A/N First I would like to thank my Beta, Old Ping Hai, for her invaluable help and fantastic suggesstions. All remaining errors are my own.

Next, I want to warn you that this story does not have a happy ending, but the sequel does.

Finally, I need to advise you that I do not own the rights to Sherlock or the characters from the BBC show of that name.

Chapter 3

Despite the poor visibility as night fell plus the ongoing rain, Mycroft, Sherlock and John were immediately spotted by Father when they rounded the shrubbery. Soon shouts and cries of relief from their relatives drown out the sounds of wind and thunder, while a surprising number of torch lights blinded all three of them even as they tried to shield their eyes with their arms.

The Homes brothers agreed on few things, but they were of one mind when it came to anyone fussing over them—they despised fussing. Of course the entire extended Holmes family spilled outside in order to fuss over the two brothers who had been thought lost in the storm.

"Boys!" cried Mummy, her strident voice carrying over the din. "Where on earth have you been? We were so worried!"

Neither of the boys could get a word in edgewise, nor could they enter the house with Mummy planted squarely in the doorway.

"Really, I thought you boys would have enough sense not to venture out into such a terrible storm!" scolded the matriarch.

"But Mummy, you made me go," complained Mycroft as she grasped her eldest child by the elbow, dragging him past the doorway and into the candlelit kitchen.

"Don't take that tone with me, Myke," ordered Mummy.

Her voice was temporarily lost in the racket caused by everyone talking above everyone else and blocking the door as they reentered the kitchen with much jostling and a few muttered curses. At the very end of the line, Cousin Avaril dragged John in, leaving the consulting detective to trail in behind his leprechaun. The warm kitchen smelled of scones, ham and too many damp Holmeses. Not surprisingly, Sherlock vented his irritation and frazzled nerves by slamming the door shut with a loud bang followed by pouting.

Mummy gave Sherlock a look. Then she commanded silence in order to Mycroft speaking, "It was John's fault! We were only looking for him after he got lost in the woods like a witless cretin. Unfortunately, then we were all caught in the downburst; I think it was a derecho. It was a miracle that no one was hurt," said Mycroft, with a scowl at the leprechaun. Like any good politician, Mycroft was prepared to throw John under the bus.

And like any good leprechaun, John was ready to protest that it wasn't a miracle but rather luck that protected everyone, and indeed, he looked like he'd probably argue that it wasn't a storm at all but rather some supernatural special forces troop. Sherlock didn't give his boyfriend the opportunity to make either protest, because Sherlock shoved a cup of tea up to his leprechaun's lips. It was either drink, choke or spill the tea. As Sherlock had predicted, John was loath to waste the tea, and he swallowed it while sparing a side-eyed glare with his partner.

Sherlock put a protective and hopefully controlling arm around his sprite, which also dislodged Avaril from John's side. However, it also brought Mummy's sharp glance over to John and Sherlock.

"Just look at the two of you!" said Mummy accusingly. She abandoned Mycroft to Father and his large towel.

"You're soaked to the bone. Give me some towels!" she ordered.

Young Leonora passed some dry towels to Mummy, like a scrub nurse. Mummy handed one towel to the leprechaun and then tried to pat her younger son dry.

"You'll catch your death if you don't dry off, Sherlock," she tutted.

Sherlock flinched like a cat at her touch and pulled the towel away from Mummy, muttering that he wasn't a child, and death would be preferable to all this annoying hubbub.

Mummy tsk'ed and turned to scold and fuss over John instead.

The Holmes matriarch held out her hand, and Leonora slapped another towel into it. John's hair was roughly tousled by Mummy's efficient toweling off. Like his older brother, Sherlock was not above throwing John under the bus when the bus was Mummy.

Made of sterner stuff, the former army officer stoically stood to attention under her ministrations, not even spilling his tea.

"Oh dear, oh dear! You'll be sure to come down with a cold after all this, John! Going out in the rain without a hat, not even a coat. What would your mother say?"

John nodded helplessly, or maybe his head was jerked up and down as she scrubbed his short blond hair dry.

