(Blood, descriptions of a body/crime scene)

Lestrade's shoulders sank. "Unbelievable. Bloody heck." Sherlock responded by turning back to the window and angrily ripping out a page and a half of sheet music, running his bow furiously up and down the strings of his bow. This song was fast and loud, angry and red. My friend paused for a second and bent over to scribble something down onto the half empty second page. It was then that I realized he was actually composing. And from my knowledge, an angry Sherlock composing music was a horrid thing to witness, let alone interrupt. Knowing this, and that Lestrade would most likely attempt to console the detective, I quickly ushered the DI towards the door.

"Thank you, Greg, for dropping by. It really is an interesting case, and I’m lost as to why he won’t take it, even to just prove the forensics wrong.” I whispered, blocking the DI from reentering the flat.

Lestrade took a deep breath. “Talk to him, will you?” I nodded reassuringly and Lestrade sighed. “I- Okay. If he changes his mind, come down to the Yard, okay?

“I’ll tell him.” Lestrade ran a hand through his hair once again, and I could see the fear and concern shining in his blue-grey eyes.

“Alright. Alright, okay. Thank you, I-” Lestrade's phone chimed. The poor man, I thought, he’s been interrupted too much today, but that was the least of my worries. At the sound of Lestrade’s phone, the music singing resentfully behind me cut off abruptly and the flat was hurled into silence. Lestrade cursed and pulled out his phone, quickly reading the apparent text, forehead creasing in worry.

“John.”

"Yes?" Lestrade didn’t look up, instead pressing the phone into my hand. I scanned the message in horror. We’ve dealt with serial killers before, but never two victims in the same number of days.

'There's been another one.' it read. The contact name read Srgt. Donovan. '19-year-old non-binary person. They were found dead in their bedroom half an hour ago by their girlfriend. Same marks as the first one. Come to 890 York Blvd asap and bring the freak if you can.'

"Sherlock! I called over my shoulder, passing the phone back to Lestrade. There was no response but I knew he was listening. And had probably already deduced what was happening, but that wouldn’t stop me. "Sherlock, there's been another one. Non-binary 19-year-old, found in their bedroom by their girlfriend less then an hour ago. Same markings as the 22-year-old female.”

I heard my friend scoff and I turned, shooting him my best ‘you better behave’ look. In turn, Sherlock refused to meet my gaze, instead dropping his violin on his chair and flopping onto the couch, tugging his silk robe around his body and burying his face in the cushion. “You really believe it’s a vampire?” he asked in a slightly muffled, scornful voice.

I rolled my eyes and shot back, “I didn’t say anything about vampires.”

“You implied it. Same markings as the 22-year-old female and everyone believes a vampire killed the first victim.”

“Alright. Well, I am going to investigate. You may find it dull and boring, but I am intrigued.” I could almost see the raised eyebrow. “Oh for the love of- I am a doctor, Sherlock, I can use big words too! Now, I am going to the crime scene with Greg and we are going to investigate.”

"Mm.” I could only describe how Sherlock moved as a wiggle. He wiggled onto his back and steepled his fingers under his chin. “You're just wasting your time. I've already solved it."

“Care to enlighten us?” I felt bad for Lestrade, standing in the doorway, phone in hand and an anxious look on his face.

Again, I got no response and the detective’s eyes fluttered shut.

"Fine, be like that. I certainly don't care if you come or not.” I actually did care, but if he didn’t want to come, so be it. “Maybe I'll even solve it by myself. You’ve been teaching me your skills, perhaps now I’ll be able to prove I’m as good as you.” It was far from the truth and Sherlock knew that, but it certainly got his attention.

A heartbeat of silence later and Sherlock heaved himself off the couch, adjusting his robe. “Fine.” My friend then disappeared into his bedroom, leaving me to smile at Lestrade. The DI nodded, almost impressed.

Five minutes later, my friend returned, fully dressed in one of his tailored suits and a tight-fitting blue shirt that actually looked really good on him. It took all the willpower I had to not stare at my friends’ wiry form as strong muscles swung his infamous coat onto his leath frame. “What are you idiots doing, standing around? If you’re so adamant about me going, then you ought to hurry up.”

I shook myself out of my stupor and followed the disgruntled detective down the stairs, pulling the door closed behind Lestrade and myself. Sherlock yelled a quick goodbye to our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and pulled open the front door, almost immediately hopping into a cab that he had apparently magicked out of thin air.

“You really do have a gift for summoning cabs, you old git.” Lestrade murmured in bewilderment as he climbed into the cab beside Sherlock. The detective seemed not to have heard, until the smallest smile could be seen on his lips. I gave a grin of my own and wordlessly joined, closing another door. Lestrade leaned forward as I got buckled and told the cabbie the address of the second victim.

~

25 minutes of silence, broken only by awkward attempts at small talk later, the cab stopped in front of a quaint townhouse, two stories high and painted a light blue with a white trimming. The small lawn and even smaller garden was well cared for, adding a cheery look to the otherwise dull colored street. The cheeriness of the scene was broken by an array of police cars, an ambulance, and dozens of people in yellow or blue vests surrounding the building. The ambulance -parked opposite the townhouse- was open in the back and holding a woman, around 20-years-old with long, waist-length, raven black hair, pale skin, and unusually bright green eyes that seemed to shimmer in the dull sunlight. She had an orange shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders and tears streaming down her face. It wasn’t hard to deduce that she was the girlfriend who had found the second victim.

