Chapter Two

The rest of the opera was boring, by comparison to the first half. Mummy tsked and flicked her fan as the curtains closed after overly melodramatic death scenes by the main characters. Sherlock was more interested in the dictionary-reading foreign count than the opera's conclusion. There was something about Dracula that had his senses tingling. Another case to be examined, apparently. At least he wouldn't be bored over the next few days as he figured out this new member of society. And the puncture wounds on the docks too, he couldn't forget them. Perhaps Watson or Mrs Hudson could give him possibilities that he hadn't thought of, unlikely as that was. While their ideas tended to be ordinary, occasionally they brought up something that Sherlock had missed simply because it was obvious. And occasionally the answer was the most obvious one.

The carriage ride back to Baker Street was as quiet as the ride to the opera. Sherlock sat next to Mycroft and across from Mummy, and turned his two cases over in his head. Of the two, the puncture wounds appeared to be the more dangerous, as it had so many unknown elements to it and therefore would feed his need for the rush of adrenaline, the good feeling that he otherwise could only get from the powder of the coca leaf. And it upset Dr Watson when he took that too often.

On the other hand, there was the case of Count Dracula. The man was odd, yes, but that could simply be because he was a foreigner to this land. Sherlock had a sense that there was something off about him, beyond the foreignness. He was disinclined to trust something so irrational as a feeling, yet he wanted to understand Dracula and perhaps befriend him. It might be nice to have another person in his life, one who he was not dependant on for his health and validation of his affections.

As he climbed out of the carriage, Mummy gripped his wrist. "Sherlock, do not lose your reason in attempting to escape your pain. I will not have my son degenerate."

"I appreciate your concern, for me and for the family's reputation," said Sherlock. "I have learned to more or less care for myself, and manage any pains that I might have."

"Nevertheless, have care," said Mummy, releasing him and sitting back in her seat. Sherlock bowed to her as best he could and stepped down from the carriage. Mycroft nodded to him through the carriage window, and Sherlock watched them pull off into the night. He strode up the steps and quietly opened the door so as to not wake Mrs Hudson. Once inside, he drew off his opera coat, and hung it in the cloak closet, and put his hat on the hat stand. Turning towards the stairs, he found Mrs Hudson standing at the foot, with a candelabra and a fire iron in hand.

"Mrs Hudson, you scared me," said Sherlock.

"Scare you?" said Mrs Hudson. "I thought that you were a burglar come to rob the house bare. For shame, Mr Holmes. You should have woken me up."

"Forgive me for not wanting to disturb your rest," said Sherlock. "I know how hard you work."

"Someone's got to watch you while your doctor's away," huffed Mrs Hudson. She lit a candle sitting next to the stairwell and handed it to Sherlock before retreating to her rooms downstairs. He took the stairs two at a time, the thrill of having something to occupy his mind giving him energy.

He didn't sleep. Instead, he went through every book he had, ranging from English folktales to the history of Europe to maps of Paris. He attempted to pen another letter to Watson, found himself writing nonsense and so burned the page, only to try again. Eventually, he decided on a pair of lists of observations, trying to see how each was as a whole. This proved fruitless, as there were insufficient clues to find the answer either puzzle. He paced his rooms, pulling together disguise after disguise and plan after plan to find more information about the puncture wounds. Perhaps a disguise as a woman, to better earn trust and receive confidences? How did women work? That was a mystery, he mused, that he could put his mind to next.

When the sun rose, Sherlock flung himself into an armchair, the one Watson usually sat in. He desperately missed his friend, his thoughts and his ability to help Sherlock sort his thoughts by asking simple questions. He missed Mrs Watson as well, as she brought an entirely new perspective to any case. He closed his eyes and envisioned his friends as they walked the streets of what he imagined Paris to look like these days, their happy laughter and discreet touches appropriate for newlyweds as they strolled along the Champs Elysees to l'Arc de Triomphe. Ot perhaps sat together on the steps of the Trocadero, looking out over the city and eating baguette and drinking wine.

