(blood, mentions of weapons, woman sort of forcing herself on a man, usual TWs)

I would have been happy to say that the next day was devoid of any dead bodies and vamparistic crime scenes but it seemed the universe was against me and my friend, along with the whole of Scotland Yard. First, the night of our investigation, my dreams were filled with haunting images of the girlfriend of our second victim: of a mysterious, pale girl with raven black hair and green eyes, blood dripping from dazzling white fangs, mouth open in a psychotic smile. Others were filled with gut-wrenching sights of my friend, laying on his bed, eyes open and glazed over, blood leaking from two identical holes in his neck. It wasn't until I had triple-checked that my flatmate was still alive and breathing (he had woken up during one of my excursions and voiced his annoyance after assuring me, 'yes, John, I am perfectly fine. Go to sleep.') that I was finally able to drift into a dreamless slumber.

I had drifted off around four or five in the morning and woken up at ten to find my friend experimenting in the kitchen, resulting in him blowing up the kitchen by accident. Which went down about as well as you'd expect with me blowing a gasket and Sherlock paying for breakfast at Speedy's. After breakfast, the majority of the day was uneventful. I called a clean-up crew to repair the kitchen (Sherlock kindly announced that he would pay for everything. It was mind-blowing that the detective actually took responsibility for his actions. Rare, but greatly appreciated.), Sherlock played his violin, I updated my blog, went on a date with a lovely woman who I will not be seeing again, and ran some errands.

Only around six pm did things really get interesting. It started with a text from Lestrade, informing us of yet a third victim in the span of two days, and ended with a stakeout and exhilarating chase.

An hour after the Detective Inspector's message, Sherlock and I had arrived at the crime scene. It was almost identical to the second one- the daughter (a girl with long, raven-black hair and captivating green eyes) had found her father in his sitting room chair. She had informed us that at first, she had thought her father to be sleeping, until she took a closer look and found two puncture wounds at the base of his neck, completely clotted over. It seemed to be a clean job, I had thought, hating myself for even thinking about it.

By this point in time, my friend seemed to be somewhat interested in the case. The three victims had painted the bloody picture of a serial killer, out for blood. And even if it weren't the case, three bodies in two days was impressive enough, however morbid it seemed. Sherlock had told me before we had reached the third crime scene that he was seriously considering this case to be an 8, a common rating for serial killers in my friend's book. The only downside to his interest, however, was the consistent tangents the detective repeatedly spewed, informing us of his unbelieving of vampires and how the killer could not have been a vampire. He had already given us two lectures and was well into a third when Lestrade finally shut him up. I think we all thanked the heavens just then because my friend, however much I cared for him, was getting quite bothersome.

Until, he somehow predicted the next victim and announced that we should participate in a stake out at the estimated location. He convinced me to come along and I reluctantly agreed. The one question on my mind for the ride back to our flat was how he had guessed the location of the next murder. I never did get an answer. Funny how it works- my friend is always so observant, yet he never tells me what he sees.

Five hours later, Sherlock and I are camped out in the supposed next victim's house. Sherlock believed it to be a 27-year-old male with bright red hair and chocolate brown eyes. It was quite the interesting combination, was my first thought upon meeting him. Earlier in the day, when we had met this young man, he had greeted us as if we were family and was extremely gracious. It was incredible how kind this man was. When we told him the news that my friend expected him to be the next victim in an ongoing series of murders, his face went white and he set his cuppa on the coffee table as to not drop it. He then confessed that he had a friend he fancied but had always gotten a bad feeling from. His description of this friend matched the description of every other girl who had found every other body. Of course, Sherlock had immediately connected the dots, but it took me quite some time to finally piece together the puzzle, but I will get to that in a little bit. Patience, my dear readers, as my friend likes to say.

Soon after we had heard the man's story, Sherlock advised him to stay in a nearby hotel and let me and him guard the house while he was gone. The would-be-victim promptly agreed and hastily packed, giving us a quick tour of the house and explaining where we could stay. We thanked him, wished him luck, and made sure he had gotten to the hotel okay via Mycroft's vast security network.

