It was a snowy January afternoon when this whole ordeal started as I've mentioned before. I had woken up later than usual but decided to lay in bed for quite some time. When I did decide to take a trip to the loo and complete my morning routine, I made my way downstairs, only to be greeted by the sight of my flatmate curled in a ball on the couch, his back to me and his face squished into a cushion. My first thought was that he was pouting; perhaps an experiment had gone wrong or his brother, Mycroft, had dropped in for an early morning visit I wasn't awake for.

I never did find out what was going on in my friends' mind -I never do, but that's besides the case- and whatever it was, I didn't much care for it. Instead, I ignored him as he was ignoring me and busied myself in the kitchen with a cuppa and some breakfast. Well, the correct term would be lunch, considering it was around 11:30 when I had begrudgingly gotten up. I made a plate of eggs for Sherlock Holmes, despite knowing that he probably wouldn't touch it.

I won't bore you with the details of my breakfast, except that I ate quickly and moved to my chair, where I found the morning paper laid out on the coffee table. An hour of silence passed and I began to worry a bit, Sherlock never granted me an hour of silence unless we had a case and, well, we hadn't had a case for at least two weeks. And as I constantly reiterate- my friend gets quite bored and irritated without a stimulus, so stemmed the reason for my concern. It was then that I realized with a sigh, that he was in the mind palace he so fervently talks about.

Seeing as he wasn't going to move anytime soon, I went out to run some errands, returning some to hours later to my flatmate still projecting the appearance of sulking and blissful silence. Unpacking the groceries I had bought (yes, I can use a chip and PIN machine- that was one time), the silence of this snowy January afternoon was ruined by a loud, persistent knocking from downstairs, followed by a shout from our landlady, Mrs. Hudson. I paused in my chore and listened, attempting to put into practice the deducing skills Sherlock has so lovingly endeavored to teach me. It wasn't hard to hear what was happening- the commotion was loud enough to wake the dead- and it had captured my attention immediately. Like I've said so many times before, I had only myself for company because my friend was inactive on the couch. A door slammed shut on the first floor, drawing me from my thoughts, and the distinct, heavy footsteps of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade thundered up the seventeen stairs leading to 221b.

I quickly set the box of tea bags I was holding back on the counter, next to the white plastic bags from the grocer. The frantic 'knock knock knock' sounded and I muttered a quiet "I'll get it." and moved to get the door, only to be all but thrown aside by a whirlwind of blue. The next thing I know, Sherlock had flung the door open and towered over the shocked DI, his arm raised to knock. Evidently, the ruckus downstairs was enough to cause my friend to leap up with a sudden burst of life and fling the door open with the enthusiasm of a little boy at his birthday, his silk, cloak-like robe fluttering around his ankles. Recognizing Lestrade, Sherlock's eyes seemed to light up. "George!" he exclaimed, almost gleefully.

Lestrade's mouth opened but he made no sound, shocked at the speed of which Sherlock had answered the door. I almost laughed- even I knew that he was coming, he made it sound as if a whole herd of elephants was tromping up the stairs to our flat. Lestrade quickly recovered and his jaw tightened into an annoyed grin. "It's Greg, Sherlock." he sighed. Sherlock huffed and almost begrudgingly, maneuvered to the side, allowing Lestrade to enter, though his eyes still shimmered with restrained excitement. "Good afternoon, John." I nodded and gave a small smile before returning to my chore of unpacking the week's groceries.

Sherlock ushered Lestrade to sit in the 'client chair' as it was so conveniently named, and I noticed that my friend had left the door to swing shut on its own accord. I fondly shook my head and resumed my aforementioned chore, listening to the slightly muffled conversation in the living room.

"I'm assuming you finally have an interesting case for me?" Sherlock asked cooly, though I could hear the barely concealed giddiness making itself known. It was unlike the detective's character, but like I said, it had been weeks since our last interesting case; all other orders of business were lost puppies and jealous partners accusing their significant others of cheating.

Lestrade nodded, running a hand through his greying hair. "Oh, Sherlock, you're going to love this one!" Some rustling of papers and a 'hum' from Sherlock as Lestrade presumably handed something to the former. "Take a look at this."

