A/N: Aussiemaelstrom, thank you for being a fabulous beta! She's patient, as this chapter got away from me, but here it is for you to read.

And I heard your voice as clear as day

And you told me I should concentrate

It was all so strange

And so surreal

That a ghost should be so practical

Only if for a night

1990 PT2

White layers caked the streets now, the snow tumbling down on the city below with a glacial ferocity, unlike the city's usual melancholy gleam during wintertime. The streets were barren, emptied out, though the occasional shout from a youth would echo in the dark cold.

It was steps that thrust the snow aside, bags rattling loudly with un-opened bottles of lager that made noise, until those sounds were gone.

A police car interrupted the white scenery, its blue lights shining against the grim brimstones before flickering shut. The car skidded to a halt between two buildings, surveying the idle street, its engine turned off, leaving the wind to howl soundly.

Inside the car a young sergeant sat.

His hat was still perched on top of his head, though he quickly stripped it off and tended to his dark hair that clung to his sweaty forehead. Beside him a dark-skinned officer sat with a coffee cup pressed against his lips to hide his amusement, while the younger stared eagerly out of the car window.

With poorly disguised excitement Sergeant Greg Lestrade beheld the streets, which he had hoped would be riddled with people, considering their stakeout, but they were the opposite of that, "Are we going to keep an eye out on kids all night?" he said leaning back in his seat disgruntled.

Greg had hoped he wouldn't be sitting on his arse all night, because keeping an eye out on youths was tiring work, more mentally than physically. The worst things that kids did were either taking a slash against a wall while pissed, or causing a brawl in a pub. Then they'd have to calm the lot of them, while possibly getting a bottle knocked on their heads because of some prick posh kid with a large mouth, or write them a ticket for indecent public behaviour. Try writing a ticket for a ponce in the middle of the night, sprinting off with his trousers half-down his knees.

At least it wasn't a domestic.

He was sick of them, sick of breaking another tired-looking woman who smelt of stale cigarettes from her cheating spouse ("Fucking some cunt, ain't he? The fucking wanker, I'm gonna fucking kill 'im!"). It made him especially fond of his girlfriend, which he suspected she liked quite a bit. Despite that, at least it wasn't tending to old ladies who'd be off their heads about their foreign neighbours nicking their things, when those things would simply be misplaced in a cupboard ("I suspect it's that Turk – he's always sneaking about.")

He'd been on the job for about three months, and he already felt bloody tired. It just wasn't what he thought it would be like, though he knew what they did was good, and in fact rather helpful, it still didn't feel right. Greg knew he'd have to work his way to the top, after all, it was better than getting a desk-job handed to him like his dad wanted him to do ("I don't think you'd stomach proper police-work, Greg").

Sergeant Donovan, much more senior than him, and with a distinctive deep voice said, "They're predicting the lights will go off tonight – like two weeks ago – so we're here in case of rioting."

Donovan was older than him, wearier too, but he enjoyed every bit of their work, and managed to smooth over any odd wrinkle in any circumstance ("It's just seniority, that's all. You'll get the hang of it.").

"Not exactly any posh shops around though," said Greg pointedly, not exactly familiar with the street itself, but it was terribly quiet compared to the central places.

He suspected his father had a hand in it. When the lights had gone off earlier that week it had been panic in the streets of London (obviously he should stop listening to the Smiths), Greg crossed his arms waiting patiently for Donovan's reply.

The policeman only shook his head chuckling, "I know it might be difficult for you Greg, but, if they tell us to take a street for the night, we'll do it. Anyway, that's what usually happens on Friday nights – pissed kids, not glamorous murders."

"I just thought it be a bit – more – really."

"What do you expect? It's Christmas. Most of them are indoors. When you're around my age you'll be happy sitting in the car instead of having to tackle some drunk kid to the ground."

"We're not even going to – go – out, then?" he said gesturing towards the snow, "OK – I see your point," letting his hand fall down grudgingly, half-grinning at Donovan.

"If you want a walk - then go outside - enjoy the blissful cold on your bollocks, but you'll be running straight back in here again," said Donovan emptying his cup.

