Any sensible young man who had access to a one way ticket out of Sunnydale would have taken it the night he was attacked. But Sherlock Holmes, of course, was not quite like anybody else. After that night, Sherlock became something of a fixture in the Sunnydale library, even abandoning his illicit experiments in the chem lab. For a long time, he merely sat hidden among the stacks, pouring over books about all sorts of mad, impossible things. Vampires, he quickly learned, were probably the tamest things the supernatural world had to offer. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of various types of demons and paranormal beings — things that looked like humans but in actuality were giant insects, like the preying mantis demons that lured unsuspecting human males (strictly virgins, peculiarly enough) to mate with them, only to (as natural mantises did) decapitate the sperm donor once the act of copulation was complete. After reading that, Sherlock looked askance at some of the females in Sunnydale High — the computer teacher, Ms. Calendar, in particular looked like she might be a likely mantis lady; she certainly seemed alluring enough. He watched her interact with Mr. Giles, however, as well as the strange occult-fighting crew that was led by Buffy Summers, and concluded that Ms. Calendar was far too warm-blooded to be a bug. She practically lit up in an embarrassing display of sentiment — with just a touch of human mating ritual — each time she interacted with Mr. Giles. Still, he thought as he watched her with the others, she was estranged from the rest of the group; a bit of an outsider. He quickly grew bored of trying to puzzle her out, however, and chalked it up to her, like him, being somewhat new in town.

He hadn't seen or heard from the strange woman he met in the alley right before the attack, although he did find himself alarmingly prone to dreaming about her. This was strange, he thought. He wasn't immune to dreams of a sexual nature — he was, after all, a sixteen-year-old boy. Those dreams were more or less forgettable, though, or easily taken care of in the morning in the rare instances when they were not. The dreams involving the woman from the alleyway, though, were different. He assumed she was a vampire, but he couldn't say for sure — why hadn't she attacked him, after all? Why was she content simply to speak to him, and to leave him to the vampire that Buffy then slew? He awoke from each dream of her with the curious certainty that she had been there in his room — but that, he'd learned, was really impossible. It appeared that the lore, on that front, was true: a vampire couldn't come into a home unless it was invited.

Still, he awoke from those dreams feeling odd and restless, and couldn't stop thinking about her. She beckoned to him in his dreams with her pale, delicate hands, with promises to show him strange and wonderful things: creatures he'd never imagined, dimensions just outside reach of this one, if only he would follow her. He shook off the feeling of longing that lingered on the echoes of her words each morning; sentiment, after all, was a ridiculous indulgence, Mycroft taught him that. And life wasn't a seedy romance novel, he reminded himself viciously; he'd be damned if he was going to play the part of some helpless, lovestruck idiot to a vampire. Certainly not when there were so many more interesting things to learn about in this supernatural little town.

Now he listened as Buffy and her friends tried to figure out the disappearance of a girl from a neighboring town. All they had to go on was a bracelet with the letters -ENT engraved on it. Sherlock, who aside from learning all he could about the various species that populated the underworld (for lack of a better term) also learned a bit about the geography of Sunnydale and the towns surrounding it, thought Kent, immediately. He remained quietly in the stacks, however, content to listen. His fingers absently traced the slime covered antlers of a chaos demon depicted in the book that was open on his lap. Scattered around him — he was moderately surprised that Mr. Giles just kept all these books out for anyone to pick up, but then, none of the other students ever bothered to come to the library — were more books about demons and their dimensions. There were certain localities scattered across the world that deemed centers of mystical convergence. Given the number of species one might find in California, Sherlock was quickly becoming certain that Sunnydale was one such place. (Cleveland, apparently, was another. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of this.)

"Kent!" Willow cried. "That's it!"

"Her boyfriend's name is Kent?"

"No, Kent Preparatory School!" Sherlock smiled as he listened to Willow typing away furiously at the computer. She was apparently quite a gifted hacker, and was quickly able to access the records on the missing girl - most likely the unfortunate owner of that bracelet. Giles's immediate reaction was to call for Buffy, but -

"No!" Willow yelped. She reminded Giles that Buffy was purportedly home sick with her mother. Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was an obvious lie; Sherlock would have been able to deduce that even if he hadn't heard Buffy and the queen bee - Cordy, a monstrous shortening of the perfectly acceptable Cordelia - talking in the cafeteria about the party they were going to tonight.

Willow's voice took on a guilty, worried quality as she quickly uncovered stories of more missing girls. Sherlock sat up straighter at this, the demonology book falling forgotten from his hands. Giles seemed to think the girls had been murdered, and Sherlock was inclined to agree. Several murders over the course of several years, he thought. Intriguing.

He wondered if the motivations for such crimes were different the closer to one got to such centers of mystical convergence as Sunnydale.

