Author's note: Sorry it has taken me so long to update. I have been working like crazy and the only time I get to write is in the middle of the night. So if some parts seem strange or out of place there is a good reason and all will be explained in other chapters. Without further ado here is Chapter 3!

The first weekend with Sherlock had flew by and went without a hitch. John saw very little of him during the day as he was out procuring evidence for one of his cases and when he returned home he kept to himself, engrossed in his work. He paid John no mind whatsoever and John stayed within his own parameters. As Sherlock had said he was under no obligation to interact with him if he so chose. When the weekend came to a close and the new work week crept up, John really felt no different than if he was living at his previous flat. He was surprised in himself that he transitioned and was taking this as well as he was, but so far the vampire had done nothing to harm him and actually paid him little attention. Maybe he was being paranoid for nothing.

Though it didn't stop John from being curious about his new flat mate. He defied certain vampire myths which now nagged in the back of his mind wondering what was true and what was not. Were there more vampires like him roaming around the city completely unnoticed and unaware by everyday people? Or was he a rare commodity? From what he could gather in his own observations the sunlight seemingly had no effect on him. He could move silently and swiftly if he wanted to, but only did so on occasions about the flat. Blood was what gave him his renewed youthful appearance but not once had John seen him consume it. In ways he was grateful, but secretly he was finding himself fascinated in seeing Sherlock's true dark being. He mulled over all these things his entire shift.

When he returned home later that evening he had found Sherlock perched at the kitchen table over a microscope. His full focus was absorbed into studying the slide that was clipped underneath the lens. He passed around him and grabbed a glass from the cabinet. The cold spring air still hadn't shifted to warmer weather just yet and was causing his shoulder to ache tonight with a vengeance. He knew if he didn't take something for it now he was going to have a terrible nights sleep.

"Your adrenaline is wearing down." stated Sherlock as he switched out his slides. "Hmm, barely ten minutes since arriving home. You sure you don't need more than the trauma unit to keep you up?"

"The paracetamol will kick in soon. I might even have a hot shower." John leaned back against the counter, glass in hand as he watched the detective turn the knobs of his microscope ever so slowly.

"Of course, of course. Don't let me get in the way of your health. I just thought…" Sherlock's eyes drifted away in thought for the briefest of seconds. However, before he could finish his sentence they returned back to the eye piece of his microscope to the task at hand. "…oh never mind."

Him? Concerned about his health? The thought of a vampire concerned about his health made him somewhat perturbed. John had figured the only reason Sherlock would only care about his well being was that he essentially was playing the part as his blood mule.

"What?" John asked, his interest now piqued.

"Oh it's nothing." Sherlock gave a mere shrug of his shoulders.

"Tell me."

Sherlock drew back from the microscope and let out a sigh.

"If you insist. I have been called by Lestrade to a crime scene. You being a medical man I could use your assistance."

"Really?," John mused. "Me assist you? I doubt you would need me."

Sherlock turned in his chair to face him fully, brows bunched together.

"How so?"

"What, you're probably hundreds of years old. You must have more medical knowledge than all of Bart's Hospital put together and then some."

"That would be where you are wrong. I have knowledge, yes, but I can only put so much knowledge into my mind palace before it is overflowing and about to burst at the seams. I have to clean it out every once and awhile. It's easier if I already have someone who is with the current times on hand and I can easily pick their brain. You would be most useful."

John's eyebrows rose.

"Pick my brain? So I'm going to be your walking talking medical Wikipedia, is that it?"

"Putting it in that light sounds quite impersonal and depressing. I could say you will be my colleague."

A colleague? He had went from stranger, to flatmate and now a colleague in just three days. How did this happen? As far as John knew they were going to lead separate lives, he would pay his way in the blood that the vampire required and that would be that. This unexpected shift caught him off guard. He had a hard time believing that he would actually need his help, but his excuse seemed genuine. He supposed as long as he was helping and not getting in the way or possibly any confrontation, he could go.

"Alright, I suppose."

A smile lit up on Sherlock's face and he all but jumped out of his chair to go get his long dark coat.

"Good! Your hat and boots. We have about an hour's drive outside the city."

"Hat and boots? Did I miss something?"

Sherlock paused in his movements before he could tie his scarf and turned back to John with a face of subtle panic.

"Am I going to war?" John added as his lip curled into a grin.

Sherlock blinked once. The panic washed away from his features and he let out a sigh.

"I…no. I didn't mean to sound so…You're fine the way you are dressed. Come on."

