A/N – Sorry for the slow update. I am really not happy with this chapter. At all. And I planned for much more to happen, but it wasn't working out. So basically there'll be more chapters than I intended.

Central London

May 2009

Across the city, lights go out one by one. In the real city, it's never truly dark. The sky is too bright with city glow, street lights and traffic and houses and office buildings reflecting off the ever-present haze of air pollution. But for Sherlock Holmes, in the London of his dreams and nightmares, it's always dark. Tonight, his dreams are strange and uncomfortable, the shifting streets filled with whispers and shadows. And gradually, they begin to take the shape of a memory.

It's late. He's at a crime scene, a familiar one. The empty house, the woman in pink. The first case he had John with him. Only this time, it's different – the woman is dressed all in red, bright and bloody. The dusty floorboards, the peeling wallpaper seem drab and colourless in comparison. A faint sound, and Sherlock lifts his head. John.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"John?" A crease appears between Sherlock's eyebrows. "What are you doing here?"

John shrugs. It's a curious movement, fluid and feline and fundamentally un-John-like. It turns Sherlock cold.

"I'm not here. Not yet, anyway." His eyes are wrong. Not that warm, friendly brown, but clear-sky-grey-blue. Cold and bright and strong. "But I'm coming. You'll see me quite soon, Sherlock."

Sherlock feels his gaze dragged downwards. The colour is leeching out of the woman's clothing, pooling and spreading, drawing out into curves. Quite a deliberate shape, and now there's light. Blinding white. Sherlock averts his eyes. Fear. Yes. He's afraid, and he doesn't know why. All he knows is the terrible, irrational, certainty that he's in danger.

In that curious way of dreams, the scene changes without transition and he's somewhere else. An underground station, familiar and alien at the same time. His breath comes in plumes of frost. The lighting is strange; a pure, distant white. Cold, but burning.

"Most people think I burn hot."

It's John's voice, but different. Low and velvet-smooth, layered with power. Yes, there's power there, but it's restrained, distanced. Like the light. Starlight. Almost like it's imprisoned.

The platform cracks. Red bubbles up, running over the concrete. Smoothly flowing into a crooked spiral. And then, abruptly, blazing light stabs up from the centre of the circle.

In the dream, Sherlock can sense the light, the voice, the presence, coming closer. A high, thin humming reverberates through the dream, the air trembling-

Sherlock jolts awake, gasping. The dream splinters and fades, leaving only a deep, cold dread. Something about John? Was that important? He drops back onto the pillow, already sinking back into sleep.

The display on the digital clock beside the bed flicks over to 06:01. Half a world away, it has just turned midnight.

A group of teenagers are waiting on a street corner. The sun has yet to rise, and the harsh glow of the sodium lamp overhead lends an unearthly cast to their features. But then, predators have to blend in. Only a very small number of people would pick up on the details – the strange way the street lights gleam in their eyes, the lazy, controlled grace of their movements – and an even smaller minority would know what it means, and why they should be running.

A bus draws up. Light spills out onto the street, accompanied by the rich, heavy smell of meat. Several people on their way to work. A young couple, smelling of perfume and aftershave and pheromones, and a man dressed in elegant black.

Moving as a pack, perfectly synchronised, the creatures on the street corner set off. The couple would be their usual target – more food – but there's something different about the man. Something in his scent that the pack haven't encountered before. And he's in a hurry, which is always useful. He won't notice the pack tailing him until it's far, far too late.

The pack leader, a scruffy dyed-blonde girl in a hoodie, inhales. The scent of his blood is rich and dark. Enticing. She's so focused on it that she doesn't register the other scent – sulphur, along with a heavy animal musk.

The man, the strange-smelling prey, rounds a corner and stops. He glances about. Dead end. The girl smiles, and the jagged, glass-sharp teeth of a monster fill her mouth.

Got you.

They don't see the man's satisfied little smile, or notice him lifting two fingers to his mouth to whistle. At least, not until it's too late to run.

Blood. The smell of it hangs in the air like smoke. Iron and salt and fear. It's everywhere, puddled between bins and sacks of rubbish, splashed up the walls. Greg Lestrade lowers his head and breathes, fighting back nausea. He'll never get used to it. But then, he doubts any hunter is used to all this, to the life. Not really.

Actually, that's a lot of blood. Far too much for the three bodies. And that's the just the first little mystery. The whole crime scene is wrong. Under the weak, greyish sunlight, the blood looks black and out of place. It doesn't seem real.

Lestrade grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes in the hope that it might make them less tired. He was at the Yard past midnight last night, looking over some cold case files. That's nothing unusual. He always finds it difficult to let go of a case. Determined to find that one last vital clue. And sometimes he does. Sometimes he finds that detail that leads to something more: murder victims with hearts removed; holes bored through into victims' brains. That wraith at Pentonville Prison. Not fun.

Lestrade mentally shakes himself. All right. Facts. Three bodies. The two recognisable ones are young and female, each with a gunshot wound in the centre of the forehead. Two bullets. Simple enough. Except – he kneels to take a closer look – the area around the wound appears to be... what? Charred? Blistered? Lestrade shakes his head slowly, so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn't even realise he's doing it.