I threw out the last of the plastic bags and walked into the living room, greeted by Sherlock scanning the contents of a slightly bent manilla folder, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly and his lips parted as he silently mouthed the words. Greg stood off to the side, a skeptical yet slightly proud look on his features, one eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

Now, as some of my readers would say, insert the BBC Sherlock theme. (I'm honored that they made a telly show for us, but I think it's a tad over the top. Sherlock loves the attention, but he doesn't like how they make his curls. He's often said that his hair is actually darker than on the telly and that they got his nose wrong. I don't see how- Sherlock's actor is literally the carbon copy of my friend, but that is a story for another day.)

The next five minutes were spent in a heavy silence, broken only by Lestrade's heavy breathing and Sherlock's soft 'hums' every now and then. The 'hums' became more frequent the further he read, a frown appearing on his pale features. He glanced up at lestrade a few times, annoyance written all over his face. Lestrade shifted anxiously as I watched the subtle glares, curious of what was running through my friend's mind.

Finally, Sherlock's gaze met Lestrade's for more than a fleeting second, peering over the top of the folder. "You're not messing with me, are you Geoff?"

Lestrade swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. What was in that file? "No, Sherlock. I'm not; that's really all the evidence we have and I'm sorry but-"

Sherlock cut Lestrade off by slamming the file shut and glowering at the man. Feeling like I had missed something important, I hesitantly voiced my confusion, almost afraid to be on the receiving end of the infamous wrath of Sherlock Holmes.

The detective, like I expected, fixed me with one of his infamous icy glares, though his features softened slightly once he began to explain the case to me, in terms that I understood. I'm not ashamed of him having to dumb it down for me- it actually means a lot as Sherlock usually forgets that not everybody is as clever as he is, but for some reason, he remembers me.

"A 22-year-old female was found dead yesterday morning." Sherlock stated in a cool voice, pacing in front of me with his eyes glued to the ground. His hands were clasped behind his back, the manilla folder still clutched in his grasp. "She was found by her fiancée in their kitchenette, around 8:00 am when she woke up to make breakfast." I swallowed- when I had woken up, my friend was unresponsive. I couldn't help thinking about what it would be like if I had found Sherlock dead. "The scene was obviously meant to look like a scuicide, but upon further examination, two puncture wounds were found on her neck, penetrating her jugular. The puncture wounds were each the size of a pea and were found no more than an inch apart. The file says that there were only two clear wounds, but a dozen or so other bite marks around her neck. One of the forensic scientists on the team assigned to this particular case noted that had the bites not been nearly identical to the two puncture wounds, they could have been mistaken for hickeys." Sherlock rolled his eyes and stopped his pacing, whirling around to face me. "The last thing was the blood loss. It's clear that the cause of death was indeed loss of blood, but the only blood found on the scene was the little amount found on her neck. Therefore, her body must have been drained of blood. Yes, her wrists were slit, yes, it could have been suicide, but when you gather all the facts, including the one about her body being drained of blood, with no blood anywhere near, it all points to murder. The few question that remains is who killed her-"

"Anderson thinks it was a vampire-" Lestrade commented.

"Of course he does." Sherlock muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes. "Vampires. Really?"

"Well, we all know that he's not-"

"AND how he or she killed her." Sherlock finished, glaring at Lestrade.

"That's why-" Lestrade attempted again.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade and instead, carelessly tossed the file onto the cluttered coffee table. "I'm sorry, Graham, but I can't take this case." he huffed, folding his arm in an indignant manner.

Lestrade stared at my flatmate in shock, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide. To be fair, I did too. Sherlock Holmes, refusing the first interesting case in weeks? "What- why- that's- you? Refusing a case like this? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade scoffed.

Sherlock pivoted on his heels so that he faced the window. In two long strides, he was looking out over Baker Street, violin in hand. "I know," he brought the violin to his shoulder and began to play a slow, hauntingly beautiful song I didn't recognize. "but that doesn't change the fact that I won't take it."

I stood frozen, watching my companion with bated breath. Baffled, Lestrade's mouth opened and closed but no sound came out. After some moments filled only with Sherlock's gentle, tear-jerking composition (I can only assume it was from his own hand), Lestrade seemed to have found his voice again. "Alright, but... why? It's the most interesting case you've had in a while, isn't it?"

The violin gave a shrill scratch, so contrary to the depressing melody it had sung earlier as Sherlock angrily dropped his bow and held it to his side. "Because, Gregory," Lestrade swallowed at the use of his actual first name. My friend's icy glare fixed on the terrified man as he took an intimidating step forward. "You say vampires. Anderson says vampires. I bet even Donovan and the whole of Scotland Yard say vampires." he hissed, "But guess what? Vampires aren't real."