Sherlock felt a twinge of jealously at his own mother as she played with his John's hair. He was also annoyed with himself for not thinking to dry John off before, because it left John flushed pink with his hair sticking up all over the place as if he'd been well shagged. Sherlock decided that this was a most fetching look for John and one which would be replicated in private later.

Mummy tutted some more and patted John's face dry. Sherlock was truly uncomfortable with Mummy touching his leprechaun and making John look so shaggable. It wasn't right. It was Oedipal or something, and it had to stop.

But it was Mummy. The genius tried rather desperately to think of a way to make her stop.

"My goodness, John, look at this cut!" exclaimed Mummy, shaking her head at the long cut on John's cheek.

"How can he? It's on his face," said Sherlock disagreeably. It was the best he could come up with. He had to tread lightly, because it was Mummy. The matriarch didn't bother to respond to her son's moody comments.

"Oh, I hope it doesn't scar your handsome face," continued Mummy. "And Good Lord, just look at your shoulder! It's bleeding, too. You could have been killed by flying debris, John. I recently read an account of a poor woman who was impaled and killed by flying debris in a terrible twister in Oklahoma."

She paused for breath, while John twisted around, trying to obediently look at his shoulder.

Mummy planted her hands gently but firmly on John's shoulders, bringing the leprechaun's attention back to the matriarch. Sherlock privately admitted that this was a shrewd maneuver on Mummy's part, because even on a good day, John was very distractible.

"Whatever possessed you to run off into that storm, John? You could have been hurt! The boys could have been hurt! The scones were just…"

"Sorry, Ma'am," said John, once again standing at attention to receive his dressing down and drying off. Then he began to explain, "But I really had no choice. Fionn called me and…"

"And his mobile phone signal was poor," continued Sherlock, attempting to cover for his idiot partner, who had forgotten his promise to keep his magical nature a secret. "So obviously he had to go outside. Although next time he might remember to tell me first."

"Well, I don't know…" began Mummy but her attention was dragged over to Father, as he whispered in her and pointed at Mycroft's retreating back.

'Coward,' thought Sherlock, as Mycroft abandoned his brother to face the repugnant fussing alone—as usual. He didn't count John, because John liked fussing–sort of.

Mummy tutted, then followed Mycroft to give him some advice.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," hissed John, tugging on Sherlock's damp, coat sleeve. "Sherlock! I really won't be able to tell you when Fionn summons me again."

"Seriously, John?" spat Sherlock, who felt as if his bond with John were under attack from all angles tonight. "Is he that important to you?"

"No! But you don't understand about Fionn. If he calls you—you, me, anyone—then you have to go."

"Even an instantaneous response does not preclude you from mentioning such a summons to someone like…oh, say...like your boyfriend!" said the brunet scathingly.

"Well, yes it does, actually," said John sounding like the voice of reason as he explained the impossible.

"Coffee?" interrupted Cousin Avaril brightly, as she handed John and Sherlock each a mug of coffee. "Luckily," she gushed like a hormonal geyser, "the gas stove is working, so the coffee is hot and fresh, unlike that tea,Sherlock gave you, John."

Sherlock scowled. He did not want any coffee. John of course acted grateful for the courtesy, bestowing a beaming smile on Sherlock's all-too appreciative cousin. She looked askance at Sherlock, before beaming back at John.

Sherlock's scowl deepened as his boyfriend practically flirted with Cousin Avaril. It was grossly unfair. Why, after years of unwanted devotion, did Avaril have to choose tonight to stop mooning over Sherlock? And why did she have to choose Sherlock's boyfriend to crush on? And why did John have to flirt back, or at least be so damned polite to an admittedly lovely young woman? And why did she have to give them these too hot, overly strong mugs of caffeinated piss, which clearly had too much milk and probably no sugar added to them?

At least John would hate the coffee as much as Sherlock did; that was some consolation, thought the detective, as the hot piss burned his mouth.

Then John smiled, unaware of how terribly Avaril brewed coffee. The blond sprite, whose gorgeous blue eyes were glued to Avaril's ugly green eyes, was just lifting the mug to his lips when a deep, velvety voice interrupted.

