Vampires aren’t real, everyone knows that. In fact, mythical creatures in general are not real. Made up, fake, folk lore, tall tales. All the evidence points to a huge, neon red sign screaming ‘NOT REAL’. Then you have the fact that it seemed Sherlock Holmes was the only person who could read the sign. John Watson and Greg Lestrade and perhaps all of New Scotland Yard believed that the person who has murdered three people in two days is a vampire.

Sherlock knew that the murderer of the second victim was the girlfriend, but how did she relate to the first murder? Or the killer Sherlock was currently chasing. Sherlock knew it wasn’t such a silly little thing like a vampire, but he was willing to admit the killings had used some very vampiristic methods. A lingering thought in the back of his brain made Sherlock think of the American serial killer, Richard Chase, who killed six people in a month and was known for canabalizing his victims and drinking their blood after sexual intercourse with their bodies. Sherlock had the idea that perhaps this United Kingdom version of the ‘Vampire Killer’ was a sick admirer and wanna-be of Mr. Chase.

The killer turned another corner and Sherlock huffed out a ragged breath of air. During the stakeout, the hunter had shown up, just like he had predicted, but the detective had been able to fight him off, resulting in a large wound on the right side of Sherlock’s face, and the Vampire Killer as John called him, to bolt away into the dark streets. The next most logical thing for Sherlock to do then, was chase him.

Another corner and a dead end. The murderer stopped in his tracks, clearly realizing he was trapped as he glared at the wall blocking his escape. The killer whipped around with a loud hiss, emerald eyes gleaming dangerously. Sherlock’s chest heaved as his fingers brushed over the gun hidden in the waistband of his trousers.

Sherlock opened his mouth to call for his acquaintance but stopped. John’s heavy footsteps never came, replaced by the wind rustling through the trees and Sherlock’s own labored breaths. The detective whipped around, but there John was nowhere in sight.

Sherlock Holmes was known to be a self-proclaimed ‘high-functioning sociopath’ and incapable of feeling any emotion. That was true to some extent- Sherlock never felt particularly strong emotions aside from the thrill of the chase and the artificial happiness his drugs brought, but those weren't exactly emotions, now were they. In fact, Sherlock could count on two hands the amount of times he truly felt a tidal wave of emotions- after his 15th birthday, of course. One time he just couldn’t take it anymore and everything crumbled, when he woke up in a hospital to Greg’s disappointed face after he had found the detective high on an overdose, a few other sparks here and there, John standing next to the pool, bombs strapped to his chest, John trapped in that fire, and the utter panic after the Baskerville scare. Finding John missing at three am while in pursuit of someone who killed three people in two days, who could have easily killed Sherlock’s best friend, would total his emotional count to 7.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his through, as if he had forgotten to breathe. Even though it was physically impossible, Sherlock could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. A flash of movement caught Sherlock’s eye and he slowly turned back around, trying to push down his panic and apprehension and quiet his rapid breathing.

The killer had moved so he was standing strong in the middle of the alley. Head lowered, legs spread, small, porcelain white hands clutched around something glistening in the pale moonlight. Sherlock got the fleeting sensation of someone from an American movie series Janine liked, Pink Witch, or something like that. The killer’s face was cast into shadow by his hood and a black handkerchief tied around his mouth and nose. His unoccupied hand flexed and Sherlock blinked at the wickedly sharp claws barely extending past his fingertips. His posture was tense, battle-ready it seemed, yet graceful, almost like a dancer. He was wrapped in a sort of cloak-like garment, smooth and most likely silk, if Sherlock had to guess. The most striking part of his appearance was the two unnaturally bright emerald green eyes seeming to stare into Sherlock’s soul. As Sherlock stared into his enemy’s eyes, he felt almost drawn to the man. He felt something chinning and spine-tingling, like a hand reaching deep into his mind and Sherlock fought to escape the trance, blinking rapidly as he tore his gaze away.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Consulting detective. The only one in the world, as you invented the position. Hopelessly infatuated with your ‘business partner’, blogger, and flatmate, Doctor John Hamish Watson. Drug addict, Doctor Watson and, hum, Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper, and Gregory Lestrade force you to stay clean. Instead you get high off the adrenaline of the chase, of crime solving. But you manage to get a hold of cigarettes every month or so, collected from your homeless network." He tilted his head to the side, his gaze scrutinizing Sherlock, examining them. In a rare flash of empathy, Sherlock realized this is probably how others felt when he deduced them. "Am I correct?"

Sherlock’s hands curled into fists, his voice low. "John doesn't even know half of that. How did you know?” I tried to return what the man did, but I found I couldn’t even deduce how expensive his clothes were. “I can’t deduce you.” Sherlock whispered, fighting to keep his voice even.

The man smirked under his mask.

