Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement is intended. Beta read by the gorgeous Miz Joely, for whom it is a gift. (Buy her sweeties). Sexy Sherlolly vampiretimes ahead- eventually. You have been warned.

THE DOSE MAKES THE POISON

Chapter One

London

1895

The Surgery of Doctor Margaret De Hopville, Vampirical Specialist

The human was terrified as he marched into her office, but trying to hide it.

He was using the utterly predictable and thoroughly useless method of being obnoxious.

Inwardly Molly grimaced. His heartbeat hammered loudly in her ears, and his fear tasted rancid on the air, making her grit her teeth. Needless to say, given the day she'd had this was the last thing that she needed. Nevertheless, she forced herself not to show her fangs, or otherwise exhibit frustration: Despite the human's rudeness, there was no need for her to antagonize him or, heaven forbid, frighten him further.

She was new to these rooms and she could hardly afford to be thrown out before she managed to reestablish her practice.

She would not have a repeat of Bart's.

Apparently blithely unaware of what an effort he was putting her to, the human met her eyes boldly, glowering. He held his nose held unconscionably high too, tossing a letter onto the table before her, its seal gleaming in the light.

"I am Mycroft Holmes," he announced icily, "and that is for you."

And he gestured sharply to it, clicking his fingers as he did so. Apparently he assumed that his name would mean something to Molly but it did not. Nevertheless, she picked up the letter, though she did not yet open it. Previous experience told her that it was probably a referral from one of her own kind, and if it was then she might well be in the running for a new case- Which was the only reason she didn't snap each one of Mr. Mycroft Holmes' fingers off, post haste. A new case and the payment it would bring were worth holding one's tongue- let alone one's fangs.

On the other hand, she mused, he was being very irritating, even for a human.

Perhaps she should just bite him.

"Well?" Holmes snapped imperiously, still apparently blissfully unaware of his own danger. "Are you going to look at it- Or are you not the famous Doctor Hooper?"

At that her gaze snapped to him. "Why, yes I am Doctor Hooper." She shot him a sharp smile. "Not that you bothered to ascertain that before you marched into my practice and barked in my face. Tell me, are you looking for a thrill? Because you're going the right way about it."

And she let her eyes flick to his throat, the better to remind him just what she- what all her kind- was capable of. The Long Peace may have been ratified yet again, and the vampire courts might no longer (officially) be interfering with human politics, but that did not mean that she and her brethren were to be trifled with by such as he.

Best he remember that.

As if reading her thoughts, she had the immense pleasure of watching Holmes step back, colour moving up his cheeks. It appeared that he had finally remembered just what he was dealing with. Huzzah! His eyes flicked to her fangs, the gaze lingering, and suddenly the human's ears were tinged with pink. Experience told Molly it wasn't just with fear. No, something else, something softer and sweeter tumbled through the room, a perfume all vampires were familiar with. A perfume that had ensured their survival for millennia. It whispered of arousal. Curiosity. A delicious, delicate wanting…

Humans, she mused, were so bloody predictable.

It was just as well though: she wouldn't have a practice if they were not.

Perhaps finally realizing just how much danger he was in, Holmes inclined his head slightly and retreated a step. He took a deep breath through his nose, eyes closed, and tried to bring himself back under control. The ease with which he did so bespoke a great deal of experience with vampires, and their ways. Molly could tell it was not easy; Nevertheless a moment passed, then another, and another.

Slowly his heartbeat eased. She could hear it.

Slowly, the tension in the room did likewise.

That sweet, sweet perfume lingered on the air, however and judging by the expression on his face, Mr. Holmes was well aware of the fact.

The silence stretched out, taut as a bowstring.

"Forgive me, Doctor Hooper," he said eventually. His hand went to a heavy-studded cufflinks and he tugged lightly; the blush was still making its way steadily from the tips of his ears to the back of his neck. "I fear that worry for my brother has clouded my judgement," he added. "It is about he that I have come to seek your expertise. He is my only family now, and I do not know what will become of him should you not agree to help me..."

Molly let her eyes drop to the letter between them.

"So that's what this is about?"

The human nodded. "Yes." Another flick of his eyes to her fangs. "You come recommended by the very highest authorities- My friend Lady Smallwood speaks glowingly of you, and of what you did for her husband." For a moment he looked rather like he wished to say something else, but he did not. Rather he reached into his inside pocket and took out an envelope. Passed it to Molly. "Open it," he said tersely, and then at her look, "please, Doctor Hooper, of course. Should you wish to, etc, etc, etc."

Molly shot him a narrow look but nevertheless she reached inside, fishing out a small locket. At Holmes' direction she popped it open, revealing a delicate miniature of a youth with a head of thick, shaggy curls. Fiercely bright blue-green eyes seemed to scowl back at her, the image so lifelike that Molly found herself impressed both by the artist's skill and the young man's hawkish beauty.

He looked, she thought, to be awfully young, and awfully tempting for one such as she.

"Is this your brother?" She asked, and Holmes nodded. "Is this a recent image?"

"No," he said. His voice sounded tired. "This is merely the most recent image of him I could find. His… All the others were destroyed in the fire which ravaged our family home some years ago."

