Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sherlock pressed his glass to his lips and let it fall into his mouth against his pale white fangs. The crowd, enamoured with his romantic expression, missed the glimpse of fangs entirely.

Lestrade was still applauding as he approached them, drawing the attention of the crowd that had formed a circle around the two. "Give it up for the man who single-handedly solved the case of the North Hampton Scalper!" even saying the words sent a shiver down Lestrade's spine. "And his great help of a lover..." he whispered under his breath, catching Moriarty's attention as he rolled his eyes. As the music died down Lestrade brushed down his suit and took a quick sip of his champagne. "Care to tell us about it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock dragged his hand away from Moriarty's waist and licked the remnants of red liquid from his lips, staring at them all with those bloodthirsty eyes. "Of course." he began, "I'm sure you've all seen the news and read John's questionable retelling of it over on his blog, I was tasked by the strand to help catch a murderer. At first, the case seemed nothing short of average, that was until I saw the corpses. Their scalps had been ripped from their skeleton, a message etched into their exposed skulls." Sherlock smiled, as he recounted the initial fascination. Moriarty's dark eyes bored into Sherlock as he spoke, never wavering. "Naturally, I began searching through all I could. I discovered he was a surgeon who had recently been fired from his job in North Hampton. After that, it wasn't so hard to find where he had been staying. A disgusting mess of a flat, he had decorated it rather crudely with the victim's missing skin and hair. He kept them in jars of peroxide, though he had gotten rather lazy as of late judging by the mess he had left when we caught him. The least he could do was clean up." Sherlock commented with an air of detachment.

The flat had been messed with by the time they arrived, things were scattered throughout the hallway and the body of his roommate could be found by the entrance, freshly killed. He ran past the stained carpet and antique desk which had been shoved in front of the bedroom, his coat flying behind him. Before the others had even arrived in the living room he had grabbed the killer, pressing his body into his and shoving the man's own rifle under his chin. He had been packing, a sad excuse for a suitcase was filled with his belongings.

The police did the rest, got the evidence all cleaned up and into sterile little baggies to be chemically examined later, and got the man locked up in an ugly grey cell as they did with all murderous geniuses.

The crowd eventually quieted down once again and he noticed Donovan and Anderson among them, "Not much of an achievement, the killer was practically waiting hand and foot for you, much like someone else we know..." Donovan muttered. She sent a glare towards Moriarty, who sent it right back. Whilst they hadn't been properly acquainted yet, the stories Moriarty had heard of her pathetic existence were enough to have him wishing he could bite her throat out on this dance floor, make sure she never uttered another word of shit.

"Think you could do better?" Sherlock asked as he approached the bartender. The venue had been especially accommodating to his needs, pouring him his own 'special drink', which he, of course, had failed to mention was made of. The bartender was good at keeping secrets though, it was their job, wasn't it?

"Oh no, I could never compete with the great and glorious Sherlock Holmes himself! Perhaps we should build you a temple, Your Highness? Plate it with gold?" She met his gaze with a challenging look to her eyes, Anderson crossed his arms behind her.

Moriarty's face twisted in annoyance, yet he caught himself, sighed, and looked right into Anderson's eyes. He smiled slowly and serenely, relishing in the way Anderson's face paled.

"Jim," he said. "My name is Jim." He smiled with all the grace of a growling wolf, and Anderson's swallowed, but soldiered on. That gaze...who the hell was this guy?

"Well, don't expect much from this one, he's not well known for his heart," he spat.

Sherlock wrapped his fingers around his glass once more, now full, and drank, licking his lips as though it were the most exquisite drink he'd ever tasted, and, truly, it could've been. "Not that you bring much to the table for kindness do you, Anderson? Perhaps you should get that in check before you piss off someone truly incapable of containing themselves one day." He glared at Anderson as if that was a threat. "Would be a shame to miss the next party, wouldn't it?"

Anderson reeled back, eyes wide, and Lestrade interrupted. "Now, now," he said. "That's not what tonight is about, is it?" When no one replied, he added, "Please."

The crowd began to disperse, and Lestrade turned on Sherlock with pleading eyes. "Tonight's about celebrating! Be proud of yourself, this was a big one." He shook his head. "Those poor people."

He set his glass back onto the bartender's tray and looked over to Moriarty. He was adjusting his suit, preening himself. 

Sherlock pushed himself off the bar and reached for Moriarty, pulling him into an embrace and running his hand up the man's neck. "Care for another dance?" Moriarty rolled his head back against Sherlock's hand and took a slow breath as he thought. "Come on, when was the last time you danced like this? Makes me feel wild like some teenager at a Summer Ball." Sherlock softly laughed and kissed Moriarty's neck enticingly.

"What, spinning around til I get sick?" Moriarty sighed. "I really shouldn't even be here."

"You're my plus one," Sherlock said, "Besides, this is hardly anything more than a poor excuse to hold a New Year's party. They'd already used their party quota on Halloween."

Moriarty sighed, letting his body move with the music, which Sherlock used as an excuse to pull him into a fast waltz. "Do you think in the New Year you could avoid inviting me to these things? It's probably not the smartest." The room blurred as Sherlock swung Moriarty around, moving with grace where Moriarty struggled to match him. Sherlock's hand pressed against his waist holding him upright, pressing down until he was bent uncomfortably, face flushed but unresisting.

"How else would I show you off?" Sherlock murmured with a seductive bite to his lip, leaning in and brushing a kiss against his lips, then heading downwards until he could sink his teeth directly into the crook of Moriarty's neck. Moriarty exhaled sharply with the bite, but as the scent of cologne reached Sherlock, he relaxed again, and Sherlock pulled away from Moriarty's neck as the song ended in a harsh crescendo.

Sherlock smiled, "The blackthorn full of spines, but how the child delights in its fruit." he quoted.

"See at the way they look at each other?" Lestrade tsked, "If only my wife looked at me like that." 

John closed his eyes, the image of Moriarty disappearing from his mind. his hands grasping Sherlock as he smiled softly, so lovingly. "You're not the one who has to live with them, emphasis on them. Jim's here every other day now when he's not off-" John suddenly remembered who he was talking to, "doing whatever he does in his free time."

