My previous drabbles (Are these too long to be drabbles? I don't even know.) were both told third person from Sherlock's POV. This episode retains the third person aspect, but switches between characters for the purposes of suspense and plot narration. There is still blood and Johnlock, but there is slightly less of it, which is in turn replaced by an actual story (still stand-alone) and some character development. There is also some language, but I don't believe it's anything that can't be shown on TV.
Plague
JOHN WATSON
Sherlock was seated at the table, reading the newspaper, when John stumbled in.
"Nightmares or itching powder?" the detective asked by way of greeting.
"What?" The doctor squinted at him through the haze of exhaustion.
"You're up early this morning," Sherlock said, pointing to the stove clock which read half passed six. "You're obviously still tired, so you can't be out of bed just because you feel like it. Ergo, you couldn't sleep. I was asking why. Nightmares or itching powder?"
"Er... nightmares," John replied.
The detective hummed to himself. "Must need to strengthen the dose."
"Sherlock, what -?"
"No time for that, John," Sherlock interrupted. "Throw some clothes on and grab your breakfast. We're leaving."
"Why? Where are we going?" the doctor asked, crossing the kitchen to the coffee pot.
"Case. Vauxhall Arches." Sherlock turned the page of the newspaper, frowning at the small type.
Downing the caffeinated drink in a single gulp, John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the detective.
"Isn't that where -"
"- We tracked the Golem with the help of my homeless network? Yes." Sherlock tore a clipping from the newspaper and stood, drawing a tack from the drawer. He exited the kitchen, presumably to pin the article to the wall, leaving the doctor to unearth the cereal on his own.
When fifteen minutes later the pair settled into a cab, John had traded pyjamas for jeans and a grey jumper, and Sherlock had bundled himself in his long coat against the foggy morning air. The cab ride to Vauxhall was quiet. Sherlock was absorbed in his thoughts, and John wondered at it. Usually, the detective looked upon the beginning of a case with a thrill. It was in the middle of the investigation, when there was data to be pondered, that the sociopath fell into such moments of pensive silence. What did Sherlock know, John wondered, that made him so introspective?
When they arrived, Vauxhall was cordoned off by lines of yellow tape, and Lestrade stood near the curb, smoking a cigarette. He nodded to Sherlock and then to John as they piled onto the pavement.
"Morning," said the DI, dropping his smoke and crushing the end on the pavement beneath his heel.
"Where's the body?" Sherlock asked shortly.
Lestrade grimaced and gestured at the dark tunnel behind him. "In there. Anderson's getting the details."
"Missing the details, more like it," the detective muttered under his breath. "Wonderful. I'll go have a look then, shall I, before he ruins the evidence."
"Sherlock," Lestrade called. The taller man stopped. "There's something you should know about this case."
"This isn't the first body," Sherlock said quietly. "Yes, I know."
"How -?"
"I've been following the progression of the incidents," the detective interrupted. "I think you'll find that it was I who put forth the first request for the matter's investigation."
"That's right," said Sergeant Donovan, stepping out of the alley onto the sidewalk. "And I still say the same thing I did when I picked up your 'request' - we're wasting our time. There's nothing here to investigate."
"Eleven people dead in a week and a half and you don't think you've got a case?" Sherlock's voice was politely incredulous. "No wonder the Yard never gets anything done."
"Not people," Donovan spat. "Monsters. We're better off without them."
"Sherlock?" John asked. "What is she talking about?"
"All of the victims were vampyres," the detective said softly, hands in his pockets.
"Freaks," the sergeant sneered. "Freakier than you, Freak, and that's saying something."
"Your unimaginative insults and narrow-mindedness aside, Donovan, the Yard definitely has a case." The detective's voice had gone from demure to ice cold in a heartbeat. "A case I intend to solve. Come, John."
Doctor and detective strode together into the dark Vauxhall alley and labyrinthine tunnels beyond, leaving Donovan and Lestrade alone on the pavement.
"The first victim was discovered last Monday," said Sherlock. "Penny White. She was one of my informants - and a vampyre, recently Changed. Living on the street after her condition prevented her getting a job. When she died, I heard about it within the hour. No apparent wounds. Forensic evidence suggested a heart attack."
"But... vampyres don't suffer heart attacks," John interjected.
"Very astute, doctor, they do not. I made a note of it - as an isolated incident, it was a mere anomaly."
"But it wasn't an isolated incident."
"No." Sherlock sighed heavily. "The next body was discovered Tuesday morning. Other side of town, same symptoms, also a vampyre. I barely knew of him, but he was older - Changed eighty or ninety years ago."
"So no pattern there except for the symptoms?" John pondered the possibilities, knowing his partner would pick up on his whirlwind thoughts, but as he for once suspected that Sherlock was not already five or six steps ahead, he didn't make any attempt to hide his puzzlement.
"Nothing as yet discernible. There was another body found that day, and the other eight spread out through the week. This is the first corpse since Sunday."
They rounded the corner and came upon Anderson and the forensics team milling around the body of a middle aged woman. The indigo tattoos on her face Marked her clearly as a vampyre.
"Oh, great, it's you," Anderson sighed. "Don't muck with the evidence, you hear me?"
"Morning, Philip," Sherlock said, crouching to scan the corpse. "Have you moved her at all?"
"Psh," Anderson scoffed. "You think I don't know how to do my job? Of course I haven't moved her."
