DI Lestrade considers it a long shot.

Sally stubbornly shakes her head, her arms crossed over her chest. "I don't think he'll know anything," she says, "so why should we show him?"

"Because he might know something?" Greg tries, rubbing the back of his neck with a rough palm. "Look, I know it'll be… difficult, but who knows?"

Sally slowly nods. "Who knows, yeah."

The truck driver sits in the uncomfortable chair. No matter how much he complains about the wood digging into his back, he has yet to give either Greg or Sally any valuable information. When they re-enter the room, the driver sighs and throws up his hands. "I told ya everything I already know! And don't you go showing me any more pictures. That last one almost made me half sick."

Sally takes the seat across from the driver, Greg on her left this time. Her hands are clasped together, a pretty smile on her apathetic face. "Do you expect us to apologize?" While the driver thinks of a response, Greg passes over another manila folder, to which the driver groans and furiously shakes his head.

"No more pictures, I said."

Sally ignores him. She opens the folder, taking each photograph and setting them down before the driver with careful, unfaltering fingertips.

"Why are you doing this?" the driver asks.

Greg takes this. "You were the only one who saw this man and woman move in. You helped them move in. And you told us you believe the same woman came to you and asked for your help once again."

"It's not like I, I, I lugged the furniture up all those stairs myself, now did I?"

Greg raises his eyebrows. "Did you?"

"No, 'cause the lift don't work, and I wasn't about to throw out my back."

"You knew the lift didn't work?" Sally turns each photo, touching the corners until every picture lies in a straight line.

"Everybody knows the lift don't work," explains the driver, his face turning paler and paler with each passing second. His eyes never drift to the collection of twisted body parts and scratches and severe burns set out in front of him like a ready-to-view scrapbook. "I told the girl no, I couldn't help her." He still does not look at the pictures.

Sally points at the first one. "Do you know this girl?" This picture is of a blonde, and it is considerably less morbid than the rest: a picture with friends, taken from Facebook. She is smiling. "Do you know her name?"

The driver sneaks a peek. He shakes his head. "No."

"You told us the woman had another person with her when she visited you a second time—a blonde."

"It wasn't no girl. It was a boy."

Greg and Sally stare at each other. Sally clears her throat and goes down the line of photos. This is when the driver decides not to look again. "This girl's name is Mary Morstan. She died a few weeks ago. We were lead to believe this man"—Sally points to another photo, this one of a man with an unrecognizable face—"was somehow part of it. Do you know who he is?"

Slowly, the driver glances at the picture, grows white. Shaking his head, he says, "It'd be a wonder if anybody knew who he was. His face is—"

"Yes," Greg cuts in, "we know. We just thought… you'd know."

"I don't know nothing, I told ya."

Greg presses his lips together and turns his back to them, dropping his head in his hands. It aches, throbs.

"This man," Sally says, "and Mary Morstan seemingly died in the same manner."

Piece by piece, the driver's expression turns into a deeper cloud of confusion, one that Greg thought wouldn't be obtainable. "Well, I don't know nothing."

Greg closes his eyes. Sally manages a smile. "Thank you."

The girl across from them fiddles with her hair, twisting a brunette curl around and around her finger. "She was acting strange after she got attacked. She stayed in the dark, wouldn't eat, kept biting herself. Her skin boiled when it was exposed to the tiniest bit of sunlight."

Sally is sitting in the chair again, gentler with the late girl's roommate. "Were you present at the attack, Ms. Hawkins?"

She shakes her head. "No. Jim Moriarty was. Have you talked to him? He might know something. I mean, maybe. I haven't been able to talk to him."

Greg and Sally exchange glances. You tell her, his eyes say. I can't.

Delivering bad news is their specialty. Sally leans in, becomes delicate. "You haven't heard about Jim Moriarty?"

The girl's eyes grow wide. She has neglected to wear makeup to this interview, and Greg is silently glad, if he expects her reaction to be what he's anticipating.

"What happened to him?"

Poor girl. Greg leaves the room to get coffee.

Greg takes over the seat for this interrogation. His head hurts, so he gets straight to the point. "Mr. Stamford, do you happen to know the whereabouts of John Watson?"

This doesn't take long. "No."

Greg grins. "Thank you, Mr. Stamford."