Lestrade laughed and licked the liquid from his bottom lip. "A bit jealous, John?"

The door to the museum slammed shut behind them, Lestrade stumbling out with his drink miraculously not spilt, making way for Anderson. Anderson, however, knocked into Moriarty, his eyes widening with horror as he realized who, exactly, he'd just bumped into. "Sorry!" he began, but before he could finish Moriarty had already pulled out his switchblade.

Moriarty pushed him off. "I can handle myself," he said before stumbling into the backseat. John rolled his eyes.

"That place was too stuffy. I hate people," Moriarty said quietly. He laid his head on Sherlock's shoulder as he felt his eyes fluttering closed. "I don't understand why you even come to these."

John turned to them, revealing he had been eavesdropping, and blushed.

They looked upon their sister, scrawny and fearful as she had always been. She often got into trouble for meaningless things and yet they hadn't expected she would do something as awful as this. They had not even dared to speak the name of such a practice let alone perform it. Yes, it was true, a fair few of them had gone out onto the moors with her, bathed under the moonlight with her. But that was nothing more than hearsay anymore, they were not like her. The witch.

That night, as the town stirred with mentions of what the young child had done, the mother and father had come up with a plan. A plan of their worst fears, a plan whose very premise sent fear trembling throughout their skin, yet may be their only hope to save the young girl who had traversed too close to the moon and lost herself in its realm.

Her mother wrapped the girl's head in a thick scarf, hiding her face as they walked out into the night. They ran to the forest they had found her in that morning, the dark abyss above obscuring their path. Her mother never let go of her hand as they worked their way through the woodland.

The creeping shadows of the forest which once would once have scared the young girl were now nothing compared to the heat of a flame beneath her feet. The thought of a pyre being built just for her, the fate dealt to anyone given the title of witch.

Eventually, the endless branches parted to reveal a moonlit grove. Surrounded by a ring of ancient trees.

And with that, they had disappeared into the thick forest's branches, leaving her cold and alone under the moon's watch. To be hers once more.

They saw her as a baby, incapable of having her own thoughts and feelings. They would see her pushed away from her own parents before they saw her gifts accepted.

The girl took a sharp inhale and opened her lips to speak. Her final words as the one they knew, no longer a girl, but a beast.

As John entered the room, he startled the butterfly Sherlock had been watching on the windowsill, and he sighed. "For me?" he asked, eyes on the folder John was holding—from Lestrade, of course.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "We don't have all day."

John swallowed. "Strung up by the neck with his own organs." He flipped the page, revealing an image of the body.

"Interesting," Sherlock said, making his way to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson had set a cup of tea. "Anything else?"

"Uh, it says that there were signs of a struggle, but the scene was mostly clean. Any ideas?"

Sherlock set his cup down, smirking. "About twenty."

The door to Sherlock's bedroom swung open, revealing Moriarty blinking sleep from his eyes. He approached the other two who seemed to be congregating in the kitchen and pressed himself against the counter. "New case?"

"Do you just live here now? You don't even pay rent," John said, irritated. As Moriarty made his way towards the fruit bowl, as he often did, John chucked him an apple.

Moriarty sarcastically smiled, "I pay in blood! you know, the only thing keeping Sherlock from devouring you? I'd say that's fair enough, it's not exactly easy to come by."

"And you," John muttered.

Sherlock picked up the photo and examined the puzzle, placing each piece in its designated spot. "Care to take a look? He was strangled with his own organs." Sherlock laughed.

Moriarty's expression immediately tensed, his eyes widening as Sherlock turned and held the photo up for him to see.

For a moment he had been hoping it was someone else, a copycat, or a crude coincidence. But the fates had decided to play a trick on him that day, a painful reminder of his place in this world. Moriarty rushed a smile and looked up at Sherlock for his approval. It was evident Sherlock had seen something in that smile though, something John hadn't as he rolled his eyes.

"A man is dead, perhaps this isn't something to be laughing about? Or am I the odd one here?"

Sherlock looked down at Moriarty and examined his posture, his expression, the way he batted his eyelashes and attempted to look away. "Definitely you," he laughed, earning a sigh from John.

Sherlock pushed the picture back into its folder and swiftly walked towards the door for his coat. "Right, I suppose he'll want me to take a look then? You coming?" he asked as John reached for his own coat.

"Of course," he said with vigour.

Moriarty felt his heart beating a little quicker than usual now, his stature shifting as if he had to pee. He rushed up to them and grabbed his black sweater from the couch. "Me too, of course, yeah," he muttered as they walked out the door, knowing exactly how that must've sounded to the very perceptive Sherlock.

Sherlock furrowed his brows as he walked down the stairs. This was going to be interesting...

As he walked inside the lavish mansion, made of Victorian bricks and golden white trimmings, the scent of freshly fallen blood reached his senses. From the picture alone he was sure it was going be quite the bloodbath, but that was an understatement when you were a vampire; Every prick of blood from two stories down could be sensed by him once he had gotten a taste for the life force of others, and today was no different. Sherlock turned his coat collar up and pressed it against his face to shield himself from the scent. It worked, but not nearly as well as he had hoped.

Over the past few months, he had been practicing his self-control skills, visualizing a scene of gory destruction and trying his best not to lose his mind. As ridiculous as it sounded, he did find that to work surprisingly well against his vampirism. Allowing himself to get lost in the memory of that night in Dartmoor seemed to do the trick. Replaying the horrific events like a slideshow--creepy woods, werewolf, almost murdering John, and eventually admitting all he had kept from the man--made them seem less distressing. As if with every replay he felt less and less hunger, less and less fear. He wondered if it was Rieka. If she was somehow able to speak to him through the veil and teach him her tricks.

Yet even with that, he was still nowhere near skilled enough in the field of hypnotics to deal with this mess, he only hoped he could be in and out before it got too bad.

Sherlock clambered over the fallen bookshelf by the entrance, holding out a hand to help Moriarty over.

It looked even more gruesome in person, the man's ileum of his small intestine had been unravelled and pulled up towards his throat. It was wrapped around three or four times before being tied to a ceiling joist in the roof. It was quite the display if he were honest; it was almost impressive.