He finished with his scarf and made his way down the stairs. This was the first time John had seen the vampire so flustered over words. In the short time he had known him he knew he was sharp witted and knew exactly what he wanted to say. All he could think of was maybe it was an old saying from his day, a way to get ready, to go out. Not unless he thought he took it the wrong way and thought it had a more military feel to the words.

"He must've thought he was triggering my PTSD and relieved when I didn't have a reaction." John mulled as he slid his jacket back on and went after the detective who was waiting for him by the kerb. With simple ease Sherlock raised his hand and hailed down a cab and soon they were off.

Settled in the cab Sherlock withdrew his phone from his coat and busied himself. John peered over at him and the wall Sherlock had made for himself; his expressionless face decorated him like a mask. A hard and subtle way of saying he did not want to be talked to or noticed. But John had other plans. He wasn't going to let one misunderstanding ruin a possible interesting evening.

"I'm fine by the way." John attempted to break the ice between them.

Sherlock remained silent. Not even a grunt in acknowledgement or a change in his stony exterior to hint that he had heard him. Time for a different approach.

"What's a mind palace?"

This caught Sherlock's attention as he looked up from his phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

"A memory technique. It helps me remember and bring forth information and images that I have stored throughout the years. A skill essential to my work."

John nodded.

"Like people who have a photographic memory?"

"In some sense of the fashion."

John sat back in keen interest now. No wonder Sherlock was able to come to the conclusions he did the first night they met despite his skill. If John was correct in thinking and given the fact that his new flatmate was a vampire; he must have vast amounts of information right at his fingertips. Able to solve crimes at a mere glance without even touching a body. All he would have to do is go to the right location in his mind to get whatever he needed.

"Your mind palace must be Buckingham." John admitted.

"Why do you say that? Because I am not what I am supposed to be? As much as I would love for it to be that vast I'm afraid not." He gave the cab driver a quick glance and lowered his voice so to keep the conversation more private.

"Living as long as I have things become too outdated that it no longer pertains to this day in age. And as time moves on things are changing more at a rapid pace. I hate to admit it but there are times where I have trouble keeping up. So in order to do so I have swept away old knowledge, deleted useless material, and tossed out antiques I doubt I will ever use again. Though there are certain memories I have preserved for the sake of sentiment alone. They are my tethered shadows to the past."

The detective's face had softened and eyes were deep with emotion. John could see now what he had meant before at the flat. Of course there were going to be times the vampire would slip back into old habits and sayings that held no value to him, how could he not. And Sherlock, being what he was, held great value to his past. His once human life. Times he was no doubt more familiar with. And the moments he did slip, it would be a constant reminder to him that he no longer lived in his time. He was simply moving through history getting farther and farther away from a life that didn't exist anymore.

The rest of the cab ride was in silence from Sherlock's own personal confession. In some ways John could understand how Sherlock felt. He had felt those same feelings while he was deployed. Away from family, living in a land different than your own, and not even sure if you would see home again. Sure it was a culture shock and one got used to it after awhile, but to constantly do it for years even decades sounded unfathomable. He was 37 and the younger generation now seemed strange to him. What would he feel like once he was 60? 70? Only time could tell.

The cab took them outside the city where it pulled up to a large institutional building. There waiting for them was several police cars and a crew of the Scotland Yard. A middle aged man came up to them as they exited out of the cab. The wind blew back his salt and pepper hair to reveal his stressed worry-lined features, but his face instantly found relief once his eyes set on Sherlock.

"Thank God you're here. Is this him?" asked Lestrade as he pointed towards John, his voice gruff in the cold night air.

John's ears perked at the question. Sherlock had already mentioned him to this Inspector? Of course he did. Not only would he have to approve a civilian coming to a crime scene, but this seemed as though it was just Sherlock's nature to anticipate the future.

"Yes. This is Dr. John Watson. He is assisting me tonight. John this is Lestrade." Sherlock introduced him to the Inspector and they shook hands.

"Well I'm not going to lie it's a fucking nightmare here," Lestrade started. "Katherine Carmichael, a patient only 17, was found in a field about a kilometer down the road. In pieces, mind you. Definitely not for the faint of heart. She was getting treatment here at Brightwell Hospital. It's a mental institution. She was reported missing last week and then found earlier this evening by a jogger. We have a doctor in custody right now. He has a hobby of collecting old surgical tools and one of his was missing from his office."

"Did anyone see her leave?" asked Sherlock.

"No. Power outage with a storm took down the cameras and none of the staff saw her leave the night she was reported missing. But here's the thing. A search party was sent out to look for her and didn't find anything all week. No signs, no nothing. Yet this evening she turns up butchered like she's been to the slaughter house."