John can feel his pulse in his finger. He nurses the small scratch in his jacket pocket, pressing the wound to a glove. The bleeding stopped before they followed the ambulance in a cab, though the constant pressure keeps John's mind off things he does not want to think of.

Mike shakes him. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Jim is a mess beside them. His trousers have slashes in the fabric, but other than that, his body holds no evidence of the cat attack. Mike jokingly asked him if he had some sort of superpower, and was answered with only silence. After a moment of sitting quietly, Mike and John meet eyes. With that, Mike begins to understand. Yet, he does not know what he had begun to understand. Time will tell.

They're not allowed to see Mary. "Critical condition," a doctor tells Mike, Molly, Jim, Janine, and John. "You can see her soon." Other than that, they are not given a specific time limit. Still, they loiter downstairs in a room to themselves. Mike sits, Molly cries, Jim paces, Janine sleeps, and John thinks.

"I don't understand," Molly squeaks, the umpteenth time that night. "They've never acted like that before."

"Oh, shut up, Molly," Jim says, scathing.

They will not survive the night. John glances between Molly and Jim, Molly with pink eyes and Jim refusing to even take a minute's pause in his pacing.

"Janine told me, 'at least they landed on their feet'." Molly sniffs, wiping her eyes. "I'm worried about Mary."

"We're all worried about Mary, Molly." Jim's teeth are sharp. He looks like a monster as he spits at her.

"Back off, Jim," John says.

Jim sulks away. They don't see him for the rest of the night.

Come morning, they have stiff backs and sore necks from dozing in plastic chairs. However, by morning, Mary is allowed to have visitors.

"She's woken up," says a nurse. "We're going to keep her for a few days, to monitor her and make sure she's one-hundred percent." The nurse leads them to Mary's room. The nurse's hair is in a bun, her bangs pinned back with a bobby pin. Her eyes are cheerful, and her smile is light pink. "She's been asking for all of you."

John highly doubts that. The only person who she wants to see is Jim, and he isn't here.

Even more powerful than last night, Mary's room smells of rot. It's dark, cold, and does nothing to help the four friends and one nurse when they enter. "Will you let me open the curtains?" asks the nurse.

Mary groans.

The nurse frowns, but leaves the curtains drawn. "Tell me if you need anything." And so, she leaves also.

Hidden underneath a thin gray blanket, Mary is stick-thin and made of dead eyes and restraints. Her arms and legs are tied to the bed. She does not move. Molly tears up. Janine runs over and attempts to hug Mary. Mike and John hang in the back, too wary to hover around the almost-cadaver.

"Mary, Mary, Mary," Janine says, running her fingers through Mary's hair, along Mary's arms. "Why do they have you tied down?" Mary does not answer. She does not look like herself. The cat scratches on her face and her body are no longer there. Janine isn't concerned about that. She continues to pat Mary's face, not allowing her eyes to see the faint row of teeth marks on Mary's neck, the very same marks John noticed the night before. Did you see the bite marks? Jim's monotone voice vibrates in his head. John shuts his eyes. Foolish, so fucking foolish.

Mary begins to speak from the bed. It moves her whole body in order to produce a few words. "Jim," she whispers. "Where's Jim?"

Janine shakes her head. "I don't know, Mary. He left last night in a sour mood."

"He knows." Mary slowly nods. "Ask him. Ask him everything."

John is sick to his stomach. Janine tilts her head. "Ask him what? What does he know?"

Molly steps forward, palms together in mock prayer. "Oh, Mary, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Open the curtains."

The demand is strong, full of strength Mary didn't have when they stepped into the room. She struggles to sit up, pulling at the straps along her wrists, her ankles. The bed shakes. "Get the nurse. I want her to open the curtains."

Molly blinks. Janine stands from the bed. "I can open the curtains. We don't need to get a silly nurse."

Mary's fingers curl. "No, a nurse."

Mike goes to get one. John steps out of the way as the nurse from before comes in, a curious look on her face. Her shoes tap against the tile flooring. "Am I hearing correctly?" She's overjoyed to hear this. "Do you really want to let some light in, to feel the sun on your skin?"

Weak now, Mary nods. "Yes," she croaks.

Still with a smile on her face and a victorious spring to her step, the nurse marches toward the curtains. Janine and Molly take a few steps back, joining Mike and John near the door way. They have no control over their bodies. Something is guiding them, forcing them, warning them.