And he shook his head, eyes turning haunted. Despite herself, Molly felt a tug of sympathy; Holmes gave a small shrug as if he understood. "The artist who painted that married my brother's best friend two years ago," he continued. "Mary's choice did not sit well with Sherlock. He became unhappy, and from thence bereft. Once that happened it was merely a hop, skip and a minor death wish into the Demi-monde… Or rather, into its darkest corners..."

And again Holmes shook his head to himself, his eyes far away. The scent of mortal sorrow tainted the air and Molly suspected she knew why. Such stories were common in her line of work: a broken heart, a disappointment, these were common triggers for a human becoming involved with vampires. Just as in laudanum addiction, or gambling problems, those with a crack in their heart sought solace in whatever could offer it, no matter the danger posed. And plenty within her own community were happy to provide it, she mused darkly, never mind the damage it did, to them or to the human. Old habits die hard, for those who cannot die. It was the scandal of London, and the British Empire more generally. The French called it Le Vice Anglaise. For while draining a human to the point of death was illegal, keeping a human in thrall to you was, alas, not-

Nor was it likely to become so, given how many members of the vampirical- and British- ruling classes enjoyed doing just that.

There were times when Molly really was disgusted with her own kind- Which was how she had ended up starting her practice in the first place.

So she looked at the young human's portrait, her annoyance at his brother easing. Whatever might be said of Mycroft Holmes, she could not blame him for wishing to protect his family, nor could she blame him for wishing to save so young a man as this. "What court is his Keeper affiliated to?" she asked and Holmes grimaced.

Again his worry perfumed the air.

"The Golden Lily," he said, his mouth twisting in distaste as he said it. "He's been living in their manor house in Covent Garden for the last five months."

Molly looked at the portrait. "Is he pledged to anyone in the house?" she asked and the human shook his head. "Thank heaven for small mercies." For the Golden Lily were utterly contemptible. A nest of grasping, power-hungry necromancers, skin-takers and vampiricals, their reputation and their practices utterly debauched and without a shred of conscience. They were the sort of creatures that gave creatures of the night a bad bloody name.

Molly opened Holmes' letter, read the plea contained therein from Lady Smallwood. That the woman had recommended her gladdened her heart, considering all that Molly's method had put her through. And yet here was another case, another family asking for her to save one of their own. Another heartbreak, possibly, which she would get to watch first hand. Inwardly Molly argued with herself, tallying up her fee and factoring in how much more difficult this case had just become: if the Golden Lily had taken in Holmes' brother then getting him back would not be easy. They wouldn't give their thralls up to anyone save, perhaps, the Chatelaine of the Northlands, to whom Molly also answered- And with whom Molly had so recently quarreled.

And yet-

Her eyes went back to the portrait, and thence to Mr. Holmes.

She remembered Lord Smallwood's grateful smile, the last time she had been in his home.

"Have the Silverblades managed to procure him?" she asked and Holmes nodded.

"Your Chatalaine saw to it," he answered. "I am in her debt… Her very great debt…"

"And I'm sure she'll make sure that you pay her back," Molly said wryly. She didn't feel it wise to pry into what, exactly, this mortal had promised her Mistress in order to secure her help, but at least she knew that the human she was supposed to be healing had been extracted from his Keeper through the right channels. She had no wish to be burned out of another practice because one of her clients had decided to up and do things their own (asinine) way.

"So," Holmes prompted, "Will you take the case?" He gestured to the portrait again. "As you may have ascertained, my family is not without resources, and we have the cooperation of your own Chatalaine. Merely name your price, and I will be happy to pay it- Should it take me to penury, I would not care."

Molly, however, knew it wasn't so simple as a matter of money and it would be best if she acquainted Mr. Holmes with this fact.

"First," she said, "I must meet my patient. Should I feel that I can help him then I will name a fee, and begin his treatment." She made sure to meet Holmes' gaze, her voice turning harder. This was the part mortals found hard to understand. "If, however, I feel that I can't help him then I will tell you as much," she said, "and help you ease his suffering as best I can for however long he has. That is all I will be able to do." She looked at Holmes. "Do we have an accord, sir?"

The ancient words rung out, weighted with import and tradition.

Though he looked put out, the human nodded tightly.

"We do, Doctor Hooper," he said quietly. "And I thank you for your honesty. I have my carriage ready to take you to the family home, that you may meet my brother- Is that amenable to you?"

Molly nodded sharply and rose. Picked up her coat and slid it onto her shoulders. The rain outside might not bother a creature such as she, but it was best with clients to ape the mannerisms of the living as much as possible.

It seemed to help them when introducing one to their relatives, as she well knew.

So, following Mr. Holmes she made her way out of her practice and into the rain, hopping into the elegant carriage awaiting her. With a nod to his driver the carriage took off into traffic, the jolt of the horses' hooves pleasingly monotonous amid the hubbub of the traffic, Molly's mind already turning over her plan of attack for the case which awaited her-

While across town, in his family townhouse, Mr. Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes for the first time in several days and started yelling yet again to be returned to his Keeper.

"Tell Mycroft he can bugger off and mind his own business!" He huffed, "Just give me back to Irene-"

And he was still yelling it when Molly reached his cell.

Fortunately for him, however, he was also far too far away for his Irene to hear.