She looked… surprisingly normal. Considering she had just killed a girl a few hours ago. She wore a bulky, oversized navy blue sweater with the hood pulled low over her face. From here, you could almost mistake the crusty, rust colored stains on her battered old jeans for paint.
John forced himself not to stare. His gaze flitted over his plate, the plastic flowers at the middle of the table. Finally, he fastened his eyes to Sherlock's. They were mint green, he noted with some surprise. He could've sworn they were grey… or maybe blue? Maybe they're contacts. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that they weren't the murderer currently settling into the booth a few feet away and he definitely shouldn't stare.
"...think it's rather astonishing, don't you agree?" John suddenly realized that the vampire had been talking the entire time.
"Uh… yeah. Definitely."
Sherlock made a facial movement which somehow meant 'I know, I can see her too', 'act as natural as you can manage', and 'follow my lead' all at the same time. "Frankly, I think it's a shame that we as a society have a compulsion to bury this side of ourselves. The urge to kill comes as natural as the urge to breed and survive. It's primal. Why should we live in shame of our natural urges? If it were up to me, The Muse would be on the front page of tomorrow's news." John tried not to look too sick as he nodded along with Sherlock's conversation. He knew it was a ruse, but he wore it so easily. That fascination in his eyes and the admiration in his voice couldn't all be fake, could it? And if it was that easy to fake such despicable behaviour, how could John ever know which parts of this strange creature were real? "She should be commended, praised. Not tossed in some cell to rot. It's a shame. An utter waste of talent."
"Hmm" John grunted conversationally around an imaginary bite of food.
"Are you feeling well?"
John did not feel well. He didn't think anyone sitting a few yards from a killer while listening to a vampire go on about the merits of killing would. But he nodded anyways. "Yeah. Fine."
"Are you sure? Because you look a little pale," Sherlock said slowly. Deliberately. As if hinting something to someone very thick.
John sighed. "Actually, I do feel a bit… queasy."
Sherlock pushed his chair back and adjusted his scarf. "It's about time we headed home. Lestrade's probably sent me those crime scene photos by now and I'd like to research some of the imagery used in this piece."
They walked out and down an unfamiliar street. At first, John thought it was a shortcut to baker street. But as they wandered further into increasingly more secluded and desolate areas, the more obvious it became that Sherlock had something else planned.
"How far behind us is she?" Sherlock mumbled from the corner of his mouth.
John glanced quickly behind them. There was a flash of navy blue behind a dumpster. "About… two yards."
"Don't let her slip past you." Without warning he disappeared down a narrow alley, leaving John startled and confused. He spun to find the murderer looking a bit like a deer caught in headlights. She darted off in the opposite direction and John, acting primarily on instinct, ran after her.
He wasn't a limping cripple anymore, but he wasn't exactly an athlete either. After a few minutes, the young woman seemed hopelessly out of reach.
Luckily, Sherlock was already waiting at the end of the alley. At the first sight of his unmistakable silhouette, she stopped and ran back towards John, apparently assuming that the smaller man would be easier to get past than the towering, imposing caricature of a man that was Sherlock Holmes. She was probably right, to an extent.
She tried to charge past John. He caught her around the neck at the last moment. She squirmed like an eel, but he wouldn't relent. For awhile, it almost seemed that he'd caught her. Then she pulled out a knife as sharp as a scalpel with a handle crusted with old blood. John didn't notice it until it sliced through his jumper. He drew back in shock and she was off like an arrow.
"Dammit John!" Sherlock grunted, shooting off after her. For what felt like hours, he ran just seconds behind the murderer and John ran just seconds after Sherlock. They weaved through dark alleys and across busy streets and through shortcuts. Every time the murderer vanished from sight, Sherlock would dart down a shadowed gap between buildings and they were just ahead of her.
John turned the next corner, chasing the end of Sherlock's fluttering coat.
A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbing his shoulder. There was the smell of chloroform and then there was nothing.
He was taken away from the scene before he'd even thought to scream.
