Chapter 19

In which two lives are taken.

###

The chill night air was as silent as it ever was in London, though in this part of the city the silence was enough for Sherlock to imagine he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, impossible though that was. His pulse was beating so hard in his ears that he could hear it even over the sound of his footsteps on the hard pavement. Pulsatile tinnitus due to the rapid increase in blood-flow throughout the body likely as a result of increased stress. Interesting. He'd never experienced such an awareness before, but then, he'd never felt like he'd been walking to his death before, either. The odd sensation would go. One way or another.

There was a fair amount of empty parking spaces around the buildings lining St James's Square; most of the people who worked in them didn't live in them, so the daily exodus had left a significant expanse of empty tarmac. This might be helpful if they needed to run back to the Pall Mall house for example, though after the meeting with Daveth, there'd be no need to run. Either they would have won or they'd be dead.

Mycroft was experiencing a mixture of feelings on this cold London night. Deep relief of a sort that he would finally be able to come to grips with the monster he'd attempted to eradicate nearly thirty years before. There was also a sense of great satisfaction that at least he'd have the opportunity to mete out some restitution for Kit's brutal demise; whatever happened tonight, Daveth would not be leaving the encounter untouched. Sherlock's idea to use a modified form of vampire blood was inventive, though Mycroft had little doubt the meeting would soon degenerate into brute physical violence; it was the only thing that Daveth seemed to comprehend. He would protect Sherlock at all costs, even if it meant a final act of self-sacrifice. Two thousand years was a pretty good run, all things considered. Other than Kit's death and the inability to stay longer with Ellis, he had few regrets. Perhaps they might all meet up again when the stars were in their favour. He felt the cold air cool against the skin of his face and the smell of frost on the pavement rose from beneath his feet. He would be sad to leave the world and all that London had come to mean to him, but he was neither immortal nor unrealistic. Death would be done tonight.

To all intents and purposes, the Holmes brothers were out in the locale taking a bracing, though rather late-night constitutional around St James's Park. All the CCTV camera footage would ever show was the two of them striding out briskly towards the gardens ... Mycroft had taken care to ensure that whatever the outcome of tonight's rendezvous, there would be no record for the police to pick over. This would not the sort of meeting the general public ever needed to see.

With less than fifty yards to the main park gate, Sherlock stopped abruptly.

Uncertain of the reason, Mycroft likewise stopped. "Problem?"

Meeting the old vampire's gaze, Sherlock extended a hand. "Whatever happens, it has been an honour to know you and, despite our intermittent differences, I want to thank you for ... everything," he said. "I am grateful, Mycroft."

Even in the dark, he was able to hear the deeper message. I love you too, my son. Taking the outstretched hand, Mycroft gripped it hard. "Trust that we will prevail, my boy," he spoke softly, nodding as he gripped the younger man's arm. "Now we have a job to do. Remember to wait for my signal."

Without another word, both Holmes' returned to their former path, not bothering to pause as they swung open the unlocked gate and stepped out together into the middle of the gardens.

The grass was dark in the limited moonlight, though a shimmer of ice crunched beneath their shoes. As far as Sherlock could observe, theirs were the only footprints on the near freezing ground. Was it possible that he had mistaken the place of meeting? Or had Daveth had changed his mind? For almost two entire seconds, Sherlock experienced a mild alarm that Daveth had lured them here only so that he might attack again elsewhere. His concern was short-lived.

"I was uncertain whether you would come or no, Mycurrought," Daveth's rumbled words emerged from the shadows before he did. "I wondered if it might be necessary to break another of your ... toys."

It was only the certain knowledge that Daveth sought his anger that kept Mycroft silent. Possibly the only thing that might make the difference between success, or a swift and certain death, was his ability to think. He could not allow mere words to distract him at this juncture. There would be time later to consider vengeance... assuming there actually was a later.

Despite himself, Sherlock experienced a fleeting spinal shiver in the realisation he was finally about to face another creature like Mycroft. Another deathless wanderer among the centuries. Though his hands itched to reach for the vials of vampire blood that waited within his pockets, the part of his mind that remained cool and clinical evaluated the situation. Mycroft's plan, though basic, was strong because of its simplicity. He would wait to do his part as they had agreed.

It appeared Mycroft's nemesis had come to the meeting alone; there was neither sight nor sound of an accomplice, though it was still possible that others waited in the deeper shadows. There was little point dwelling on that eventuality; if Daveth had brought supporters, even human ones, then Mycroft's battle plan was likely doomed to fail and with it, both their chances of any continued existence.