It's bright outside, late morning. The room fills, explodes with the sun. Mary closes her eyes, turns her face to her shoulder, and bursts into flames, her body thrashing, twisting, burning.

Janine is screaming, hysterical, frightening. John yells with her. Molly falls to her knees, and Mike flees from the room. They are all running, running, running, the sounds of the nurse shouting and human skin sizzling in their ears. They want it to go away, but it will not go away.

"Spontaneous combustion." John squeezes his eyes shut and curls his fingers into fists. "They told us it was spontaneous combustion, but that doesn't just happen."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up into a smile. John's face is down, hiding in his hands. He doesn't see. Sherlock smiles fully. "Quite right."

Next to John, Sherlock feels safe. Security was something he never regularly experienced. Mycroft was there—only when he wasn't—and as he lies next to John's sleeping body, Sherlock begins to feel secure once more. With John beside him, no matter if he is asleep or awake, Sherlock thinks he would be able to live for fifty-seven more lifetimes.

John's chest rises and falls as he takes each breath. His eyes move underneath their lids, his lips part, he snores. Sherlock envies John. He watches his own chest, still, only moving when he forces it to, and he studies John's skin, at the cuts on his fingertips, the tiny scrapes on his knees. Sherlock's skin is like a magenta mess when he wakes. He doesn't want John to ever see him like that. And if he does, Sherlock hopes John will not be scared.

Sherlock gives John's cheek a parting kiss, scribbles a note, gathers his clothes, and leaves through the window. His heart is beating a sound he hasn't heard in a long time.

Mycroft doesn't like John. "I don't like John," he says, as Sherlock is climbing through the bedroom window, clothes in his arms and the smell of sex staining his skin and kinking his hair. Mycroft is on the bed, reading a novel he started years ago, but never finished. He's still in pajamas, a rare sight even for Sherlock to see.

"Why do you not like him?" Sherlock steps down from the windowsill, letting the articles of clothing fall to the floor. He moves around them, walking silently, and naked, to the door.

"Oh, I have my reasons."

In the bathroom, Sherlock replies, "I'm not going to replace you, Mycroft."

Mycroft laughs. Sherlock frowns and steps into the bathtub. The blood is lukewarm. "So, he doesn't know? Is that what you're implying?"

Sherlock slides the mattress over him, drowning out Mycroft's laughter. He still hears it.

When he wakes, it is dark.

He sits with Mycroft in the spare bedroom, drinking from a sippy cup of blood, eyes on Magnussen, never wavering, forever teasing.

Magnussen isn't well. His skin, however moist he claims to be, is dry, brittle almost. His eyes are dead, rimmed with dark circles. His face has no color, no lips. He stares at Sherlock with a very dull expression. "I figured it out," he says, voice hoarse. "A few days after you kept me in here, I figured it out."

Mycroft is on Sherlock's right, on the floor, legs crossed, hands clasped together in his lap. "And what have you figured out?"

Sherlock allows a drop of blood to fall from the corner of his mouth. He doesn't wipe it away.

Magnussen's nostrils flare. "I thought you were keeping me here to torture me."

"We are torturing you."

"And yet, foolish as I was, I also thought you would continue to feed me."

Magnussen smells like death. His skin is boiled on the left side of his body, where the curtains part just so, letting in only a slimmer of sunlight.

"It seems you were wrong," Mycroft says.

Sherlock slurps.

"It won't take long for his body to rot from the inside out," Sherlock says. "If I go a few days without feeding, I start to smell. He's been in that room for…"

"A month," Mycroft supplies, going through his mobile phone. "You've never gone that long without feeding, Sherlock."

"Thank you," Sherlock says, thinking it fit.

Sharply, Mycroft adds, "Would John have done this for you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He twists the Rubik's Cube in his hands, completing the puzzle for the tenth time.

Mycroft stops cutting off fingers. It has no effect on Magnussen after a while. Magnussen stares at them, head tilted to the side, empty eyes, resorted to nothing but a pile of skin and bones.

Besides, his fingers were growing back.

"How was I supposed to know that?" Sherlock says when Mycroft gives him an accusing look. "I never lost a body part and calculated data, and I won't. For God's sake, Mycroft." Still, Sherlock is curious. "How fast are they growing back?"

