This story is a crossover with one of my favourite novels of all time. It's kind of obscure, but if you recognize it please shoot me a message or post a review! I'll post the title and author tomorrow if nobody's figured it out by then.
Sherlock studies the exhausted-looking group of students with a critical eye. The young woman, clearly related to one of the boys – twins, perhaps – has a red muffler wrapped snugly around her neck but it does nothing to hide the unearthly bite mark on her throat.
The tallest man, the one with an old scar on his forehead, looks nervous. He is carrying himself far better than the slippery-looking redhead or the other twin, but there is still something unsettled about his bearing. The last young man is honking asthmatically on an inhaler and looks painfully put out by the whole process, his body language is innocent and bordering on angry. Not, however, with the investigators – with his friends.
They stink of wine, but not the sort of wine poor students usually drink. Expensive stuff, and if he's not mistaken, it's been boiled with laurel leaves and other herbs Sherlock can't quite pin down. The salt-and-iron smell of blood lingers around them too, they've made a concentrated effort to wash it off but it's not enough.
Most damning, though, is the pile of torn, bloody sheets. They've been tied in such a way that they appear to have been worn as chitons.
"I'm not yet sure what exactly they've done, Lestrade, but I'm pretty sure those kids tried to hold a bacchanal!"