John only saw glimpses of his vampire flatmate for the next four days. Whenever he'd walk into a room, he'd find Sherlock just leaving it. Whenever he left, he'd hear Sherlock's bedroom door open on his way out. Once, he'd gotten so frustrated with the ridiculous tactics that he broke into Sherlock's bedroom only to find that he had vanished entirely.
"Don't mind him. He can be as skittish as a cat, but he'll warm up to you." Mrs. Hudson reassured him from the sofa, with a nostalgic smile lazily resting on the rim of her favorite teacup. "I remember when he first moved in. He wouldn't unpack his bags for a month because he was convinced I'd change my mind."
John huffed a laugh and looked around the flat. The place was like a bird's nest. Lovingly constructed out of random crap and bodily fluids. He couldn't imagine what it would've looked like empty.
"That's the thing about Vampires. They've got wisdom and power and beauty spanning the centuries, but with it comes an awkward adolescent phase several generations long." She chuckled in that light, airy way of hers that instantly eliminated any trace of weight which could've been in her words. John never really paid much attention to Mrs. Hudson. She had always been the nice old lady who seemed exactly like the grandmother everyone is convinced everyone else has. But now he found himself wondering exactly how she got herself caught up in this mess.
"I'll keep that in mind." John gave her the polite smile he reserved specifically for the elderly. "Well. This has been lovely. But I've got to go."
"Oh? Where to?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a distant, foggy smile.
"Job interview, actually. At the nearby clinic." He straightened his best shirt and checked his hair in the mirror. Both were about the same as they ever were which suited him just as well as it ever had.
He left with Mrs. Hudson chirping a kindly "Good luck!" After him.
Outside, he spotted the end of Sherlock's dressing gown disappearing through the open window.
It had gone... Well. Really well, actually. His future job was bound to pay... maybe not enough to make him rich. But an actual paycheck would be a nice change in pace. His future employer was attractive and attracted to him, which might make things more complicated professionally. But John certainly didn't mind a little complexity in his life.
And then he came home.
From the second he walked into the flat, he could feel the tension. It was like the air was stretched tight like a thousand bowstrings. John opened the door slowly, gently. As if doing otherwise would end with an arrow through his eye socket.
In the living room, Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, his tightly drawn face reflected in the mirror. His burgundy dressing gown billowed around his ankles, revealing that he had just finished a round of pacing.
"You can't seriously expect me to believe that you care, do you?" Sherlock spat angrily, his face contorting into a sarcastic grimace. He pivoted in John's direction. John opened his mouth to speak, but his brain hadn't yet .
Luckily, a different voice spoke for him. "You are my brother, Sherlock. Whether either of us like it or not, it is my duty to care." A carefully measured voice intoned lazily from the couch. The man who owned sat on the couch as if they had both been sculpted out of the same block of marble. His feet were spread at just the right angle to invoke a sense of regality and both of his hands rested masterfully on the handle of his umbrella. It was his kidnapper.
"Duty, of course. How could I have forgotten your unconditional devotion to saving your fat arse from mummy's wra-" Sherlock's jaw snapped shut and his dramatically sarcastic flourishes came to a sudden halt. It was then that he noticed John standing at the door.
"John." He said, his hands snapping to his sides. There was a buzzing silence as Sherlock tried to find the answers to the hundreds of questions John was undoubtedly about to ask. "Uh- this is my brother, Mycroft.
John imagined he could hear the sound of stones grinding together as Mycroft turned his head in his direction. "Such a pleasure to meet you again, John."
"You're the bastard who kidnapped me." Mycroft eyelids fluttered innocently, as though he were merely caught in a some silly misunderstanding, rather than accused of a kidnapping
"He does that. Terrible social skills." Sherlock shot a biting smirk at his brother who returned it with a scowl.
"I don't lead a very social life." He explained with some parody of humility.
Sherlock crinkled his eyebrow at Mycroft. "You mean sucking off politicians in the loo doesn't count as socializing? Who knew."
"Wait wait wait. No. Stop." John interjected, interrupting the bout of childish squabbling. "He kidnapped me. Threatened me. Threatened you. And now he's having tea on our sofa…. Excuse me if I feel like I'm missing something."
