Me again! :) Just passing the time before the next "big" story. The usual: english isn't my first language and this is not beta'd. I try my best. Hope you like it.

- Sherlock?
- Yes?
- What...what are you doing?
- What do you think I'm doing? I'm sewing!
- No, you're not. You're stabbing a shirt with a needle.

John is standing on the doorstep of the living room while Sherlock is sitting on the couch, his head bowed over his hands; his left fist clenches the material of the collar while his right hand is repeatedly assaulting the shirt. He's not looking at the doctor, now standing next to him with his jacket still on.

- Do you need help?
- Why, because now that you're an engaged man your new hobbies include knitting and tailoring?
- No, you dick, it's because I'm a surgeon and I can do a better job than you. Give me that!

With one swift move he snatches the shirt from Sherlock and sits next to him.

- Remind me why I'm here.
- There's an email for you.

John stops sewing and stares at his friend, tilting his head to the side with a curious look.

- So you brought me here on my day off just because there's an email for me?
- Your house is not in Kandhar, John, it's a twenty-minute drive.
- Mary has the car, you know that, I took me forty minutes to get here and for what, an email? It better be a serial killer, Sherlock. And why am I sewing this shirt for you?
- Apparently my wardrobe has been…molested while I was away; whoever packed my things did a lousy job.
- Yeah, well…I was angry at you. But why am I doing this, buy some new shirts!

John keeps protesting and scowling but in a couple of minutes the buttons are in their right places again.

- So, what about this damned thing that I can't read at my own computer, in my own house, on my own comfortable couch. You know, there are this things called "email addresses" and, guess what, you have mine.
- Stop complaining John, and for the love of every non-existent deity, read that email.

It's been a week since their "reunion" and Sherlock has been a nightmare to deal with, calling John at all hours and ranting about the fact that London already has enough doctors, pouring out numbers and statistics and "physicians per capita", trying to convince John to quit his job and become his full-time assistant again.

"Sherlock, I need this job, I have a real rent to pay"
"Your girlfriend has money"
"So what, she pays for everything while I'm risking my life with you around London?"
"Exactly! I'm so glad we're on the same page again, John"
"Sherlock, stop it, I have my own practice now, I can manage my own time, I'm still your assistant but I'm not going to be able to drop everything without warning just for a murder!"
"Just?"

Sherlock is now pacing around the room and John is taking his place at the desk in front of Sherlock's computer.

From: Robert Ferguson
re: for the attention of John Watson – URGENT

Dear John,

I know it's been years since we last saw each other but I hope you still remember me from our days at Uni. Right now, you and Sherlock Holmes are my only hope and I desperately need your help.
What happened to me and my family can't be simply written in an email so I hope you'll accept my invite to come to my house as soon as you can. I can't go to the police, you'll eventually understand why.
Hope to hear from you soon,

Bob

Sherlock is sitting in John's armchair, with his legs crossed and his head resting on his right hand, looking intensely at his friend.

- Do you remember him?
- I have vague memories of us playing rugby at university. Nothing much.
- Do you think we should trust him?
- Why shouldn't we? Serial killers and guns traffickers don't send email.
- What do you think the problem is?
- How…how should I know Sherlock, what's up with all these questions all of a sudden?

Sherlock shuffles on his seat.

- Oh, nothing, just passing the time while I'm on the phone.

His raises his left hand and brings his phone to his ear.

- Robert Ferguson? Sherlock Holmes.

Amberley Road is a quiet residential street in the City of Westminster.

Sherlock spent the ten minute drive from Baker Street testing John, trying to deduce Robert Ferguson just from his memory. When they arrive, a fairly upset man opens the door for them: he has deep dark circles around his eyes, his hands are shaking and he's sweating.

Hair looks disheveled. Distress. Same clothes from…two days ago. Wife in danger? He's constantly touching his wedding ring. Wife not in danger, marriage is. The wife is the problem. Kids in danger because of their mother?

- John! Mister Holmes. So glad you accepted my invite.

Robert shakes their hands and looks at them with a desperate smile.

- Hi Robert, long time no see. What happened?
- Please, come in.

John and Sherlock are greeted by a very quiet house. Too quiet.

