Chapter 1:

The Talking Darkness

The nighttime wind blew softly against her skin. The sinister wet sound of the grass beneath her feet was close to deafening. Her breathing came out in short spurts, erratic and shallow; but she didn't have the luxury of time to worry about that tiny detail, because if she did not keep going, keep running, it would catch up with her, and there would be no point. No matter how impossible it would seem, how she never would have anticipated it, it was still there, and it was gaining up on her. Something lurking in the darkness was giving her chase, coming out of the shadows in a haze of fright, and if she faltered for even a moment, she would be lost.

— o —o—

"What an idiotic waste of my time." Sherlock grumbled, while throwing himself on the sofa in a highly dramatic manner. His dressing gown fell over slicing through the air like a curtain of mystery; it only seemed to add to the eerie theatrical effect. John was not sure he was in the right disposition to actually handle one of the detective's monumental destructive moods at the moment. Specially not when things had been particularly weird between them lately.

"You've got to admit it's a bit odd, though." He commented, trying in vain to entice his friend into accepting the case, any case. Acknowledging the spooky feeling he got about this one. The curly-haired man was close to shooting the walls again, and the doctor feared that if they stood still for one more moment, they would have to face that which they had avoided the whole week —the whole of their acquaintance if everyone else was to be believed— and that collision was something he could not allow. Not yet, at least. He was waiting for the right moment. At this point, a simple visit to Bart's would make him grateful.

When Sherlock turned his face around and decided to grace him with one of his usual cold stares, the blogger knew he had failed miserably. "Oh, for God's sake! Don't tell me you believe it." The mock and exasperation in his voice made John a bit more than annoyed. Clenching his hands, he sat down on the armchair; doing his best to calm down and refrain from appearing in the 3 o'clock news for throttling his flatmate.

"No," He replied slowly, barely a whisper cutting through the silence of the silver sky. "But it is suspicious-" The blonde stopped talking at the huff with which the other graced him. Rudely interrupting and dismissing whatever he was about to say.

"And what?" The detective interrogated, standing up from his position in order to stalk closer to his friend. "That means his neighbor is a vampire? Honestly, John…" His words had a sharp edge impossible to match, but the older man could see something entirely different in his eyes; that calculating gaze that had been almost solely directed at him since little more than a week ago, John was not sure if calling him out on it would be a good idea.

"I'm not saying that," He replied instead. "I just think that maybe there is something else going on," His tone was calm and soft, creating a dichotomy with that of his anxious flatmate. "Sometimes you come to realise things are not what they appear." The doctor looked up at the curly-haired man's face; not knowing if he was still talking about the alleged un-dead acquaintance of the troubled client.

Sherlock abruptly stopped moving as if he had been stabbed. His confused pale face sloppily masked by the irritated glare he would always wear when clients were proving too stupid, and criminals too absent. The soldier held the stare, but willed himself to let the moment pass. This supposed case was the perfect embodiment of everything Sherlock hated about being widely known: too many paranoid people who were just sure someone they knew was a criminal —or in this case a blood-sucking killer going after their sister.

The detective seemed to remember he was outraged, and proceeded to continue with his rant. "He's clearly just a very moronic unemployed man with a pair of binoculars and way too much free time. His neighbor is certainly not a vampire, and definitely not worth my time." He concluded and let himself fall heavily on the chair opposite to the one already occupied by the blogger.

"Well, then we won't take it." The doctor said, poking at the keys on his laptop. Trying to ignore the nagging in his brain that told him how bad an idea it was; he failed to determine why it sounded like such an urgent matter, why he felt as if something was watching him over his shoulder, but there was nothing else he could do. He was completely aware that his flatmate would not drop it. No for at least the whole of the afternoon; yet confronting him when he was so riled up was just cruel, not to mention a futile attempt to make the other calm down. It would only blow up into a strop of cosmic proportions which he wanted to avoid at any cost.

"I'm very close to resorting on pestering Mycroft for legwork." He muttered, tugging at his curls. His kaleidoscope eyes dancing around the misty ambience of the sitting room.

"Let's not get crazy, there." John joked, hoping to ease the tension. He was glad to see the corners of the other's mouth turn up; it may not be much, but it was a start. "I'm sure something else will turn up soon." He assured. "Come on, we can watch some crap telly and you can tell me if the butler could have actually stolen the earrings." The soldier turned on the television and settled in for what he wished would be a relatively quiet evening, hoping to forget all about supernatural beings and voices in the shadows. His friend seemed to relax fairly quickly and they spent the rest of the day in calm and friendly banter. All without knowing what morning would bring and how the next day would play out. A case that would change their whole lives.

— o —o—

Lestrade was phoning them since the sun came up, and Sherlock was frustrated with himself for the decision of sleeping in that late, and with John for not bothering to wake him up to check his phone. It was already seven, and he was missing out on some great fun. If the DI had a case, then his endless, tormenting, wakeful boredom would be over and the excitement he so missed would once again ignite his life.

"Lestrade," He impatiently spoke to the mobile eagerly pressed to his ear. "What have you got?"

The other in the line sounded hesitant, clearly baffled by what he was experiencing, which was all the proof the detective needed to deduce this one would be an interesting one, perhaps even a nine. "Well, I don't know how to explain this," Lestrade stumbled over his words as Sherlock waited with bated breath to know what the promising future adventure will gift them.

"It appears our victim, she-" However, once the end of that sentence came, he was very close to dropping the phone in surprise. "She was exsanguinated."

— o —o—

Author notes:

Hello. This is my eight-day Halloween story, let me know what you think and whether you believe what the client says could be real.

If you like it, come back tomorrow for more. In the meantime, drop by my other stories.