"That's the problem when you make unsuitable alliances outside your own kind, John," said a smooth, unctuous voice—the voice reminded Sherlock of Mycroft although it was a much deeper baritone. "They just don't understand the most basic concepts—like when one is compelled to follow one's fate."

The stranger had appeared out of nowhere, stepping into John's space and jarring John's arm. John's mug of terrible cofffee spilled all over John and Mummy's linoleum floor.

Just then, the house rocked with a crash of thunder, signaling another round of squalls.

John started and looked around the room, his eyes wide with alarm, before staring questioningly at the tall, handsome but rather anemic gentleman.

Sherlock shook John's arm, just in case the mysterious stranger was compelling Sherlock's leprechaun with some sort of silent incantation or the more prosaic spell cast by his masculine beauty. This meant that more of John's coffee spilled, making Avaril cry out in dismay.

The pale man sneered at Sherlock and gave his head a quick shake, whipping his long, dark hair back.

'This stranger is more cool than me,' thought the consulting detective with dismay. Then, wearing an obnoxious, Mycroft-ian smirk, the uber-cool stranger began dabbing at the coffee on John's already-sodden jumper with a small embroidered tea towel.

Avaril glowered, already forgotten by both John and by Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at the man's cool overfamiliarity, while he also recalled John's description of the Grim Reaper. This man was tall (taller even than Mycroft). He was clearly more cool than Sherlock and more handsome. (Well, maybe not more handsome than Sherlock, who, despite his oddly shaped eyes and endlessly long jaw, was very attractive to both men and women—and leprechauns.) The interloper also wore a cape that swished dramatically every time the man moved. Sherlock resolved to procure a cape as soon as he returned to London.

"John," Sherlock breathed into the leprechaun's ear, "is this Mr. Death?"

John shook his head as if dazed (or bewitched, wondered Sherlock).

The leprechaun barely managed to whisper, "No." Then the former soldier and medical officer furrowed his brows and shook his head as if to clear it, saying firmly, "No. Nooo, that's…this, this is Richard Talbot." The leprechaun made Richard's name sound like a vile expletive.

John snatched the tea towel out of Talbot's hand and fruitlessly dabbed at his ruined jumper.

The tall man sneered condescendingly, then said with a voice like aged brandy, "John Watson, how delicious to see you." He bent fluidly at the waist, to kiss first the palm of John's free hand, followed by kissing each of the leprechaun's cheeks, lingering over his injured left cheek, as if licking the blood off John's cut.

"Get off me! You thrice-cursed, blood-sucking leech!" cried John, violently shoving Richard aside. His coffee mug fell to the floor and shattered, accompanied by another roll of thunder. The blond practically trembled with rage as his fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

"Oh! Your coffee!" cried Avaril now sounding as angry as John looked; however, no one aside from Sherlock took any notice, and he only noticed because he observed everything.

The pale man licked his red lips lasciviously and grinned at John. Sherlock wanted to wipe the smile off the obnoxious man's face, then kill him and then hide the body cleverly... but on second thought, perhaps John should have first crack at Richard, since he was the wronged party. Besides, John had already shoved Sherlock behind him.

Sherlock and his assembled relatives waited with bated breath for John to throw the first punch, but to Sherlock's surprise the leprechaun turned towards two more strangers, who were hidden behind Aunt Penelope and her large offspring Clarence Otto.

"You two better keep him off me," John demanded, holding his cheek as if it burned. "Bloody hell, if you can't keep him under control, then you shouldn't bring him out into polite society," John complained to the two beautiful blonds. The man and woman were a bit shorter than John. Both were quite pale, fashionably thin and dressed in a fitted black suit and tight black halter dress respectively. Their dark blue-black-violet eyes skirted around the room, looking at Richard before fixing on John. They moved in unison. It didn't take a genius to deduce that they were twins.

"Yes, yes, yes..." soothed the pretty young man, pursing his lips.

"...of course, Jean," agreed the pale lovely woman, rising up on her toes to plant a slow, luxurious kiss on John's pink lips. Sherlock wanted to kill her too.