"Threatened me?" He asked incredulously, ignoring John's concerns entirely. "No, actually that does sound about right, considering he's also terrible brother." He flopped into his chair, earning a monumental eye-roll from said brother.
"I didn't threaten anybody," denied Mycroft, calmly extracting a watch from his pocket. It was one of those solid gold heirloom types which was probably worth more than John's life. He flipped it open with practiced ease.
"So all of that talk about 'hunting the hunters' was just… what. A friendly hello?"
"It was a ridiculous attempt to scare you off." Sherlock answered for his brother, making no attempt at disguising his disgust towards the idea. "My dear brother is under the assumption that no one would willingly come in contact with me unless they're secretly out to sell me on the black market."
Mycroft snapped his pocketwatch shut with a click like teeth on bone. "Ignore my brother, he has the absolute worst opinion of me."
John snorted. "I can't imagine why."
The enormous man ignored the comment with the ease of someone who's had centuries of practice. "It was a test. There are many… unsavoury individuals who would give up their firstborn child for any of our heads- attached or otherwise- and many others who would risk death to profit off of that. If you were to continue... associating with Sherlock, I needed to be sure of the quality of your moral fiber."
John did not like the way Mycroft made the word 'associating' sound like some perverted act.
Sherlock lept out of his seat like a salmon in dolce and gabbana and resumed pacing in circles around the room. "For god's sake, Mycroft. You act like I haven't grown my fangs in yet. I AM A DETECTIVE. I can smell a murderer a mile off. Last week I took down a human trafficking ring while I was catching a thief. I don't need you watching over my shoulder like a bloody nanny."
"Hunters are not your common cutthroats, Sherlock. You know that. They've ensnared vampires older and wiser than you. With your proclivity towards reckless self-endangerment and refusal to take the necessary precautions, I'm surprised you're not already some mortal's expensive toy."
John stepped between the two, forcing them both to acknowledge his presence for more than a few seconds. "So... you're saying vampire hunters exist."
"Rather slow on the uptake, isn't he?" Mycroft smiled punchably. "Then again, I suppose that is your taste."
"Yes." Sherlock answered John, ignoring Mycroft with a quiet fury.
"And this guy is not a vampire hunter."
Sherlock considered the question, as a shakespearean actor would consider the words 'to be or not to be'. Mycroft prepared himself for a truly historic eye-roll. "...Probably not."
"Oh for god's sake!" Mycroft exclaimed in frustration. A pair of fangs, like twin cathedral spires, jutted out from his grimace. "I occupy a minor position in the british government. One of the many duties of which is to monitor the black market.."
"Which, in a way, makes him a vampire hunter hunter." Mused Sherlock, settling back into his chair. "Or- because he's also a vampire- a vampire vampire hunter hunter. Or- simplified mathematically- a vampire hunter squared."
"Yes, yes. Very funny, little brother." Mycroft hauled himself up with all the haste of a glacier. "Well, this was lovely, boys. But I'm afraid I must be making my departure."
"Try not to kidnap Mrs. Hudson on the way out. I'd hate for her to burn her brownies." Sherlock sighed as Mycroft swept out of the room, umbrella and all.
John fell into his chair in relief, melting into the overstuffed piece of furniture as he toed off his shoes. "Is all your family like that?"
"More or less." The vampire said enigmatically. "You still thought he was going to kidnap me even after you knew he was my brother." He stated, with an amused sort of confusion.
"Yes, well. I've got a sister who'd sell me for six pack and half a tuna sandwich." John chuckled, only half joking. "Why've you been avoiding me lately? Is it just because I asked about the skull?"
"You mortals never understand." Sherlock made an attempt at condescension but in the end it just sounded sad.
"I'm getting pretty tired of the 'you mere mortals' act. I'm sure I'd understand more than you think. I mean, it's not as if you murdered it." The vampire looked suddenly sullen. "You didn't murder it, right?"
"No. And it's name is Victor, by the way." He barked in a burst of annoyance. "He was murdered. Mugged and gutted by a common thief. I found his body in a cold alleyway. It wasn't the way he was supposed to go."
The air was thick with stories untold. Most didn't need telling. "I'm sorry," were the only words John could think to say.