"Right…" said Greg as his eyes darted around to view the street, "I just thought we'd be in a busier street."

Donovan let out a breath, "I know it might not look like it, considering how empty it's right now, but this is one of the worst areas. It's the quiet ones you've got to watch for – if you're in a crowded street, people act out because one knob head is shouting, but here… someone wants to get away with something. I don't let my Sally wander around in the night, especially not here. There's enough dodgy clubs, and enough blokes who think just because it's quiet nobody will be watching. We're here to put the idiots off."

He agreed of course, it was difficult not to, despite awkwardly shifting in his seat over the fact that he'd been wanting something bad to happen, just so he wouldn't be bored.

"We're here to prevent, not to stop," said Donovan finally, "It might be a while before you learn that properly. It's not all murder, you know. We're not all going to end up on the cover of a paper looked up to as a hero – they'll most likely be taking the piss most of the time, which they do. Just try to do good, it's all that matters in the end."

Greg raised a brow, "That's a bit more high-brow than I expected – you certain you didn't pick the wrong job? You could have been a philosopher."

"I read," said Donovan darkly, "Anyway, you'll stop being an idiot after some years."

"Thanks," said Greg with a hollow laugh. "But…you'll probably catch the big fish some day – with a dad like yours."

Greg turned round from Donovan giving a breath, "I'm not expecting a high-class job."

"No, I know. You didn't take the one your dad offered after all, and that says more about you than you know."

"What does it say then?"

"That you're an idiot," said Donovan putting aside his now empty coffee cup on the dash. The radio in the car was very quiet, with the odd word once in a while, but nothing else. The pair of them settled into the silence for a bit.

"I just wanted to start from scratch," said Greg, stifled by the silence.

"It's an odd move, but I respect that – I know a lot of blokes up top who have never been out on the streets. It would help if one of them actually didn't have his head up his arse for once."

"You calling my dad an arse?" said Greg with a laugh.

"A bit – yeah – he's a bit of a -," Donovan started, though something caught the corner of Greg's eye. He turned his head briefly to the front, soon taken aback by what was in the street.

There was a young man.

He was wearing only a t-shirt in the freezing cold, one that was caked with blood, as he was leaning on his knees. The young man seemed rather out of breath, apparently having just stopped, and staring wide-eyed at their car. He straightened up, mouthing something at them, looking close to deranged, though his eyes raked over to the right all of a sudden.

Greg opened the car-door, one leg out, as he wondered what was going on, but the boy's head turned to the right again. He paled at the sight of something, taking to sprint off at top-speed.

"What the-," but the words were barely out of his mouth, when he saw why the boy was running. From the right an older man appeared, without any blood on his leatherjacket, obviously running after the boy.

"Bloody hell," said Donovan who immediately started the car-engine.

Stepping out of the car, Greg said, "I'll go on foot, I'm not sure we'll catch him with this," he said, slamming the car door behind him, before he followed their trail.

The snow was coming down in buckets, though he could see the dark shapes ahead of him, as blood rushed through his head. His heart was pounding madly and he regretted for even wishing for anything exciting. This was the usual, another angry skinhead wanting to rip some posh kids head off, and obviously by the blood on the boy's shirt he'd managed to cause him some damage.

Greg was surprised by the sounds of swearing behind him, briefly turning round to see Donovan running after him with his long legs, keeping up decently for a man his age.

The boy skidded on the next corner, almost loosing his footing and giving a cry, before he turned in to another street.

That was his mistake.

Unlike Greg, the kid didn't know that this was a dead-end, though he was glad the chase was over as he and Donovan followed them into the much darker alley. Only a few streetlights worked here, which was probably why the kid got confused and thought he'd gotten lucky. The boy was now clamouring at the brick wall at the end, desperately trying to grab at it but only ended up falling flat on his arse.

He whimpered loudly, as Greg heard the distinct sound of something snapping. His pursuer, however, was taking slow steps towards the wall, edging closer to the boy – "Police! Stop!" Greg said holding a hand out, slightly breathless, blinking against the snow.