"...you must settle down, mon ami," said her pallid twin, who also kissed John on the mouth. Sherlock was certain that the little Frenchman had used his tongue.

John didn't seem to mind when the twins kissed him, and Sherlock wanted to kill both of the blond visitors even more than he wanted to kill Richard.

"You know Reeshard is..." she slurred Richard's name with a Parisian accent that was otherwise almost undetectable.

"... trying to wind you up…"

"... as those Yanks like to say."

"As you no doubt…"

"...can tell,"

"we've just returned…"

"...from a visit to Cleveland…"

"...in the New World."

"It was ghastly…"

"…such crowds…"

"…and dreadful weather…

"...but at least the meals were tasty…"

"...and frequent…"

"...the Yanks are always so generous."

Apparently the twins shared that annoying double-talk habit. Sherlock was less jealous of them now, because he knew that John would find their way of finishing one another's sentences irritating too.

"Well, you just keep a leash on him," said John, jerking a thumb towards Richard while still rubbing his cheek with his other hand. At least the cut had finally stopped bleeding. "If he so much as touches me again…"

"I only wanted to kiss you and make the hurt all better," taunted the tall, pale man whose dramatic cheekbones looked artificial to Sherlock. He suspected that the man must have had cosmetic surgery to augment his zygomatic arches. He was ready to announce this to everyone, but stopped because John was snarling like the fierce little bull pup that the leprechaun had wanted to borrow from the pet store last week.

Sherlock deduced that John and Richard had a history, moving Richard to the top of Sherlock's To Kill List. "...bloody upper-class vampire," muttered John furiously, still rubbing his cheek. "...thinks he can suck the life out of whomever he likes…"

"Whoever," corrected Sherlock and Richard in unison, which irritated Sherlock because now Richard was making Sherlock seem pedantic.

John successfully darkened his glower—a fairly significant achievement for a blue-eyed blond. John continued to grumble darkly, "I ought to sharpen up some wooden stakes…"

The effete-seeming blond was much stronger than he looked, because he only needed one hand to restrain the furious leprechaun, who chose now to charge at the tall brunet.

"I'll get you some more coffee, John," muttered Avaril. No one (read John) seemed to care, which pleased Sherlock immensely.

"Non, Jean. Reeshard will behave..." said the short, beautiful blond man.

"...because Mortimer is coming," said his alluring blond twin.

The blonds paused expectantly.

"I know all about Mortimer coming, and if you're here to warn me, don't bother," said John, dashing their hopes of stunning John with this news. John's face creased into even more furrows of displeasure.

Oh yes, John was very irritated with the twins. Sherlock bounced on his toes to celebrate having been right.

"I don't need any more warnings or portents," said John ungraciously, "unless you plan to give me something specific to go on."

"You know that's not allowed…"

"...we can only tell you that he's coming…"

"...tonight..."

"...for you."

"The hell he is!" snapped Sherlock. No one was going to take John. Besides, the detective had enough of this talking duo that said nothing important but uttered it in such a ridiculous fashion.

"Mortimer doesn't come from hell, gorgeous," purred Richard, who suddenly loomed over Sherlock. "But who are you? John, introduce me to your delectable friend."

"Richard, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Richard. He's a bloodsucker, and he's in publishing, which makes him doubly a monster to be avoided,"said John. Before Sherlock could shake Richard's extended hand, John knocked Richard's hand aside, leaning forward to whisper loud enough for all the eavesdropping relatives to hear, "and if you so much as touch him, Richard, I'll light you up like a Samhain bonfire."

John pushed his soaking wet sleeves over his muscled forearms and rubbed his still bloodstained hands together, apparently in preparation for the flambé. Indeed, Sherlock could already see a hint of light dancing in John's hands. So...the bonfire might not be an empty threat. Fascinating.

Richard's smirk faded into a frown of concern. Most of the guests were already stepping back to give the belligerent blond room to fight the cool brunet. Sherlock just hoped his relatives didn't see that John's hands were filling with light instead of preparing for fisticuffs..