Sherlock didn’t stop, raising his voice. A theory was forming in his head, and he wanted to see if it was true. "You murdered three people in two days and deduced half of my personal life when I can’t even find where you’ve been today. Who even are you?" There was no response except a low, breathy laugh.

A flash of annoyance whipped through the detective. “Answer me!” he yelled, his fists clenching tighter until nails dug into his palms.

Sherlock stumbled as pain exploded on the side of his head. The pain subsided as soon as it had come and the detective opened his eyes, reaching a hand to the throbbing spot near his temple. His hand came away clean; no blood. Good.

Filing the new information away, Sherlock looked up at the man in shock. The blow felt like a punch, but the only indication the killer had moved was the raised fist.
"We’re going the hard way, alright. What are you."

The man let out an exasperated sigh. "First of all," he grabbed his hood and pulled it down, shaking his head to reveal long, raven black hair. The mask was ripped off as well and hastily discarded. "I am not a man." He -she- continued.

"I never- how did-" the sentence was atrocious, but that didn’t matter. Gender was something Sherlock could deduce instantaneously (it was usually pretty obvious) but for the first time, Sherlock was at a loss for words. He could deduce nothing about the woman standing in front of him. The one thing Sherlock knew, however, was the accuracy of his theory. This woman, the girlfriend of the second victim, had killed all three of the victims and was ready to kill a fourth. Perhaps she already had- the thought made Sherlock’s stomach lurch.

"I can read minds, although it is quite strenuous on both ends." She explained, inspecting her sharp, claw-like nails. "Oh yes, I can read yours. And it's so perfectly organized, just for me! Such a wonderful, perfect mind, my dear Holmes." She paused, narrowing her eyes.

Sherlock’s hands were trembling but he forced his voice to stay even. "You haven't answered my question. Who are you?"

The woman clicked her tongue and stepped forward, circling Sherlock with long strides. After a minute of her pacing, Sherlock’s eyes following her every move, she stopped and smirked. “Yes, I killed all three of them. Clever, you are. They tasted delightful- sweet and full of life.” She stepped closer to Sherlock, pulling his chin up with a pale finger. “But I’m still hungry.” She whispered.

She dropped Sherlock’s chin and let her hands roam his torso, pushing him up against a wall. Their eyes met and suddenly, Sherlock was frozen under her control, unable to move no matter how hard he tried. She pressed up against the detective, their chests touching, her cold hand cradling his face. Her thumb reached up and traced the gash on his right cheek. Sherlock felt utterly repulsed, but was unable to pull away, no matter how hard he tried. “My name is Surena. Hindu, meaning, ‘she is dangerous and sharp like the knife’.”

Surena slid her hand down Sherlock’s neck until it rested on his shoulder. “I am a vampire, as you have so thoughtfully deduced."

"Vampires aren't real..." Sherlock breathed, his eyes wide and his chest heaving.

"I'm real, aren't I?" She whispered, her mouth pressed against Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock shuttered, closing his eyes. It was hard to admit it, but the infamous Sherlock Holmes was downright terrified. Her lips brushed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Are you going to kill me?” Sherlock whispered, losing the battle with himself as his voice cracked, a tremer running through his body and tears pooling in the corners of his eyes.
“No.” Surena hissed. “Something better.”

Surena finally pulled away, only to press her lips against Sherlock’s. The detective tried to push the woman off of him, but to no avail- she had rendered him motionless. Salty tears leaked from Sherlock’s eyes as he desperately fought, needing to fight, to run, to shove the killer off of him. His body was out of his control, however, leaving the man to do nothing except submit to her will.

Without thinking, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Surena, deepening the kiss, all while his brain screamed, ‘No! No, I DO NOT consent! No, stop, please!’

After what felt like centuries to Sherlock, Surena finally pulled away, a trail of saliva connected their mouths. Her face was flushed and her lips were slightly parted, revealing long, sharp, dazzling white fangs.

“I am going to drink your blood. Then, and only then, will I kill you.” Surena hissed, a wicked smile on her face. “After you are dead, I will find you and turn you into a vampire.”

Sherlock’s mind went silent as he tried to process this new information. Surena had other plans and left him no time to think and she was on him in an instant, fangs buried deep in Sherlock’s jugular vein.

Pain exploded in Sherlock’s body, as intense as if he was being burned alive. Sherlock screamed, his legs giving out as he crumpled against the wall, held up only by Surena’s body.

He was going to die. He knew it. Sherlock Holmes was going to be killed. His body would be found the next day, cold and mutilated, two perfectly symmetrical holes in his neck, marking him as the fourth victim of London’s very own vampire killer.

Sherlock was going to be the subject of the crime scenes he’s always been so fond of, killed at the hand of Surena. And the only thing he could do about it was wail his agony to the dark night sky.