"Slowly, but they're growing."

Interesting. "No, Mycroft."

Mycroft shrugs.

Sherlock is in John's flat when he finds out what happened to Mary. He feigns surprise at every turn of John's head. John shared a kiss with Mary, that much Sherlock knows, though he is unable to decipher John's true feelings for her. Had they shared a bed? Were they together, never too far from the other? Did John care for her?

John's head is in his hands, his shoulders giving the smallest of shakes. But when Sherlock reaches out, touches his back, John raises his head, the remnants of fear and deep confusion ripe on his face. He is scared he might be next. He does not want to end up in flames. Fire is not contagious, John.

Sherlock presses his palm to John's cheek. He hopes his skin is not too cold. "Did they say what else could have happened?"

John shuts his eyes. "No. Just… spontaneous combustion."

This was not supposed to happen. Sherlock would have drained her if Jim Moriarty did not find them. Mary would have died in the snow, no traces of blood in her body as she lay breathless and loveless.

Absently, Sherlock runs his thumb along John's cheek. It's slow, in circles. John's skin pinks underneath Sherlock's hand. Warmth seeps through his fingers. I will need to tell him. I have to tell him. He will not want to be around me after. I am a monster.

"John, I—"

John kisses him, hugs him. His hands are firm along Sherlock's body, groping, squeezing, but underneath it all, soft and nurturing. Sherlock is strong. Tonight, he is a kitten, limp and clinging. John carries him to the bedroom, and inside, beneath the covers, John is even more soft and nurturing.

Sherlock cries at the climax. John touches his face, his head in both his hands. "Hey there," John murmurs, and Sherlock kisses him. He kisses him, he kisses him, he kisses him.

They lie there, on their sides, John behind, his arms tight around Sherlock's torso. "You won't stay the night, will you?"

I want to sleep like you. "I will stay until you fall asleep."

"May I ask why?"

"You will not like the answer."

John is quiet for a moment. His fingers curl against Sherlock's chest, scratching gently.

"Are we together?" Sherlock asks.

John laughs. "I was under the impression we were."

Sherlock grows bold. "So, you care for me?"

John hums. "Yes, I do."

Bolder. "Show me."

John shows him again, and again, and again, and again.

Before the sun rises, Sherlock leaves as he did at the start of the week, sore and happy. John's marks are all over his back, red and lovely. If John noticed a row of faded bite marks on Sherlock's side, underneath his right armpit, he didn't say anything. Sherlock wants them to go away. They won't. They are to stay forever.

Sherlock writes his next note on a sheet of paper. He never wears makeup; he wishes he were wearing some right now, so he could sign it, so John will be a dork and press his lips to the imprint of Sherlock's.

Sherlock settles for ink pen. It looks empty. It doesn't run out.

DO YOU WANT TO MEET ME TONIGHT? I LIKE YOU SO MUCH. YOUR SHERLOCK

John smiles.

Mike is in the kitchen. It is morning, and neither of them wants to talk about what's happened.

"I had a nightmare," Mike says. "Fire."

"I don't remember my dream," John says.

"Lucky."

Mike is out with Molly and Janine. They say they won't be gone long, but it's been two hours.

John is in the sitting room, perched on the sofa and waiting for Sherlock. His note said to meet him tonight. John assumes they are to meet here, as always. John's never been inside Sherlock and his brother's flat, only managed to glance a handful of times. Would he feel welcome, with old newspapers on the walls?

Someone is at the door.

"Sherlock," John says, relieved, grinning. "I've missed you."

"We were only together last night…and this morning." Despite this, Sherlock is smiling, too, looking rather vibrant in a deep purple button-down shirt and a short black skirt with heels, his hair in a loose braid. "May I come in?"

John thinks this is déjà vu; he heard this before, many times before. "Why do you always have to ask that? You should know you're allowed in when it comes to me."

Sherlock stands there, hands behind his back. "May I come in?" he repeats.

John is holding onto the doorjamb, his head leaned against it as he stares at Sherlock. Curious. "What if you just… came inside?" John takes a step back as if to show Sherlock how easy it is. "What would happen?"

Extremely smug, with raised eyebrows and a small grin, Sherlock strolls into the flat, one foot in front of the other. His heels click. His eyes roll. His lips curl. And still, he continues to walk, ever graceful—

until he stops and turns around to face John.