- Unusual silence for a house with kids.
- How do you…?
- You have the habit of rubbing your left ear, you already did it twice in less than a minute. You have marks on your right wrist and right there on your desk there's a bandage for carpal tunnel syndrome. You work with computer and phones. A lot. Judging by your shoes and your house I'd say stock broker. You are obviously married, two kids, but seeing the pose of the older one in these photos only the youngest is also your wife's. Previous marriage, not divorced, there are pictures of another woman, so probably dead. Your wife clearly comes from South America. Given this golden handmade replica of an Inca figurine, I'd say Peru. So what is the problem with your wife and why are the kids in danger?

John shifts on his feet in embarrassment and offers a gobsmacked Robert a defensive smile.

- You have to forgive him, it's been a while since the last time.
- No, it's…it's fine, it's okay.

Sherlock unceremoniously flops down on the couch, followed by John.

- So?
- Right. My wife, Isabella. Let me just say that she's a beautiful, loving wife and mother. I want you to know that.
- We're not here to judge.
- I know John, but...it's a necessary premise for what I'm about to say. I had Jack twelve years ago from a previous marriage, like you said, then my first wife died and five years ago I met Isabella. Six month ago we had Lucas and I thought my life couldn't go any better than that.

Sherlock winces and open his mouth to protest, probably about the useless information Ferguson was giving him, wasting his precious time; John sees that with the corner of his right eye and raises his hand to stop him.

- …then a week ago my wife started acting strange. She was aggressive, especially with Jack, until three nights ago, when I came home and I found her crouched next to Lucas' crib. I called her but she didn't move, and when I went closer I saw her… she had…she had Lucas' blood on her mouth. She was…she was sucking his blood I don't…I don't know how else to say that.

John mouth hangs in shock and Sherlock squints his eyes at Ferguson; the latter clears his throat and resumes talking.

- When I asked her what was going on she just looked at me with a wild, despairing look in her eyes and said nothing, so I grabbed my son and she just locked herself up in our room and never came out since. The only person allowed in there is our maid Dolores.

Sherlock mutters something that even John, right next to him, finds hard to hear.

- The maid named Dolores. How very stereotypical of you.
- Hush, Sherlock!

- I didn't know what to do; you don't go to the police with something like this! Then I read that you, Mister Holmes, came back and I remembered John from university so…here we are. Please help me. I'm not crazy, I don't believe in vampires but...I don't know how to explain what happened, and first of all I can't understand Isabella's behavior, before and after.

At that very moment, Jack, the oldest son, returns home.
Jack is a small boy, he's slightly built, has pale skin and most of all walks towards his dad with a shambling gait; John leans to the side and whispers something to Sherlock.

- Weak spine.
- You should go see the wife in her room. Do your doctor-thing.
- My doctor-thing? I'm a surgeon, I was an army doctor!
- So? Every family is a warzone.

Ferguson rushes towards his son and they hug like they haven't seen each other in months: the older man strokes his hair and the kid tightens his embrace.

- Where's Mrs. Mason, Jackie?
- Right behind me, dad.

- Who's Mrs. Mason?
- The babysitter. I told her to look after Lucas; I don't want him near my wife until I know what's going on.

Mrs. Mason enters the room with baby Lucas in her arms and Ferguson rushes towards them, taking his son in his arms, tenderly fondling him; the baby is of a rare beauty: slightly dark skin with dark blond hair, bright blue eyes and a cherubic face.
Sherlock slowly approaches the baby and with a feathery touch examines the flushed chubby neck.

"Fancy anyone having the heart to hurt him", mutters his father.

Just as John is about to speak, the family dog trots in the living room, limping.

- What about the dog?
- What do you mean?
- Why is he limping?
- Oh, we don't know, even the veterinarian can't explain that. We woke up the other day and we found him limping, one of his legs is completely paralyzed.
- Interesting.
- Mister Holmes, I'm sure you find all this stimulating, but I pay you to help me, not to be entertained by a deranged family that-…

Ferguson stops talking when he realizes Sherlock is staring at the other side of the room, with a singular intentness in his expression and a face that seems carved out of ivory.
John follows his gaze but can only see a window facing the anonymous and uneventful backyard.
After a while, Sherlock smirks knowingly and John takes advantage of the silence.