Lestrade seemed to notice Sherlock had entered and walked up to them, "Quite the scene, isn't it? Those things really can stretch."

"Yes, they can. Now what can you tell me about the victim?" Sherlock asked, stepping over various marked pieces of evidence which lined the floor. By the splatters of brown dried blood--of which he attempted not to notice--it seemed the murderer first knocked him on his back, causing a large gash in the back of his skull which resulted in a streak of blood across the floor when he picked him up again. He must have been of equal height and strength to lift the man. Supposedly he opened up his torso before death had occurred to avoid the dead weight, then quickly tied his intestine to the ceiling along with his neck and fled the scene.

"Oscar Chavez." Lestrade began, "He was famous for his talk show, Late Night With Oscar, where he would ridicule people and embarrass them on stage, he wasn't exactly well-liked, which actually might make our job harder seeing as everyone he knew seemed to have a motive."

"Anyone in particular he irritated recently?" Sherlock pressed his collar against his nose again and turned to face the window as one of the police officers took samples of some of the freshest blood. The sight was enough to have his skin crawling.

"Well, that type of humour wasn't uncommon on his show but out of all his recent victims, as you might call them, one is missing." Lestrade continued. Sherlock turned to face him again and focused his attention on Lestrade's words. "Nicholas Burton, twenty-three, recently disappeared from his home in South London after appearing on the show."

"After his death?" Sherlock asked, watching as Lestrade double-checked the case file.

"After his death."

Sherlock looked behind Lestrade at Moriarty who had been conveniently quiet since they arrived. He stared back at him, grinding his teeth together with a nervous smile. His at first minuscule observation now became a full-fledged theory with the view of that guilty expression and he darted towards his lover, grabbing his hand, and leading them both out the door.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade asked, but Sherlock didn't answer. Moriarty sent Lestrade an awkward smile as they left the room.

John and Lestrade shared confused looks as the front door slammed behind them.

"Do you have any part in this crime?" Sherlock whispered as the two of them stopped outside the front doors.

Moriarty blinked a few times as their eyes met. "Perhaps," he said with an awkward tilt to his lips.

Sherlock dragged a hand across his face. They both knew this was bound to happen eventually, he just hoped it wouldn't be soon. Yet here he finally was, consulting on a crime Moriarty had committed once again after all those months of hiatus. "So, this Nicholas Burton, he committed the crime and you fixed it up for him? That's how it works?"

"I set up a new identity for him in Peru; I don't expect Scotland Yard to find them without your help," he said as he shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, feeling a headache coming on. "I made a deal with Watson a while back not to kill the innocent, this man was far from innocent and I hope you see that. If you decide to convict my client for the murder of such a man, don't try and pretend you have the high moral ground"

"Morally righteous or not it is my job! To allow emotional bias to affect my decisions would make me a pitiful detective." Sherlock turned to Moriarty again, closing the distance between them so their lips were inches apart despite the height difference. "Do you ask me to cover for you despite my obligations? Would you have me risk that?"

"Side with the dangerous and 'ill-advised', or what you've always known?" he murmured, "I know I would be fine having to leave this little life with you, having to return to life on the run, but would you?"

Sherlock let his teeth press into his bottom lip and took a sharp inhale of breath. The ropes of inky black love had begun to coil around him and he wasn't sure he could deny them any longer. "No, and neither would you, despite how much you like to believe you could. If I wasn't there to satisfy your own thirst you would go mad."

Moriarty smiled, removing his hands from his pockets and sliding them up Sherlock's body. He dragged his arms around Sherlock's neck and leaned in close enough to hear his heart beating through his chest. "Does that mean you're in this with me? Prepared to run if needed? Prepared to join the dark side?" he laughed softly at his own words, unable to keep a smile off his face.

Sherlock tensed. This was not a decision he was expecting to make today. "I'll keep this secret for you, but I'm not 'joining the dark side' as you put it. I'm just saving your reckless hide."

Moriarty smiled and placed a peck on Sherlock's cheek. "Lovely."

As John approached Sherlock handed his ringing phone over to Moriarty, "This is one of Moriarty's," he said with a tense expression.

John's shoe faltered against the pavement as his mouth parted slightly and his gaze narrowed. "Sorry, what?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, causing only more confusion between the men.

"You set up this crime? Why the hell didn't you say something!" he yelled as Moriarty hung up on the taxi driver.

"Well, I wasn't exactly sure until I heard his name, we made a deal, don't go back on it now, Watson!"

"What the hell has my life come to?" John muttered.

"Well, seeing as we both agreed not to look too deep into this case, I'd consider it closed. Nicholas Burton's the murderer and just very good at hiding, he had no help from anyone else whatsoever," Sherlock butted in.

Before he could finish that thought, his bedroom door slammed open and the sound of Sherlock's boots pressing into the creaky hardwood reached his head. The doorway now illuminated the room and the detective's tall figure projected against his wall.

John straightened his back and pushed himself up, glaring at Sherlock, who just gave him 'the look' and pulled his iconic coat over his shoulders. "What?" John asked.

Sherlock walked out the front door, leaving John scrambling after him.

"Not too fun being an accomplice to murder is it?" Moriarty hummed under his breath as John stumbled past him towards the door. John sent him a tensed glare but ignored his comment.

The three made for Dartmoor as quickly as they could, travelling until the sun began to dip below the horizon. By then they had found themselves in a Land Rover driving along the countryside.

The chill fog from through the windows translucent crystals to bled into his skin. It only grew colder as the rolling hills outside grew darker, illuminated by the pale moonlight.

When they arrived at the hotel, the same as they had months prior, they were greeted with a familiar smile. The Glaswegian man and his husband grinned like howling monkeys as they saw them step through the old wooden door. "Evening! back for more? Suppose' our famous hellhound tricked the great Sherlock Holmes!"

"Some would say that..." Sherlock muttered.

John yawned behind him as the three walked towards the counter, for the moon still glowed in the sky above, his rest long awaiting him. "You heard?"