"I know you don't know how to do your job," the detective murmured. "Time of death appears to be about 4:00 this morning. Who reported her?"
"Her daughter. Human," Anderson replied. "Got up to use the loo and found her like this."
"Abandoned by her husband... six months ago," Sherlock rattled off. "Living on the street with her daughter since that time. Cleanliness of her clothes says she uses the laundromat, at least, so she must have some income, but it can't be much or she'd rent a cheap flat. Print stains on her fingers and an address list in her pocket marks her as a newspaper deliverer for... The Times, it looks like. John?"
The doctor frowned, leaning over the dead woman.
"No wounds - that seems consistent with the other deaths. No smell of alcohol, nor does she look asphyxiated... There's a bit of odd coloring on her cheeks - just there, see? - that's sort of greyish. If she would have been human, I'd say she was sick. Eyes are unfocused, mouth open - what?"
Anderson was giving John a very odd look.
"What was that about her being sick?" the forensics man asked, crouching to their level.
"Well, just look." John gestured at the corpse. "She appears to have had some sort of fever, and a bad one at that. But vampyres don't get sick, so why do you ask?"
Anderson's eyes were widening. "Because her daughter told us that the woman - Betty - was very ill in the days leading up to her death."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why did you not say as much when we first got here?"
"Because you wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise!" the other man explained angrily. "And because you heard John - vampyres don't get sick. It doesn't make sense."
"How long was she out of sorts for?" asked John.
"Three days? Maybe four? The girl wasn't quite sure. She was in shock."
"You're right about one thing," the detective said coolly, standing and helping the blonde man to his feet. "I heard John. The doctor said she looks sick, and I do not dismiss data so easily. Get me a blood sample."
"What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, raising his hands in exasperation. "A blood sample, man! Are you deaf as well as incapable?"
"Sherlock!" John chided. "Be polite." Turning to Anderson, John sighed. "A blood sample, if you wouldn't mind. Heaven only knows he's got some kind of experiment to run."
The forensics man muttered insults under his breath but instructed one of his teammates to fetch the consulting detective the requested phial. Sherlock pocketed the tube of red liquid deftly.
"I'll have a report on my findings by this evening," he promised grimly. "Have someone call me if anything else comes to light."
He stalked off down the length of the tunnel, John hastening after him.
"Sherlock, slow down!" John exclaimed as he turned the corner before the detective, who had stopped in the dark just on the other side, grabbed him by the shoulders and pressed him to the cold stone wall. The doctor exhaled sharply, and felt the dampness of the arched wall seep through his jumper as Sherlock pressed closer to him, saying nothing but wrapping his arms tightly around John's waist. John was startled to realize that the detective's heartbeat was pounding through his chest.
"Sherlock?" the doctor asked quietly. "Are you al-"
He was cut off abruptly by Sherlock crushing his mouth against John's. The shorter man groaned softly into the kiss, clasping his hands behind the detective's back. Sherlock's leg found itself pressed against John's inner thigh, and when the detective stepped back, both their mouths were swollen, their faces flushed in the gloom.
"Not that I don't mind a bit of exhibitionism," the doctor breathed aloud through his fluster, "but if you wanted to snog in public, maybe we shouldn't do it at crime scenes."
"No," Sherlock murmured. "Perhaps not."
Taking his arm, John looked with concern at his companion. "What's gotten into you, anyway?" he asked. "You're being even more of a git than usual - to everybody - and it's obvious that you're upset by something. It's not what Donovan said, is it?"
The detective snorted. "No. I don't care what Donovan thinks. But this - this has happened before, John."
The doctor startled. "Before? How do you mean?"
"It's murder, John. Eleven murders in under two weeks. I don't know how, but I know why."
"Because they're vampyres," John sighed.
Sherlock nodded. "There is no such thing as an original idea. Everything has been done before, and history repeats itself. Look at all the precedents. The Middle Ages. The Revolution in France. America every other decade. People get frightened, and then they kill us. These were the first to go because they're exposed. They don't have doors to lock or windows to bolt. But chances are, it won't stay isolated for long. As soon as the more sensational newspapers get hold of the story, they'll be off championing the 'vampyre slayer' and soon Lestrade's going to be working riots, not cases."
John linked his fingers through the detective's leading him back the way they had come, towards the strengthening sunlight. There weren't, he decided, many ways to respond to that.
SALLY DONOVAN
Sally shut the door to her house, her mouth twisting at the gloom. She hit the switch, and the foyer light turned on with a shuddering flicker.
"Dad?" she called. "I'm home!"
The aventurine-green walls were dirtying with nicotine stains, and the place had the appearance of not having been cleaned in a very long time. The only surface free of dust was a fading photo of a man, a woman, and a little girl hung opposite the door in a silver frame.
"Sally?" a gruff voice called back. "'M in the basement!"
"The basement?" the sergeant repeated to herself. "What are you doing down there again?"
To the left into the formal sitting room (dustier even than the foyer) and then down the hall on the right, Sally threw open the old wooden door that led to the black maw of the basement, with its steep stairs and the pall of smoke that escaped into the draft. Coughing, the sergeant gripped the handrail and climbed cautiously down into the dark. At the bottom of the steps, Sally found her father bent over a long table, a small reading lamp his only light source. The table's surface was littered with beakers and bottles, a stack of books on biology rested precariously on the stool, and still-smoking cigarettes occupied much of the remaining space.
"Experimenting again, dad?" Sally asked, leaning against a support column.