"You are waning, Daveth," Mycroft stood comfortably beyond the shade of the trees, both hands clasped loosely in front of him. "I doubt you will walk these lands much longer, whatever happens tonight."

"You may be right, but I will live long enough to finish what must be done," the shadows parted to allow a huge shambling figure to approach them in the centre of the grassy park.

"And what is that?" Mycroft was smoothly urbane. He might have been taking tea with the Prime Minister's wife. "For what foolishness have I been summonsed here this night?"

"Why, for your destruction, of course," Daveth halted a handful of yards away and straightened up into an almost vertical stance, the horrific scars on his face and hands clearly visible even in the dim light. "And you have so considerately brought your other toy with you," he stared across at Sherlock, his grin vile and twisted. "To save me the further effort. That is most thoughtful of you."

"You are sick and broken," Mycroft's voice dropped low until it was a cold, bleak thing that slithered in the night. "You will die soon, alone and unmourned. Your body with moulder to dust and be spread to unknown places by the four winds. You have done your last wickedness and soon not even I will remember you."

"Ahh, Mycurrought!" Daveth laughed roughly, almost choking with amusement. "You were never so mirthsome in your fighting days ..." his laughter trailed away. "But the time for mirth is done, and now you will die. Both of you."

Widening his stance, he opened his long heavy coat and withdrew a plain sword of steel. Utterly unrefined, this was no damascened rapier of Ancient Arabia, but a viciously sharp Roman Gladius with only one possible purpose. Even in the dark, Sherlock could see the shadows of dried blood on it. This was very likely the weapon involved in dismembering the bodies in the recent killings that still had the Met so confused.

"So predictable, Daveth," Mycroft shook his head sadly, unmoved and unmoving.

"You will not even defend yourself?" the ancient vampire drew himself up, a frown on his brow as if he suspected all might not be as it seemed. Mycurrought of Isca, one of the greatest generals the land had ever seen ... accepting defeat so easily? Despite his damaged mind, Daveth suspected trickery of some kind.

"Do your worst; it will only hasten your final death," Mycroft hadn't moved a muscle.

At his shoulder, Sherlock tensed in readiness but stood equally still.

"That may be, but I will not be the one who leaves this world first," Daveth roared, raising the sword high above his head as he lumbered forward, charging the two men who even now stood motionless.

At almost the last moment, there was a blur of movement as Mycroft twisted sideways like a matador, wrenching a slim black item from each of his coat pockets.

One was an evil-looking expandable baton which instantly became two feet of brute power. The other was the unsheathed Japanese tantō whose short flat blade glinted white-fire in the scudding moonlight.

Curving sideways around Daveth's charge and wielding the baton with all his might, Mycroft brought the heavy steel tip down exactly on the wrist joint holding the sword. A ghastly crack told its own story as Daveth howled and dropped the sword, his momentum sending him staggering several feet further.

As he bent briefly, grasping the grievous injury with his other hand, Mycroft spun a second time, the tantō lifting high before slicing down in a vicious, unstoppable sweep.

Daveth's sword-hand fell to the dark ground, already blackening and disintegrating in decay.

Rising to his feet, Daveth's fury exploded as the pain and outrage powered him far beyond the realm of human behaviour or ability. He truly was the monster now, with only the barest remnants of humanity giving him form.

Twirling the baton until it cut through the night air, vibrating the very molecules around him, Mycroft's face was as alive as Sherlock had ever seen it. There was a clear light in his eyes, the light of battle, as he paced slowly around the wounded vampire who had created him.

"I had no hatred for you Daveth, "Mycroft's voice was low and deadly. "But you have forced me to do what I have never sought to do and because I am a soldier, I will do you this last service with all the skill that is in me."

Dark blood oozing from the stump of his arm, Daveth bent to collect his sword with his remaining hand. "You will die now, Mycurrought," he snarled, beginning to weave a lethal network of cuts and slices with the blade at such speed that it was impossible for anyone to get close or survive its assault. Mycroft back slowly away, the baton and knife held down and away from his body, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It was at that moment that Sherlock, now stationed behind the effectively one-armed vampire, drew the MK23 from his pocket and calmly shot Daveth in the back of his right ankle, obliterating the Achilles tendon and causing the huge creature to slump awkwardly to his knees, his entire right side now irreparably weakened.