"Show me her room."

Led like a man of importance on parade, Sherlock was escorted to the patient's room. To say it was a room of residence for a patient seemed rather bleak when they entered. No curtains draped the window, neither were there any sort of bed sheets or pillows of any kind. Windows were locked, a TV screwed into the wall itself, the door to the bathroom was sloped at an odd angle on its hinges. Nothing looked right in the room, but this didn't seem to deter Sherlock as he glided around the room checking every crevice known to man.

"What was she being treated for exactly?" John questioned the Inspector.

"She had a history of schizophrenia and hallucinations." Lestrade confined to John. "Her parents had her committed when she stopped eating and sleeping. Wouldn't take her medications anymore. Began seeing figures in her room telling her to kill her mum and dad. She was on suicide precautions. Made it known to her doctors that she didn't want to live. Kid didn't last more than a couple days here until she went missing."

"Anything in her therapy notes saying if she saw these figures here?" Sherlock asked.

"No, nothing. Only thing they have listed is that she tried to commit suicide twice already. Hence why the drapes, blankets and pillows are missing. She tried to cut off her airway with them."

"Custodial staff cleans rooms on a regular basis I presume?" Sherlock whisked around heading for the door and stopped to inspect it, turning the handle from the inside and out. His brows scrunched together as he gave a sideways glance to John. John immediately picked up on the look the detective gave.

"Doors are never necessarily locked. A psych ward mechanism. Especially if the patient is suicidal. No need to fumble around for keys if the patient is trying to off themselves. The staff would need to get in at a moments notice."

Satisfied with the answer Sherlock continued on to the main hallway. He instantly spied a cleaning cart and quickly approached it.

"How tall was she?"

"Small thing, only five foot." said Lestrade.

Sherlock took the clipboard hanging from the cart and flipped through its pages.

"What time did the cameras go out?"

"About six o'clock in the evening."

A grin donned Sherlock's lips and he handed Lestrade the clipboard.

"Her room was scheduled to be cleaned at 6:15. And the last one on the list before they began cleaning the doctor's offices. If I'm correct the patient made her escape on the cleaning cart hiding underneath in the lower compartment. Due to her small size and stature she could easily fit. She left on her own accord. The next question is why did she leave an institution if she did not feel safe. One would assume it was because she either didn't feel safe with staff or the other patients."

Lestrade briefly glanced over the clipboard and back to Sherlock.

"Why do I have a feeling there's more?"

"If you look carefully there are scratches on the outside of her window on the pane itself. Though there are no signs of forced entry. They are barely visible in the light, but at just the right angle you can make out five lines. Her murderer came here to get her and she was trying to save herself from them."

John swerved his head back into the room. This he had to see for himself. There could've been no way that there were scratches. The room itself was on the second floor and there was no direct contact to the window. No trees were near to have someone climb in nor a good foundation below to place a ladder due to large loose rocks that hugged the building's base. As John looked closer at the glass, squinting his eyes into a strain. The sound of the air unit below him kicked in causing him to jump slightly and heart to race at the sudden noise. How the detective could see scratch marks in the dead of night was beyond him. He would have take Sherlock's word for it.

Just as he was about to leave he glanced at the window once more and this time saw something quite different. The heat of the unit played on the window its warm air bringing a fog upon the glass. As the cloudiness crept farther up it began to reveal its own hidden secrets.

"John. Come along. We're going out to view the body." Sherlock's voice came from the doorway.

Before John could report his findings Sherlock and Lestrade were already making their way out. John had to make a quick pace to catch up as they went to the ground floor and proceeded out the back of the building. Sherlock made stop to look around, his ever vigilant eye inspecting the area.

"She would've made it out the back door here while the rubbish was being thrown out in the skip. Plenty of places to hide behind cars till staff returned inside. And since the cameras were out no one saw her leave. But why would she go outside where the murderer is? Inside she would have been safe. Reported it to staff…not unless she knew her murderer." Sherlock talked to himself.

"What if she was being threatened?" John questioned. "If she did know her murderer and if she was being threatened, maybe she was coerced out? It may have tied in with her hallucinations and schizophrenia. She probably didn't know what was real."

Sherlock turned quick and met John's face with a impish grin.

"Good, Watson! Lost in her own reality. But now the reason why the murderer wanted her dead. That is one motive we have yet to establish. Where is she, Lestrade?"