It takes a second for John to realize what is happening, and when he does, he rushes toward Sherlock and grabs hold of his shoulders, shaking him, chanting, "You can come in, you can come in, oh, Jesus Fuck, you can come in."

Sherlock's face is crusted with blood, quickly drying once it escapes his pores. His eyes are dark, filled to the brim with pink tears. Snot the color of red velvet runs from his nostrils, saliva peach in hue and not in texture from his lips. Sherlock is sticky, his clothes drenched—his beautiful clothes.

"What are you?" John sighs, scanning Sherlock's face, pleased to see no new blood pouring, yet anxious for more. It is only when Sherlock begins to cry actual tears John realizes how harsh his words are. They are familiar knives to Sherlock. "I'm sorry," John whispers.

Sherlock sniffs, shuts his eyes. "I need a shower."

"Yes. I will… wash your clothes for you."

They meet up once Sherlock is clean, all wrapped in a towel, fluffy and soft. Sherlock's hair is pulled back and twisted into a braid again. "I am a monster," Sherlock says as a greeting. He shows John his back, lifts up his right arm. John's eyes are drawn to the rows of bite marks under Sherlock's armpit. They are white, jagged, like the owner grabbed onto Sherlock as he tried to get away, ended up scraping and tearing, ripping. It looks like it hurt, like it was rough and done without a care. John knows what it is, though. He saw it on Mary, on her neck. And now, he sees it on Sherlock—Sherlock, who is not breathing, who is as still as a marble statue, who is saying, "I am a monster."

Sherlock is a monster. "An accident?" John's voice is steady. One of them has to be.

"I would never willingly do this to myself."

"Is your brother…?"

"No. However, I think he wants to be. Power."

John touches Sherlock's bicep, helping him lower his arm down to his side. The mark is hidden like this. "Who did it to you? Why?"

"He wanted me." Sherlock becomes visibly uncomfortable. John doesn't touch him, instead moving away, giving him space, giving him too much space. Sherlock continues, "He's in our flat. We have him locked up. Mycroft has a plan."

"A plan?" John goes into the laundry room, taking Sherlock's clothes and returning them to him. He helps him dress, the shirt first, then the skirt.

"We will need to leave soon. We can't stay. It's too dangerous." Sherlock won't meet John's eye. John fiddles with a button on Sherlock's shirt. "I killed Mary," Sherlock says, then shakes his head, like he's remembering something. "Well, not really. I bit her. I drank her. I meant to kill her, but… I was stopped."

John drops his hands to his sides. He can put two and two together. He knows, Mary said. Ask him. Ask him everything. "What's Mycroft's plan?"

"I can't tell you."

"If you honestly think I'm just going to… let you leave." Without stopping himself, John grabs onto the front of Sherlock's shirt, fingers tight against the fabric, as he clutches for dear life. He doesn't know what's gotten into him. Sherlock is under my skin. I don't want him to leave. Delicately, John presses his forehead to Sherlock's. They stay like that for quite some time.

Sherlock accepts defeat very quickly. "Mycroft won't like this."

"Does it look like I bloody care what your damn brother thinks?"

Sherlock smiles. It's beautiful.

By the morning, it snows even more. They don't have class again. John spends the day with Mike, Molly, and Janine. No one speaks of Jim's continued absence.

Mycroft is disappointed with seeing John at the door. Laced with disappointment is the lack of surprise. Mycroft need only to look over his shoulder, at Sherlock, to know their plan is now extended to John Watson. "Be careful," Mycroft tells Sherlock, watching him pull his coat closer to his body, wrap his scarf tighter around his neck.

"I'm always careful," Sherlock says. Mycroft scoffs. Sherlock frowns. Big brother knows best.

"He's very loyal, isn't he?" Mycroft's voice follows Sherlock throughout the flat. "Shouldn't you be worried?"

"No. Just do your part here. Didn't you say we are to leave tomorrow?"

"I said 'soon'."

Big brother knows best. "Right."

John is on board. He's a puppy, following behind Sherlock with little to no distance between them. His hands are shoved into his pockets, the breeze sticking up his hair, but his eyes are eager and his smile is radiant. Sherlock realizes John would do anything for him, and that thought is very frightening.