The third body is tossed a little way from the others. It has been comprehensively torn apart. Deep, ragged tears and bite marks. Bones splintered as easily as dry twigs. Lestrade feels a tug of fear in the pit of his stomach. What the hell could do something like that?

He hears a faint gasp and immediately tenses, hunter's instincts telling him to move now, something's coming-

It's Sergeant Donovan, with Sherlock and John in tow. Lestrade vaguely realises that Sherlock is actually wearing one of the shapeless blue clean suits. Donovan hurries back around the corner. Lestrade hears her retching.

"Oh god." John is the first to speak, voice low and ragged. "What- what the hell-"

"Yeah," Lestrade says grimly. "Not a pretty sight, I know. Sherlock?"

Sherlock is perfectly still, taking in every minute detail of the scene. "I hope you realise there's too much blood here, Lestrade."

"Yeah, that's about the only thing we have got."

Sherlock pads forward, intense gaze sweeping over the bodies. "Assailant used small calibre bullets." He drops down, stretching latex gloves over his hands. It takes a moment of foraging to produce the bullet. "Antique revolver, probably. Hard to trace." He drops the misshapen lump of metal into an evidence bag and tosses it to Lestrade.

"What about the wound?" Lestrade asks.

"Not sure yet," he murmurs. "John, you should take a look."

John looks distinctly uncomfortable at the prospect, but moves to examine the body anyway. "Looks like... electrical burns, maybe? Hard to tell with all the- you know- " He tails off.

"Mess," supplies Lestrade.

Sherlock crosses to the mutilated third body. Lestrade watches as he examines each laceration under a magnifying glass. Then he stands, gaze tracking through the gore and messiness. He walks slowly, picking out clues and details, making connections Lestrade can't hope to follow.

"The killer was here first. Waiting. A group of people followed him."

"How do you know?"

"Footprints."

John and Lestrade are wearing identical expressions of confusion. Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The only prints in the blood lead out of the alley. Here; this was the killer." Rusty, barely-there tracks lead a little way from the alley mouth before fading. "Judging by the length of his pace, he wasn't particularly tall. Expensive, good quality shoes. He was probably dressed smartly. Now look at the wall there." There's a smear of blood at the the corner where the side-street joins the road. "There's blood low down, and different prints overlapping."

Lestrade cottons on. "You mean – someone escaped?"

"Exactly. Two of them, one supporting the other. One-" he indicates the blood on the wall- "fell, and was lifted by the other. You can see the single footprints here are closer together-"

"Because they were carrying something heavy." John finishes.

"Well done, John." For a brief moment, a spark of admiration shows in Sherlock's eyes. "Now, the third body. What do you make of it?"

Lestrade shrugs helplessly. "Animal attack?" He's thinking a Black Dog, but that doesn't fit with the poor sods who got shot.

"A possibility. But judging by the scale of the lacerations, it would have to have been an animal larger than a bear. I think it's more likely that this was done by a human and cleverly disguised as an animal attack."

John glances from the body to Sherlock. "But why? Why make it look like he was attacked by something bigger than a bear?"

Sherlock frowns slightly. "A miscalculation, perhaps. But it doesn't make sense." He goes quiet and pensive. Lestrade and John exchange worried glances. They've only ever seen Sherlock baffled once before, and that was when Mycroft was involved. But then, Lestrade supposes, Sherlock would never even consider the possibility that a horrible monster ripped someone up in the middle of London.

"I'll have the homeless network looking out for the survivors. Come on, John." Sherlock leaves, coat billowing. John shrugs slightly and follows, with an awkward little wave at Lestrade. He shakes his head. He's certain Sherlock only wears that coat to be dramatic.

"Donovan!" He hurries back into the street. She's arguing with Anderson about something. They both shut up as Lestrade approaches. "I want you to get in touch with hospitals, see if anyone's been admitted in the last five hours with gunshot wounds or - or anything like what's back there."

Donovan nods, all crisp efficiency. "On it, sir."

"Good. I'm going to stay here for a bit longer. Just..." he hesitates. "Checking a few things."

Donovan raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "What about the freak?"

Lestrade looks down, unable to quite meet her gaze. "He... left."

"He always leaves. Sir, you can't-"

"Just-" Lestrade wearily passes a hand over his eyes. "Just go and track down the survivors, ok?"

"Yes, sir. But I still think-"

"Get on with it!"

Donovan leaves without another word. A small part of Lestrade is guilty for shouting. It's the same small part that knows he can't rely on Sherlock, that he probably can't be trusted.

No. Don't think about that now. Concentrate on the job.

A couple of scene-of-crime officers are still clearing up, but they pay no attention to Lestrade as he drops to one knee to examine the closest body. The girl's mouth has fallen open slightly. Streaks of blood are crusted to the side of her face, starkly contrasting with pale, chilled skin.

Wait. Something off, something... Lestrade tilts his head, trying to place it. He rolls up an eyelid. No slitted pupils, nothing to suggest she isn't human. Then, tentatively, he lifts the girl's upper lip.

Not good.

The vampire's teeth haven't fully descended, milk-white points just showing through a series of slits in the gum. Well, Lestrade tells himself, now it gets interesting. Because vamps don't die if you shoot them in the head.

So what the hell is going on here?

A/N – Reviews are still love? *hides*