Chapter Text
The moon hung high over the bloodied village, a pale beacon in a sea of chaos. Sherlock Holmes, crouched low behind a crumbled stone wall, clutched his side where one of the vampires had sunk its claws deep.
His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and the world around him dimmed with each passing second. His mind, ever quick and precise, now fought sluggishly to keep up with the harsh reality: he was dying.
Around him, the remnants of the vampire horde lingered, moving through the smoke and ash like shadows given form.
Holmes gripped his pistol tightly, the silver glinting in the moonlight, but his vision blurred too much to aim. His heart thundered in his chest, racing against time as he realized that he wouldn’t live long enough to take another shot.
Then, through the haze of pain and blood, he saw a figure—a man, no, something more than a man. His silhouette was tall and graceful, moving with an ease that belied the danger around him. Holmes recognized the signs immediately: a vampire. But this one was different.
A flash of light caught the edge of his vision as the newcomer struck, faster than any human could follow.
One, two, three—vampires fell, their bodies crumbling into dust. The figure moved with terrifying precision, like a predator amongst its prey, each motion deliberate, controlled
Holmes blinked, the effort heavy as the last of the vampires disappeared into the night, leaving behind only their hunter. He felt a strange coldness in his chest—his body had resigned itself to death, but his mind clung to the slimmest thread of curiosity.
Why would a vampire kill its own kind?
Before Holmes could muster the strength to speak, the figure turned, and for the first time, he saw his face clearly. The vampire was young—at least, outwardly so—with sharp, aristocratic features and golden hair that seemed to shimmer even in the dim light. But what stood out most were his ruby-like eyes: cold, calculating, yet with a flicker of something deeper.
The vampire approached him, his steps unnervingly silent, and crouched beside Holmes.
“I thought hunters like you were more careful,” the vampire remarked, his voice smooth as velvet but with an edge that suggested danger.
Holmes tried to respond, but all he managed was a weak cough. Blood stained his lips.
The vampire’s gaze flicked downward, and for a moment, Holmes saw something shift behind those crimson eyes—a hesitation, a crack in the indifferent façade.
“You’re dying,” the vampire said flatly, though his voice had softened. “But I can save you.”
Holmes’ mind, sharp even in its fading state, processed the meaning instantly. A vampire offering salvation? It was ironic. He tried to shake his head, though his body barely responded.
“No,” Holmes rasped. “Not… your kind.”
The vampire’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed, but instead of anger, there was something like regret in his expression.
“I don’t drink human blood,” the vampire said quietly, almost as though confessing a sin. “But… I can stop the bleeding.”
Holmes could feel the pull of unconsciousness creeping in. There was no time for pride, no time to question motives. He nodded, barely.
The vampire moved swiftly, his hands cold against Holmes’ burning skin as he worked with deft fingers to close the wound. There was no hunger in the touch, only precision. When the vampire finally pulled away, the bleeding had stopped, though the pain still lingered.
Holmes felt the world tilt as he tried to stand, but before he could fall, the vampire caught him, steadying him against his chest.
“I didn’t do this for you,” the vampire murmured. “But you are still needed in this world.”
Holmes’ head lolled slightly, consciousness slipping, but a single word broke through the fog before darkness claimed him.
“Name.”
The vampire hesitated, then leaned close, his breath cool against Holmes’ ear.
“William James Moriarty.”
…
Sherlock awoke to the familiar scent of antiseptic and the soft creak of floorboards. His eyes fluttered open, taking in the dim light filtering through the curtains of a small, orderly room. He recognized it immediately—Dr. John Watson’s clinic. The faint ache in his side reminded him of the wound, now tightly bandaged.
“How do you always manage to end up like this, Holmes?” came Watson’s voice, tinged with concern. The doctor stood over him, arms crossed, a disapproving but familiar look on his face.
Sherlock pushed himself up, wincing slightly but refusing to show much more discomfort. “The wound is not as severe as it looks,” he muttered, but his mind was elsewhere, drifting back to the moonlit village, to the figure who had saved him.