Judging from the look on his face, Richard could see the light welling up from John's fingers, confirming that Richard either had fairy sight too, or else he was another supernatural.

The twins too, worriedly eyed John's hands as they hissed at Richard to "come away" and "stop making trouble" and "this is a tea party…" "…where are your manners?" Each of them tugged on Richard's absurdly melodramatic black cape.

While Sherlock agreed in principal with John's intent, he didn't want to explain John's partial non-humanity to his relatives; therefore, it seemed best to distract John from the reprehensible Richard.

Besides, even Sherlock thought it would be rude to set a guest on fire at Mummy's tea party. He placed a restraining hand on the leprechaun's shoulder, while suggesting that they change out of their wet clothes.

Normally, John was always eager remove clothing with Sherlock, but the leprechaun continued tonight's unpleasant, out-of-character behavior, planting his feet firmly on the floor, while glaring daggers at the tall, dark stranger.

"Tea, anyone? Or scones? I managed to save a few," offered Mummy, pushing between John and his visitors with a tea tray and wagging her brows significantly at her younger son.

As was often the case, Sherlock couldn't decipher social signals, and he was uncertain what Mummy's dancing brows were meant to convey. Taking a shot in the dark, Sherlock decided to distract his always-hungry partner with food. The detective grabbed a scone, broke off a piece and shoved it into John's mouth.

Finding it difficult to face down his foe with a mouthful of hot, buttery scone, John was forced to back down, while still sending dark glares at everyone including Sherlock.

Richard looked down disdainfully at John, the teacart and Mummy. "I don't do tea, nor do I do scones," he sneered. He whirled around, and his cape followed like a dark cloud of outrage, before he stalking off to lurk in a corner of the sitting room, like a large bat.

Sherlock sneered back, unimpressed with the man's ludicrous melodramatics and no longer envious of the cape.

"He looks ridiculous flitting around in that cape," said the detective, leaning down to mutter into his shorter partner's ear. "No doubt he thinks he looks all dramatic and mysterious when it swirls around him."

John raised an eyebrow, as if surprised by this comment.

"But...but Sherlock, you…what about your coat…" stuttered the leprechaun.

"Oh really, John, not the same. Surely you're not impressed by his cape-swirling theatrics?"

John shook his head no and accepted another piece of scone from the hand of his proudly smirking companion.

"...and this is my sister, Jacinthe," said the male twin. He and his sister were chatting politely with Mummy.

"...and he's Adrien," said the short blonde.

"You two are French?" asked Mummy, who didn't mind being nosy.

"Oh, yes…"

"...we grew up in Lyon…"

"...but now we live in Paris..." Naturally, the twin pronounced it Parh-ree.

"...but we travel a lot."

"We were recently in Rome…"

"…and then Cleveland…"

" ...and now, London…"

"We especially…"

"…love the nightlife…"

"...that we find in the cities…" added Adrien.

"…but our favorite city is of course…"

"…Paris!"

Mummy courteously offered the twins tea and scones, which they politely declined.

"While the scones smell..." said twin number one (the female) to Mummy.

"...just heavenly," said twin number two.

"Sadly, we ate…"

"...just before coming here…"

"...so we'll have to pass on the scones."

"Well, tha' e'splains why they're 'n such good moods," John mumbled around a mouthful of scone.

"What was that, John?" murmured Sherlock.

John swallowed, licking his lips. (As always, Sherlock found John's pink tongue a bit distracting.) Then the leprechaun attempted to clarify. "They already ate." He must have observed Sherlock's blank look, so he continued his unhelpful explanation. "So they aren't hungry. Which is why they're in such good moods tonight. 'Course if they all ate before coming here, it doesn't explain why Richard is being even a bigger dick than usual. I guess he's just naturally a bloody prick."

The detective was used to John's confusing explanations and decided to table the discussion until they were alone. Just now he wanted to prevent John from lighting Richard up like a Roman candle. "Calm down, John," murmured Sherlock. "I won't let him kiss you again." He tried to distract the leprechaun with another bit of scone.