Two hours later would bring us to the current point in time. I was stationed in the man's bedroom (a master bedroom painted a dark gold color and filled with aesthetic accessories I didn't care for and lavish furniture, much like what you would find in the Victorian era. With a laugh, I had told Sherlock that perhaps the fourth victim was the Vampire Killer, as I had dubbed the murderer, but my friend was unamused) and Sherlock was guarding the living room. We were both armed with guns: Sherlock with a pistol and me with my handgun from my army days. The plan we had put in place was to stay up, watching the house -and the murderer. According the plan, if the murderer broke in through the front door (the most logical way, according the Sherlock), then the detective would be the first line of defense and would hopefully call for help if things got too out of hand. Even then, I doubted I would be needed because a) Sherlock likes to do things by himself and will blatantly refuse any kind of help or b) the detective would be able to handle it by himself, considering his background in various martial arts and brute strength. It didn't look like my friend was strong, he looked like a literal twig, but I know that in physical combat, he is an equal opponent, and has been known to overpower me. That may be in partial to his sheer height, but however he does it, he can beat me in a physical fight. And this is coming from someone who was in the army.

That was one of the many reasons why I felt attracted to the taller man, despite not being gay. He was strong, both mentally and physically, and brave. Maybe brave to the point of idiocy and the lack of self-preservation, but brave nonetheless. Smart was another quality. So incredibly smart, he could solve a mystery as quick as it took me to make a cuppa. It was brilliant, bloody brilliant to watch him work. Flitting around like a little hummingbird, curious of anything and everything around himself, finding meaning in every tiny detail, so matter how big or small.

Suddenly, a shout from downstairs ripped me out of my musings. Startled, I jumped up and grabbed my gun, racing down the stairs as fast as I could, my heart pounding. The murderer was here.

When I reached the living room, however, I saw everything but the murderer. In his place stood Sherlock Holmes, his body tense and chest heaving. The only sign of him being in some form of physical combat was a nasty gash on the side of his head, starting from his temple and tracing his cheekbone. "Bloody he-"

"He went that way!" Sherlock yelled, ignoring both the gash on his cheek and my concern for said wound, and bolting out the door and into the dark London streets. Making a shocked noise of surprise, I shook my head and ran after my friend, praying that I would be able to keep up.

Spoiler alert, I fell behind after a good ten meters. I wasn't as fit as I was when I served in Afghanistan, Sherlock had gotten a bit of a headstart and was much leaner than I, and my body was angrily protesting, furiously reminding me of the few hours I rested the night before.

The most infuriating part, however, was the fact that I could always see the tail end of Sherlocks long belstaff coat just around every corner, but always just out of reach. However maddening it was, it was my only guide in the tangled maze of rural London at night. Until the universe continued its twisted joke and I was forced to stop, black spots fading from my vision as I heaved for breath.

My throat burning and my legs shaking, I stood up with a few questions on my mind. First, where was I and where was my companion. I turned around, taking in my surroundings, trying to find the answer to my first question, but to no avail and I realized that I was lost.

Now imagine my predicament- it's two in the morning on a Wednesday. It's pitch black, the darkness only broken by streams of dim streetlights. You don't know where you are, your best friend is nowhere in sight and is most likely facing a highly dangerous serial killer who has killed three people in two days. The best part is the fact that you are chasing said friend, chasing said serial killer, and are perhaps mental because, chances are, one of you is going to die. Chuckling slightly to myself as I deliriously pieced together my circumstances, I realized that I had calmed myself down and was breathing normally again. I laughed and looked around once more, my vision much clearer in the cold night air. The last time I checked, me and my friend were running in a north-east direction, leaning a little to the northern side, but north-east nonetheless. Thinking clearer now, I decided to start walking in that direction. Maybe, if I kept walking, I'd eventually catch up to the detective and his hopefully cornered murderer.

Adrenaline still pumping through my system, I started walking, enjoying the fresh air now that I wasn't chasing a psychotic killer through the streets of London with my internet famous flatmate. Five minutes through my leisurely stroll, a cold shiver ran down my spine. It was then I noticed that it was actually freezing outside due to it being the end of January. What the bloody heck, John Watson? I thought, running around outside without a coat? If only Mum could see me now- she and Harry would have a fit.

A shiver ran down my spine and my teeth chattered. Freezing.

Seconds later, I realized what really made me cold. It had gone eerily quiet- even the crickets had stopped chirping. Unsettled, I wrapped my arms around myself and rubbed my arms. I tried to push forward, ignoring the uneasy trapeze artists catapulting around in my stomach.

My breath caught in my throat as a shout of pain split the deafening silence of the night. No, not a shout. A scream.

A heart-wrenching scream dripping with agony that hurt my very soul and sounded too much like my missing best friend to be a mere coincidence.

"SHERLOCK!" I screamed, racing towards the source of the scream. Even then, as I ran, a heavy feeling settled deep in my stomach, realizing what the sound had meant. The mouse had caught the cat and well, the one of us to die tonight could be Sherlock Holmes.