"Henry's been raving to half the town about your little fuck up, ask me and I think he's gone mad. I mean he always did have a few screws loose but this is..." he sighed, "it's disheartening, to say the least." The man retrieved their room keys from under the counter, "The boy's father, I knew him, what a shame. I never thought it would lend him here." a grave expression had painted along his features as he dropped the keys into Sherlock's hand. As he let them fall he noticed a head of black hair just behind the two men. "Who's this lad?" he asked.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, almost forgetting he and his lover weren't common knowledge. Though he had tried his best to keep it secret from the public eye they had gotten more relaxed in the recent months, as long as the person in question wasn't anyone who would have known his face, Moriarty seemed fine with it. truthfully whatever Moriarty was fine with, Sherlock was too. It was his face after all.

"This is...my boyfriend," he said, a red flush emerging on his cheeks. Such an intimate term hadn't been used to describe them yet, besides whenever John would nag him about it. The two hadn't decided on a formal title to describe their relationship, after all, what word could? But with a small glance towards Moriarty and his flushing cheeks, he realized it might not have been the best thing to say.

The man grew a large grin and welcomed the stranger, "Ah! lovely to meet you then..."

"Jim," Moriarty exclaimed in a high pitch as the man waited patiently for his reply. "My name is Jim."

"Right, well it's nice to meet you, Jim," he held out his hand for Moriarty to shake, yet the other just stared at him, waiting for that calloused hand to disappear. "Anyway," the man laughed softly, "I best let you get to your room."

Sherlock nodded at him and led the other two away and towards the connected lobby. As they walked next to each other he leaned over and whispered to Moriarty, "Was that alright?" he asked, looking around to ensure no one else had heard him.

"Oh, yeah I'm fine with-I mean-you can call me whatever," he whispered back, letting out a nervous chuckle, "it was just a bit sudden."

Sherlock could not help but smile as he watched a soft red approach Moriarty's cheeks again, his composure falling to anxiety surrounding that one word. Boyfriend. He couldn't say he blamed him, it was hardly something he'd ever called another man nor been called by anyone else. The idea of being someone's boyfriend was something he never considered, he didn't imagine Moriarty had either. Yet something about the way he swallowed his anxiety, putting on a relaxed mask, left an ache in Sherlock's chest. He couldn't help but wonder if he had truly been as alone as Sherlock before all this.

They stepped up the old rickety staircase and towards their room. It was another two-bedded suite with a window overlooking the forest. It wasn't a sight he imagined ever seeing again. He could feel her, even here where the scent of human was ever present. Ever since they had arrived on this land of muddy moor and icy fog he had felt her presence as if she were his kin.

Sherlock stepped inside and removed his coat, John and Moriarty walked behind him, exchanging a glance. "Tired, John? Moriarty smirked.

John hid his yawn and crossed his arms, "Not one bit."

Sherlock had decided it would be best to go to bed and wake up as early as they could come the morning. So, they all cuddled into the warmth of their hotel room and drifted off.

Moriarty found it the hardest to sleep, for even once he found himself in the arms of the detective, his mind still raced.

Drip...Drip...drip...the water sang as it fell from the long locks of whoever was standing before him. She stood barefoot along Oceanic rocks, a cliff lay behind her. The woman, naked as the day she was born, inched backwards.

He warned her she would fall if she took another step and suddenly she parted her hair to look at him. Her eyes were red as a ruby, her grin as wide as a growling wolf. She allowed herself to fall.

As Moriarty rushed after her, he saw nothing but fog below the cliff, hearing the splash of the rapid water below.

He felt a hand embrace his and looked up to see Sherlock stood beside him on the cliffside. "Don't be scared," he whispered, his grip tightening, "I'll do it with you."

To his right, John appeared and took his other hand. "Come to us," he said.

Before Moriarty knew it they were leading him towards the cliff, not an inch of fear in their bodies. Before he could open his mouth to protest, he was pulled over the edge, falling through the air toward roaring waves. His heart pounded in his chest as the wind pressed against this flesh. His breath quickened and before he knew it he was screaming.

"Morning," John said with a raised brow. "Nightmare?"

Moriarty dragged a hand down his face, feeling his sweat-soaked shirt pull across his back, "Shut up."

Before the clock struck noon Sherlock sent a text to Henry, letting him know they had arrived, and before the first hour, the raving man had already begun pounding on their hotel door.

Sherlock creaked it open to see him standing there with a layer of sweat decorating his forehead. "Sherlock!" he exclaimed. Henry inched forwards, attempting to push himself inside, yet when he saw the taken-aback expression on the detective's face he thought better of it. He wiped the sweat from his palms and forehead and sent him an awkward smile. "Good to see you again, well, not good of course but-"

"So, late at night, you saw this creature? Did you go to bed after?" John asked.

The café was busy today, full of small groups chatting away the morning. John watched a small group of women towards the centre as they laughed like howling monkeys. He looked a moment too long before returning to his hash browns.

"Quit staring and go say something already," Sherlock mumbled

John seemed almost shocked he had noticed, though, of course he had. It was rare Sherlock had missed anything John attempted to hide from him.

"Thanks but I don't take advice about the opposite sex from you and we have more important things to do today."

Sherlock sent a glare to Moriarty who laughed softly and teased the doctor, "What, you chicken?"

"Oh?" Moriarty raised his eyes in mock surprise, though before could add another snarky comment, one of the women got up from her chair and walked towards them.

The woman smiled awkwardly and brushed her hair behind her ear. "Hey, I just saw you across the café and I was wondering if I could get your number?" She said with a flirtatious smirk. Yet instead of John, she had been aiming her question at Moriarty.

The two men met eyes for a moment then looked back toward the woman. "Me?" Moriarty asked, pointing a hesitant finger toward his chest. He realized how rude that must've sounded had he actually been a regular person like he needed to pretend and quickly brushed back his hair with a polite smile. "Sorry but-"

"He's taken." Sherlock butted in, wrapping his arm around him.

The woman bit her bottom lip and let out a soft laugh, "Ah, I see. Sorry about that-" she cut herself off abruptly and squinted at Sherlock in thought, "Are you that detective that was in the paper? Sherly-er-sherlough...no that's not it-"

Sherlock's eyes went wide as he realized the mistake he just made in proclaiming his supposed ownership--as if it wasn't Moriarty who held the reigns in this relationship--over him to a random stranger. Here goes keeping this a secret, before he knows it the whole world will be reading an article on one of their fan sites about how gay he is.

