Okay, another stupidly long absence. Many apologies, let us continue on. A massive thank you to all my reviewers, this long hiatus of mine SHOULD be at an end now that this chapter has been completed.

Mirror Mirror...

As the first beams of light struck the floor before me through the hole in my roof, despite the incredible discomfort, despite being imprisoned by a monster, despite that damned voice within my soul, my only thoughts were for Watson's safety and the future of my closest friend.

I knew the moment Caswell read out that morbid letter to me his demands would be ignored. I knew the very second Watson opened and read that same letter and received Jack's so called gift that his wrath would be tempted. Most individuals would be horrified by the concept of their flatmate putting their life at risk for another, but no matter how long my thoughts lingered upon that subject, I only felt pride and fear. The beams of sunlight upon the floor crept closer, and in turn, my body attempted to free itself of its own accord. Such a dramatic reaction to sunlight would surely hinder me in the future, yet as I stood attached to that hellish contraption my mind could fathom no way of effectively avoiding such scenarios all together. My only hope was that I would develop some resistance to the inevitable glare of natural light.

Why, you act as though you actually appreciate the daylight.

My body instantly froze for I neither spoke nor thought those words, yet they echoed within my mind all the same. I was certain that I was the only inhabitant of the room. I could have sworn I were imagining things, yet the same voice, my voice, spoke again.

Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective. The forever aloof figure clad in black and white. Tell me Holmes, are you a creature of vice beyond your insufferable addiction to chemicals?

I swallowed involuntarily. I recognised that voice more than any other, yet the tone it held was a stranger to me for I had never used it myself nor desired to. I answered tonelessly to an empty, damp room. ''Reveal yourself and perhaps I will choose to answer.''

Come now, Sherlock, we both know you would never answer me honestly. You cannot even admit such things to yourself! I cannot do as you have asked, for you in all your stubbornness and righteousness refuse to drink the life source of mortals. We are the same being.

To my shame, his words instantly caught my attention. Ever since I first laid eyes upon my sinister reflection at Baker Street, my curiosity had rebelled at the sheer absence of data available, for I knew next to nothing concerning my affliction. I did not understand how such a change could be possible, nor could I comprehend the sheer allure of the creature that had bitten me. For once in an extremely long period of time, I understood nothing of what I had become. The voice chuckled darkly, even though I did not reply.

Your weakness is glaringly obvious, regardless of whether you choose to voice it or not. You have no clue as to what you have become, have you mortal? No clue whatsoever of your potential.

I bit back a remark, although the darker variation of my voice cackled loudly. Obviously, the thing had free reign over my thoughts. ''What are you?''

I am you and everything you deny yourself.

To my horror, the vibrant colours of my prison dissolved into black and white and suddenly my surroundings transformed and I was back at Baker Street, still strapped to my restraints. Of course, I knew what I was seeing was merely a false image; a subconscious artistic impression manipulated by my other voice, yet I could feel the intensity of the open fire and feel my eyes burn at the sudden brightness of the lamps. Delusions created by a fevered brain, perhaps. I let myself take in the vastly detailed image before me, categorising the similarities and differences between the illusion and my real place of residence. Opposite from where I were held sat a twisted copy of myself, a man with much paler skin than my own and with bright violet eyes that instantly captured my gaze and became the focus of interest. He was indeed me, yet there were many differences between myself and the copy sat in my chair by the fire; his hair was indeed the same shade as mine but much longer and worn in a loose band of crimson ribbon. He sat with a relaxed elegance, yet how he sat could hardly be called as such for his legs hung lazily over the armrest, head thrown back carelessly. Refined but carefree, his intense gaze fixed wholly upon me with visible interest. I thought myself mad for conjuring such illusions.

''We are the same being. Imagine, Sherlock, that both the lighter and darker side of every individual in the world were separate people with a separate voice. The concept of good and evil is and always will be a highly fantastical creation by man in a pathetically weak attempt to explain our darkest wants and needs. Wouldn't you agree?''

His voice mirrored mine perfectly as though his speculations and ideals were my own. A black silk variation of my own grey dressing gown were all he chose to wear. This version of myself certainly appreciated debauchery, and every difference between him and myself only reinforced this fact, yet as I looked on I felt my eyes visibly widen at the sight of a dark-wood mahogany violin with brass fittings in his lap. I could feel feel him questioning me, yet the question asked in his gaze was not the one he asked me out aloud. I would have shook my head if it was within my ability to, but as it was not, I spoke. ''I am afraid I still do not understand the full extent of my affliction enough to make a cohesive argument. Where am I, and to whom or what exactly am I speaking to?''

The man tutted and shook his head slowly at me as though I were a disappointment. My patience was wearing thin, evidently, so was his. He stood suddenly and walked over to me, purpose within his stride. In a remarkably soft voice, he spoke. ''Haven't I answered that question thoroughly enough for you to be able to deduce the rest? I expected so much more of you, Sherlock.'' He paused, tapping his lip in thought. ''Of course, you have not been given the relevant facts. Very well.'' He spun on the spot and moved to the fireplace, a spring in his step. The mirror upon the mantelpiece allowed me to glimpse the expression on his face, although I wish I had not for it was blatantly obvious he was scheming something unpleasant. He turned to me me once again, a mad leer upon his face. The resemblance between us was quite uncanny, and I am not afraid to admit it unnerved me somewhat. ''You have already deduced that you are now a vampire, although I am afraid to say your deductions are very inaccurate!''

I blinked, scowling. I had been bitten by a creature that should not exist beyond the realms of the imagination, yet apparently I was not fully informed. My mind spun unpleasantly; what could I have possibly missed? ''It seems to be that you are more informed than I, although if what you say about us both being the same being is true, you cannot possibly know more than I.''

The creature laughed brightly as if I had told a tasteful joke. ''Your logic is sound, as always, yet you fail to take your body into account. Where I can sense the changes within you, you are as good as oblivious to such changes. Of course, if you had taken the blood offered to you earlier, you would not be currently attached to that hideous contraption and would be free to embrace such changes!''

Offered? Surely he did not mean Watson? ''His blood was not an offering! If you are truly me, you would not even think such a thing for I would never force my affliction upon him in such a way. It was a simple experiment, nothing more.''

My copy threw his head back and laughed loudly, his eyes gleaming in sadistic amusement. He did not believe me. ''Tsk tsk. You must learn not to be so reckless with your studies, Sherlock. I could have tore the head from his neck quicker than you could have stopped me; I could feel your intoxication and your need for the hunt, you would have gladly let me take over in exchange for that bliss. Luckily for you he fled or there might have been his blood on more than your hands.''

I scowled, attempting to banish the disturbing images from my mind. I was well aware that I had put him in danger and did not intend to do so again. My copy tutted loudly, stretching as he walked back to his/my armchair. ''Tell me something, Sherlock... do you feel as though you have gone mad?''

''I admit, I am struggling to come to any other conclusion.''

''Then you are not yet ready. Begone.''

As quickly as I had 'moved' I had was returned back to 'my room'. Madness, it would seem, chooses to strike at the most inopportune moments. I closed my eyes and wondered idly what Watson would think of it all.

Authors Notes: Yes, it is a small chapter and it's taken me a while to get it written and posted up. I'm happy to see people have not yet lost interest in my poorly written story XD Cheers folks.