Some days, John's afraid he was born with a bullet in his mouth. That, no matter how long or full a life he might lead, in the end the only outcome could be a pointless, painful death. While that might also be true for the rest of humanity, it seemed to be most relevant to John.

And it was moments like these, when he was caught unarmed between a criminal with a gun and an ancient supernatural being from the deepest depths of legend in an abandoned house where two kids were being held captive, that the feeling became most prominent.

"You don't have to do this, Miyamoto." Sherlock told the raging vampire in the doorway, his back to the masked man with the gun. John just glared at the shaking kidnapper, daring him to shoot. There wasn't much he could do as he had no weapons more potent than his bare hands, but he'd be damned if he went down without at least landing a punch. "You don't want his blood on your hands."

John risked a glance behind him. The father of the kidnapped children looked rather normal. His hair was just barely starting to grey and his face was lined from years of kindly smiles. Circumstances aside, he seemed like he could've been a reasonable man. Except now there was murder in his eyes and John severely doubted a nice conversation would help much. The room was filled with the dizzying harmonies of the kidnapped children's fear and their father's anger. The sound wasn't at all like it was on the videos. It was strong and pure, less like a hum and more like a finger pulled around the rim of a crystal glass in the center of an amphitheater. It seemed to have an effect on everyone in the room. The kidnapper was shaking so hard, John feared he might either liquify on the spot or have a muscle spasm and pull the trigger on accident. The army doctor manage to hold himself together, but it was taking a significant amount of effort to ignore the sway of the room. Sherlock stood against it like a cliff against a raging storm.

"You are right. I will not get it on my hands." The vampire growled above the tension in the room. His japanese accent bleeding through, adding extra syllables to the words. "I'll drain his filthy blood onto the streets."

"Think, Miyamoto. The police are on their way. Your daughters are in the room. The best outcome you can hope for is lengthy trial for you and deep emotional scars for your children. At worst, you'll be put in jail and they'll be put in someone else's care. Would one moment's revenge really be worth never seeing them again?" Sherlock's reasoning fell on deaf ears. The man was blind with fury. John's gaze shifted from the kidnapper to the scared kids tied up behind him. Their eyes were red from sobbing, but they seemed otherwise unharmed.

"He stole my children. They are all I have left of her."

Sherlock scoffed, gesturing towards the kidnapper. "Look at the bastard. Shaking, hiding behind a toy gun. He only did all this because his girlfriend broke up with him. Ending his life would be a mercy he does not deserve."

"It's fake?" John hissed behind him, baffled he wasn't told sooner.

"Of course it's fake." Sherlock hissed back, before turning his attention back to the vampire. "Let him live the rest of his miserable life in prison. Let him be known as the worthless loser who stole innocent children in a pathetic attempt to win back his girlfriend. But do not destroy your own life by killing him."

Several events then piled on top of each other in that moment. John realized that since the kidnapper didn't have a gun, there wasn't anything keeping him from immobilizing the bastard and lunged. The bastard in question realized that, because everyone in the room knew he bought his gun from the kid's section, there wasn't anything keeping John from immobilizing him and darted towards the door. One of the kidnapped children managed to dislodge the gag from her mouth and shouted to her father in japanese. Her father forgot about the kidnapper and ran to free his kids. Sherlock tripped the kidnapper as he lunged for the door. John hit the ground. Lestrade opened the door. The kidnapper broke his nose.

And in another room, a maid of the Miyamoto household awoke from a drugged sleep on a bed encrusted with rose petals and felt a cold dread creep up her spine as she realized something was very wrong.

"So glad you decided to drop by." Sherlock greeted the detective inspector with perfectly timed smile as the man he should be arresting writhed in a small pool of blood on the floor.

"This the one?" Donovan asked, rather redundantly. "How'd you find him so quickly?" She asked, more indignation than admiration.

"There was a maid that was away from work today. Ms. Marie Turner. No one knew where she was. She wasn't responding to any calls from her co-workers, nor was she at home. I did some digging and it turns out she owns this conveniently large property with the intention of fixing it up and selling it. I decided to check it out and, would you believe it, I found a pair of kidnapped children." Behind Sherlock the small family clung to each other, crying tears of relief. "Their father followed me, unfortunately."

Lestrade pulled out a well-used notepad and pen, jotting down as much of the facts as he had caught. "Three hours. That must be some sort of record."

"It wasn't exactly difficult." Sherlock sighed as John hauled himself up from the floor. "I'm sure you could've worked it out yourself, had you a lick of common sense and working ears. Now, I've given you the kids entirely unharmed and the kidnapper slightly battered. I've given you your precious explanation as to how I found them both. I don't see why I still need to be here."

After a moment's consideration, Lestrade conceded, stepping aside to allow Sherlock to drag John out the door. "But you're coming in tomorrow to give me your official statement!" He shouted after them in a failed attempt at salvaging a shred of his authority.

Outside, life went on as ever. People rushed about on their lunch break or loitered around the shops. The day was bright and warm. The afternoon air didn't smell quite as bad as it usually did. Even the birds seemed slightly more pleased with themselves than usual.

"Two lives saved by lunchtime." John sighed, admiring the light filtering through the leaves of the trees hanging over them. "Not a bad way to start a day."

"I don't see what you're so pleased about. It's not as if you did anything." Sherlock grumbled, folding his scarf tighter around his neck. "The case was sub-par at best. Failed romance is the most common and least interesting motive by far."

"Of course," John rolled his eyes, almost amused by Sherlock's determination to be moody. "Isn't it a little warm for that?" John asked, gesturing to his flatmate's heavy coat.

"I don't produce body heat." Sherlock answered briefly, clinically, flipping his collar over his scarf.

"Oh." John said, suddenly feeling like an idiot. "Right. So... do all vam- uh I mean, Do all of you do that?"

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, glancing down at himself in baffled confusion. "Wear coats?"

"No, that sound back there. The one the kids were making." The one that was still ringing through his head like the lingering burn of vomit.

"Oh yes. All vampires have a secondary pair of vocal chords which are constantly vibrating. It's entirely subconscious, influenced mainly by emotional state. But there are other factors which can affect it. Temperature, certain drugs, respiratory illnesses..."

"Constantly?" John paused, listening carefully for something beyond the noise of the street. "I don't hear anything from you."

"It's louder in children and grows more subtle with age. You'd need a stethoscope or a loaded gun to make my resonance audible." John remembered the gun in the kidnapper's hand. How did he not recognize the plastic sheen of the paint job? It was so obvious in hindsight. "Even then, I'd be surprised if you noticed any difference. None of you mortals ever listen."

Sherlock flagged down a cab. The ride was silent as John attempted to process the events of the day and edit it down to a potential blog entry and Sherlock fell deeper into the same stormy mood he was in that morning. John was sure a case would've brought him out of it. They usually did.

It felt like this one only made things worse