13 February 2014
"You know Harry?" John asks, in shock.
Molly nods vigorously. "We're actually quite good friends—" she begins.
"Harry has friends?" asks John incredulously.
The pathologist grins a little. "I know, she seemed like such a disagreeable person when I first met her, but she's actually quite nice once you get to know her. I suppose you'd know, being her brother, but, you know, I think she's just lonely. I've been to see her a lot during the past few weeks and I've actually gotten her to go on a few walks with me, fresh air and all that, and I don't think she's been drinking that much."
"How on earth did you and Harry meet each other?" John wonders, still disbelieving.
"She, erm, stumbled, quite literally, into the mortuary one night, sometime last year. I think someone had tried to get her to Accident and Emergency but probably didn't know her very well. It looked like she'd been in a bar fight," here John snorts, "and whoever took her to Bart's wasn't very close to her because they'd appeared to have left. We don't even have A&E at Bart's so I guess she'd just wandered around a bit before ending up in the basement. She looked pretty bad but once we got her cleaned up a bit it turned out she was just a bit scraped up, nothing to worry about. We chatted a bit. I'm not sure exactly how we ended up meeting again but she's one of the few people in this city I can still trust, at least when she's off the drinks. I guess she's never told you about this…" Molly trails off, looking disappointed.
John shakes his head, "Don't worry, we don't talk that much. You're probably closer to her than I am," he says ruefully. "But you trust her enough to stay with her overnight? Not that I don't trust her," he adds hastily, "but you're comfortable with it?"
Molly bobs her head. "Oh, yes. She said that she's been pretty lonely. I thought I'd go over for a night or two to keep her company, especially since she's probably still getting over the shock of Clara's… er…" She stops.
John nods. "I know. I should be trying to help her more, too. I'm sure having someone like you to lean on will be good for her. Even if she pretends she doesn't need support."
14 February 2014
"I'll be gone for days, Sherlock. There won't be anyone in that bed and I think you should get some real sleep tonight. You've been staying up too long lately," Molly says.
Sherlock protests. "But my experiment—"
"You haven't started yet. Do it tomorrow. Get some rest and forget about your cases and experiments and just relax, for a change," she insists.
"Yeah, Sherlock," John joins in from the other room.
"Not you, too," Sherlock growls.
But eventually, Sherlock relents, and promises to sleep in his own bed tonight.
Molly's been at Harry's place for several hours before she realizes that she's left her mobile at 221B, on the kitchen table. She berates herself under her breath for making such a silly mistake, then apologizes to Harry as she runs outside to find a cab. She can't risk someone panicking because she doesn't answer the phone.
The sun is a couple of hours below the horizon when the cab arrives at the flat. The late-afternoon traffic had been much heavier than usual. Molly wonders if she might be able to get back to Harry's before curfew, but the last rays of light have left the sky already and she knows she'd going to have to apologize for her forgetfulness tomorrow. It's going to be another night at 221B.
She steps inside quietly, not wanting to disturb John or Sherlock, who've jointly promised to go to sleep early. No running around chasing bank robbers or serial killers tonight.
She ascends the stairs quietly, pausing when she hears a noise from above, and wonders if Sherlock and John are still awake, but she can see from here that the sitting room lights are off. Molly hears the noise again, and walks a little quicker. One step creaks very slightly as she scales the stairs.
When she reaches the top, she's certain the lights are off. The door is ajar. The only light in the room is the moonlight filtering through the curtains, but she can already see that something is wrong. Against one of the few blank areas of wall, she sees a dark blob, with another smaller light-colored blob floating next to it.
As her eyes adjust, she realizes that the white shape is John's face. His eyes are wide as he catches sight of Molly, who's just grasped what the long, dark shape in front of the doctor is.
It all happens too quickly. Molly gasps, the blurry form pressed against John flies away from him, faster than she can see, and suddenly the vampire is wrapped around Molly, a cold hand pressed to her mouth, hindering the scream ready to burst from her lips. She can't see anything of the one holding her captive, but John is slumped to the ground, moving slowly. As he gets to his feet and walks unsteadily towards them, the vampire, who hasn't moved any further, disappears suddenly from around Molly. She sees a blur near the downward stairs, and abruptly, it's gone.