"Shh," the elder Donovan admonished her. "It's delicate work."
"Greg picked up the case today," Sally told him. Her father's back stiffened.
"Your detective inspector thinks there's something worth looking into?" he asked sharply.
The sergeant shrugged. "If you ask me, his superiors aren't letting him ignore it any longer, with the body count piling up."
"The city should be protecting whoever's behind it, not prosecuting him like some common criminal," the man said fiercely.
"We don't know that anybody's behind it," said Sally, a trifle uncomfortably. "So far, all the indications point to natural causes."
"Of course somebody's behind it," her father growled. "A proper genius, too. I'd shake his hand. It's about time someone started clearing the vermin off our streets." He added a blue solution to a green one. It bubbled violently and spilled over. "Damn."
"Well, if someone is behind it and Greg catches him, we'll have no choice but to prosecute," Sally sighed. "Vampyres are protected under the law, same as humans."
The stocky man took an uneven drag on a cigarette and muttered something under his breath.
"What?"
"I said, 'They all deserve to die!'" her father shouted. "If you catch him, Sally, I'll never forgive you. Remember what those monsters did to your mum."
"I know," Sally said, her eyes glassy. "How could I forget?"
SHERLOCK HOLMES
With a twist of the knob, the microscope's lens came into focus and Sherlock saw clearly the contents of the blood sample on the slide. With an yelp, he backed hurriedly away from the kitchen counter and dove onto John's armchair.
"John!" he shouted.
The doctor came out of his room looking worried.
"Sherlock? What is it?"
The detective gestured at the microscope before ducking back down behind the cushion.
"Go look," he said, his voice muffled. "Tell me what you see."
"I'm not a chemist," John argued, crossing into the kitchen. "And I was never in poison control."
"But you are a medical man," Sherlock insisted. "Look at it."
Peeking over the top of the chair, Sherlock watched John press his eye to the microscope, fiddling with the knob.
"That's... strange," the doctor said. "The white blood cell count is abnormally high. And... what are these green things?"
"Look closer," Sherlock suggested, closing his eyes. A quick intake of breath from the other side of the room told the detective that John saw the same thing he had.
"They're cells." John's voice registered amazement. "Some kind of bacteria. Sherlock - this is an infection we're looking at here.
"A bacteria that only attacks vampyres," the detective said. "It must have some sort of intolerance for human blood."
"You didn't expose yourself to this, did you?" John asked. "You haven't caught this... whatever it is?"
"Depends on how it spreads," replied Sherlock. "I didn't touch it, but if it's airborne..." Sherlock felt John's worry, their Imprint channelling the blonde man's emotions directly into the detective's consciousness. "Don't panic," he said, sitting up. "We don't know that it's airborne. Indeed, given that the number of deaths have yet to show an exponential increase, it seems implausible. It is possible that I... overreacted when I realized what we were dealing with."
Sherlock felt John calm somewhat, though the doctor remained tense. "Well then," he said. "I'll do the cleanup here, shall I? And phone Molly. She can run a blood test on the other bodies."
Sherlock was just nudging his mobile toward him with his foot when it began to ring of its own accord. He picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Sherlock?"
"Molly." Speak of the devil and she shall appear, he thought, mouth turning ironically. "I was just about to call you."
"You were? Oh! Any time - that is, I -"
"Molly. I was about to call regarding the case."
"Oh. Of course you were. Sorry. Actually, I was calling about the case, too. Can you come look at something for me?"
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was standing with John and Molly Hooper in the morgue of St. Bart's hospital.
"And they all have bites like these?" Sherlock was asking, examining a crescent-shaped patch of inflamed skin on the neck of the corpse from that morning.
"According to the autopsies, yes," said Molly, reviewing the information on her clipboard. "Nobody thought much of it. And for the most part, the deceased didn't have family demanding a more thorough investigation. But Anderson mentioned John's theory about her looking ill, and it reminded me about it.
"Well done, Molly," said Sherlock. "She was sick - a bacterial infection. Would you say that this is about the size of the human mouth, John?" he added, pointing to the inflammation.
John considered this. "It looks to be about the right size, yeah."
"It's a bite from another vampyre," the detective pronounced, pursing his lips. "That's how the bacteria spreads. It probably interferes with the neurotransmitters in the brain, making those infected lash out at one another. Bites are inevitable, and the disease spreads. Eventually, it would cause paralysis and death. According to the woman's daughter, we're looking at an incubation period of approximately seventy-two hours."
"But where did it come from?" John asked, his brow creasing. "A disease that kills only vampyres? I've never heard of anything like it."
"Don't be dense, John," said Sherlock, kneeling to more closely inspect the scar tissue on the corpse's Alta Major. "Biochemical warfare is nothing new. The bacteria has been engineered."
"By who?" Molly wondered aloud.
It was the question they all were thinking.
That evening, after everyone had been briefed on the new findings, Lestrade met Donovan, Anderson, Sherlock, and John back at the Arches.
"Right," he said when they were all assembled. "We need to locate everybody who's been infected and get them into a quarantine zone while the medical team comes up with an antibiotic. If we can isolate this now, we may at least prevent the disease from spreading. Search in pairs - vampyres can be dangerous when cornered."
Donovan looked immediately to Anderson, at which Sherlock smirked.
"Perhaps you should choose the pairs, Lestrade," the detective said. "Otherwise all Anderson and Donovan may end up investigating is a dark alcove and the contents of their trousers."