- Actually, Robert, would you mind if I talk to your wife? Maybe a doctor's point of view could help and-…

Sherlock, who's now pacing slowly across the room, interrupts his friend.

- No, John, I've got everything I need, thank you.

Ferguson snaps his head towards him with a pleading look.

- Tell me, please.
- Call your wife downstairs.
- No, she won't talk to me. I tried, she starts to scream and cry and it's unbearable.
- Fair enough, we'll go to her.
- No, Sherlock, stop, we can't.
- Why not? She's the key to solve this problem.

Ferguson rubs his forehead and sighs.

- Come on, then. I can't take this anymore.

As they climb the stairs in silence, John whispers to Sherlock.

- What the bloody hell are you doing?
- Oh, you'll see. God, I missed this.

The door of the bedroom is half closed.

- I think it's better if John goes first.

John nods and carefully opens the door.

- Mrs. Ferguson? I'm Doctor Watson. Your husband sent me to make sure you're ok-…
- I won't see him! I won't see him!

Isabella starts shouting and screaming his husband's name, waving his hand to push away John.

- Calm down, no one is going to hurt you!
- No one can help! No one! It's finished. All is destroyed!
- Isabella, your husband loves you deeply and worries about you.
- No, no, I can't forget those awful words he said to me, nor the look on his face. Tell him I just want to see my child. I have the right to, I'm his mother.

Sherlock and Ferguson are listening in silence just behind the door, but when the woman asks to see her child the man bursts in the room yelling.

- Sherlock! A little help here!

Sherlock strides into the room with his hands in his pockets, followed by Dolores.

- Good morning Mrs. Ferguson, I'm Sherlock Holm-
- What the hell is going on here? Leave! All of you!
- I think you should listen to me, I'm here to help. Yes, yes, I know, "no one can help". That's why I'm here.

The detective smiles and reaches the bed where Isabella is lying, flushed with rage.

- Your husband is clearly an idiot. The idea of a vampire is simply ludicrous and yet I'm sure he saw you sucking your infant's blood that night.

Isabella winced.

- I did.
- Tell me, Ferguson, did it not occur to you that a bleeding wound may be sucked for other purposes than to draw blood from it? Don't get me wrong, even your wife is an idiot, the stupidest thing you could do in those cases is suck poison.
- POISON?
- Yes, poison. On the corridor's walls, the one that leads to your living room, there are some excellent examples of ancient arrows. You still hunt with them, don't you? You met your wife on a trip to South America, I'd say she was a tour guide and at one point she must have told the story about a tribe that still hunts with poisoned arrows. Yanomami, if I'm not mistaken. Hunting is a hobby of yours, am I right? I saw a hunting rifle, a Sauer 202, poorly hidden beside your desk. So, given that vampires don't exist, someone must have dipped the incriminated arrows in the bottle of curare, which I assume is the weapon of choice.
- But who could do that to a baby?
- You have a special bond with your oldest son.

A couple of seconds pass by in silence, until the man understands what Sherlock is implying.

- No. No, it's not possible; Jack wouldn't do such a horrible thing.
- I'm afraid you're wrong, Mister Ferguson. While you held your youngest son just moments ago, I saw Jack's reflection in the window and the way he was looking at you two. Jack doesn't like Isabella but he was okay with her being in your life. But then Lucas came, a perfect, healthy baby that took you away from him. Your wife saw what he did but didn't have the courage to come forward so she sucked the poison from your son's blood. Stupid move, but she saved his life nonetheless. Not sure about hers. I must say, pretty ingenious of him, poisoned arrows.

John shoots a look of anger at his friend.

- Sherlock!
- What? He is! It's a clever move. And the lesson is: never bond with your son over killed animals.

Ferguson has a shocked look on his face as he turns to his wife, who's now sobbing and nodding at the same time, then Sherlock looks at John and almost shouts.

- Well! We'd better be off. Have a nice day.

With a little mocking bow, Sherlock makes his way towards the exit when Ferguson tries to stop him.

- Wait, what do I do now?
- Why should I care, I'm not a social worker. I'm a consulting detective.