2 February 2014
"Mind if I ask where we're headed?"
John stops to catch his breath. Sherlock, nearly half a block ahead, stops and returns to his flatmate's position.
"Scotland Yard. I have to talk to Lestrade about the case. Didn't I mention this before? I'll need police support for this one."
John laughs, still winded. "You. Asking Lestrade for help. First time for everything, I suppose," he says incredulously.
Sherlock scowls. "In my defense, I found this case on my own. And it's not like the Met is doing much in the way of real law enforcement these days."
"All right, so why are we running? We could just, you know, take a cab? Like usual?"
"Can't trust cabs these days, John, and you know why."
John grins. "Scared of enclosed spaces, are you?"
"John." Sherlock's tone is warning.
The doctor sighs. "Yeah, I know. Just stalling for time while I work up the energy to keep going. Not everyone can keep running for hours, you know."
Sherlock crosses his arms impatiently but a small smile plays across his lips. "Ready?"
"I suppose."
"You idiots are still out solving crimes?" Lestrade's tone of voice makes it clear that he is not about to help Sherlock and John with their case.
"Greg," John tries, hopefully in a more placating voice than Sherlock's earlier rant. He doesn't get to finish his sentence, however, because the DI shakes his head vigorously.
"Absolutely not. Come on, you two. It's after curfew. You shouldn't even be on the streets at this time, and you certainly shouldn't be trying to solve your petty mysteries right now. No offense," he adds.
John gets a weak "None taken," before Sherlock bursts in again.
"Your idiotic curfew is what's caused a rise in crime, Lestrade. If your people did their own jobs then you wouldn't have to worry about people like me getting in the way of your rules," he spits.
But Lestrade is adamant.
Sherlock and John end up leaving through a side door with an armed escort. John's face grows hot when he sees Donovan and Anderson sniggering in a corner before Lestrade shushes them, but Sherlock remains stony-faced and glares straight ahead until they are back at Baker Street.
The escort waits until the pair are through the door of 221B, then leaves with a curt nod.
"I wish they wouldn't do that," John says finally.
The two lean against the wall just inside the entryway. Sherlock nods. "The escort?" he asks.
John nods in return. "Wouldn't do much good if we were attacked, would it?"
Sherlock chuckles quietly, though still in a sour mood. "None at all. You're probably better equipped to stop a vampire than any of those amateurs in the Met, waving wooden stakes around."
They have to laugh. The tension eases a bit. "Yes, and I think I saw garlic on Anderson's desk," John adds.
"Oh, and did you notice the phial of water in Lestrade's drawer when he opened it? Probably holy water. I'd have thought he was too practical a man to believe in superstitions like that but I suppose there's a first time for everything."
They head upstairs.
John's view is blocked by Sherlock, who is looking back at his flatmate, which is why neither of them notices the intruder until they hear the short scream burst from the far end of the room.
John whips his Sig out and Sherlock is halfway across the room with the knife he's started carrying around recently — because even he knows the wisdom of taking reasonable precautions — before they realize that they know the figure crouched in the corner.
It's Molly Hooper, St. Bart's Hospital pathologist, and she looks scared to death.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know what to do and Mrs. Hudson let me in a few hours ago, she told me you two were out but she didn't know what you were doing and you didn't show up until now and I was terrified, honest to God," Molly flounders, face flushed, hands wrapped around the cup in front of her.
They're sitting at the table in the kitchen, Sherlock's equipment mostly cleared away, and John's made tea. Sherlock declines to have any but Molly eagerly takes the hot liquid and drains down half of it before she can speak in a coherent manner.
"Slow down," Sherlock instructs. "Start from the beginning."
So she does.
"I — I was at Bart's. This afternoon. It was around one-ish and I was coming back from the canteen. When I got back to the mortuary the door was open, which I thought was a bit weird but sometimes I forget to close it so it wasn't that weird," she pauses to take a breath, "so I went in and all the cadavers were— ohh," she moans, and pauses again.
John goes to a cabinet and pinches a small quantity of white powder into Molly's mug. "Finish that cup and finish what you were saying, at whatever pace you feel comfortable."
Molly gulps down the remaining half of the cup and wipes away the beginnings of tears from her eyes.
"Okay. Okay.
"They were all sliced up, no particular pattern, but they were all horribly mutilated. It didn't look like knife work. More like the kinds of things I've seen on vampire victims but these were already dead before it happened and they still had most of their blood…" she trails off.
Sherlock leans in, genuinely intrigued. "Flamboyant vampires. Now there's something new," he mutters.
John shoots a warning glance at his flatmate. Sherlock shuts up.
Molly looks uncertainly at the two, then continues when John nods at her.
"I got back to the upper levels and told my supervisor. They had the Met there within fifteen minutes. All of us — employees, I mean — had to leave after they examined us."
Sherlock interrupts. "Examined?" Then he answers his own question. "Of course. For vampirism. What did they do? Make you drink holy water?" he asks sardonically.
Shaking her head, Molly says, "They were pretty methodical. They brought us out in groups to test us. First sunlight. Then they brought out these big bags of blood to see if any fangs dropped, and then they took our pulses individually."
"Not even garlic, then. They're more well-informed than I'd thought," Sherlock says, partly to John and partly to himself. "Why didn't they stop after you were brought into the sunlight? Do they think that there's a way around the vampiric reaction?"