Both officers looked mortified by the implication, but Lestrade nodded.
"Fine," the DI said. "Anderson, you and I'll go with John. Sherlock, you go with Donovan."
Sherlock looked furious with himself, and Donovan appeared positively livid. She turned to yell at the detective, but he was already storming away down into Vauxhall. With a muttered curse, she followed.
Sherlock was well into the deep passages when the sergeant caught up to him. With a small sneer, he spun around and faced her before she had the chance to grab hold of his shoulder.
"I am just as displeased about this as you are," he said, eyes like slits. "Unfortunately, I didn't compensate for Lestrade's apparent sense of cruelty, so we'll just have to deal with each other for an hour." He turned back to face front and continued, stooping for a moment to examine a sleeper lying on the hard pavement. "Human."
Donovan was in mid rant. "I can't believe you said that," she hissed. "Do you have any idea how -"
Sherlock threw up his hand to stop her. "I know you can't stand me," he said calmly, without turning around. "I understand why, and your opinion of me doesn't matter to me in the slightest. That being said, we could die if we do not handle this properly, and if not us, other people will."
Donovan snorted skeptically. "As if that matters to -"
"I propose we set aside our differences for the evening," said Sherlock, continuing as though he hadn't heard. "We can continue to insult each other's intelligence or lack thereof tomorrow morning, for all that I am concerned."
The sergeant was breathing heavily. "Fine," she said. "Fine. But so help me, God, Freak, if you -"
But Sherlock was walking again and she had to hurry to keep up.
The next person they came across was a vampyre. He was a boy, and still a fledgling, with an unfilled Mark and an absence of tattoos.
"Oi! You!" Donovan began, but Sherlock waved her away and crouched next to the youth.
"Hello, young man," he said, his voice suddenly turned tenor and far more charming than its usual.
"'Allo," the boy returned warily. "'Who're you?"
"My name's Sherlock," the detective introduced himself. "I'm actually looking for some information. You hear anything about vamps getting sick?"
"Yeah, I hear the rumors," said the kid. "'S all a little fuzzy, though."
Sherlock withdrew a twenty pound note from his inside pocket. "Are we remembering better?" he asked, handing the bill to the fledgling.
The boy folded the crisp paper and slid it into his vest. "It's all coming back to me now." He sat up a little straighter, grinning at Sherlock. "'S like this, see - this guy - big bloke, stocky, but wit' his face covered - he comes around maybe... two weeks ago? sayin' he's got some miracle drug that'll turn you from a vamp back human again. 'Course, nobody buys his bullcrap, 'cause come on, how gullible does he think we is? But somebody, well, they was desperate, wasn't they? Don't know who, don't know when, but they took his 'miracle drug' and next thing you know, people starts goin' right barmy."
"Barmy how?" asked Donovan, tight-lipped.
The boy's eyes moved from her to Sherlock. "Might need some more help remembering that'un," he said.
"Listen, kid," Donovan began, but Sherlock shooed her away, simultaneously pulling a second bill from his pocket.
"That's all I've got on me," the detective said. "So make it worth my while, if you don't mind."
Accepting the cash, the boy flashed another winning smile. "'Course, sir. You know what's what 'round here, I can see that. Well - it was like this. Somebody bit somebody else, and soon this fever's all over the place! If one vamp bites another, then they get sick and in a couple o' days, and they're dead ducks. Good people, too. 'S a right shame."
"Can you show us where some of those people are?" asked Sherlock, and the boy clambered to his feet.
"Cor, I'd be 'appy to! Right this way, mister." He led them around a right turn and then a left. A weathered form was huddled under a blanket near the wall.
"Tha's one of 'em there," the lad whispered. "She's wastin' away, poor dear. If yeh go 'n talk to 'er, though, be careful. They get out 'o their heads when they get the sickness."
With a jerk of his head, the boy turned and dashed down a different tunnel, disappearing into the maze that was Vauxhall.
"Bloody brilliant," Donovan sighed. "We've found one, and all it took was forty pounds."
"Oh, cheer up," said Sherlock. "Bet it's still one more than Anderson's found."
"Excuse me, Miss?" Donovan called, stepping toward the vampyre. "I'm afraid you're going to have to come with us; there's a quarantine going -"
With a shriek, Donovan leaped back, the vampyre lunging toward her. Having abandoned the blanket on the ground, the woman's form was revealed, wasted with hunger and dripping with fever, every tendon stretched to its limit. Emitting a feral hiss, the vampyre launched itself at the sergeant's chest; they fell to the ground. Donovan screamed, trying to wrest her gun from its holster whilst fending off the grasping hands reaching for her throat.
Then Sherlock was there.
He grabbed the vampyre woman by her emaciated shoulders and dragged her backwards. There was a brief struggle, but the detective possessed all of the woman's vampyric strength and was both well-built and healthy. Exercising a bit of leverage, Sherlock cracked her head against the stone wall and she went limp in his arms. The moment she had, he dropped her like the plague.
Donovan was regarding the detective with something akin to astonishment. She still hadn't bothered to pick herself up off the ground, though when Sherlock tentatively put his hand out, she took it with equal hesitation.
"I think," she said slowly, "I think..."
"There's a first time for everything." Sherlock said it flippantly, but the gibe lacked some of it's usual sting.
"I think you just saved my life," Donovan finished.
"Yes. Well." The detective coughed lightly, looking at his shoes. "If you tell anyone, I will fervently deny it."