Watson rolled his eyes. “Yes, because you always say that. You’re lucky you were found in time—another hour, and I don’t know if I’d have been able to help.”
Sherlock paused, his sharp mind catching on the phrasing. “Found?” he echoed.
Watson nodded, busying himself with cleaning his tools. “A passerby saw you just outside the village and brought you here. I didn’t see them—too busy with your injuries. They didn’t stay long.”
Sherlock’s mind began to race, connecting the dots. William James Moriarty. The vampire. But why had he saved him only to leave him there for someone else to find? What did he gain from it? It was suspicious—too suspicious. Sherlock’s instincts told him there was something more at play, something beyond the immediate act of rescue.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Watson continued, oblivious to the storm of thoughts brewing in Sherlock’s mind. “But I don’t expect you to listen to that advice either.”
Sherlock gave a noncommittal hum, his focus already elsewhere. As Watson checked the bandages one last time, Sherlock’s gaze drifted to the window, half-expecting to see a shadow lingering beyond the frame. But there was nothing.
Later that evening, after Watson had left him to rest, Sherlock slipped out of the clinic. He needed answers. His body protested every step, but his mind was driven by the singular thought of confronting this “William.” He retraced his steps back to that dilapidated and abandoned place in the forest, its charred remains now cold and still under the evening sky.
Hours passed, and though Sherlock searched the surrounding woods, he found no trace of the enigmatic vampire. Frustration gnawed at him, but as dawn neared, he resigned himself to returning to his village, mind whirling with possibilities.
Unbeknownst to him, William watched from a distant hilltop, his sharp eyes tracking Sherlock’s every move. There was a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze—perhaps curiosity, perhaps regret.
He’d made a mistake by getting too close, by intervening. He should have let Sherlock die or, at the very least, left him to fend for himself. Humans were fragile creatures, easily broken. He couldn’t afford to entangle himself with them, not when he had vowed to rid the world of vampires, even if it meant isolating himself completely.
But Sherlock was different. He wasn’t fragile, not in the way William had come to expect. His mind was sharp, his will unyielding. And now, William realized, he was caught in something far more dangerous than he intended.
Days passed, and though Sherlock found no further clues about William’s whereabouts, he could feel the vampire’s presence. At first, it was just a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, like being watched from the shadows. But as time went on, he became more certain. William was there, somewhere close, observing him.
The next time Sherlock set out on a hunt, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. His suspicion grew, and every flicker of movement in his periphery set his mind ablaze with questions.
It wasn’t until his next encounter with a group of vampires—far more dangerous than the ones he had fought before—that his suspicions were confirmed.
Sherlock fought valiantly, but the creatures were stronger, faster. One vampire knocked him to the ground, its fangs bared, ready to strike, when a blur of movement caught his eye.
In the blink of an eye, William appeared again, cutting through the enemy with lethal precision. The fight ended swiftly, leaving Sherlock on his back, breathless and bleeding once more.
William stood over him, face unreadable, the cold night wind tugging at his cloak.
“I told you,” William said softly, “you’re too reckless.”
Sherlock pushed himself up, leaning on his arm for support. “And you,” he began, between breaths, “are not as indifferent as you pretend to be.”
William’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his crimson eyes locking with Sherlock’s for a long moment.
“Why?” Sherlock finally asked, voicing the question that had gnawed at him since their first encounter. “Why save me?”
William looked away, his expression distant. “Because you’re not like the others,” he said after a long pause, his voice low. “And because I am not like them.”
Sherlock watched him closely, searching for any hint of deceit. But there was none. This vampire was dangerous, yes, but not in the way Sherlock had expected. He had a goal, a mission, and it seemed they were not so different after all.
“I will figure you out,” Sherlock murmured, half to himself, half as a challenge.
William’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles. “Perhaps,” he said, before vanishing into the night once more.