John catches her as she trips while walking towards him. "It's okay, he's gone." His eyes are wide as he looks over her shoulder, scanning the darkness.
Molly feels something wet on her back. She pulls away and sees that John's wrist is glistening darkly.
She flicks the light switch. Thick crimson liquid is smeared across John's arm, though it isn't bleeding as profusely as she'd feared. "Oh my God." And then, urgently, "Sherlock!"
Ten seconds later, Sherlock stumbles into the room, dressed in just his boxers. Molly flushes. "If you want me to sleep more, Molly, you should try not to wake me up. What are you doing here anyway? I'm assuming it's important—" and then he sees John.
"John!" He runs to his flatmate and grabs his wrist, staring at it, then pulls him into the kitchen. Molly follows, numbly.
Sherlock puts John's arm into the sink and turns the cold water on all the way.
"Shit, Sherlock, that's cold," mutters John.
Molly gapes. "You were just attacked by a vampire, John!"
"The puncture wasn't that big. I'm fine, really. He didn't get much, anyway. I came down to get a drink of water about five minutes ago," he explains. "He'd just started when you came in. Molly, I'm fine," he says emphatically when Molly pulls his wrist out of the water and starts to tightly wrap a towel around it.
"No you're not—"
"I'm a doctor, Molly." He pulls his arm away. "The punctures are smaller than they look."
He's right. After washing away most of the blood, there are only two small holes in his arm. Molly calms down a little. Sherlock is now entirely calm, the earlier urgency gone.
"It should seal quickly," Sherlock says. "Studies have shown that vampires have stayed hidden for so long because something in their saliva closes the bites marks quickly; presumably when they finish they lick the wounds and as a result, the tissue doesn't scar. Yours should take a bit longer because there probably wasn't a lick at the end but there's still some of the saliva in the openings even though we washed it."
John rubs his arm and checks. The blood has started to clot already. "If it leaves no mark then how did they learn about it?"
"There were plenty of people who came forward once that stupid video went online. They'd told their friends and families about being attacked, but since there were no marks, nobody believed them. The few victims that have been saved from draining since — positively identified as attacked by vampires — all exhibited the same quick healing," Sherlock explains.
"All right," Molly says anxiously, "but there's still the problem of the vampire having got in here in the first place. Aren't they not able to enter human homes without permission?"
Sherlock nods. "True. Inexplicably. One of the few things the myths got right. It's improbable, but perhaps the proper view of the rule is not that they cannot enter, but that they can't break and enter. One of the windows might have been left unlocked tonight."
After everyone has settled down to an acceptable level, they check the windows. Molly is worried again. The windows are all locked. "But—"
"The entering rule's been completely proven, Molly," John says. "Most likely he came through the window and locked it behind him. I think I felt a draft before I was, er, attacked. Windows aren't the fastest escape routes anyway. He probably intended to leave as he did, through the front door."
"But why here anyway?" Molly is determined to find the answer to at least one question. "In the middle of the city? I'm sure that there are plenty of curfew-violators out there. Why go to the trouble to break into this flat?"
John and Sherlock look at each other. "No idea," Sherlock says, and then walks towards the living room.
"You don't even care?" Molly asks incredulously.
"Nope. Tired," he says, unconvincingly. "You'd better sleep here tonight. Looks like I'll be taking the couch again."
"You wouldn't even have noticed if John had been drained," Molly bursts out. "You were asleep while John was here being attacked. You say you have such amazing hearing, but you slept through this?"
John puts a hand on her shoulder. "Molly. It really is okay. We'll just make absolute sure our windows are locked from now on, okay?"
Molly shrugs off the hand. "You, too? I thought you'd care more."
"Just rest, okay? It's not as bad as it looks."
"Fine," she nearly growls, "but if anyone is going to leave their bedroom, wake someone else before they go. And you, you could have yelled, you know?" She says the last to John before storming away to Sherlock's old bedroom.
"And I'm calling Harry!"
The two look at each other for a long moment.
John glances over at the kitchen table. "We got blood on your equipment," he says.
"And on the floor," Sherlock points to the thin trail. "Mrs. Hudson won't like that."
They glance at each other again.
"Now's probably not the best time to laugh," John points out, directly before they do so, wholeheartedly.
But it's not really funny, and they know it.