"So," John starts, beside Sherlock now, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Tell me more about this… thing you've got going on: can you walk into public places without an invitation? We went into that shop together. How'd you get into the flats? Does it go deeper? Do you have to get down on your knees and ask Mother Nature's permission to go outside?"

"You'd like me on my knees, wouldn't you?" Sherlock grins softly. "The shop we went into had an open sign, which generally means anyone is welcome to enter. Public places are free to go, like hospitals and restaurants and other facilities. For our flat, once Mycroft obtained the keys, I was to ask him to enter. It does get very annoying after a while. Every time I walk in, I have to get Mycroft to let me know it's okay."

"Can you bypass that somehow?"

"I'm sure if Mycroft died, then I would technically be the owner of the flat, and would not require permission to come inside." Sherlock chews on the inside of his cheek. "I could never kill Mycroft, though."

John is quiet for a moment, thinking. "You didn't say anything about the Mother Nature thing."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The outside world is considered everybody's home. No one can own it, no one can hold it, and no one can take it."

"You made that up."

"Yes, but that's how Mycroft explained it to me, when I started asking. He didn't know what else to tell me. He had no more knowledge about what had taken over me than I did. You always go to your older sibling for advice, no matter if you're a blood-sucking creature or not." At this, Sherlock smiles, all teeth, and despite thinking it would make John uncomfortable, John laughs—actually cracks up and has to hold his side to calm down. Sherlock feels a well-deserved sense of accomplishment.

"Okay, now, the 'blood-sucking creature' thing. Who do you drink from? You said you were planning to kill Mary, but you were stopped. So, does that mean…" John pauses, his brow furrowed. "You can drink from humans, but… it would kill them, and if you stop… feeding, then they turn into… you."

"Very good, John, very observant. I can also drink from humans if they willingly give me their blood. I've drunk from Mycroft a number of times."

"And he didn't turn?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, he cuts himself and pours the blood into cups for me. That's the only safe way I know that I can do to still drink fresh human blood without coming into contact with humans themselves."

John snorts. "You're like a snake, then. One bite can poison."

"All snakes aren't poisonous, John."

"Yes, I know that, but hear me out."

John laughs again, his hand on his side, holding a stitch together. Sherlock begins to laugh, as well. John's laughter is contagious. Nothing else in the world is more pure.

Soon, they manage to find the truck driver. Mycroft found him; he doesn't tell Sherlock how, only lets him know his home address and his work schedule. "He does move around a lot, for work, so you might have to look longer than you originally planned," Mycroft said, but the driver is here, at his house, walking down his front porch steps, ready to take his dog for a walk. It's still cold out, the sun having set half an hour ago. The dog is warm, packed with long, thick, red fur and an easy-going smile.

Take that, Mycroft.

"Wait," John says, grabbing Sherlock's arm with a tight grip and a brilliant thought. "Can you turn into a bat?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Come on, John."

"Can you?"

Sherlock ignores him, starting toward the driver and earning a shocked look in return. The truck driver is bundled up, down coat and stocking hat and all. The dog seems more suited to this environment. Its paws even have little mittens.

The driver winds the leash around his fist several times. "Can I help ya, miss?"

He doesn't remember me. Sherlock tilts his head. "I was wondering if you would help me, rather. I appear to need assistance in moving some furniture."

Suddenly, it clicks. It might have been Sherlock's voice, or it might have been the way Sherlock brushed a lock of hair behind an ear and batted his eyes, but now, the driver remembers who he is, and uttermost arousal flashes across his face. Disgusting.

"What do ya need help with? Moving again? What about that… man that was with ya before?"

"Oh, he's all well and good. I find it easier to talk to you, to ask for your help." Sherlock draws his tongue across his bottom lip, biting it, trying to act appealing yet feeling like an idiot.

The change happens quickly. The driver surveys Sherlock, from his knobby knees to his growing fringe. His eyes shift to his left, just over Sherlock's shoulder, and all hints of giving a helping hand vanish. "I can't."

Sherlock becomes malicious. "Why not?" He fights the urge to growl, to lunge forward and hiss. The dog looks at him, head tilted, tail wagging. He's always liked dogs better than cats.

The driver is stubborn. "Can't. I can't. Have a nice night." And he waddles off, the dog trotting close beside him.