He brought out his baton as a caution, seeing the skinhead had stopped in his stride, and felt a bit eased by that. Except that the man didn't turn around, instead he only kept his fists clenched at his sides. The man was large, broad shouldered, with a thick neck that suited him, and his pristine leatherjacket. He looked like someone who'd break your nose easily if he'd get a throw in, and Greg was all-too familiar with his type.

Donovan was keeping quiet behind him, obviously trying to let him steer this one on his own, "Sir – if you'll just step over here – we'll have a little chat, and we'll work this out, ok?" he said with a calm voice. Screaming at the man would only encourage him to act out, that he knew at least, so he tried to keep his tone even.

He didn't reply, causing Greg's shoulders to hunch a bit in annoyance, though he felt sudden unease as the man cracked the knuckles of his large hands instead. He was used to this kind of behaviour, people hating police – the establishment – 'the man' – he half-way expected some writing on the back of the man's leatherjacket, but it was blank. Yet there was something really wrong with this, and he didn't know why he felt like that, but for once he was afraid.

He blamed Donovan for letting him go at it alone, since obviously now was not the time to let him learn, but with an uneasy glance at Donovan he tried again, "Sir – please – step away from the boy, or we will have to use force," he said with a much sterner voice.

Now the man's response was to turn his head slowly to the left – a loud crack followed – then to the right – another crack. Greg's confidence fell, looking to Donovan who raised his brows at him in return. He was as bewildered as he was.

The boy at the front was clutching at the wall, desperately, his knee given out from the fall. His eyes were set on his pursuer, wide and scared, "Please – just – let me go," he said, though the skinhead didn't make a remark.

He barely even moved an inch, standing his ground, and Greg almost felt like grabbing the man's arm now.

"Please," repeated the boy, though the skinhead's continued silence made him stifle a sob, as he hid behind his hands.

This wasn't some smug city boy; this was just a kid who'd gotten into some serious trouble, and Greg felt his own ire kick up a notch. "Sir?" he said letting his anger be known as he gripped firmly at his baton, while Donovan slid his one out as well.

They were at least two, he thought as he looked at Donovan who was the tallest of the pair of them. He might be older than him, but he was a heavyset man; what he lacked in speed – he made up in strength, "Sir – move towards the wall to your right, and put your hands on the wall – or else we will force you there," said Donovan with knitted brows.

The sheer command in his voice settled Greg a bit, though the skinhead didn't budge, but he finally spoke, "Food."

He stopped in his track, almost loosing the grip on his baton, as he felt himself taking a step back. Even Donovan seemed frightened, the older man meeting his eyes with a bewildered look on his face, as Greg felt the hairs on his neck stand on end, "Well – we'll buy you a meal, then – if he's nicked your food. It'll be alright," he said carefully, the words spilling out before he could stop them, but Donovan didn't begrudge him those.

"Food,"– a phrase so familiar – but those words coming out from that man's lips…It was different, seeming almost not human, as though he'd said something dark.

Greg's stomach twisted into knots, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, as he felt like he could throw up. It was like he'd woken up wrong, like those words weren't being said aloud– like they were in his mind, crawling into the dark corners, and expelling inside his head, tearing at his brain. The sheer thought felt odd, everything about it felt off, and Greg wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. His body almost made him do so, his steps going backwards.

Donovan broke through the fear, "He's obviously off his head," he said looking to him, but his brown eyes looked like he felt the same.

They both wanted to leave – but they were supposed to sort this out, and Greg almost found that he couldn't, "Right – ok – we'll get you food," said Donovan who somehow managed to edge closer to the man's back, holding his baton steady in his hand, as he jerked his head towards Greg.

His every instinct told him to run, to hide, to do anything but move closer, and it was then the skinhead finally turned to face them. He looked down at them with dead eyes, which somehow seemed red, while his mouth broke out in a wide smile.

At any other time he'd feel calmed by this, since any other man would obviously be pissed if he was smiling the way this man was, but this was no ordinary man. His face was pale, and his teeth – were pointed - every single one of them sharp and yellowed.