"Done."
"What do we do about her?" Sherlock asked, gesturing back to the vampyre at his feet. "Leave her here or take her with?"
Donovan frowned. "It's probably best to -"
But what it was best to do, Sherlock never learned. The sergeant gasped, but it was too late. The detective felt a hot pain lance through his hand's Mount of Venus, followed by an angry snarl and the patter of running feet. Dazedly, Sherlock raised his hand to eye level, taking in the bloody bite mark gouged into his flesh. His mind processed what had happened before his eyes quite caught up with it.
He hadn't knocked the woman out; he'd merely stunned her. She had woken and reacted on instinct, which infected as she was meant to bite whatever was closest. In this case, that meant Sherlock.
Inside his mind palace, a dozen voices were clamoring for attention. The one that finally overpowered the others was a six-year old Sherlock, who proclaimed with wide eyes that, "It's like vampyre rabies!".
"That," Sherlock said aloud, "is thoroughly unhelpful. Haven't you got anything better?"
"Than gauze?" a confused Donovan asked. "Not unless you'd rather I attempt sutures."
"What?" the detective blinked. "Oh. No. And you needn't bother with the gauze, either. It's not going to help much."
"I thought the bacteria didn't affect humans?" the sergeant asked uncertainly.
Sherlock did not answer, but swayed where he stood. Already he could feel his palms beginning to sweat, and a pain that was definitely not the placebo effect was spreading across his abdomen.
"D - Donovan?" he stammered. "Get John, please."
"Sherlock?" It was the first time he had ever heard her use his given name in a manner which wasn't derogatory.
The detective found he couldn't answer, tripping backwards over his own feet until he ran into the wall.
"Oi! Freak!" She said this frantically, as though the nickname might be enough to snap Sherlock back into his usual abrasive self. She laid her hand against the detective's forehead; Sherlock knew he was running a fever already - whatever this bacteria was, it acted fast - and knew likewise that the makeup would be melting off his face. He tried to shrug the sergeant off and failed.
"You're burning up!" she exclaimed. When she lifted her fingers, they came away oily with concealer. "What the..." she muttered. She ran a finger along Sherlock's temple. Had the detective been capable of it, he would have winced as more makeup wiped away at her touch. It wasn't much, but it was enough to show the edge of an indigo tattoo.
"Vampyre," Donovan breathed, her countenance morphing from one of concern to horror and loathing.
She took a couple of steps backward.
"D - Donovan," Sherlock gasped, sliding slowly down the wall. "Please. Help. Get - John."
Donovan looked away, biting hard on her lower lip. Sherlock's legs gave out beneath him and he pitched forward. With the last dregs of his stamina, he reached out and grabbed at the cuff link of the sergeant's jeans; she flinched, but did not pull away.
Sherlock looked up at her, his vision swimming.
"Please," he whispered. "Sally. Get John."
Sally stepped out of his grip, though to help or to leave him, he couldn't have said. The last thing he heard was the sound of her footsteps flying down the tunnel, and then darkness swallowed his vision.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, wake up!"
The detective was fuzzily conscious of somebody talking to him, though most of his awareness was centered around how abjectly miserable he felt. It was worse than getting shot, he decided, because his entire body was in pain; his intestines seemed to be pulling a decent imitation of a circus contortionist, his hands trembled against what he recognized distantly as the couch cushions, and a migraine, more intense than any he had ever experienced, was drilling through his skull. Also, he appeared to be on fire.
Someone (smelled like John) set a wet cloth against his forehead and the burning heat decreased marginally - in a flash, the day's events came rushing back to him and his eyes fluttered open.
"John?" he croaked.
"Sherlock!" The blonde man's face blurred into focus above him. "My God, man, you had me worried."
"What -" the detective struggled, trying to pull himself upright, "- happened?"
The doctor blew air through his teeth, pressing Sherlock back firmly against the arm of the couch.
"Don't you dare try to sit up yet," he warned. "All I know is that Greg and Anderson and I were making some headway with the vampyres when Donovan came tearing down the tunnel saying something had happened to you and I had to come right away. When we got there, you were passed out with a wicked fever."
"And you took me back to 221B and not the hospital?" Sherlock asked, taking the water John handed him and sipped it.
The doctor snorted. "I thought you might object."
"Too right," the detective replied darkly. "I've got it, John. I got bit. I'm going to die or lose my mind or both."
"Don't talk like that, Sherlock!" John begged. "We'll figure this out, alright? There's got to be a cure."
"Oh, be realistic, John," the dark haired man snapped. "Antibiotics can take months or years to develop!"
"Look," John said seriously, "there has to be something. You can't just give up. Think! Did the bacteria resemble anything you recognize? Maybe a human antibiotic will work."
Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes. "It bore a passing resemblance to botulinum, but the structure was different, and it incubates much faster."
"Damn."
"You should go, John," said Sherlock. "The further this progresses, the less my behavior is in my control. I could hurt you."
"You won't," the doctor said, and Sherlock could hear in his voice how sincerely he believed it. "And besides, the bacteria doesn't affect humans."
"Human-vampyre biology isn't so different," the detective pointed out. "The potential for a cross-species jump is much higher than it is even from apes to humans. And the vampyre which bit me attacked Donovan without provocation."
"I'm your Consort," John insisted stubbornly. "If you think I'm going to leave you to suffer alone, you are sorely mistaken."