Sherlock tries not to seethe. He draws in a breath, keeps it inside. Slowly, he rotates onto his heel and looks at John, who is acting more than a little guilty, with his arms over his chest, his jaw set, and his eyebrows nearly up to his hairline. "He was going to help us," Sherlock whispers, stalking toward John, closing the distance between them in two strides. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"You do know you give off a very intimidating aura, yes?"

John throws up his hands. "What was I supposed to do? He looked like he wanted to eat you!"

Sherlock doesn't say anything for quite some time. Then, "He helped move us in the first time. He showed… an interest in me, and wanted to know if I was single."

John isn't impressed. "And…?"

"Mycroft told him I was twelve."

Once again, John proves his worth. His face twists into something gross, into something Sherlock's stomach feels like every time he doesn't feed for more than a day. "What?"

"I know, I know. I think I'm going to get Mycroft to turn him into the authorities."

"No fucking shit, Sherlock." John rubs his hands together. "Why not just kill him? Is he going to tell anybody about this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "No idea. I don't want to leave the dog by itself."

John tugs on the lapels of Sherlock's coat and kisses his forehead. "I adore you. Let's go."

It snows more.

It fills John's dreams. It replaces the yellow paint in the bathtub. It's cold, colder, coldest at the bottom. John touches nothing. The body isn't here. His hands don't float to the surface. He stays intact. It's so cold, his skin cracks, breaks. Blood drips onto the snow, into the tub, staining everything it touches. It's beautiful.

When John wakes, he is cold. His bedroom window is left open. Sherlock.

On John's desk, a note lays.

COME OVER. I'M IN THE BATHROOM. PLEASE DON'T COME IN. I ADORE YOU, TOO. YOUR SHERLOCK

John covers his face with both hands. He's in love.

Mycroft answers the door again. "Were you followed?"

John blinks. "I live right next door."

Mycroft stares at John.

John sighs. "No, I wasn't followed. My flatmate was in his room. I told him I was going out. He knows what that means."

"And what does that mean?"

"That I'm going out…?"

Mycroft still stares at him, but lets him in. John knows he somehow hadn't answered Mycroft's question to his satisfaction. John really does enjoy pissing him off. Sacrifices. John walks inside. Mycroft closes the door behind him.

From what glances he got of the inside, John manages to be surprised. The flat is bare, little furniture in the sitting room and kitchen. When he passes a bedroom, he catches a glimpse of a bed, a bedside lamp, and nothing else. The other doors down the hallway are shut. John wonders which one is the bathroom.

"Sherlock told you the plan, I presume?"

John gets distracted by a newspaper article to his left. He can't read it all—it is overlapped by another article, the weather. What he can read is very minimal: something about a boy named Carl Powers. "Not in detail," John says. "Why do you have newspaper on the walls?"

"Things that happen in here can get messy. Newspaper protects the walls underneath. No evidence." Mycroft stands there, very out of place in a three-piece suit and a red tie.

John purses his lips. "Won't it bleed through the newspaper?"

"Do you know how much newspaper is on the walls?"

John blinks. "No?"

Mycroft walks by, into the kitchen. He discards his suit jacket on the chair and rolls his sleeves to his elbows. After, he drops to a cabinet under the sink, opens it, and procures a jug from within. When he stands, he does it with great finesse. He moves faster, much faster than is necessary right now. "Follow me."

John follows Mycroft, all the while answering even more questions, no doubt, wrong.

"You are aware of what lengths I go to protect my baby brother?"

"Uh, I guess so."

"And are you hoping to fill my shoes one day?"

"Well, I…"

Mycroft stops, back against a door. His eyes narrow, his head tilts. "I know you care for my brother. However, I am unsure you exactly know what you are caring for."

"A vampire," John says. It feels ridiculous to say, something out of a fairy tale. Mycroft isn't laughing, isn't looking at him weirdly—not any weirder than he already is.

"Has Sherlock told you who turned him?"

"He said you had him locked up in here." John now knows "in here" means the door they are about to go in. Mycroft's grip tightens on the jug's handle.

"So, John Watson, I take it you are ready to meet another vampire?"

Should he play it off? Should he dismiss this, and act like he's been meeting vampires all his life? Or should he run? His feet are heavy. His heart is racing. He has never felt more ready in his life.