"It's not the kissing I'm worried about," said John, turning his face away from the pastry. "It's the sucking my blood out that worries me. That bloody vampire has a fetish for non-humans; he's been after a taste of my blood for years. I bet he'd just love to have a leprechaun for a thrall. I really wish he'd...Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock was vaguely aware that his jaw had dropped unattractively, and he had accidentally pulverized the scone into tiny crumbs, as he stared at the…vampire?

"Sherlock! I wanted to finish that scone," complained John.

"Sherlock! You're getting crumbs all over the carpet," complained Mummy. "You always were the messy one."

She finger combed and smoothed Sherlock's messy curls for a moment, while Sherlock grit his teeth. He didn't like being touched, and he certainly didn't need Mummy treating him like a child in front of John or in front of some deadly mythological creature come to life. Especially when the creature was at the top of Sherlock's To Kill List.

But this was Mummy, so Sherlock stood there like a disgruntled statue until Mummy finished playing with his curls.

"His hair is still always messy," said Mummy fondly. Then she turned her attention to John. "Not like your hair, John. Your hair is so nice and neat. Not just now, of course. Just now it's sticking up like a hedgehog."

John blushed and tried to scurry away while combing his hair down with his fingers.

"Stay!" Mummy commanded John. The blond froze, and stood to attention. "Your two friends, John—they're twins, obviously—I mean to say, that they're lovely, just delightful. But...I'm not quite so sure about that Richard...I just mean, if you two don't get on, then why invite him?"

"He invited himself," grumbled John. "And at one time he was my friend, a good friend...before we had a bit of a falling out. It began with a business deal gone sour and then…then there was trouble...over…over some dinner arrangements, I guess you could say."

"Oh! Well, perhaps it's time for you to bury the hatchet," suggested Mummy.

"No, ma'am, a hatchet wouldn't work," said John. "Now a wooden st…"

John could no longer talk because Sherlock had stuck a convenient Jammy-dodger in his mouth.

"Excuse us, Mummy," said Sherlock, dragging John into the corner opposite Richard, the vampire. In the dark, candlelit room, they would be all but invisible to the relatives, who in any case, were busy eating everything in sight now that the promise of fisticuffs had vanished.

"First of all," said Sherlock. "I thought we agreed to keep your leprechaun side a secret."

"Yes. Certainly," John said with a nod. "But your brother had already figured out that I wasn't completely human...and he called me a Faerie."

"And that little slip-up is going to haunt us," muttered Sherlock darkly. "He's bound to try to take you away to have you tested in a secret laboratory or something."

"Sorry," mumbled John, looking sad. John always looked mournful when anyone hinted at any separation between him and Sherlock.

"Never mind," said Sherlock, awkwardly patting his leprechaun's back. "Mummy likes you, so I can use her against him when my fat brother tries to cause trouble."

John nodded, still looking troubled as he bit his lip.

"Anyway, I was not referring to Mycroft. I'm not sure whether that disclosure was entirely your fault." John's mouth dropped open, astonished to find that it was his fault at all. "No, I refer to you preparing to perform magic in the sitting room, and inviting a vampire to tea."

"Three. They're all three vampires," said John. "And I just told you; I didn't invite them; they invited themselves. The twins are Death's acolytes, so I suppose that explains why they're here. But I have no idea why Richard's here." John pursed his lips as he thought about it. "Nope. Nothing. I really have no idea why he showed up tonight, except to make my life miserable and upset the balance, which he did somehow. Twice, which is really bad. Bloody bloodsucking bastard."

"Hm. Is he really..." began Sherlock.

"...a vampire? Yes," finished John.

"And can you really set him…"

"...on fire? No, not really," said John, grumbling around another Jammy Dodger. "Not easily. But I can give him a dose of vitality, which will leave a nasty taste in his mouth. You saw how he backed down. He's..."

"...had a taste of it before..." suggested Sherlock, his eyes lighting up with another successful deduction.

"...when he tried to drink my blood," nodded John.

"… at that dinner party that you keep referring to…"

"Will you two please stop talking like Adrien and Jacinthe?" hissed Mycroft, "it's..."