Groaning, Sherlock rolled over and forced himself not to throw up. There was a solution somewhere, he did not doubt that, but finding it could prove a fruitless enterprise if he did not think of it soon. His mind palace clamored for attention - on one hand, lists of medications swirled through his head like glittering smoke, and on the other, high definition images of various bacterial strains presented themselves for comparison. Nothing matched. Nothing was close. So why did he have the overwhelming impression that he was missing something obvious?"
" - about vampyre remedies?" John was asking. "Don't they have their own medical lore?"
"Superstitious magical nonsense," the detective growled. "The only thing that's ever been scientifically proven to heal vampyres is - is -"
Sherlock sat up in slow motion, his mouth hanging open. It was so obvious, so like glass in its crystalline transparency, that he was ashamed of himself for not having thought of it before. Rolling off of the couch, the detective found himself unable to stand, but John was by his side immediately, wrapping Sherlock's arm around his shoulder and pulling him to his feet.
"Bedroom," the taller man said through clenched teeth. John helped him down the hall, stopping hesitantly in front of Sherlock's room, and pushed the door open.
Sherlock was aware of his flatmate's staring surreptitiously around his quarters, but it hardly mattered. Letting go of the doctor, Sherlock sank to his knees and shoved a pile of papers and experiments across the floor, revealing a small white refrigerator tucked next to his nightstand. With a wrench, the detective ripped open the door to reveal an icebox full of -
"Blood," John said. "Of course."
Sherlock grabbed a plastic pouch of cold red liquid from the fridge.
"Scissors," he said tersely, and after a moment's search, the doctor found a pair to hand him. Cutting the top off the baggie, Sherlock explained. "It's not just that it's blood, John. It's that it's human blood, and we know that the bacteria cannot survive when exposed to it."
John's eyes widened in comprehension. "It's an antibiotic in its own right."
"Mmm." Sherlock examined the pouch for a moment before tipping his head back and pouring the contents into his mouth. With an expression of distaste, he swallowed it. "Nasty."
"And you didn't ask to drink from me because...?" the doctor asked disapprovingly.
"Because I refuse to let you slit your wrists on demand," Sherlock answered, grabbing a second baggie. "Because this is perfectly adequate, even if it's like cold porridge where flavor is concerned. And because I am still sick and can't be sure I wouldn't hurt you in the process." With that, he swallowed the contents of the second pouch and reached for a third. He was shaking harder as the bacteria fought his system, but he could feel his fever beginning to cool. The empty bag quickly joined its two brethren on the floor.
John had to cut open the fourth pouch, for the detective was having trouble holding on to the scissors, and when Sherlock raised it to his lips, his fingers slipped and some of the blood missed his mouth, dripping down his face in jagged red lines.
Overtaken now by the tremors, Sherlock fell back against the side of the bed. He gestured vaguely at the refrigerator, unsure if John would get the message, but the doctor drew out another baggie and held the detective's face still while he forced the blood into his mouth.
Gasping with the detox, Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head and he clawed at the carpeting, his whole frame shaking. The episode stretched on for what felt like ages (John would tell him later that it lasted only a minute), and then he fell still, a bit warm yet around the edges, but otherwise feeling back to normal.
Blinking, Sherlock found that his head was resting in John's lap.
"How -?" he began, but John shushed him. A moment later, Sherlock chuckled blithely. "It's better than withdrawal," he said, "but not by much."
SALLY DONOVAN
Sally and the rest of the Yard were gathered around Lestrade's office, waiting for news. Everyone else was anticipating the update from St. Bart's; with as many infected vampyres as could be found in quarantine, the medical team had multiple blood donors available on which to test their theoretical treatments, and all were hoping for a breakthrough. Resting in one of the DI's queue chairs, Sally was not waiting for that call. Sally was waiting for a call from Baker Street.
Sherlock Holmes had saved her life. That was novelty in and of itself, especially given how many times she had been possessed of the urge to just shoot the arrogant, smart-mouthed dick. In the same evening, the Freak had turned out to be a vampyre. In a lot of ways, that revelation made a weird sort of sense, so it hadn't shocked her particularly. What still left her absolutely flabbergasted was that she had helped him anyway.
After the detective had collapsed, the sergeant had run without a second thought to where she could hear Greg's voice echoing down the tunnels. Finding the trio, she had explained that Sherlock had been attacked, saying nothing more. Anderson and Lestrade appeared appropriately concerned, but it was John's reaction she had watched.
The doctor's face had drained of color - reading between the lines of Sally's statement, it was apparent that he understood what she meant and what that entailed. John had hurriedly made his excuses to the detective inspector, telling him to continue the investigation, that he would look after Sherlock and call when there was news. Then Sally had led him back to where the detective was lying unconscious and burning hot on the freezing Vauxhall paving stones.
Sally still couldn't understand her decision to shield the detective from scrutiny. Had she walked up with "The Freak's a vampyre" on her lips, the man never would've been allowed at another crime scene. She could have had him and his bizarre abilities out of her hair and out of her life forever. But she hadn't.
With an exasperated sigh, Sally Donovan buried her face in her hands. At the same moment, Greg's phone rang.
"Hello?"
She could hear Greg's voice through his open door.
"Sherlock! It's good to know you're up and about."
Sally raised her head, listening hard.
"I'm sure John did a fine job of patching you up. What exactly -"
"Never mind him," Philip interrupted. "What's the news? You know he wouldn't have called unless he had information to gloat over."
