SuperWhoLock: When the Shadows Rage

Episode 5: Consultation with a Vampire part 1

~*~And look who it is! YAY! Sorry for making you guys wait so long for Sherlock and John to show up!~*~

John jiggled his foot up and down as he stared out the side window of the cab. Beads of rain streaked the glass, blurring the foggy gray countryside.

"Will you stop wiggling like a toddler?" Sherlock asked coldly. "You're a grown man, learn to sit still."

John thumped the back of his head against the seat and groaned. "Give it a rest, Sherlock."

"I know you're nervous. This is the first case since you were married. Naturally, you're wondering if it's still going to be the same, or if Mary will change our own relationship. Don't worry, I picked an easy case for us today. I'd say we'll finish by, oh, dinner-time, at the latest."

"Oh, Sherlock, just stop for once. You know perfectly well you wouldn't be out here if Mycroft hadn't twisted your arm."

Sherlock sniffed. "Mycroft doesn't twist my arm. He's gaining weight again-I doubt he could if he tried."

John smiled to himself.

"I'd much rather be in the flat continuing my rigor mortis experiments," Sherlock muttered. "At least they'll contribute something to the world, if people will stop dying long enough to let me complete them."

They turned onto a badly-graveled drive.

John secretly hoped Mrs. Hudson threw out those experiments while they were gone. She still did far too much for Sherlock, but ever since his fake suicide and reappearance, she'd been less lenient on certain things. The 'not your housekeeper' rule was, finally, sticking. A little. As much as anyone could ever get a rule to stick with Sherlock Holmes that wasn't of his own making.

He glanced out the window as they pulled up to a decrepit old farmhouse. The siding was molding and dingy, the pain peeling, and the roof looked in need of repair. Several outbuildings and a barn all looked equally abandoned.

"Sure this is where you want?" the cabby asked. "Looks abandoned to me."

"Yes, this is good, thank you." Sherlock got out of the cab.

John followed and paid the cabby, then ran after Sherlock as his friend walked up to the house. He stopped at the foot of the front steps, staring into the broken-out windows, eyes narrowed.

"Well?" John said. "Care to fill me in now?"

"Hmm, about what?"

"The case, Sherlock."

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded to the peeling siding, where John could see the wood of the siding through several patches of color. "Given that it takes a good while for a house to fall into this much disrepair, I'd say this place has been abandoned for a good ten, fifteen years. Not long enough to be breaking down, but I wouldn't go bumbling around in there anytime soon, either."

"Sherlock."

The detective turned up his coat collar and sighed. "Mycroft gave me a file yesterday containing six unsolved murder cases from the past two months. Scotland Yard is baffled. There are no clues other than the killer's modus operandi, which is that each victim has had their throat ripped out. Their bodies were also completely drained of blood."

John grimaced. "That's...not possible."

"I know. They would bleed a great deal, but they would still have some blood left. These didn't, and there was hardly any blood at the crime scene. Mycroft was very concerned, of course, not that I particularly care, but I thought it might be an interesting little jaunt."

He spun on his heel and started walking toward the outbuildings.

"So, what do you think it is?" John trotted after him.

Sherlock skirted around a large mud puddle and stopped in the grass at the edge of the barnyard proper. "No one has glimpsed the killer, and all CCTV cameras have caught are the bodies. Never the actual deaths, and never the killers."

John glanced at Sherlock's face. Even though the detective claimed it would be an easy case, he could see Sherlock's frustration. Either Sherlock was more baffled than he wanted to admit, or he'd solved the entire thing three seconds after Mycroft had handed him the file, but was being forced to investigate anyway.

"I can see where Mycroft is coming from," John admitted. "Six bodies in two months, that's quite a lot, even for a serial killer."

Sherlock sighed. John had gotten to where he knew what each type of sigh meant, and this heavy, drawn out one meant that he was missing something that Sherlock thought was painfully obvious. John rolled his eyes and ran through the list of facts again. Throats ripped out, bodies drained of blood, killer not yet caught on tape-wait.

"Hang on, are you suggesting that these killers are...vampires?"

Sherlock groaned. "Vampires do not exist, John, except in the overactive imaginations of a few idiot writers and the squealing masses of teenage fangirls."

John decided not to tell him about the recent fanfiction he'd found that featured Sherlock as a vampire.

Sherlock's lip curled as he scanned the outbuildings. "However, given the recent glut of vampire fiction in novels and television, it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that some rabid fan has decided to act out a few dark fantasies."

John's stomach turned at the thought. "Oh, come on, Sherlock. You really think that someone would be sick enough to drink human blood?"

"Killers have done worse."

"Well, maybe, but..." John trailed off.

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed again, and he stood staring at the barn. John glanced at the building. All the other outbuildings had gaping holes where the siding had fallen off, but the barn was patched. The door were closed and fitted together properly.

"Roof patched, though with different colored shingles. Windows boarded from the inside. Grass trampled at the side of the building," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Not so deserted as someone would like us to think."

He started toward the barn.

"John grabbed his arm. "If we're after a fake vampire, why are we here, exactly? I'm not going into that barn until you tell me."

"Did you bring your gun?"

"You told me to."

"Was'nt my idea. Mycroft suggested it."

A cold breeze struck John's neck. He shivered. "Sherlock..."

"One of the victims listed his address as this abandoned farm. When they autopsied his body, he had human blood-type B positive-in his stomach. His own blood was type O."

John frowned. "So you think the fake vampires are camping out here?"

"Specifically, in the barn."

"We can't just march in there and confront them! We only have one gun, and who knows how many people will be in there!" John dug into his jacket pocket, searching for his phone. "I'm calling Lestrade. He can-"

"John." Sherlock's voice was suddenly tense.

John raised his head. Sherlock's eyes were a little too wide, his face a little too white.

Behind him, John heard the distinct click of a cocking gun. He raised his hands, turning as he did so.

Behind him stood a pale, thickset man with long, greasy hair hiding half his face. In one hand he held up John's phone, and in the other, the gun, the barrel pointed at John's forehead.

"Hello mate. Lookin' for these?" The man grinned, and his mouth was full of needle-point fangs.