Before they'd left the house, Sherlock had questioned Mycroft's direction that he shoot to maim rather than to kill. Why a bullet in the ankle? Why not the entire chamber of ten rounds in the brain?

"According to all data I have been able to piece together, including the testimony of Daveth himself, nothing but fire or sword or the depths of the earth itself would have any permanent effect on one of us," Mycroft had shaken his head. "We need to render him impotent, bring him down, enabling me to deliver the coup de gras."

"And what of the body?" Sherlock's eyebrows had risen in clinical interest. "Have you got your people ready to drag it away from human eyes?"

"I have never witnessed the death of one of my own, so I have no clear understanding of what may happen to the body once Daveth is dead. We will cross that bridge once we reach it," he had smiled lightly, but there had been a grim undertone in his expression.

And now, as the giant hulk of their enemy slumped to the ground, Sherlock reached into his other pocket and dragged out one of the huge syringes. Flicking the plastic tip away he strode over, plunging the entire contents deep into the back of Daveth's neck. Given Mycroft's earlier instructions, it was unlikely that this concoction would actually kill the beast, but it might slow him down, however there was no discernible effect.

With a bellicose roar, Daveth clambered to his feet, and though his right arm was essentially useless and his right leg now barely more than a prop, he still held his sword up, grinning, knowing that his enemies now had to come to him. He would have them yet.

Circling his virtually immobile antagonist, Mycroft twirled his baton more thoughtfully. The report of the gunshot would have been heard; it was only a matter of time now before someone came to investigate. Daveth had to die quickly.

But Mycroft wanted his sword.

It would be final and fitting for the monster who had created him and who had taken his dearest friend to perish by his own blade. It had also been a central part of his plan as Mycroft knew no other type of weapon would be suited to the unmaking of a vampire.

And he would have it.

Considering the best way to marshal their combined forces, Mycroft was distracted by the faint sound of footsteps, their approach soft as though muffled. This was a faster investigation than he had anticipated; the gunshot must have attracted someone on the nearby street. Glancing at Sherlock, he nodded towards the open gate.

"Keep them away until the job is finished, Sherlock," he murmured, steadying the baton and stepping towards Daveth's broken figure.

"Stop!" Ellis's voice cut clear through the night. "You need fire; only fire will do the job completely!"

"Another of your pretty little playthings, Mycurrought?" Daveth's harsh voice gravelled. "Will she tend my ills as I drain her dry, I wonder?" he laughed hoarsely.

"Leave now, Doctor Wilde," Mycroft kept his eyes on Daveth even though his words were directed at Ellis. "There is nothing here for you this night. Leave!"

"I heard you back at the house, Mycroft," Ellis stood her ground by the gate, even though Sherlock refused to let her through. "I heard every word you said about having to destroy a vampire," she added. "And about you being one yourself. I heard it all and I'm telling you that only fire will do what you want."

"And you have brought such a facility?" Sherlock looked down into her eyes, assessing the historian's state of mind.

"Yes, I have," she said, nodding. "Let me through, Sherlock; there's nothing to hide from me now."

Thinking for a moment, he pushed the gate wide. "Then come and join the party," he said. "Stand behind us at all times."

"Sherlock?" Mycroft watched in disbelief as his ward opened the gate and allowed Ellis through. She could not see this. She could not bear witness to the death of a vampire by another vampire!

"Too late, Mycroft," Ellis spoke softly as she walked closer. "I know your secret now and I understand the mysteries behind you. I finally understand."

"You understand nothing," Mycroft kept his eyes on Daveth. "If you value our friendship, you will leave this place now."

"If you want me to leave, I shall," Ellis was standing no more than two feet behind his shoulder. "But I want you to have this first," she said, extending a hand in which she held a moderate-sized glass bottle.

The smell was enough to explain its contents. A deeply resinous, oily tang with overtones of wax and linseed oil. The reason the smell was so pervasive was because the cap had been removed and a cord of twisted white cotton shoved deep inside with no more than an inch or so of fabric left dangling beyond the bottle itself. A rudimentary Molotov cocktail. He also recognised the bottle.

"My book-cover polish?"

"Ammonia and beeswax; mineral oil, almond and coconut oils," she held the bottle up in the dim light. "Trust me when I claim to have read a great deal about the cleansing properties of fire," she said. "And you need to destroy the evidence, don't you?"

What was she saying? How could she say these things? How did she know!?