Molly starts sharply. "I hope not! I think they just wanted to be sure, you know. Extra precautions. There shouldn't be any way for vamps to avoid the effects of sunlight, especially since they probably haven't had as much access to labs, but, still, if the government hasn't even discovered something like that, they shouldn't be able to."
"They've only just learned about this in the last couple months, you know," John reminds Molly. "The vampires have had eons to develop some sort of shield."
"Yes, but if they had something like that, they could've overtaken the world by now. They don't need sleep, right? They're nearly tireless. They'd be able to fight, day and night, until we gave up or collapsed." Molly rebuts.
Sherlock dismisses this. "Their goal isn't defeat of the human race."
"How do you know?" asks Molly.
"They aren't even trying," the detective says derisively. "Petty scares like the one at Bart's, nighttime intimidation, these aren't serious threats. Not to say that vampires aren't a threat, but the things they've been doing, they're nothing. But everyone's been losing their heads and scaring themselves, instead of asking questions."
"Questions such as?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes, leans forward. "Why now? Why did they come out now? And why the way they did? YouTube? Honestly. It's juvenile."
"So do you have an explanation?" John asks.
"I'd say it's a group of younger vampires. More modern, maybe born within the last half-century. Perhaps tired of their elders' secretive way of life. I'd bet money that they've read some of that fantastical contemporary vampire fiction. I believe the genre is called 'paranormal romance' these days."
Sudden footsteps are heard on the stairs. Mrs. Hudson comes through the door, stops when she sees John and Sherlock, and gives a half-exasperated, half-relieved sigh.
"You silly boys, I thought you were dead!" She pulls the pair into a hug, improbably managing to get her tiny arms around both men. "I was about to call Greg Lestrade but I thought I'd check on you, dear." The last is to Molly. "You know, it's getting quite late. It'd be dangerous to go out now, not to mention that curfew. You'd better stay here tonight, dear."
Molly tentatively raises her voice again. "Actually, that was sort of why I came here earlier. After the police finished at Bart's they said that the hospital would have to be closed indefinitely, until they had the vamp thing more under control." Sherlock snorts at this. "Anyway, they said that we'd all be paid a reduced wage until we found new jobs and that we should all make sure that we're not living alone. My flatmate, Ettie, she works — worked — at Bart's, too. She's American, and she decided this afternoon that since she wasn't going to have a job anymore, she was going to go back home and stay with her family. In Illinois. She left this afternoon, didn't take much. Most of the other few people I can call friends," here she flushes, "have gone as well, and my family lives up north. You two — well, three — are the only people left in the city I can trust. So, er, I was wondering if, um, maybe I could stay here, 221 Baker Street, for a few nights while I get things sorted?"
John says, "Well, that's up to Mrs. Hudson—" but at the same time Mrs. Hudson is saying, "Of course, dear."
Molly's eyes light up. She wipes her face again. "Thank you, thank you so much. I didn't know what I'd do if I hadn't been able to stay here. I'll be out soon, I promise."
"Don't worry about it, dear, take as much time as you need," says Mrs. Hudson. And then, "Oh. Oh, where will you be sleeping? My flat is a bit small, only one bedroom, and I don't think you want to stay in 221C. I certainly wouldn't want to sleep there."
Molly glances around. "I can stay on the sofa, here, if that's okay," she says to John and Sherlock. "I won't get in the way."
Sherlock and John share a glance. Sherlock's lips tighten ever so slightly and John's chin might dip down fractionally, but whatever communication passes between them ends with, surprisingly, Sherlock saying, "I think I'll have the sofa, actually. You can stay in my room. I'll clear out some of my rubbish."
"Oh, no," Molly's eyes widen. "I wouldn't want to take your bed—"
Sherlock waves it off. "I don't sleep in it very much, actually. Most nights I get to bed quite late or not at all. I usually stay in the kitchen and work. The sofa will be convenient."
"But—"
"And no-one else here is trained to wake up to audial anomalies. John would sleep through a creak on the stairs or the sound of the door opening, shame on him, calling himself a soldier — and I don't think the sitting room is the safest place to sleep. Since I will be doing the least sleeping, it is only logical that I should take the sofa. Oh, and speaking of intruders, Mrs. Hudson, you should probably move upstairs as well, or barricade your door extremely well at night," Sherlock finishes.
Mrs. Hudson puts her hand to her chest. "You don't actually think that the — the vampires could get in here? But I thought they couldn't enter dwellings without permission."
Sherlock rolls his eyes again. "It's a precaution, Mrs. Hudson. And I'm sure that an extremely determined vampire could find a way to kill you without entering the building."
"Sherlock," John hisses, flicking an irritated glance at his flatmate.
The detective stops and looks at John. "Not good?" he questions, already knowing the answer.
"Bit not good, yeah."
Mrs. Hudson takes several deep breaths. "Perhaps I should move upstairs. Molly dear, would you object to my moving my bed into Sherlock's room?"
Molly smiles. "Not at all. It is your room, you know."
"Yes, fine," Sherlock breaks in, as Mrs. Hudson is about to reply with another "but I don't want to intrude" remark. "It's settled. Molly, you can get your possessions tomorrow morning."
And with this, and an eye roll, this time on John's part, the matter is closed.
Sherlock goes to his room, pulls a few things out, and returns downstairs to work casually on his latest project, something involving a sweet-smelling furry liquid, of all things.
Molly stands around for a few minutes, then goes upstairs, oddly enough, the only person in 221 Baker Street to feel the least bit uncomfortable about the arrangement.