"Anderson's got a point," said Greg. "Well, Sherlock? What is it?"
"Put him on speaker," Philip insisted. "I'd rather know about it when he's insulting my intelligence."
As Greg hit the conference button, the detective's bored drawl crackled through the speakers.
" - Can't insult your intelligence, Anderson, because you haven't got any to insult. I ran some experiments, Lestrade, and I've got the cure - human blood. Five pints per vampyre ought to do it. Call St. Bart's and have them order a case from the blood bank."
"Five pints of human blood?" Philip asked disbelievingly. "Why on earth do you just happen to have that lying around your apartment?"
Ignoring him, Sherlock continued. "As for the culprit, we're looking for a biochemical engineer, one with a good reason to hate vampyres, in all probability a love-driven motive, and fitting the description of taller male, heavyset and stocky. It's unlikely that our engineer would have hired anyone else to distribute his drug - there's too many risks involved - but regrettably our informant couldn't give us any further details."
"We'll put the word out," Lestrade promised. "Come by the Yard when you feel up to it and you can go through our files."
"We'll be there in ten," the detective said shortly, and with a click the line went dead.
Sally was staring at the floor, the rest of the room a Gaussian blur around her. Isolated in her chair, Sherlock's words tumbled over and over through her thoughts like water in a ravine which foams and spits as it throws itself over sharp rocks.
Biochemical engineer.
Stocky. Tall.
Hates vampyres.
Love-driven motive.
The truth was that she knew someone who fit that description exactly. And then other recollections thrust their way into her imagination:
"A proper genius..."
Piles of medical books and beakers.
"The city should be protecting him!"
"About time someone cleared those vermin off our streets!"
"They all deserve to die!"
And finally, the memories took on a different shape.
Mum, taking out the trash. It was dark, but she only had to walk the length of the driveway. A passing car. The street light. A stray cat.
And then a scream that rent the night in two.
Dad running up the stairs, the basement door slamming behind him. A tiny girl, no more than five, jumping off the couch to toddle after him. The front door hanging open on its hinges and at the base of the driveway, a woman's body on the ground and a scarlet-tattooed figure crouching over her, face dripping with blood. In a flash, he was gone, and all that remained of his handiwork was a broken body and red-stained cement. Tiny hands cupped a silver necklace, and a small voice spoke one word.
"Mummy?"
Wiping her eyes, Sally got to her feet and stalked off, offering the pretense of "bathroom" to those who questioned her. She strode down the hallway and got into the elevator, thinking hard. She should go to Greg with her suspicions. It was the right thing to do.
But what if it wasn't him? another side of her brain argued. If you bring in the Yard accusing him of something he didn't do, he'll be furious, and rightly so. There weren't a lot of other people it could be, she knew, but at the same time, the sergeant did not want to believe her father capable of murder.
Hailing a cab on the street, it wasn't long before Sally Donovan was home again for the second time that day. Unlocking the door, she shifted her pistol in its holster, berating herself for doing so at the same time.
"Hello, Mum," she murmured to the picture frame, stepping into the foyer. "I'm home."
The door down to the basement was locked. Rapping sharply on it, Sally called, "Dad? Dad, are you in there?"
There was no reply, but the sergeant could hear the sound of things being shifted.
"Dad! You've got to open the door - I have to talk to you!"
There was a thumping on the stairs, and then the door opened. Her father stood on the other side, smelling of smoke and covered in chemical stains, but smiling.
"Hello, Sally, dear," he said. "I wasn't expecting you back until late."
"I... felt like we needed to discuss something," Sally told him.
"Alright, alright, discuss away, but come down here, would you? I've got some experiments cooking."
He waved her down the steps, and with a mounting sense of foolishness, Sally followed. This was her father, a good man, and praised by the Royal Scientific Association for his work on developing medicines. He would never kill anyone, no matter how much he had reason to hate them.
In the basement, a crucible was heating over a Bunsen burner, and a group of charts lay scattered next to it on the table top.
"What are you working on?" the sergeant asked politely.
"Analyzing the formation of antibodies in the blood," her father replied absently. "Blasted buggers."
"Aren't antibodies a good thing?"
Her father chuckled. "Well, in us, yes, a very good thing." He added a couple of drops of a clear liquid to the crucible.
"Look, Dad," Sally said uncomfortably, "the night that mom died..."
Her father turned around. "What of it?"
"Only that we never really talk about it."
The man turned back to his workbench. "A monster killed your mother for a snack. What is there to talk about?"
"Have you ever..." She paused. "I don't know, considered seeing a therapist or something? It's obvious that it's haunting you."
"Haunting me?" His voice was accompanied by a mirthless laugh. "I watched my wife die before my eyes, and you think it's haunting me? They're freaks, Sally. Mutants. Nature's own demons. They kill without a thought, and they deserve to die. Maybe now," he added, stirring the crucible's contents, "they will."
"You did it," Sally said abruptly. "You killed them all. You developed the disease and you gave it to them."
Her father's laugh this time was less mirthless and more manic. "I didn't give them the disease," he said. "They already had it themselves. The bacteria just feed off of it - their abnormal longevity, their psychic crap, and don't get me started on their diet. The whole of what they are is wrong, and I'm just giving natural selection a little nudge."
"I could have died today," said Sally, her voice dangerous. "Your stupid experiment made a woman attack me! I'm sorry, Dad, but I have to bring you in. You haven't left me a choice."
She raised her pistol to chest height.