"There," Lestrade pointed out to the set up lights in the field. "Help yourself. I'm sorry, but I've seen her more than I care too in one sitting. I'm sure you boys don't need me to take you down there."

"Don't mind if we do."

John had to practically run after Sherlock who had longer strides and moved faster than he did. He approached the body first, circling around it as he put on latex gloves. Probably picked from the cleaning cart, the doctor figured. John couldn't help but make note of the deep sniff Sherlock gave off as he crouched down beside the deceased girl and produced a small magnifying glass from his pocket. Blood soaked the ground everywhere and on the girl herself. John wondered if Sherlock was ever tempted despite his declaration of celibacy towards drinking from a body. To him it must have looked like a buffet table the way her body was cut showing off every available artery and vein.

"Your gift of silence speaks volumes, Watson. What are your thoughts? Or are you feeling the same as Lestrade?" John peered over at Sherlock who was now looking at him with interest.

He crouched down beside him and made a quick once over of the girl.

"Well it's certainly very Jack the Ripper. She's been hacked to death. There's two puncture marks on her inner elbow she may have been drugged and taken. Every joint has been dismembered but all the cuts have been made in locations for easy amputation. Could be someone with medical knowledge of that sort of thing, but they are all jagged. Probably done with a saw. Done in a hurry. She looks extremely emaciated."

"A hurry, yes. She was alive when she was being dismembered."

John's eyes jumped to Sherlock's.

"Death wants you to be terrified, but the scariest thing is wanting death. They made her suffer before she met her end."

"But why bring her back here and butcher her?"

"It's the killer's note. A calling card, if you will, to show us what they can do. They want it for the recognition, the applause. They want to be known. The thrill of the chase to them is that eventually they want to be caught."

John shook his head in disgust.

"What have we here?" Sherlock produced a penlight and shined it into the woman's mouth. His gloved fingers prodded the inside and carefully withdrew a rock.

"What the hell?" He breathed out.

This would be the second time in one evening that John had witnessed fear lace the detective's eyes. What could a rock do to put him in such a state of vulnerability? As soon as fear came it had dissipated. He looked up to see the Inspector heading in their direction along with a gangly man who was wearing a blue zipped up plastic suit.

"What have you got Sherlock?" Lestrade piped in as he approached the two.

"It wasn't the doctor. Nor the regular staff. I believe her hallucinations of the people she saw were real. Falling prey to a serial killer. You are looking for someone who has ties to the occult. No doubt she was their latest victim and sacrifice."

"You mean like Devil worshipers or something?" The gangly man sneered down at Sherlock.

"Perhaps, but definitely occult related. She may have certain looks or features they found appealing and targeted her. Look through the janitorial and maintenance staff, ones that were hired from an outside agency. The cameras weren't faulty by the storm they were taken offline just long enough for them to drug the girl and carry her out unnoticed in the cleaning cart. By that time she had already been hauled off in a vehicle waiting by the back door. Also they would have master keys to every room in that building. They could've easily swiped the missing surgical instrument."

"Damn." Cursed Lestrade.

"There's more. Given her state of malnutrition she didn't put up much of a fight. No skin or blood is evidence under her nails either. The way her body has been dismembered and the stone lodged back in her throat I would definitely say it is a Eastern European association you are looking for." Sherlock handed him the rock and swiped off his gloves

Lestrade nodded turning away from the pair as he radioed on his walkie talkie and giving instructions to the gangly man that John now learned was named Anderson.

"That was amazing." John stood following Sherlock.

Sherlock gave John a small smile and continued his trek towards the road. John had been right. Sherlock's skills were no magic trick, but the real deal. The fact he could piece together this gruesome scene in just a an hour had been a remarkable feat. But there was something in Sherlock's reasoning that didn't add up.

"You changed your story. You said she left on her own, but then switched it to where someone drugged her and she was taken? Why?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Ever the observant one, John. You need facts before you make theories, instead of twisting theories to suit facts. That is why I changed it."

John could see his reasoning. What kind of detective would he be if he didn't have all the pieces of a puzzle so he could see the full picture?

"Before, when you asked if you were going into war, I should've explained myself better. With me you always be on the invisible battlefield. There is a constant danger lurking in every corner waiting to strike. Like a snake hiding in the grass. But I know you have your own battles to fight and I would not want to bring you into a war that you are not prepared for or even wanting to be in for that matter."

"Why do I get the feeling that won't make a difference? Mrs. Hudson says you get all sorts. Besides this has to be the craziest thing I've done in a while."

"And you invaded Afghanistan." Sherlock chuckled.