"...annoying." John and Sherlock completed his sentence in unison, and then grinned at one another like a couple of truants.

"If you're quite finished behaving like children," began Mycroft.

"Wait...you know the twins?" asked John, feeding himself a finger sandwich, giving half to Sherlock, who automatically popped it in his mouth.

"Of course I know the twins, everyone who's anyone knows the twins," Mycroft replied, raising a superior eyebrow at his brother, whoobviously didn't know the twins.

Sherlock's lips turned down in displeasure, while he chewed.

"But how..." began John.

"...do I know them?" said Mycroft, annoyingly completing John's question. "I make it my business to keep track of all registered vampires, especially ones who belong to the diplomatic corps."

John nodded respectfully at the representative of Her Majesty's government. Sherlock frowned harder; John was not supposed to gaze at his brother with respect. He also accepted half of another finger sandwich from John.

"I do wonder, John. How is it that you know Richard?" asked Mycroft, smiling appreciatively at Sherlock's lover.

"Cake, Mycroft?" interrupted Sherlock, proffering a slice of carrot cake. Mycroft curled his lip into a sneer and shook his head, before returning his glance to John with a smile.

Sherlock growled; Mycroft was not supposed to smile at John. He turned away from the food in John's hand, but then John pushed out his lower lip in a fetching pout, licking it for good measure. The detective sighed and took the offered bit of sandwich; it was ham and cheese with mustard. John smiled at Sherlock. The room seemed so much brighter when John smiled.

"We initially met at Rí Séamus's court," said John, answering Mycroft's query. John wasn't smiling back at Sherlock's older brother, which was some comfort. "Later, Richard helped me publish some books. But then he cheated me, which I could have overlooked, because money isn't much use to a leprechaun. But then we had a disagreement over...over dinner plans."

"Ah," said Mycroft politely.

"And how do you know Richard, Mycroft?" asked John, as he fed Sherlock yet another sandwich—chicken salad this time.

"Richard Talbot is a very influential individual. I've run into him at dinner parties and charity events...oh, and of course I see him at Ascot, every year without fail. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw him standing in Mummy's sitting room."

Sherlock almost choked when John nodded and smiled back at Mycroft. The younger Holmes would have gladly knocked Mycroft over with his fist.

But…that would upset Mummy. Instead, Sherlock sought to end this nauseating discussion. He wanted to get John alone, paying attention to Sherlock and answering Sherlock's much more important questions.

"So we'll just stand around making small talk while our home is invaded by vampires, and John receives supernatural death threats from bloodsuckers and flying horsemen?" demanded Sherlock.

He knew that he sounded petulant, but he did not appreciate being left out of the conversation. Plus, he didn't like the way Richard was leering at him and John. Although in the darkened room, it was difficult to tell whom the vampire was actually gazing at.

"They are not threats to anyone. They are registered vampires, Sherlock," said Mycroft as if explaining something to a child. "They would never bite a human without written consent."

"John isn't human," said Sherlock.

"Noooo, but if John really is a leprechaun—of which I have yet to be convinced—then he can probably defend himself from a single vampire," said the bureaucrat superciliously.

"Mm, I wonder then...why is that vampire looking over here and licking his lips?" asked Sherlock.

The Holmes brothers and the sprite turned to meet Richard's dark gaze.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed the leprechaun, stiffening with rage and rubbing his hands together. "Now he's gone too far."

"John, he's just trying to get a rise out of you. Mycroft said the vampires won't bite without written consent," reassured Sherlock, feeling fairly certain that Mycroft was right, because Mycroft was almost always right.

"For God's sake, Sherlock! He's not after your blood; he's trying to cast a bloody glamour on you. He's trying to get into your pants," snarled John. "I'll flood him with vitality. Then, when he's stunned by the overdose, I'll stick a stake through his bloodless heart, and then, just to make sure, I'll set him on fire with the lighter that you've hidden in your pocket along with those nasty cigarettes."

Sherlock hadn't felt any weird attraction for the vampire, so he wondered if the vampire really was casting a glamour as John asserted. However, the detective did feel a twinge of conceited pleasure when John became jealous on his account, so he let the matter be. He was also proud of John for discovering that Sherlock hadhidden cigarettes in his coat.