He gaped at him, seeing Donovan leap backwards in shock, as Greg felt bile crawl up his throat.

The skinhead dropped the grin, allowing his words to fill the air, undeterred by the snow, "I'm a bit peckish now, copper – and you look more than a twig," he said with blazing red eyes, it was not a trick of the light, "Wouldn't you like that? Fill me right up, you two would. Come let's be friends."

His arms stretched out to the sides, greeting them, welcoming them, as his voice did not bring fear now, "I will only be your friend."

Greg felt suddenly lighter, the unease drifting off his shoulders, as a sense of calm washed over him, filling him, heating him up where the cold nipped at his body. He felt the baton slip from his hand, allowing it to clatter to the ground, as his mind was carefree.

He'd been such an idiot.

He couldn't understand why he'd been so worried.

This man was no threat.

There was kindness in his eyes, in his smile, features that had seconds ago repulsed him were lovelier than he'd ever seen, and he saw the friendly hand that beckoned him forwards. He would grasp that hand, and hold it for comfort.

He was annoyed when Donovan got there first, feeling frustration, as his friend was occupied. His friend was now grabbing Donovan by the shoulders. There was nothing to fear here, it was only a mix-up after all, and he could see the young boy by the wall agreeing with him. His face was less peaky, and he seemed to be trying to drag himself forward.

No, Greg would be next to shake his friends hand.

Don't.

It was a thought he did not fully understand, disturbing the docile turns of his mind, and he found himself stilling in his actions.

Run.

For a second it almost sounded like himself, but that sounded wrong. He didn't have anything to worry about, for it was evident that his friend only wanted to give Donovan a much-deserved hug.

Go.

He started to laugh, as the concept of running was absolutely ridiculous. He didn't have any reason to run, even Donovan was laughing with him, and even the boy was. The three of them were laughing, amidst the snow with their friend, and he felt nothing but bliss.

It's a lie.

Greg's laughter turned short, though his grin did not fade, but his cheeks hurt from the action. The small voice in his head turned larger, louder, and stronger – giving him a headache. He'd almost managed to shake it away, starting to laugh once more, when blood sprayed his face.

He blinked, blood and snow cluttering up his sight, as he tried to rub it away, "Oh, that's-," he said mystified by the appearance, though not scared, nor shocked.

Then it came, hurtling forwards out of nowhere, disturbing the peace like a stab at his heart; a bloodcurdling scream.

As if someone had turned on the lights he saw what was going on.

He saw the blood on the snow.

He saw Donovan.

Donovan's mouth was gaping, his eyes unblinking, as he lay on his back on the ground. Perched on top of him was the skinhead.

Greg could not see what was going on, only hear the sound of bones being crunched, a sickening sound of liquids and entrails, as the man covered Donovan with his frame.

He drew in a shaky breath, finding his footing, as he couldn't find his voice. He felt like shouting, but he didn't have the capacity to do so. But he saw it, he saw the man bite into Donovan's throat, tearing flesh, breaking into bone, and chewing soundly.

Donovan wasn't shouting, neither was his body giving any fight, and Greg knew, he knew he was dead, but he didn't want to believe it. This wasn't real – Donovan wasn't being eaten. No man could just eat another, that's not how the world worked, that's not how his world worked – that option was not real, that belonged anywhere else but here.

Donovan had been fine, he'd been on his feet just seconds ago, and now he was dead? "Jesus," Greg said, his eyes burning up.

He couldn't believe it, couldn't begin to comprehend what the fuck was going on as the skinhead finally stood up.

When Greg's eyes went to Donovan he knew the man was gone. He was replaced by flesh, by nerves, and by blood. Nothing of his friend was left, the man was gone, and Greg felt himself visibly shake at the sight.

He tried to pull himself together, battling with his mind, as he knew he was being stared at - two glowing red eyes following his every movement. Whoever this man was, whatever he was, he'd have to try to stop him - he'd have to stop him - or die trying.