"Sherlock Holmes! It is, it has to be!" Commented her friend, who had been eavesdropping from their table.

"Ah! That's where I know you, Stacy reads your blog!" she explained, nearly forgetting the reason she had walked up to them in the first place.

John sighed and pushed his empty plate away from himself, "my blog."

She looked him up and down, watching as a soft pink approached John's face. "Yours? Right..." John wasn't exactly sure what to make of her expression as she went back to talking to Sherlock, "Well, sorry for that. I see you're quite protective of your boyfriend, doesn't surprise me you've kept him out of your stories. I'm sure your lady fans would go mad."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "my lady fans?" He wasn't even aware people besides the story-hungry press cared about his love life, let alone would go 'mad' as she had said due to it.

"My stories," John corrected her, "I write the blog."

Sherlock downed the rest of his tea and stood up, "Well, nice to meet a fan but I'm afraid we'll have to get going now."

"Ah, my bad, I'm sure you three have far more important things to do than talking to little ol' me." she blushed and brushed more stray hair from her face, seemingly embarrassed she had spoken to them at all. "It was nice meeting you, as well as your boyfriend and blog writer!" She waved to them as they snuck past her and strode towards the exit. When the door shut behind them with a chiming bell, she turned to her friend with starstruck vigour.

"Lucky! I can't believe we got to see him in person." her friend, Stacy, spun around her chair giddily as she said that.

"I know right, what are the chances? Wish they could've stayed longer but he seemed a little shy...maybe he's more of a homebody. It wouldn't surprise me for someone so smart." The woman joined her friend by the table again as she spoke, taking a sip of her forgotten espresso.

"I've heard he's a little anti-social, makes me wonder how he got that hot inamorato of his." her friend laughed, earning a playful punch to the arm from the woman.

They each took long strides through the thick mud to avoid getting their shoes stuck. The rain from early this morning had left the path to Henry's mansion slick with mud. Luckily it was over as quickly as it had begun and they found themselves walking past the expansive garden toward an elegant stone path.

Sherlock's coat swooped behind him as he adjusted it. "Shame the rain washed away any pawprints she may have left, I would've loved to study them."

"I'm sure Ms. Hudson would appreciate that." John scoffed, "You'd probably give the woman nightmares!" He trudged behind Sherlock and Moriarty as they stepped onto the smooth stones of the path and scraped their shoes. "Speaking of nightmares, Moriarty nearly gave me a heart attack with the way he jumped awake this morning. Care to tell us what that was about?"

Sherlock tensed his brow and looked to Jim, who seemed annoyed John had brought that up. "I had a bad dream, nothing to concern yourself with Watson."

"You sure?" Sherlock mumbled, concern rolling off his tongue. Moriarty felt his breath catch as their eyes met but paid it no mind. He nodded slowly.

"Whatever you say, but it looked like you were about to wet yourself. Perhaps this Rieka business scares you more than you let on, hm?" John teased, earning a bit of revenge for this morning.

Moriarty tensed and glared at John, "I'm not scared of a..."

They all froze. Ahead lay the door to Henry's mansion, its pristine image ripped from it as deep gashes tore through the wood. The slashes were long and murderous, reaching far higher than any dog on its hind legs could reach.

There was a pause between the three as they stood there. Their minds raced with the same thought that no simple canine could have caused this.

Sherlock took a deep swallow and thrust himself forward. He placed three knocks on the door's broken wood.

Suddenly it swung open, "Sherlock!" exclaimed Henry.

"Correct," Sherlock replied, "Had a visitor?"

Henry welcomed them inside and started the kettle. "The Hound, it was right here where I saw that thing." Henry pointed to the large window in the kitchen, allowing himself to remember the horrifying sight. "Its fur was black as night, its teeth like jagged razors-"

"Still one for poetry I see?" Sherlock interrupted, unamused with his description of her. She wasn't the prettiest looking but she was hardly an eyesore. It almost felt insulting considering what he'd looked like when killing "You know I heard from your neighbours that there has been a stray dog around."

Sherlock raised his brow, causing Henry to furrow his own. "Are you accusing me of lying Mr. Holmes?"

"Lying? No, simply exaggerating. I have no doubt you believe you saw that creature, dogs can appear quite large under the impression of a tired mind."

"I know what I saw!" he yelled. Henry pressed his palms into the countertop as he leaned across it, coming into Sherlock's personal space. The kettle sang behind him, shattering Henry's thoughts for a moment. He sighed and attempted to gather his composure. "Mr. Holmes I hope you did not come all this way just to ridicule me again, I am not delusional, nor seeing things-"

"You know it's nothing to be ashamed about," John said.

Henry walked around the counter, allowing the kettle to continue yowling. "Watson I-I fear for my life," he admitted, grabbing John's collar with a tight fist. John awkwardly inched away from the desperate man. "You don't believe me," he mumbled, allowing emotion to spread across his face. "Why won't you believe me!" he finally screamed, pushing Watson's back into Sherlock with a push.

The two anxiously stepped away from Henry. Something had changed since they last saw him, the hound had invaded his very psyche, causing a full mental breakdown.

"Henry, calm down," Sherlock said in a composed voice, keeping his eyes focused on him.

"NO! I won't calm down, why should I? You're the one calling me delusional, do you know how that feels every damn day of your life? I saw it, I know I did!" he screamed, stepping closer.

Sherlock stopped walking back, allowing Henry to enter his space. "Listen to me Henry, I-"

Before he could finish another syllable his mouth fell agape. The shuffling of John's shoes behind him as he covered his mouth to keep the vomit from escaping awoke his adrenaline. He felt the urge to look back at John, yet in that split second before he saw what the doctor had seen, he unfortunately looked into Henry's eyes. They had a thin grey sheen, the depth of his pupils stabilizing and seeming to disappear. Before him, Henry's mouth dripped with dark blood as a kitchen knife was lodged in his neck.

Moriarty pushed the knife in further. The spinal cord cracked as he severed one of his carotid arteries, causing the blood flow to Henry's brain to stop. He had positioned the knife just right to quickly slide it through his vertebrae and into his trachea, blocking air from entering his lungs.

