A/N: Ok, I know this chapter is looooooooooooooooooong overdue. Sorry about that, you know how I am *_* Anyway, I've been soooooo absorbed in my life (which is mostly school) that I HAVE NOT HAD TO TIME TO ACTUALLY WRITE THIS CHAPTER! But now I've finished it, so I hope you like it. Apologies in advance, I'm being very lazy right now.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter 2
Sherlock glided calmly through the silent halls, suddenly bored by the people constantly jumping out at him. It was quite easy to spot their hiding places, once he entered the room. He had thought maybe they might do a better job, since this was a WORLD RENOWNED haunted house. John had been quite surprised, though. Maybe he was just hard to scare.
As Sherlock walked, he thought about the note that had brought him here. Of course he wouldn't just randomly go to a haunted house. That would be absurd. He took the note out of his coat pocket, examining it for the second time that day.
It was middle-class stationary, nothing special. The ink was from a ballpoint, nothing special either. Someone who didn't care about appearances, then, more the message. He gazed at the messy print, the cross of the t's dragged on to the next letter. Done with extreme haste. He read the message over again:

Garrish Street Haunted House
7PM
Please come

The message itself was simple enough, but what Sherlock didn't understand was why? Whoever had sent him the note had failed to show yet...or he's already here.
Sherlock reached the fork where he had split up with John. He wondered how John was fairing with his own vampire friends. It had only taken Sherlock a few minutes to lose them, turning down every corridor he came across. Instead of taking the right fork, he took the left, retracing John's steps. There were fewer corridors to turn down now, and there were only a few he could've taken that corresponded with John's directions. And knowing John, he probably wanted to lose the vampires as soon as possible. Sherlock took the first left, walked a bit then took a second left. As he walked down the hall, he met a T crossing, halls extending to both the right and the left. One of the vampires that had been chasing John was slumped against the opposite wall, a nasty wound to the head bleeding onto his shoulder. He didn't move when Sherlock approached him.
Finally, something interesting. Sherlock's pulse accelerated, and he quickly bent down next to the pale man. He took the man's pulse: it was faint, but still there. He examined his head; it's was fairly nasty, the man's skull was slightly smashed in. Hard blow to the head with a blunt object. Sherlock noticed two bloody holes on the man's neck, right above his collar bone. Sherlock pulled the man's high collar down, making sure it was real and not some prop for the haunted house. It was real, the blood still warm from where it had flowed from his neck.
Someone went through a great deal to make this look orchestrated, like it was part of the haunted house and wasn't a man who was in need of serious medical attention. Sherlock raised his head, shouting, "John!" realizing what was going on. The man lying next to him was one of the three original vampires that had broken out of the coffins. Sherlock was sure that the ones that had been chasing him were the other two originals, which meant...The other two weren't supposed to be there. Sherlock thought. In a millisecond, he knew that those two vampires had left him the note and that they were the ones who had injured this man. And that John was in danger.
Sherlock jumped to his feet, racing down the right hall, taking out his phone and dialing John. The phone rang out, and Sherlock cursed. "Damn it... JOHN!" Sherlock ran to the next room, producing his gun from the inner folds of his coat...
He stopped dead.
Lying in the middle of the floor was a note. Sherlock frantically picked it up, absorbing the splotch of red in the top corner. Same stationary...same pen...

Thank you for being so compliant, Mr. Holmes.
We'll be in touch.

Sherlock crumpled the note in his fist, throwing it to the ground. His hands were shaking in anger, and he scratched his head, not caring he was pointing his own gun into his head. "Stupid, STUPID, STUPID!" He kicked the wall, moaning in frustration. How could you have let this happen?!
Sherlock realized he blowing things out of proportion, and he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Calm down and think. Getting all hysterical won't help John. Sherlock opened his eyes, picking up the now crumpled note and tucking it in his pocket. He took out his pocket magnifier, looking for footprints or anything, ANYTHING else that could help him. It took him precisely 3.4 seconds to determine where the scuffle had happened. He closed his eyes, and he could see the scene playing out in his head...
John hung up with Sherlock, tucking his phone back in his pocket. Two shadowy figures came up behind him, one clamping a hand with a handkerchief over John's mouth, the other grabbing his arms...
Handkerchief?
Sherlock opened his eyes, the smell hitting him now that he was on the ground. Halothane vapour. Otherwise known as flothane, or sleeping gas. Sherlock sniffed, the smell leading him to a handkerchief hidden behind a fake gravestone. He picked it up. They left this on purpose. To taunt me. Sherlock sighed and tucked the cloth in his pocket, looking up to see Lestrade staring down at him, his skeletal arms folded. "What are you doing hunched down on the floor like that?"
"John's been kidnapped." Sherlock said blandly, trying not to portray emotion. He had this churning feeling in his stomach that made him want to hurl. Sentiment...
Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows. "What?"
"You heard me, George-"
"Greg."
"-Whatever. Oh, and one of your vampires is passed out back there. Nasty head injury, I don't think he's going to make it. I imagine he's already dead."
"Bloody hell Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, realizing that the sociopath wasn't joking. He ran out of the room, pulling out his phone, no doubt to notify Donovan and Anderson of the situation.
Sherlock didn't follow the raving DI, merely stood up and brushed off his coat. John... The one man who's even remotely understood me and still loved me is gone. Gone. Sherlock shook his head, removing the muddled thoughts from his brain. Conceal. Don't feel.
"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade's voice boomed through the halls. Sherlock took off at a run, retracing his steps back to the T section where the vampire was still slumped against the wall. Lestrade had managed to find the place, and he was kneeling down next to the ghastly pale man. Only this time, the man's eyes were open.
"Yes, I need a paramedic team to the Garrish Street Haunted House ASAP. My friend's got a bashed in head." Lestrade nodded, his phone to his ear. "Thanks." He took his phone away from his ear, gripping the man's shoulder. "Stay with me Jack. The paramedics are on their way."
Sherlock knelt down next to Lestrade so he could hear the man speak.
"Greg..." Jack said, his voice weakening by the second. He was slipping. Sherlock knew he wasn't going to make it, so he might as well get the information while he still could.
"Is there anything you can tell us about your assailants?" Sherlock asked. "Quickly!"
"They weren't...they're not...supposed to be...here." Jack gasped, looking at Sherlock. "You were there..."
"That doesn't matter! But did you know who they are, Jack?" Sherlock gripped the man's other shoulder. "Tell me!"
"Sherlock-" Lestrade interjected, but Jack cut him off.
"He was...right about you. He said...you wouldn't ask the...most...important...question..." Jack stopped, drawing in a ragged breath. He smiled at Lestrade, and then closed his eyes.
"Jack Wesley Fillerton, keep your eyes on me! Jack, mate...c'mon..." Lestrade shook the dead man's shoulders, but it was too late.
Sherlock took his hand away from the man's shoulder, sitting heavily on the ground. He could faintly hear the sirens of an ambulance and policy cars approaching. Too late. "Filly, please..." Lestrade's shoulders shook with emotion, tears running silently down his face. "Mate..."
Sherlock didn't know what to do. One of his only friends sat next to him crying his heart out, while the other was nowhere to be found. Sentimentality was unfamiliar to the cold-hearted sociopath, but as the sirens grew louder in his ears, he couldn't help but think John could've have stopped this.
A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, I'm currently very busy, so I don't have a lot of time to write, but I will try to update more often than I have for this story. (Again, sorry about that.) Thank you to all those who've reviewed and or favorited/followed. Sorry, the formatting got a bit messed up, I'm too lazy to fix it :P