As soon as I had climbed out of the cab and paid the driver, I was drawn to the woman. Without thinking about it, I started in her direction until I saw Sherlock out of the corner of my eye make a beeline for the open door of the townhouse. Turning around, I felt something similar to someone releasing me from a tight grip. It was a weird sensation, but  quickly shrugged it off and followed my friend to the crime scene.

The next thing I know, me and Sherlock are standing around an unmade bed, the body of the victim sprawled out on the bed, hazel eyes glossy and wide, their face contorted into an unpleasant mix of fear, pain, and something resembling betrayal? It was hard to tell, and I didn’t want to look longer than I had too. Yes, I’ve dealt with worse, but they were so young. My stomach did a somersault and I swallowed, forcing myself to push away my emotions. Now was time for Doctor John, not Regular John.

The sheets below the victim were stained red around their neck where, like Anderson said, there were two puncture wounds, a centimeter in diameter and an inch away from each other. Dried blood matted the victims light brown, shoulder-length hair, and clotted the wounds. Little pink bitemarks dotted her neck. If I hadn’t known better, I would have taken them as little love bites. Maybe they had some sort of intimate meaning, but we would never know. “It certainly looks like a vampire’s doing.” I whispered, swallowing thickly. I just couldn’t get the events of this morning out of my head, along with how young this victim was. They were so young, and had so much to live for.

It obviously wasn’t the best time, but I barely held in a half-sob, half-laugh. Congratulations to me, I have discovered the reason Sherlock is so adamant about sentiment. Really no use for a murder when you’re too busy trying not to cry over the body of someone you’ve never seen in your entire life.

“That’s what everyone else says, too. If it’s not a vampire, I don’t know what it is.” A new voice piped up. I turned slightly to see Philip Anderson leaning on the doorframe. A sudden wave of deja vu washed over me from our first case, A Study in Pink, as Sherlock whisked over and slammed the door shut. In another smooth motion, he returned to the bed and resumed his examination of the person’s neck.

"Vampires aren't real, John. The myth may be widely accepted in today’s culture, but it’s not true." He closed his small magnifying glass with a small click and shoved it back into his pocket. Whirling around, he pulled on a pair of gloves and pressed his index and middle fingers to the marks and huffed. "Made by something sharp, obviously, and hollow. Most likely something similar to a syringe. A very large syringe. Very likely said syringe-like object was either metal or ivory. Undoubtedly a clever murder staged to look like vampirism. I’m sure if you were to check the girlfriend's room, you’d find a dozen or so blood bags filled with this person’s blood.” Lestrade had walked in just before Sherlock began to rant and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted. “Hum. It was quite obvious that the girlfriend was the killer. You see, this bed is a twin bed. Not nearly large enough to hold two fully grown adults. Therefore, the girlfriend had her own room. If she didn’t, she most likely would have witnessed the murder, but that is not the case and leads into my next point: the body was found about an hour ago. If it had been a night crime, the girlfriend would have found them about an hour after their usual wake up time, which I assume is 9:00 in the morning (going by the state of her hair and skin). If a night crime were the case, the girlfriend would have found her much earlier. Third, this specific kind of murder most likely took a while, seeing as the killer would have had to drain the blood of their victims, so the killer would have needed a long period of time to actually get the blood. Meaning, the girlfriend had to have been out and about running errands or doing something for what, four hours, and due to the state of the girlfriends’ clothes and hair, It’s obvious she had not been out today, but had recently changed her shirt. Presumably because it was covered in blood.” Sherlock took a deep breath after his lengthy monologue, preparing to continue his speech, but this time, Lestrade interrupted the detective instead of the other way around.

“So you’re saying the girlfriend killed them,” Lestrade motioned to the body, “just because of the size of the victims bed?”

Sherlock nodded, an expression on his face that I had come to know as ‘you bloody moron, how haven’t you seen it yet?’

“Unbelievable.” The DI whispered, shaking his head. “Fine, we’ll put her into custody until she talks. Only because I trust you, and because you’ve never gone wrong before.” The ghost of a small, smug smile flitted across my friend’s face. “You better be bloody right, Sherlock Holmes.” The door was left wide open after Lestrade’s exit, a clear warning that we had used up all the time Lestrade was able to give us.

Moving towards the door, I sighed. “Who, when, where, what, how, the only thing we’re missing is ‘why’. Why would you kill your partner? Why would the girlfriend hurt her lover?” We had reached the front entrance and Sherlock’s gaze was immediately drawn elsewhere: the crying girlfriend being shoved in the back of a police car, face contorted into a mess of shock and anger, and yelling unintelligible curses.

Sherlock looked towards me and his face split into a large grin. “Oh, you know, money, revenge, power, anything really. Maybe the ‘why’ is something along the lines of the ‘Cell Block Tango’ from the musical Chicago.”

I froze as Sherlock continued to walk. Did Sherlock Holmes just make a joke? Maybe my love for theatre finally started wearing off on my flatmate.

Shaking my head, I let an easy smile slip onto my face as I joined my friend in the cab he had so mysteriously summoned. “221 Baker Street, please.” I told the cabbie. He nodded and we drove off, the streets of London flashing by.

Seconds later, I looked at my friend. “Chicago? Really?”

Sherlock let out a deep chuckle. “They had it coming~” he sang in his deep, baritone voice.

“I guess,” I paused, swallowing. “But I don’t think they did anything wrong, the girlfriend just snapped.”

My friend nodded. “Most likely. Good eye, my dear Watson.”

The rest of the short trip consisted of bouts of uncontrollable laughter and various songs from Chicago.