Sherlock took a step back as he heard that gruesome noise. It was as if half of his mind was the version he had been before all this, that simple detective. Smart yet naïve to believe he was immune to the horror that corrupted this world. The other half of his brain was that of the bloodsucker inside of him, thirsty as all hell.

Henry attempted to gasp for air but could not. He reached up to touch the knife sticking out of his skin before falling forward, revealing Moriarty's form behind him.

"A stab through the neck is the easiest way to kill a man if done correctly. His brain should shut down within a few minutes, though I don't tend to stick around that long."

John spat out the bile that remained on his tongue onto the hardwood below them, "You killed him!"

Moriarty rolled his eyes, "Yes, what a great observation Doctor. Really, how do you do it?" He cooed as if John was a dog who just learned not to piss on the floor.

Sherlock watched Henry's body convulse below him, feeling the pound of his heart echo like a war drum in his chest. A slow puddle of blood began to form around his feet, so sickly sweet, like a buffet laid out just for him. He knelt lower, grasping Henry's hair and tilting his neck back.

"Oh, love I wouldn't-" Moriarty whispered as Sherlock dragged his tongue along Henry's wound.

Henry shook as his vision began to go, the sight of Sherlock's extending canines as he drank from his spilling neck being forever framed in his pupils, biting into his flesh with a delighted moan.

John began to pace around the room, digging his hands into his scalp, "Fuck! What the fuck! You said you wouldn't kill innocents!"

"Oh, I'm sorry! Would you rather me let him kill you? If not that he would have most definitely found out Sherlock's little secret sooner or later, you saw that obsession in his eyes!" he rebutted, placing the knife back on the counter, which he had grabbed with his sleeve to avoid fingerprints.

When Sherlock had drained the remaining blood from Henry's body, reeling in the vigour of another man's life, he swung his head and addressed the other two. "We need to hide the body."

John stopped his pacing, "you have got to be kidding me."

Sherlock noticed the fancy rug beneath the two of them, the blood seeped into its expensive fibres. "Roll him up in the rug."

John shivered in disgust as the other two pushed his body to the edge of the rug and began rolling him in it. "This is-this-" he stuttered, his breath catching in his lungs, "I can't believe you have made me an accessory to murder!" John's voice cracked as he yelled at Moriarty, who didn't seem bothered by him.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, his voice loud enough to shake John out of his swimming thoughts. There was a pause between them as John slowed his pacing and awaited Sherlock's next words. "Come here."

John hesitated, a cold shiver dancing across his trembling shoulders. The two looked at him like he was an unruly child rather than the voice of reason in this absurd situation.

I could run. I could run far far away. I'm sure if I told Mycroft of the mess we had gotten in he would keep me safe from them, he would, I'm sure of it.

John let his eyes flicker towards the sliding door behind them, perhaps if he was fast enough, they would be too shocked to catch up to him. But...as Sherlock raised his hand out for John to hold...he felt a pang in his chest.

Fuck.

John slid his hand into Sherlocks and knelt on the ground beside them. Sherlock lead his hand to the rug and forced it to press against Henry's body. He felt a warmth in his chest, and an ache in his eyes, and John looked toward the two of them. He let out an exhausted breath. "Sherlock...you ask so much of me."

"I know I do." Sherlock sighed and tightened his grip on John's hand before loosening it again. "I know this is sudden, and I know you must be scared, but I need you to listen to us. I need you to follow my lead on this one...I promise I won't let you get hurt, John. I could never forgive myself."

The grip on Henry's fist, now lifeless against the rug, gripping his collar stung against his neck. He looked to Moriarty who had been gnawing on his bottom lip, avoiding eye contact. "Thanks for doing that Moria-Jim." he corrected, "I...I don't think I could have done it myself."

Jim blushed and looked away again, "If I'd do it for Sherlock... I suppose I have to commit myself to doing it for you too. I think Sherlock would kill me himself if I let you die in his place." he laughed.

Sherlock sighed, "Probably true."

For once in his life, John felt safe. Sitting on the floor beside a murderer and his vampire best friend of all things, and truthfully he didn't care how insane it sounded. It was them, that was what mattered.

Sherlock, his proud general leading them to safety, Jim as his sniper always aware of the next danger, and John a hopeless soldier under their protection. He couldn't say he minded being protected for once, it felt...warm.

When the body was sufficiently hidden and any remaining blood was cleaned, they carried it out into the lawn and dropped it into the dirt. "What now?" John asked.

Sherlock met his eyes, a smile flickering upon his lips before he faced the forest beyond once again. "Now...we wait."

Rieka frowned, "is it not enough to wish to see you? It has been so lonely all on my own."

Sherlock tensed, crossing his arms. "Perhaps we should get you a cell."

She crawled on all fours towards them, looking now at Moriarty. "I've waited to meet you. I've seen you in my dreams," she whispered.

Moriarty smiled awkwardly, "lovely."

"Is that what this is about then? Him?" Sherlock asked.

Rieka sat in the trimmed grass, placing her arms between her legs. "This regards both of you bloodsucker, now sit."

Sherlock sighed, sitting in the grass below him. John and Moriarty followed soon after. Rieka smiled and began speaking again, "The fates have blessed me with a vision, it came to me from a faerie. The vision speaks of a great danger befalling you two."

"What could be more dangerous than-" Sherlock interrupted before being harshly shushed by Rieka. "Sorry."

She growled at him then huffed and continued, "A window, a bullet, and a man. You two are to be killed this way. When the three have come together, there is no stopping your fate.

The wind outside had continued to roar, spreading rain throughout the lands. It rippled down the thin glass pane window in their hotel room, muffling the noises of the storm. Sherlock sat at the desk of their hotel room, lit only by a single candle. Moriarty sat on his lap like a needy kitten, cuddling into his neck. His chest lay against Sherlocks with a fluttering warmth. A warmth neither one of them could nor wanted to ignore.

Moriarty's thigh draped along Sherlocks' hip. Sherlock's hand drew further and further up until he reached the softness of his ass, hidden under his trousers.

