent to pick you up."

"Right. Sherlock said you were coming." Presuming that Mycroft was in the front seat, John stepped toward the car when the young man opened his door.

He didn't expect what happened next. The man grabbed him by the arm and threw him facedown on the floor before slamming the door shut. John was so winded that he was only dimly aware of the Bentley moving again. Two voices- one tense and frightened, the other relaxed and marked by an Irish lilt- argued in the darkness over his head.

"There. I did what you wanted," the pale youth pleaded. "Now please let me go."

"Be happy to, Davey-boy," the Irish passenger replied cheerily. "You've done a good job."

A sickening crack pierced the gloom. John felt something warm, heavy, and obviously human fall across his legs before he was seized by the collar of his coat and yanked off the floor into a slumped position on the leather seat.

"There now. This is much more cosy, Johnny. Davey was so irritating."

Slowly, painfully, John raised his head and stared at the man next to him.

The abductor was in his early to mid-thirties and so pale that his skin seemed to glow beneath the surface. His heart-shaped face managed to look mischievous and menacing at the same time. Fine black hair was combed neatly against his skull, and he had dark eyes almost as deep and vacuous as Sherlock's. An expensive looking suit covered a rather small frame, so John took a chance and lashed out with his right fist.

The Irishman caught his wrist easily and applied a pressure so severe that John cried out. "I'll let go if you agree to stop being naughty," the man crooned over the escalating yells of pain.

John could only nod. His tormentor let go and gave him a few seconds to get his voice back. Then the man said, "There. I'm glad you decided to be reasonable. I would have hated to get your blood or brains on this suit." He fondled the lapel proudly. "It's Westwood."

"Who are you?" John frantically massaged his wrist. "What do you want?"

"My name is James Moriarty, but feel free to call me Jim. And what I want is to know more about your connection to an annoying midge named Sherlock Holmes."

Whenever he had confronted vampires in the past, John had been afraid, but it was a controlled fear that let him know when to fight and when to run. Sitting barely two feet away from James Moriarty, a vampire Elder intent on turning humans into cattle, he was seized by a paralysing terror that threatened to make him piss all over the leather seat.

"What's the matter, Johnny-boy? Can't talk? Am I really that repulsive?"

Moriarty's glib sadism jolted the ex-soldier out of his horror-induced stasis.

"I could think of more fitting descriptions," he rasped.

"I should hope so," Moriarty pouted. "It takes effort to look this young. A lot of humans were harmed in the making of this face. "

He beamed, flashing white teeth that were even blunter than Sherlock's. Now that he had adjusted to the gloom, John noticed that the vampire's eyes, although dominated by huge black pupils, had whites. Sherlock had been right: Elders really could pass for human. Even the gravelly undertone that accompanied vampire speech was missing. James Moriarty looked like a brash young business executive whose idea of taking over the world might have been cornering global financial markets, not enslaving its inhabitants.

The car rolled over a bump, causing the body on the floor to roll against John's leg. He started down at it and breathed, "Jesus."

"Is he bothering you?" Moriarty purred. "I picked him up on my way here. He followed my instructions nicely, but I only keep one pet at a time, so he had to go once he served his purpose."

John knew he was going to die. Moriarty wanted information about Sherlock, and the fate of the man on the floor proved that it didn't matter whether he gave in or refused. He now had a shelf life. Instead of panicking and pleading, John felt an eerie serenity set in.

"You want to know about Sherlock Holmes? Fine. He's got a plan that's going to make your pretty face look like tobacco ash. And I'll never tell you what it is, so let's get this over with."

Having spoken his piece, John prepared himself for the execution that would surely follow. To his surprise, Moriarty laughed.

"Oh, Johnny, what is it with soldiers and wanting to die a hero? You've got it all wrong. Except the killing part. That will definitely happen. But not the way you seem to think." Moriarty leaned toward him, grinning like a hyena. "If you tell me what I want to know, I snap your neck. Quick and clean, like Davey there. If you don't, I bring you back to my humble abode, make you into a vampire, and turn you loose on the human population as soon as darkness falls. You'll technically be dead, and thanks to you, so will a lot of people by morning. So what will it be? You have ten seconds to decide."

Dread sliced through John's resignation, but he snarled, "You haven't turned a human in over a hundred years! You even kill your own day walkers. Is that who's driving this car? Some poor bastard who thinks he's going to live forever if he wipes your arse for you?"

Moriarty huffed, but John saw genuine anger flare in his eyes. "Someone's been talking about me, I see."

The Bentley lurched to a sudden stop, accompanied by the scream of tortured brakes and a jolt that sent John tumbling on top of the cooling corpse. Moriarty grabbed the door handle for balance and pressed a switch on the solid black divider between the front and rear sections of the car.

"I know you've got a brain tumour," he shouted into a small wire-mesh circle next to the switch. "But it shouldn't be affecting your driving ability yet!"

A distorted male voice filtered through a speaker system. "Sir, we're surrounded!"

"What?!" the vampire bellowed.

People were running toward the car, shouting. John heard an electronic beep before the passenger side door was flung open, sending a narrow slice of sunlight into the car's interior. Moriarty roared like a caged lion and pressed himself against the other door to avoid the solar poison.

John felt a large hand close around his upper arm and pull him toward sunlight and fresh air. "Dr. Watson, get out now!"

Recognizing the commanding voice of Mycroft Holmes, hope surged through him and he scrambled to obey.

John didn't see Moriarty lunge forward, neatly avoiding the beam of light. But he did hear a shout of alarm when powerful –and lethal- teeth descended on Mycroft's arm.