Blood was dripping from the skinheads chin, but he didn't seem bothered. He was too busy licking every scrap of blood from his bloodied fangs, showing off his long sharp tongue, as he raised his brows at Greg, "Now – are you going to run?" he said pointing behind him.

He was giving him an option, an option that almost tempted him, but sense – responsibility – to the young man who seemed to have returned to his own senses grew in his chest.

"No," he said defiantly, glad that no voice in his head was telling him off for staying this time around, and that he wasn't turned into some grinning idiot. He almost wished that would return, since the anger, the fear was starting to take its toll.

"I like 'em better when they run," said the skinhead like he'd offended him.

Greg genuinely felt like laughing, but he couldn't get it out. He caught the eyes of the boy that were fixed on Donovan on the ground, "Run," he said, but the boy only looked at him. He tried, but his leg wouldn't let him. The kid would never have a chance if he didn't do something, but he knew – that unlike him – Donovan did pack a gun.

"You're telling him – to run? Fat lot that'll do for him copper – I'll have him in no time, you're just a snack in-between," said the skinhead who let out a barking laugh.

The baton was by his feet, and the gun was on Donovan's mangled body; neither was at hand. And neither could be retrieved without bending down giving the man an advantage, and he already had several.

His mind raced for an answer, mouth turning dry, as he felt adrenaline surge inside of him. Greg still had his wits about him, still had his mind, and so he ran towards the man throwing his right hand forwards to his face. The man caught it in his hand effortlessly, and Greg tried to wrench it loose, but nails dug into his skin.

They felt like sharp blades, puncturing the skin of his hand, drawing blood, as his knees buckled under him. Looking up at the deadened red eyes, he tried to wrestle himself out of the man's claws, but that only made it worse. Bones broke underneath the man's grip, and Greg's moan became a scream, "You don't look afraid – you should be," said the man with the unpleasant voice again, the voice that made him want to run, to hide at the edge of the world.

He could feel the hand tugging him upwards, he saw the fangs bearing down upon him, and he tried to say something to the boy. Greg wanted him to go, he'd have enough time, time he obviously didn't have anymore of…and he knew this would be his last…

"Original," said a voice.

He didn't know who was more surprised, him or the skinhead who's sharp nails dug deeper into his hand. Blood was gushing down from where his nails stayed, running down to the ground, and Greg tried to turn around to the source of the voice. If he was lucky this was someone who could help – another policeman – anyone, at all. But could anyone stop this?

He doubted it.

"Who are you?" spat the man, releasing Greg's hand, causing him to pull his hand back to his chest.

He couldn't unfurl his hand at all, every ounce of strength in it gone, but at least he was out of the man's grip. He turned to where the newcomer approached them. A man was standing where yellowed light didn't fall, as a streetlight was broken overhead. Squinting at the figure, he tried to make out the man, but couldn't see him properly. Whoever it was started to move forward, his steps languid, until light flooded down on him.

His dark hair fluttered against the wind, snow settling itself in his curls, as his deep crimson eyes shone at them, amused. He was the opposite of the skinhead, well dressed – well kept, and somehow at ease, despite the monstrous scene.

Greg's insides thrashed uncertainly, hoping the red eyes were a trick of the light, but it wasn't. A fact he found hard to admit to himself, though the throbbing pain in his hand confirmed it, seizing against his chest – this was real – all of it was.

"You're – you're supposed to be dead!" barked the skinhead, losing every single bit of the timbre that made Greg's skin crawl, now he sounded frightened.

He didn't know whether to be happy or not, slowly crawling on the ground towards Donovan. He hoped he'd find some sign of life, a slow breath, and a pulse - anything, but he knew he wouldn't. Greg didn't have enough time or strength to fight off one man right now, or even two for that matter. He just hoped that Donovan had his gun on him…

"Am I now?" said the stranger with a grimace, seeming annoyed, as Greg found Donovan's gun.

He tried gripping it with his right, stifling a whimper at the attempt, switching to his un-broken hand, almost losing grip due to the blood.

With the last bit of strength in him, he got up on his feet staggering towards where the boy was leaning against the brick wall. He fell down besides him, unable to keep himself up, trying to save his energy.