On the other hand, it would be a bit not good for John to stab Richard in the heart and set him on fire with Sherlock's lighter. At the very least, this should not be done in Mummy's sitting room and in front of witnesses. He pulled the furious ex-soldier further into the corner and held his hands, simultaneously dimming the nascent glow and calming the raging sprite down.

"John," said Sherlock. "No one is getting into my pants."

"Except me," John amended quickly.

"Dear God, must you carry on so at Mummy's tea party?" complained Mycroft.

"You weren't invited into this conversation," said Sherlock, who finally had John's full attention. "Goaway, Mycroft. Eat some cake. Make dinner plans with Richard."

"No. I need to ascertain who is under threat of death and why," said the British government, smoothing down the front of his immaculate three-piece suit.

"Wait, where did he get dry clothes?" asked John, looking down at his own sodden, muddy and blood stained clothing. Then the blond shivered on cue.

"Mycroft travels with a full wardrobe of suits," said the younger Holmes, putting an arm around his shivering leprechaun.

Sherlock had gotten almost as wet as John, but John seemed to tolerate the cold poorly. He was always wearing multiple layers of clothing, favoring heavy, shapeless jumpers. The sprite had once mentioned that the weather in Faerie was always warm and temperate, except for the two obligatory months of winter when the snow fell in perfect drifts like one might see on a Christmas card.

It occurred to the detective that he should probably insist that John change his clothes before he became even more chilled. This was an excellent plan; it would separate John from Richard, give Sherlock a chance to ask the important questions and allow him to spend some time alone with his lover.

"Come along, John," said Sherlock, ignoring his exasperated sibling. "Let's find some dry clothes; I'm sure there's plenty of my old things upstairs. Mummy never wants to toss anything."

"John hasn't answered my question," said the British government.

"I can't answer it," said John. "Portents and omens are nearly impossible to understand unless you're a seer. I am a leprechaun, not a seer. All I know is that Death is coming to tea."

"Maybe he's coming for you, John. You do bear the mark of Fionn," said Mycroft heartlessly.

John did not deny this, and Sherlock felt the urge to take John back to London at once, despite the renewed gale that battered his parent's home.

"Or maybe the mark is a protective rune..." said Adrien.

"...shielding Jean from whatever danger is lurking about," said Jacinthe.

Sherlock tried to sneak off with his boyfriend, but his interfering brother held out his arm to stop their retreat.

"It would help if we knew the nature of the threat," said Mycroft, turning to the twins.

"Mycroft..."

"...surely you understand…"

"...that the portents are seldom…"

"...made clear…"

"...to anyone."

"John, will staying here help us to determine the threat?" demanded Sherlock.

"Nope," said John, shaking his head. "We'll just have to wait for Death."

"Fine, then let's get you out of those wet clothes."

"I really think I should stay and keep an eye on Richard," said John. "Not only is he a bloodsucker, but he's a confidence man—you just can't trust him."

"Mycroft, keep an eye on the bloodsucker in the corner," said Sherlock loudly. "I have to go change John's clothes."

John sighed, resigned to following Sherlock, despite his obvious misgivings.

Richard, Jacinthe and Adrien, looking deeply offended, stared at Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Perhaps the word bloodsucker might be a pejorative term amongst their kind.

He noted that almost everyone else looked scandalized too. Possibly, they had finally realized that there were vampires in the room; more likely, they were shocked, because Sherlock was going to change his lover's clothing.

Sherlock could care less.

He intercepted some angry looks sent his way by Cousin Avaril. He added her to the list of Beings Who Wanted to Shag John. If she wasn't careful, Miss Avaril might even get on to the detective's To Kill List.

He placed his hand on John's back, and escorted his boyfriend up the stairs, eager to both strip John out of his wet clothes and to get some answers about Death coming to Mummy's tea.

A/N Thank you for reading my story. I hope you will consider leaving a reveiw as well.

Special thanks to those of you who have left me reviews already. :D :D :D