"Let me," Sherlock was beside them, taking the bottle gently from her hand. "I promised myself the satisfaction of ending Kit's killer, and now I shall," he added, fumbling inside his jacket for a lighter.

"And so you would have me perish without honour, Mycurrought?" Daveth muttered balefully, still hanging onto his sword. "You lack even the courage to see me die by the blade as was always the way in our time?"

"You lost your honour centuries ago, Daveth," Mycroft met his Maker's stare. "I have little care for your passing except that it should be final. You will plague this country no longer." Turning his head fractionally towards Ellis he told her to stand away from them. It was only when he saw her move several feet off back and to the side that he returned his full focus to Daveth.

"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft moved into a fighting stance.

Flicking a small flame into being, Sherlock applied it to the edge of the white material, watching as the flame fed and grew. He needed to throw the bottle hard enough for it to smash.

"This is for my mother, you bastard," he whispered, drawing his arm back before hurling it squarely at Daveth's right shoulder. The vampire could not move swiftly enough to avoid it, nor could he use his right hand to bat it away. The bottle shattered completely, spreading the thick liquid contents everywhere. It splattered and clung across and down the length of his body, soaking deep into the fabric of his clothing.

The flames took hold swiftly and Mycroft readied his weapons, as did Sherlock his gun. If Daveth was to make a final assault, it would be now. He would come directly at them.

But he didn't.

Instead, with utter disregard for the flames coating his body, even as the fire flared up into his face, his eyes, his hair, Daveth screamed inhumanely, long white fangs descending, marking him as the beast he had become.

And he charged directly at Ellis.

There was no elegance to his stride, just sheer bullish power and speed. Prepared for a further attack on themselves, Mycroft was, for a scant second, taken off guard. And in that second, Daveth was past him and had Ellis in his clutches, his fangs already buried deep in her throat.

So swift was the attack, Ellis had not been able to scream before being borne to the ground in a killing embrace; she was already fatally wounded before Mycroft and Sherlock had been able to react, her clothing beginning to catch fire as Daveth raised his blood-spattered face to laugh one last time. As he was about to utter some final words on the ineffability of fate, Mycroft claimed the dropped sword and swept Daveth's head cleanly from his neck. It dropped and rolled onto the grass where it continued to burn, just as the remains of his carcass was kicked to one side as both Mycroft and Sherlock pulled Ellis's body from beneath the rapidly corrupting corpse. The few flames on her clothes were easy to smother, but it was clear her injuries were mortal. Holding her in his arms, Mycroft was deaf to the approaching sound of sirens; clearly someone had called the police.

Ellis. She couldn't die a second time. It wasn't right ... it wasn't fair.

"Ellis ... can you hear me? Can you ..." he closed his eyes momentarily to the sight and scent of blood all around him. "I'll get you to a hospital my darling Ellis," he groaned, lifting her in his arms as he got to his feet. "Hold on, my dearest ..."

"Mycroft," Sherlock rested a hand on the older man's arm. "It's no good. She's already lost too much blood to stand the shock. No hospital can help her now ..."

Turning on his child with a savage snarl, Mycroft's face was wild, his skin darkened with the blood still pumping slowly from the unspeakable wounds at Ellis's throat.

"She cannot die! I will not have her die!"

Gripping Ellis more tightly in his arms, Mycroft ran for his house. He ran faster that he had ever done in his life, faster than he had ever thought he could. It was as if death itself was snapping at his heels and he ran in through his front door and up to his own bedroom when he knew Ellis would be safe. She would be safe here, in his arms. She could not die if she were in his arms, could she? She would not be so cruel as to leave him now; just as she held his heart in her hands ... she could not die. He felt his face wet with impossible tears.

"Ellis, my darling ... don't leave me alone again, I beg you." He closed his eyes in agony. It was his fault she was dying. He had not been able to save Kit and now he was losing Ellis too. His fault.

He felt the faintest of touches and realised Ellis had lifted a hand to brush the side of his face. Clutching the hand, he kissed the palm, pressing it to the dampness of his eyes.

"I'm so sorry my darling," he whispered. "I'm so terribly sorry."

There was an indistinct gasping as Ellis tried to speak, but her throat was too damaged for words. Instead Mycroft felt the hand on his face edge closer towards his mouth where the tip of her thumb brushed across the edge of his teeth. He felt the slightest of pressure from her hand as she guided his mouth downwards.

Could this be? Was this what she wanted?