When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was dismayed to find the sun high in the sky, and the clock reading just past noon. He shook himself off and staggered to his bedroom and flopped on his bed. Just as he was contemplating returning to sleep, Mrs Hudson bustled in with a load of his clean laundry and his post for the day. She dumped the basket of clothes at the foot of the bed and placed the mail on his private desk, lifted an eyebrow at him, and left to deal with the rest of the house. Gingerly, Sherlock pulled himself upright and went to his mail. There was nothing from Watson, but then, he had only posted his letter the day before and Watson wouldn't have received it yet.

There was, however, a note from Dracula. That was intriguing and so Sherlock opened it to look over its contents. The note itself was fairly formal, and contained an invitation to dinner in three days, if convenient. All other things were put aside; his case was coming to him, which was rare and always made the subject even more consuming. He wrote a reply in the affirmative, deposited it in his outbox, and returned to his bedroom to change into day clothes, in this case another of Watson's shirts, one of his own waistcoats, and a pair of trousers of unknown origin. They may have once been Mr Hudson's, having simply shown up in Sherlock's wardrobe one day. A coat over all of this, tweed, and boots as well, and then the overcoat.

Sherlock clattered down the stairs to find Mr and Mrs Hudson conversing. Sherlock noted that Mr Hudson was looking healthier than the last time he'd seen the man. "I'm off, Mrs Hudson. You look in better health, Mr Hudson. Don't worry, I'll send a note if I'll be gone for more than the day, and will try to not get arrested."

"Mr Holmes, it's pouring," pointed out Mrs Hudson.

"I had noticed, hence my overcoat," said Sherlock. He took his hat from the hat stand and strode out the door into sheets of pouring rain, promptly returned inside to retrieve his umbrella, and strode out the door again. The streets were mostly empty, and so he headed for Covent Gardens, where there was always something of interest happening. The flower sellers of the area sat in pairs and threes in the doorways in a desperate attempt to stay dry and have some warmth and company. A chimney sweep and his apprentices stood on a corner and let the rain wash the soot from their clothes and faces.

"Flower, sir?" Came a voice from his other side. Sherlock glanced over at the wisp standing in the rain jut beyond his umbrella's edge, bunch of flowers in her hand - violets by the look of them. Just above her collar was a pair of punctures, lightly scabbed over as though recent.

"May I ask you a question?" asked Sherlock.

"What about?"

"The injury on your neck. How did it happen?"

"I'm not sure I can see why it matters."

"Four other women have been seen with similar injuries. I am curious that it seems to be spreading, though only amongst women so far."

The girl frowned. "Are you with the police then?"

"No. I am a private detective."

"I can't rightly answer your question." The girl bit her lips. "I just went to sleep, and when I woke up I was terrible dizzy an' still tired an' the scrapes were on my neck. The still tired weren't surprising - I ain't et much yesterday."

"Do you have a place to sleep?" asked Sherlock. He looked over the girl's form, noting her too-small dress, shoes that looked like they pinched, tatty socks and tangled hair.

"I got what I got." This was said with a shrug. "Just a little place in an alley, safe enough as they go. Th' church ladies say I'm undeservin' acos I works for a livin' and makes nothing."

Sherlock nodded and handed her three pounds. "Get something for yourself to eat. I suspect that you lost some blood last night and that is why you were so tired when you woke. And I suppose that a bunch of flowers will not kill me."

A bright smile crossed her face. "Thank you sir! Violets?"

"Yes, I think so. Thank you for answering my questions. You have been a great help." He tipped his hat to her and continued his walk, tucking the violets into his overcoat to protect them from the weather. She had been attacked in her sleep, and had lost blood from it, but did not seem otherwise injured. Sherlock paused on that thought; it was unlikely that she would have told him flat out had she been otherwise injured, but he couldn't rule it out as possible. Privileged as he was, he knew what his peers got up to and the cruelty of it.

As he walked through London, his feet took him through the court where Irene had lived, past Scotland Yard headquarters and to the door of Watson's practice. He looked up at the sign advertising his doctor and his partner doctors. Something squeezed in his chest and he continued on his way. Eventually he found himself outside of Mycroft's club. His brother was just getting out of a carriage, and Sherlock approached Mycroft, calling his name.

"Sherlock!" said Mycroft. "Twice in two days. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, really," said Sherlock with a shrug. "I was on a walk and spotted you, so thought that greeting my brother was better than ignoring you."