For the first time John felt comfortably at ease with the vampire and cracked a smile of his own. He didn't feel like he was being drug around simply for Sherlock's sheer will or entertainment, but as a companion. Sherlock was the detective and he was his flatmate assisting in his medical expertise, nothing more, nothing less.

The pair walked away from the crime scene and made their way back home.

"So how is the shoulder?" Sherlock asked as he hung up his coat on a peg and started up the stairs.

"Good it's…wait." John hurriedly followed suit and hung his jacket as well and went after him. "You didn't need my help you were being a prat! You got me out to fix my shoulder!"

Sherlock stopped at the landing of the sitting room and turned back at John.

"And? You no longer are in any pain for the moment and it's late so you'll be off to bed soon."

"So basically you used me and made me do laps," John huffed as he caught up to him. "Brilliant." He went to stairs to go to his own room. After all he had work in the morning and running around with an undead twat had made him exhausted.

"Oh please, I didn't use you. You provided great insight and we set the Yard in the right direction. I would say this night has been most productive to the point that you will be extremely valuable next time."

John paused in his motion towards the staircase and turned back to the detective. John hated to admit it but he had enjoyed his evening out with Sherlock. Despite the fact the victim had ended up dead. In their time together John had seen a glimpse of Sherlock's world. He had moved through the crime scene snatching clues as if the had hovered in the air right before his eyes. Connecting dot to dot following a line only he could see amongst the chaos.

Though there was one look that had cracked the sleuth's lens in his search. What was it about the rock that had casted such fear in his eyes? Sherlock may have been a master at keeping himself controlled in high strung cases and learning to foresee the suspect's next move, but how many times had he been caught off guard? If John had to guess it had to be slim to none. And Sherlock's mentioning of the occult made him wonder if the rock had a deeper meaning.

Though there was one thing John had failed to mention to Sherlock and that was the mysterious invisible note upon the window. He wondered now if it was important or not since Sherlock had set the Yard straight. But the heavy singular word of "YOU" had made his blood go cold. Not because he thought the girl had wrote it, but because it was wrote on the outside and in a direction where anyone could read it. Even her. It was why John had questioned Sherlock's change in story. He shook off his wavering feelings and returned his attention back to Sherlock.

"Well, my therapist did say I should get a hobby. Get out of the house more,'' He nodded in agreement. "Alright. Next time."

"Goodnight John."

"Night, Sherlock."

Sherlock watched as the doctor retreated up the stairs to his room. This had been an odd night indeed. One where it had pulled on the lingering lines to his past. The case had been brief but it had brought a dark foreboding feeling of dread. Something he could not readily place. Like a word one has forgotten but hides at the end of ones tongue beckoning to be spoken into laid on the sofa and closed his eyes, resting his hands under his chin. There was only one solution to this prickling sensation in his mind and that was to go and seek answers.

His mind palace was no Buckingham as John had spoke of before. Certainly no lavish library or expansive university. No if anything it was a mirrored image of the world he was already in. An altered dimension of the confinements of the simple flat. Sure he could open doors to rooms to mazes, hallways and other realities of his own choosing and design. However, the place he was looking for was beyond anything he imagined or kept stored within the palace's epicenter itself. He was going to have to go deep.

As he had explained to John, he was old. Memories that could have once been summoned at a mere thought were becoming harder to do so. Especially if one was trying to remember the events that led to their ultimate demise. If he was going to have to find them he was going to have to travel.

Down flights of stairs, into the depths of his deepest basement, one door led to out to the strange unknown. He opened it and was met with the salty breeze of the ocean shore. This gray landscape held no color of life, its sky was devoid of emotion, and waters as dark as midnight. He remembered visiting this beach in a distant memory under different circumstances making plans for the future that never came to be.

He shook his head of these thoughts. No need to get caught up on things he could no longer change. Where the water lapped the shore line sat a boat. This would be his mode of travel to search for what needed. Sherlock cast the boat off into the water and climbed in, letting it take him into the foggy blanket on the horizon.

As the boat sailed further and further the fog was becoming denser. These memories had become misguided, corrupt, buried at sea. Jagged rocks littered the shores of an island that threatened to steer the boat to certain doom. Monsters lurked in the darkened waters of the waves. As much as he longed not to visit here he knew he must. No matter how much it disturbed his mind. From the island, papers drifted away from it, carried by the tide. He reached down into the water and retrieved one hoping it may give some sort of relief to his curiosity.

On the soaked page was a solitary note. A date which brought him to a time of more simplicity and once joy. But this is where it all began. The beginning of the end.

December 19th, 1894.