"Ellis ... do you want me to make you whole again ..." Mycroft paused, frantically scanning her narrowed, fading eyes. "Do you want me to make you as I am? My darling I need a sign from you ... I need to know this is what you want me to do ... Can you blink?"

Choking, her breath halting. She blinked once. Definitely, unquestionably, before her breathing grew suddenly ragged and there was no more air for her lungs or for her heart.

Ellis Brite Wilde died in the arms of Mycroft Holmes.

With burning eyes, he permitted himself finally to be the vampire he had always chosen to deny. His fangs lengthening, he embraced the woman he had loved for two thousand years and brought her into his world for ever.

###

It was dark when I awoke. There was no light or sound. I was lying on something relatively soft that smelled of washing powder and lavender. It was a scent I had somehow always associated with Kit. Poor Kit. Clearly I was lying in a bed in Kit's house.

In Mycroft's house.

But what on earth was I doing here? I'd accepted an offer to stay the previous night ...

The previous night.

The park ... the awful, horrible things that had happened in the park with that terrible creature ...

It was all a bit too much. Sleep seemed a far more attractive proposition.

I slept.

###

Mycroft had done everything he could think to do. He had washed the blood from Ellis's body and from the gold of her hair, combing it out until it gleamed against the clean white sheets and pillowcases he'd brought out from Kit's laundry; the previous set had been drenched in blood. He would not have Ellis wake to such a thing as that and had remade the bed around her in the dark as she slept.

Sherlock had phoned before he returned to the house, even though he eventually stayed only briefly. By the time the police had arrived at the park, Daveth's remains had degraded to such a point where they were unrecognisably human. It was as if someone had emptied out the sludge from an old settling tank. The smell was rank, but there was little worry of discovery. By the time dawn came around, there would be almost nothing left for anyone to see. He had already deposited Mycroft's Japanese knife and Daveth's Gladius in the library's secret room.

"How is she?" Sherlock asked eventually, sipping scotch. He felt utterly drained.

"You assume Ellis is still alive?" Mycroft studied his glass.

Throwing the older man a sceptical look, Sherlock blinked slowly. "How is she?"

"As far as I can tell, she's as well as can be expected," Mycroft sighed wearily. "I only have my own personal experience to go on, of course, but things seemed to be ... as expected," he swallowed deep from his drink. "I have no idea how she will feel when she finally wakens."

"Which will be ..?"

"Tonight sometime, I hope," Mycroft rubbed a hand across his face. "I don't know the protocols for this sort of thing, so I've improvised."

"Improvised?" Sherlock smiled.

"I'll tell you about it if it works," Mycroft stretched his long body in the chair. "Where's that second syringe of my blood?" he asked. "It needs to be destroyed."

"I have it still," Sherlock's eyes gleamed momentarily. "I'll deal with it appropriately."

"Yes," Mycroft's tone was dry. "I'm sure you will. Just don't use it to make any immortal frogs or rats, will you? There's enough problems in the world without having that on my conscience."

"No frogs, rats or any other creature," Sherlock promised. "Though with your permission, I should like to use it in some of my experiments ... it has the most uncanny abilities to overcome every human cell ... what might an atrophied strain be capable of? Curing cancer?" he shrugged.

"The use it with my blessing. You should rest now," he added. "You're most welcome to stay here if you wish."

"Thank you, but I think three would definitely be a crowd here tonight," Sherlock stood. "I've been offered a spare bed by a woman who rents out flats in central London," he said. "I'm helping her dispose of a criminal husband and she feels obliged to look after me in return," he smiled again. "It probably won't lead anywhere, but I'll give you some privacy for as long as I can. Laters."

After completing all the tasks he had set himself, Mycroft took himself into the Drawing room with a large glass of his favoured vodka and began to play. Anything. Everything. Bach, Brahms, Beethoven. Polkas and waltzes and mazurkas; his favourite operatic arias. Anything to stave off the silence in the house. Yet there was a strange lightness in his heart that belied the seriousness of the moment even though there was still the agonising question that would not be answered until night fell.

And then he would see what there was to be seen.

###

I surfaced again.

This time I felt more immediately awake, barely drowsy at all. It was still dark but I could see it was the dark of true night. Someone had been in and opened the long curtains at the window. The faint lights beyond were surprisingly more than enough to show me the contents of the room I was in. Everything was oddly clear.

A bedroom. A bedroom with a very big bed that I had apparently been lying in since ... I had no idea how long I have been in this bed. Sitting up, I saw I was wearing some kind of long dark nightgown affair. By the feel of the fabric and the stitch count, I was immediately fairly sure it was high Victorian needlework on silk ... wait a tick.