"Are you going to shoot me, darling?" asked her father. "To save those evil creatures? Your mother would be so disappointed."
SHERLOCK HOLMES
When Sherlock and John arrived at the Yard, Lestrade called everybody into his office.
"Where's Sally?" he asked, scanning the faces of the crowd.
"Bathroom," one of the officers offered. "Went probably... ten minutes ago?"
"And no one has seen her in all that time?" Lestrade frowned. "That's not like her."
"When exactly did she leave?" asked Sherlock.
"Not long after you hung up on us, I think," said Anderson. "Rather rudely, too, I might add."
"Shut up," Sherlock ordered. "Why hasn't she come back? It's completely non sequitur."
A woman in forensics stepped into the office. "I just checked the ladies' room - she's not there."
"She must have left," Sherlock murmured. "Why? It must have been something I said."
"I doubt it," Anderson snorted. "You spent most of your time having a go at me - I don't think you said a single thing to -"
"I didn't mean that," the detective cut him off. "Something I said on the phone must have registered with her. She'd have no reason to go to St. Bart's... Oh!" Sherlock's eyes widened. "Maybe she knows the killer! Lestrade, you know Sally well enough. Is she acquainted with anyone fitting the profile I gave you?"
Lestrade floundered over his response. "Why... I - I don't know. I mean, her father was always a bit of a racist git, and he was a biochemist, but -"
"Where does he live?"
With the detective inspector's squad clearing the way, Sherlock and John's taxi arrived quickly at the Donovan flat. The detective picked the lock and motioned for Lestrade to follow quietly. Stepping lightly on the floorboards, the self-proclaimed genius picked out a noiseless path across the old wood, beckoning John to where he stood by what could only be the basement door.
Listening carefully, they could hear a man's voice.
"Are you going to shoot me, darling? To save those evil creatures? Your mother would be so disappointed."
There was a scuffle and the sound of flesh hitting bone, followed immediately by a cry made in Sally's voice. Nodding to John, Sherlock tore down the stairs and made it just in time to kick the sergeant's pistol out of her father's reach.
"Now, now, none of that," he said.
"Sherlock?" Donovan gaped at him. "I mean - Freak? What are you doing here?"
"Giving the detective inspector a hand, as per the usual." Sherlock dusted himself off and turned to the man glaring at him through slitted eyes. "You are under arrest for the development and distribution of xenocidic drugs and the resulting first-degree murder of at least eleven civilians," the detective informed him. "You have the right to remain silent and blah blah blah - I can't actually put you in handcuffs; we'll have to leave that to someone with a real police badge."
"You think you're awfully clever," the senior Donovan sneered. "But I know what you are."
In a burst of speed and agility for which Sherlock had been utterly unprepared, the man grabbed the detective by the coat lapels and shoved him against the wall. He rubbed his thumb across the detective's forehead, and grinned at the film of concealer that came off with it.
"I knew it," he breathed. "You're too clever to be human."
He pulled a syringe full of maroon liquid from out of his jacket and pressed the needle against the detective's jugular. Sherlock could feel his pupils dilating in fear - he had observed the contents of the lab table and knew that the serum the chemist was holding was a much deadlier strain of the bacteria. Blood would prove an inadequate medicinal.
"Dad, let him go!" Donovan shouted.
"Why should I?" the man practically hissed. "He's no better than the scum that killed your mother - hell, last I heard, you couldn't stand him yourself."
"Dad - he saved my life today."
In the silence which followed this pronouncement, one could have heard a pin drop.
"What?" Donovan's father asked.
"You heard me," Donovan spat quietly. "Your little experiment could have killed me this afternoon, and Sherlock Holmes saved my life, much good may it do him."
There was another moment of silence, which, when it was broken, was by laughter which even Donovan perceived as sounding unhinged.
"Then they've won already, haven't they?" the man asked. "You're choosing them over me, your own flesh and blood!"
"No, Dad," said Sally, retrieving her gun from the floor and aiming it steadily. "You chose this when you broke the law and killed all those vampyres. You knew the consequences."
"Are you going to shoot me, Sally?" her father asked. "You couldn't before. Better do it quick, because I'm going to kill this son of a bitch."
He moved the syringe to drive it into Sherlock's neck, but he was interrupted by a gun shot.
Curling around his bleeding calf from where he fell to the floor, Donovan Sr. turned his glare to John, who was sliding his Browning's back into his coat and descending the stairs.
"She won't shoot you," the doctor said, "but I will."
In the aftermath of the altercation, all parties were too busy making arrests, handing out shock blankets, refusing shock blankets, and spreading the news of the perpetrator's capture to leave much time for discussion. It was only the following week, while they waited outside the courtroom doors for the jury's decision regarding Mr. Donovan's guilt or innocence, that Sherlock, John, and Sally Donovan found themselves alone together.
"You know," the sergeant began, "I still can't stand you."
John gave her a look of total disbelief, but Sherlock just tipped his head and said, "The feeling is mutual."
"Good," she said. "Then you won't read too much into it when I say that I think we're square."
"I don't read too much into anything," was the detective's only reply.
"Alright. Then we're square."
"Yes, yes," Sherlock sighed. "And you can return to hating everything from my DNA to my coat without any lingering feelings of guilt whatsoever."
"You are a thankless arse," Donovan announced. She rounded on John. "Why do you put up with him?"
The doctor caught Sherlock by the waist and pulled him closer. "Because he's my thankless arse," he answered fondly.