Moriarty placed a kiss on Sherlock's jaw, receiving a tired sigh in response. After a pause, he opened his mouth to speak. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

Sherlock tightened his grip on Moriarty's upper thigh. "I'm fine, just a bit tired."

Moriarty relaxed his hips against Sherlocks, sucking softly on his neck before opening his mouth to speak again. "Only time will tell."

Sherlock abruptly pushed Moriarty's shirt up to reveal his back and slam it against the desk before them. He stood to his feet and pushed his clothed cock against Moriarty, eliciting the surprised moan out of the man. "Sherlock," he whispered again.

He danced his fingers along The crook of Moriarty's waist. "Sherlock please," Moriarty gasped, "Please."

Sherlock dragged his hand along the warm abyss between his legs and pressed his fingers against that special spot. Moriarty arched his back up, allowing his loose-fitting shirt to fall along his chest, exposing the sweet flesh beneath.

Sherlock placed a gentle kiss on Moriarty's eager lips before dropping his head between those thighs. They delighted each other in the pleasures of ecstasy.

Mycroft and his assistant walked through a grand hall of the Porticulus house. The sound of her heels against the marble flooring echoed throughout the hall as she recounted the latest news he should be made aware of. Mycroft encouraged her with a faint "right," after each section. When she got to the fourth section however he interrupted her. "Do you have any news on my brother? It has been some time since I have seen him."

She stuttered for a moment before flipping through her papers, "Seems he has been slowing down on cases recently, some presume it is due to his boyfriend which he was seen bringing to the Scotland Yard New Year's party."

Mycroft sighed, "he's still pining for Moria-Jim!" he shook his head, "Who knew my brother was the domestic type?"

"He seems to be back in Dartmoor, locals claim he was wrong about Henry Knight's father."

Mycroft's eyebrows perked up. "Wrong? Sherlock is rarely wrong." He looked to her for more information as they turned a corner but she just shrugged.

"That is all the information we have at the moment sir, would you like us to investigate?"

Mycroft thought for a moment, a wrinkle forming upon his frown line as everything that could go wrong swam through his thoughts. That was a horrid idea. "No, thank you, I'll have to do it myself. Get me a flight ready."

"For where sir?"

"Dartmoor."

Flower petals floated along Jim's face and circled him a ring of red. Pools of water had formed under his eyes as he fluttered them open.

"Sherlock and his mysterious lover spotted in Dartmoor café, learn more about this lucky raven. Fellow genius or hopeless gold-digger?!" Sherlock scoffed, breaking the peaceful silence Jim had surrounded himself in.

Moriarty placed his palms against the bottom of the bathtub and thrust himself upright, allowing the water in his hair to drip down his face. He let out a harsh laugh.

"Mr. Sex?! Who the fuck do these people think they are?" Sherlock flipped the magazine he had been reading around and pointed to a blurry photo of Moriarty from the strand's New Year's party. In a spiked bubble read the words 'Mr. Sex'.

Moriarty placed a hand over his mouth to stop his giggling as he drew his knees close to his bare chest. Sherlock frowned and leaned back in his wooden chair, which had been facing the Victorian tub. "it's not funny Jim, what if one of your enemies saw this?"

Moriarty failed to stifle his laughter, "Sorry, sorry!"

He had wanted to treat his love to something sweet considering they hadn't had much time for dates, though with a relationship as odd as theirs it was to be expected. It still felt so...odd to be romantic. Like the gears inside his head hadn't been properly oiled when it came to the subject, the idea of thinking what another thought of him or needed from him was so foreign he often wondered if Moriarty was satisfied with him at all. Sure the man had been obsessed with getting his attention when they first met and he had shown he craved his intimacy, but as for emotion, Sherlock was the first to admit he was stunted. Perhaps if one had asked him in the beginning of all this about that, he would have claimed he had no emotion. Like some robot wearing human skin. But of course, that wasn't true.

Moriarty moaned and laid back again, "It's perfect, stop worrying. This is probably the most romantic thing I've ever gotten from a lover."

Sherlock scoffed, "I doubt that, I'm sure your exes were better at treating you than I am at times."

Moriarty tensed his brow, "Oh gods no, they were all too busy using me to think of something like this. It was always, 'suck my dick' with those fucks...besides Molly of course. Though I don't really count her."

Sherlock crossed his legs as he watched the man relax again. He drew his gaze along his smooth thighs, taking in the delicious sight. He couldn't imagine treating him like that. Though Moriarty was a gorgeous man, his mind was the most fascinating part of him. Sherlock loved listening to his ramblings every time he'd find a reason to rant. He'd even listened to him talk about bloody space, a subject which usually bored him, for hours before. Never once stopping his stream of endless interest. "How dare they."

Moriarty's eyes suddenly shot open. His chest fluttered as if ten thousand butterflies had made a home inside his pumping heart, shocking his coursing blood. "Y-yeah. I guess that was pretty fucked wasn't it." He thought for a moment before lightly shaking his head and wrapping his arms around his middle.

"Remind me to eat them if I ever have the displeasure of seeing them, I'm sure all that idiocy would add some nice flavour," Sherlock said, earning a gentle laugh from his lover as he dipped his head backwards. The detective smiled softly and stood to his feet, "I'm sure John will be home any minute now, so I better finish dinner."

Moriarty pushed himself up again and crawled to the edge of the bath, "fine, fine." he mumbled, pulling Sherlock into a kiss. "call me when it's ready."

Sherlock smiled, "of course."

As Sherlock closed the bathroom door behind him he held a weight in his chest. Something unspoken that reverberated through the flat. The words Rieka had said echoed throughout his mind...no. No, no, no, no. He was not going to focus on that. not now when everything was going so well between them.

He couldn't handle the pressure in his heart telling him it was all going to end, that one of these days when he stopped looking out every window for the silhouette of a gun, it would all be over.

John gripped the wooden railing as he trudged up the red carpet steps. As he reached the top he heard the loving hum of Ms. Hudson. "Ah, welcome back. How was Harriet?" She smiled at him while she dusted the top of the railing.

"Good, she was good," he replied, catching his breath as he approached the door to 221b.