He considered, briefly, walking downstairs to ask if he could help them in their investigation. In the few days since Buffy saved his life and revealed her secret identity — which, really, Sherlock was somewhat embarrassed he hadn't caught onto earlier; she and her friends talked constantly in the hallway about patrolling, and training, and weapons, when they weren't referencing demons by name — he hadn't even attempt to say thank you, or speak to them at all. Willow, sometimes, smiled at him in the hallway, but the three of them were a hard clique to break into, and he'd never had much of a talent for socializing to begin with. He would hardly admit this, however, and barely allowed the thought to cross his mind; he rather liked keeping a low profile in Sunnydale High: reading alone in the library so quietly that Mr. Giles was hardly ever even aware he was there; eavesdropping on the "Scoobies" various cases, all without running the risk of someone locking him in a closet for hours, or sending him home in nothing but his pants.

Disgruntled at the unwanted memory, he shifted against the shelves and turned his attention back to his research. He reminded himself that they weren't always interesting: Buffy was quite often complaining about someone named Angel, and if she left off that for a solitary second, Willow starting pining for Xander. Sherlock didn't trust himself to intercede in a conversation of that nature in any way that would make them inclined to let him stick around.

And Xander was just too dull for words.

He turned the page and started to read about ancient hyena spirits that holy men channeled in order to gain the strength to perform feats of startlingly vicious natures, and then about demons that stalked their prey, invisible, immobilizing their victims with poison and then skinning them slowly, consuming their flesh. Tapping his finger on the word poison, Sherlock wondered if any of those demons lived in Sunnydale, and if there would be any way he could possible find one — how would one learn to be able to see the invisible? Surely they left tracks of some kind, and he was quite keen on studying the toxin they produced; how would it compare, for example, to the venom of a spider, or snake?

Looking up from the picture of a half skinned man writhing in agony, Sherlock noticed that the library had gone completely silent. Willow and Giles must have left. Sherlock stood up, cracked his back, and went about putting all the books away in their proper places. He went downstairs into Mr. Giles's office and found the spare key to the weapons closet. He slipped a vial of Holy Water into his pocket and grabbed a ubiquitous stake and, impulsively, picked up a brutal looking mace, certain it wouldn't be missed among the plethora of other weapons. As he was heading towards the door, the phone from Giles's office began to ring. He ignored it and continued out the door, and it stopped, and then started ringing again, seemingly more insistently.

Sherlock sighed. Mycroft.

He stalked into the office and picked up the phone.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft. How?"

"I tried calling the chemistry lab first, naturally, but when nobody picked up, I felt certain that this was the only other place in Sunnydale I was likely to reach you."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"How's the host family?" Mycroft asked smoothly. Sherlock could practically see the gloating smile on his brother's face.

"Terrible, and I suppose I've got you to thank for that."

"Not at all, Sherlock! Harmony seemed like such a lovely girl!"

"How's Lavinia? Has Mummy tried to freeze her out yet?"

"That's enough."

Sherlock smirked. "What do you want, Mycroft?" he asked. "It's nearly one over there…fancied a midnight snack and thought you'd ring me up, did you?"

"Funny. Actually, I called to see if perhaps you wanted to end your stay early?" Mycroft said.

"Oh, Mycroft, it sounds as if you miss me. I'm touched."

"Hardly. Mummy would quite like to have you back, though. She's forgiven you completely for the orchids and wants her darling baby boy back home." Mycroft expelled a long-suffering breath. "Personally, I'm inclined to leave you there indefinitely."

"Well, I think I may take you up on that."

"Come again?"

"I want to stay."

"Why?"

Sherlock wondered idly if Mycroft knew about the vampires, demons, and assorted forces of darkness that, until a few days ago, Sherlock had thought were the things of fiction. His brother's serious face rose up in his thoughts, his hairline already slightly receding, frown-lines already beginning to be etched into his face; occupying a minor position in the British government wasn't without its drawbacks. No, he decided; Mycroft couldn't possibly know about the vampires. There were too many more other practical concerns for a man like him to be worried about.

"It's less dull that I thought it would be."

"And nobody beats you to a pulp there yet, do they?"

Sherlock clenched his teeth and forced himself not to respond. He would stay; that was decided. But he wasn't about to risk having to stay with Harmony for the rest of the semester.

"Well, I'm rather surprised. A week and a half and no one's tried to kill you. Mummy would be so proud."

Well, Sherlock thought, that depends on your definition of 'someone,' brother dear. He rather liked keeping a secret of this magnitude from his brother.

"I'm almost proud of you, too."

"That's all I could ever hope for," Sherlock said impatiently. "So, can I stay?"

"I'll have to talk to Mummy about it. You know how she worries so."

"Mycroft!"

"Very well, I'm sure it's fine. I will have to send someone along to be your handler, though, most likely. Mummy would never consent to let you live over their on your own. You might go off and become an actor or something equally dreadful."

"Fine," Sherlock said.

"Oh, and Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice was tinny as Sherlock held the phone away from his ear.

"Yes?"

"Do be careful, while you're there." Mycroft hung up with a click.