Mycroft looked him over. "You are rather drenched. Come inside, I have a few minutes before the chess tournament begins. We can get you warmed up so you don't catch your death."

"Watson has a theory that being wet is not what makes people sick," remarked Sherlock. Mycroft sent him a withering glare. "Thank you for your offer, Mycroft, I accept happily."

"You are too smart for your own good," said Mycroft as they passed though the door. A porter took their hats and coats, and they were ushered inside. Mycroft led Sherlock to a small private room and called for tea for Sherlock and scotch for himself. Once they were served, Mycroft turned the full weight of his attention on Sherlock. "What nonsense have you gotten yourself mixed up with this time?"

"Not really nonsense," said Sherlock. "Someone is attacking lower class women in their sleep and exsanguinating them. I am unsure is there have been any deaths as far, as I have heard of none, but then I have not been asking about that." He noted the pallor of Mycroft's face. "Have I said something wrong?"

"No not so far," said Mycroft, setting down his scotch. "It is unusual that a case of yours is assigned to me in an official capacity." He lowered his voice. "Two women have died, with just the symptoms you described. One of them was in the middle class. Her parents are understandably distraught and rather frightened for their other daughter."

"Quite understandable," nodded Sherlock. "I get the sense that had you a daughter, you would be concerned as well."

"And you would not?"

"I have decided against children of my own. I will be quite content to be an eccentric uncle to your children and Watson's as well. I do not think that I have the disposition or the interest in being a parent."

"Ah. And you think I do?"

"You must, as the eldest and current lord of the family. It is imperative for you, less so for me. Do you have any other information on the case?"

Mycroft sighed. "If you are determined to pursue this, then I will give you official jurisdiction over it. I hate arresting you, Sherlock. So will you help me find the answer to this problem, before it is truly a problem?"

"I see no reason why not. As you said, I shall be pursuing answers regardless, I may as well find the reason behind these attacks for her majesty."

"Good. Let me know what you find."

"Of course. I'll show myself out, shall I? Thank you for the tea, and the information." Sherlock stood and retraced his steps back to the front door, retrieved his hat, coat and umbrella, and returned to the street, wandering in the direction of the docks again. The rain had eased up slightly, and he hoped that perhaps one of the women he had spotted the wounds on earlier would be around. Perhaps someone could corroborate the flower seller's story.

As he wandered through the alleyways, he heard a scream - terror and panic, it sounded like. He turned in the direction of the scream and hurried towards it. He found a pair of young women holding each other, a third sprawled across two crates and partially covered by a scrap of canvas sail. Sherlock approached the girls.

"What happened?" He examined their faces, seeing despair, fear and panic there.

"She was fine this morning," sobbed one of the girls. She said that she was a little tired, a little dizzy, but she felt cool and there was no cough so we thought she was fine."

"What do you care?" snarled the second girl. "You're rich folk."

"May I examine her?" asked Sherlock, ignoring the question. The first girl nodded, and Sherlock knelt down and looked at her neck. There, just above the jugular, was puncture wounds, gaping open and bloodless.

"To answer your question," said Sherlock to the second girl, "I have been asked to look into deaths and injuries such as this one. She is not the only woman in the city to have died like this."

"Who would do this?" asked the first girl.

"If I knew, this would be over," said Sherlock. "Can you tell me anything about how she had been sleeping?"

"More than usual," said the second girl. "It's no wonder if she was dying. 'S not contagious is it?"

"I do not believe so," said Sherlock. "It seems to be an attack with some sort of weapon. Did either of you notice when this started? Or if there was anything off about her?"

"It started 'bout a week ago, I think," said the first girl. "She was cagey, said she was having weird dreams with bats and wolves. Didn't say more 'n that. Tired all the time, dizzy. Like she was getting sick, on'y no fever, no cough."

"And the neck injury," added the second girl abruptly. "She was trying to hide it wi' a scarf."

"Thank you," said Sherlock. "Do you need help with conveying her to a morgue or some such place?"

"No, we c'n make it," said the second girl. Sherlock tipped his hat to them and went back to main streets, headed for home. Mycroft needed to know what Sherlock had found. And perhaps a pass through Mrs Hudson's common sense would help with figuring things out.