As the door closed behind him Ms. Hudson rolled her eyes and made her way down the stairs, "Oh, John." She smiled.

"I'm back!" John called as he entered the flat.

Sherlock tapped the pot with his wooden spoon as he poured the last of the stew into the three bowls. "Just in time, go grab Jim from the bath, will you? Dinner's ready."

John rolled his eyes, "Right." he wandered over to the closed bathroom door and placed three knocks on it, "Your Highness?"

He heard a low moan behind the door which had him blushing, "Dinner already? Alright'll be out in a second." Moriarty called through the door. John nodded and made his way to the kitchen where Sherlock was placing down their bowls on the table.

Soon enough Moriarty was joining them, his hair damp and his body dressed in some tight black boxers and one of Sherlock's shirts. He ran over to the kitchen and spun around his chair, sitting regally with a wide grin. "Looks delicious love." he said before placing a gentle peck to Sherlock's cheek.

"Glad you think so, it's been a while since I've cooked anything." Sherlock was the first to start eating and before a second had passed the other two had joined him.

As John ate, he found himself lost in thought. The steam surrounding his spoon slowed his heartbeat as he disassociated. As a bay leaf dipped below the liquid, it turned a deep crimson, much like the crimson which had soaked the Knight's rug that late evening. John suddenly dropped his spoon into his stew.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was hard to make out as John attempted to recollect himself. He looked up at the man and for a second he swore he saw the listless iris of Henry Knight staring back at him. With a swift shake of his head, it became clear it was only a concerned Sherlock.

"Sorry, I got a bit lost for a second."

Sherlock and Moriarty looked at each other for a moment, something unspoken in their gaze, and then Sherlock turned back to John. "I think we should talk about what happened-"

"What? No, no it's fine I'm-"

"John?" Sherlock's voice got low, "Don't lie to me."

John paused for a moment before sighing, "I'm a veteran for fucks sake, I can handle seeing death. It just caught me a bit off guard is all."

Sherlock thought for a moment before nodding his head towards Moriarty. Jim tensed his brow, not getting the message. Sherlock widened his eyes and nodded towards John. "Oh...um." Moriarty paused, "I'm not sorry."

John looked confused, "right?"

"But we don't like seeing you like this. NOT that I care about you or anything..."

Sherlock pinched his nose bridge and glared at Moriarty, "What he means to say is that we care about you and it's obvious Henry Knight's death affected you."

John thought for a moment before speaking up, "It's just...I wish we could have talked about it. You know, before you went stabbing him through the jugular? We could have had a meeting or something and made a plan. He was just a sick man and sure he could have been dangerous but he didn't deserve to die. Not yet at least." he sighed, "Though, on the other hand, I get why you did it. It's not like I've never killed a man for Sherlock."

The three were silent momentarily, "I'm sorry!" Moriarty exclaimed. He silently cursed himself when he saw the other two gaping at him, regret burning in his bones. He wasn't used to being so...soft. He rarely ever apologized let alone to someone like John. But those words had been alight on his tongue like an ember, and he just needed to spit them out.

Moriarty kicked him under the table, "Hush!"

"You know there may be a way we can make it up to you, forcing you into an accomplice...again." Sherlock leaned against John's chair and looked down at him with a smirk. "if you're up to it, of course."

Moriarty laughed softly and grinned at the two of them, "Ooh I love where this is going. Straight as a rod John Watson losing his grace."

John pressed himself against his door with heaving breath. He laughed to himself and dragged a hand down his face. What has his life come to?

John shook his head and turned his body to lie on his back, moaning softly. He couldn't help himself from slowly rubbing his fingers against his length, squeezing his thighs against his wrist.

The listless eyes of John Watson pierced into his own, writhing and shivering.

"Fuck!" Sherlock screamed, throwing himself upright. His chest gleamed with sweat and the bed he had made last night now looked like a bloody warzone.

Beside him Moriarty moaned his name, "you okay?" he muttered, his face pressed against Sherlock's pillow. A discarded blanket hung loosely around his naked waist.

"I don't believe you," Moriarty sang, sitting up as well and placing his head on Sherlock's shoulder, "but you're phones been ringing all morning so would you please answer Lestrade?"

Sherlock looked over to his phone on the bedside table, it was buzzing. "You know you could have woken me?" he said as he reached over and answered the call.

"And stop cuddling? Never." he hummed with a laugh.

"Sherlock! Finally, where the hell have you been?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock groaned and got up, searching aimlessly for a clean shirt among his mess of a room. "It's ten in the morning Greg, with my lifestyle what do you think I'm doing?" He threw various papers with scribbled music notes across the floor, kicking discarded clothing away to reach a silky purple button up he was at least seventy percent sure was clean.

"Get on with it please, i don't have all day to sit here and listen to you talk about my sleeping habits." Sherlock tugged it over his head and pulled it down his chest, placing his phone between his teeth before grabbing it again.

Sherlock tensed his brow and quickly memorized the information, "and where is he now?"

"On the run, was last seen going towards Crawley in a stolen vehicle."

Sherlock clicked his tongue and grabbed his phone once again. He came closer and placed his hand along Moriarty's neck, pulling him in he placed a kiss on Jim's soft pink lips. "Very."

Moriarty didn't seem to believe him but stepped away regardless. "You scared me for a second there, looked like you'd seen a ghost."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow at him and sat in the chair across from him, placing one leg over the other. "Your mind is endlessly fascinating, at times it amazes me how alike we are."

"You believe that?"

There was a second of silence between them before Moriarty spoke again, "Yes."

Sherlock smiled at him, "I think so too. I'm glad we ended up where we are, however difficult it can be. I don't want to see you like that."

April 20th 2012

Sober Theta state

Confusing as ever.

"Right, I just...I've never done that before, with a man that is. I didn't even think of it as a possibility until you two brought it up. I've spent so much time assuring myself I wasn't gay I didn't ever stop to consider it, truthfully I'm not sure if I'm even ready to."

"Okay, I guess I'm doing this then, I'm kissing a man...I'm-"

"Don't overthink it, hun." Moriarty interrupted before leaning in and placing a soft kiss on John's lips. He tasted of tea and mints, not the best he's had but not the worst.