Frantic whisperings hit his ear at that, "The club – there's – there's…" the boy said, clinging at the collar of his jacket, while Greg's eyes tore over the scene with the two men.

Neither of them was speaking, staring only at each other in silence, allowing the snow to cover them, while it hid the remnants of blood on the ground. Finally the boy got the words out, while Greg's nerves grew, "They're – they're vampires."

He shook his head automatically, driven on by pure instinct, by logic, and all sense in the world. The kid was obviously drugged, so were these men, but he knew that wasn't true. He knew it by the sight of Donovan, by the throbbing in his hand, which would make the gun absolutely pointless to carry. He could barely hold it in his left; instead he tried to stretch his right hand over his leg shoving the pain aside.

He'd have to will his hand to be better.

"What's your name?" Greg said out of the corner of his mouth.

The boy looked startled at that, shook even, "T – T – Tim," he said with shattering teeth.

"Shut up Tim," he whispered with anger in his voice, as he kept his eyes on the scene.

If the men would talk he'd feel better, at least they'd be distracted enough, and maybe he and the kid could leave unscathed.

"Is it really you, though?" said the skinhead.

Greg tried to grip at Tim's shoulder, tried to pull him up with him, but his own knees gave under the idea. He'd have to wait, wait long enough, and maybe the pair would leave. It was another hopeful thought, pathetic at best, but the only thing he had right now.

"Yes," the other man enunciated heavily, leaning forward, rolling his eyes.

"Well, then, I've got no problem returning you back to your grave," said the skinhead with menace, dragging the sleeve of his leather-jacket over his chin.

The stranger didn't look scared, neither did he flinch or step away from the skinhead. "I'd like to see you try," he said smirking.

Tim was wheezing soundly besides him, "Oh God – oh god-," he said, and Greg felt like shoving him the hell away. He wanted the boy to run, but he seemed to have given up entirely.

Both men were sizing each other up again, though the skinhead was doing the same like he did with them, crackling his knuckles, then his neck, and probably throwing the stranger his wide-grin. There was no way this skinny bloke would manage to tackle him, however confident he seemed. This was a match the man would never manage, red eyes or not, but Greg had only blinked – when the skinhead fell to his knees with a loud yell.

"What?" he heard himself say, while Tim stiffened at his side.

Crying out, the man spat out blackened blood that spread thickly over the snowy ground. He keeled over not long after that with a loud thump, his cry of pain silenced – "Boring," said the stranger exhaling into the air.

Greg stared at the man gaping, wondering what the hell he'd just seen, as that couldn't have happened so quickly? But it had to, for in the man's gloved hand was a dark bloodied heart. It throbbed soundly with its dark veins poking out, until it to his astonishment slowly dissolved into ash. Where the rest of the skinhead's large body had fallen there was a scorch mark on the ground – dark and messy. He looked to where Donovan was, before his eyes flickered to the ash.

He'd ripped his heart out.

Greg couldn't believe it, as the stranger's crimson eyes turned to him and the boy. His expression was not that of hunger, but mild curiosity. Somehow that scared him more, and he found himself shaking, as he tried to hold the gun in his hand.

It was a struggle to keep the gun upwards, and he bit his teeth together, preparing for whatever fresh hell would be unleashed on him. He'd die saving the boy – he would without hesitation, but the stranger folded his hands behind his back. The man's red eyes went towards Donovan's body, until those red hues reverted to blue, and settled upon his own face.

He strode forwards, as Greg started to steer the nozzle of his gun towards the man, intending to shoot if he came any closer.

His hand was poised on the trigger, waiting and watching, as the man said, "Call for backup, sergeant."

Greg hadn't expected that, neither did he expect the man to walk away, his dark coat billowing after him. The sight of his back didn't ease him, though Greg found himself able to stand, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Holding the gun upright by pressing his left underneath it, he shouted, "Who the hell are you?" The man did not stop in his stride, nor did he turn, only disappearing off, as Greg lowered his gun in shock.

"Vampire," said Tim softly, and Greg did not find himself disagreeing this time.