"Open the door."

Mycroft does.

Inside is a very unimpressive man, trembling, starving, his skin covered with boils of all sizes. Some of his fingers are stunted. John doesn't know what that means. "Who is he?" John asks. "He doesn't look very important."

Mycroft laughs at this, wholeheartedly, booming. It scares John. "He is rather important, John. Do you know anything about Charles Augustus Magnussen?"

"Name sounds familiar."

Mycroft closes the door behind them. "Owns a few newspapers. Other than that, no real importance."

"I thought so."

Mycroft laughs again. John needs to prepare himself next time Mycroft does it. "I do believe I forgot to offer my condolences for your friend, Mary Morstan, though you hardly knew her." Mycroft sits in front of Magnussen, baffling John as to why he would take a seat near his brother's so-called reason to being how he is today. "I know you'll find it believable the cause of her demise is Sherlock, and a witness of this is Jim Moriarty." Mycroft unscrews the lid to the jug. John smells something awful, not that the smell was great to begin with. He scrunches his nose. The smell of rot, which he found with Sherlock, Mary, and now Magnussen, is almost familiar enough for John to not become nauseated. But that was before the addition of what can only be acid enters the picture.

"We need to throw off the trail," Mycroft says, now turned toward John. "Every killing you hear on the news, read in the papers, find out from your friends has been done by me. Sherlock is equally as guilty, as all the blood was for him. I stockpile blood, while Jim Moriarty is able to seduce others into cutting their wrists and letting him drink the droppings. Sherlock, unfortunately, is not fond of… people."

Mycroft sighs. "Sherlock and I need to leave and go far away."

"Sherlock says you were from Sweden. Why did you move here?" John carefully walks toward Mycroft, trying not to breathe too much.

"Magnussen was here. I needed to kill him for what he did to Sherlock." Mycroft rises onto his knees, raising the jug a bit. "Magnussen will be framed for the crimes. Nobody will be the wiser."

Magnussen looks dead already. His chest doesn't move with any breath, his eyes don't look at either of them. His stunted fingers occasionally twitch—the lone inkling that betrays his life status.

"What do you mean by that?"

"No one will deny Magnussen is capable of this."

Okay, John thinks, you're the big brother, you're the genius. I will trust you blindly. "What am I doing here?"

Before Mycroft can answer, he lifts the jug even higher and promptly pours a quarter of it onto Magnussen's face.

John's eyes widen.

The boils pop, blister, an eye melts, nostrils close. What frightens John the most is how silent Magnussen remains.

Then, with no time for the acid to settle—can acid settle? Jesus—Mycroft stands, sets the jug aside, and pulls Magnussen to his feet. "John," he says, and John acts fast. They push Magnussen, chauffeur him out the room, out the flat. They're running now, dragging the body now, sliding, yanking, closer, closer to the lift. The hall is empty. No one is listening. No one is here. No one sees them pry open the lift doors.

Magnussen's body is lifeless. It's a dead weight. John takes over, Mycroft letting go, Magnussen halfway down the lift chute.

And John falls. Down, down, and John is sliding down with Magnussen. Magnussen's hand is on his ankle, tight, unyielding, like Mary's hand, in the closet, holding him, anchoring him. John is unable to grab onto anything. He's falling, falling, dark, surrounded with darkness, and then he stops, suspends in midair.

John is crying. When he looks over his shoulder, Sherlock is there, covered head to toe in magenta, in what can only be blood. His hair is matted, the whites of his eyes pink. Sherlock is naked, holding onto the edge of the lift opening with one hand and John's arm with the other. Mycroft is at the opening, looking down at them, expressionless.

"Kick," Sherlock pleads.

John kicks, and Magnussen loses his grip and falls, falls, falls.

John sucks in a breath. "Sherlock…"

Sherlock is so strong. He can hold John with one arm, with one hand. "Climb up," Sherlock says, "I can handle it."

John climbs up. Sherlock is oily. John doesn't mind. He's alive, he's on his back, looking up at the ceiling. Everything is going black. "You were in the bathtub," John says, breathless, his chest tight.

Sherlock appears in his vision. His hair is black, so black, illuminated by a light behind him. He's beautiful. "Yes," he whispers, voice cracking, "I was in the bathtub."