How could I tell the stitch count in the dark with only my fingertips?

Leaving that oddness for the moment, I realised I felt like getting up, in fact what I was starting to feel like was something very strange. I wasn't giddy. There wasn't any pain, I didn't hurt. I wasn't tired or hungry or thirsty.

And yet I vaguely remembered ... something.

I touched my throat. There was something I needed to remember ... something about a fight ... there was a fight and I ... I had been involved somehow.

But it was all fuzzy and distant, as if it was a long time ago, even though I was sure it had been, when? Only last night? The night before? What was it I couldn't remember?

Perhaps there might be someone else in the house who could clear up the things I simply could not hold in my head.

There was a bedside lamp and I stretched over, brushing against a soft piece of velvet as I flicked on the small switch, almost blinded by the brightness of the sudden light. I switched it off again until I had tilted the lampshade away from me. This time, the light was a little more acceptable, though it was still far too bright for comfort.

My eyes were immediately taken with the beautiful hand-sewn silk bedspread that someone had pulled over my head as I slept. It was far too glamourous a thing to use as a mere piece of bedding; it was a museum-piece and should be ... hang on. This was more oddness.

The velvet I'd felt as I'd reached for the light turned out to be a small bag, gathered at the top by a pull string. The bag was heavy; far heavier than such a small thing had any right to be. Inside there was a large handful of gold coins. Solid gold half-sovereigns from the mid-1880s. Big and shiny and beautiful; each one of these had to be worth a small fortune.

I slipped out of the big soft bed and headed immediately for the door which was clearly in the room even in the dark. I felt perfectly warm and in no need of any additional robe, besides, the gown I was wearing was of heavy silk and brushed the floor; it was unlikely my appearance would shock anyone I might meet.

As I walked along the hallway to the top of the staircase, I heard the most divine piano music. It filled up the spaces in the house and I could almost feel the air around me vibrate with the rich chords. There was only one person I knew who might play like that, which explained why I'd been asleep in his house.

Though I still wasn't entirely sure why I had been asleep in Mycroft's house wearing a Victorian nightgown and with a bag of gold coins left on the bedside table. Just another strange thing to question. As I headed downstairs I vaguely realised I was barefoot. I always took slippers with me when I stayed away from home and had no idea why I would be without them. There was something almost dreamlike about this whole situation, but the piano music continued and so I entered the room it was coming from.

The music stopped and he turned to face me.

I saw his eyes widen and he seemed ... oddly nervous, though I had no idea why. He stood, stepping towards me, clearly anxious about something. He seemed to be watching my every move, scanning my face for the slightest information.

"Hello, Mycroft," I smiled. "I heard you playing. It was wonderful."

"You are feeling ... well?"

"Very well, though my brain's gone a bit fuzzy. Did I drink too much last night? I don't have a hangover, but everything is woozy and ... and I can't remember clearly. If I embarrassed myself, I'm terribly sorry."

He seemed to relax a little; he stood straighter and his shoulders went back and down. "You don't remember last night at all?" he asked, taking my hand and drawing me towards a richly covered sofa that I seemed to recall was important to me ... but it was unclear why.

"Tell me what you do remember, my dear Ellis," Mycroft sat beside me, his face clearly concerned. God. What on earth happened last night? It must have been pretty major, whatever it was.

What did I actually remember?

"I think there might have been a fight of some kind and I was involved somehow, though it all feels like a dream," I said, shaking my head. "I remember it was dark ... and I think I was outside ... somewhere ..." I shrugged. That was the extent of my recollection. "What happened?" I asked. "There was obviously more to it than I can remember or else I wouldn't be wearing this," I gestured to the silk gown, "asleep in your house," I paused as his face tensed. He was starting to worry me. "What happened, Mycroft? Why am I here like this? Why can't I remember what happened?"

He was still staring at me as if I was going to vanish in a puff of smoke. Then he sighed and looked down to where his hand was still holding mine.

"There's a lot I have to tell you and some of it is going to be a shock," he said. "I don't know if your memory will return in time or if you have lost that information forever, but either way, none of this is going to be easy. For either of us."

He sounded so solemn and grave that I almost laughed.

"Mycroft, did we both get drunk last night and get married?" I couldn't help but smile at him, this man for whom I had developed a very specific feeling. I just wish I remembered what had happened between us.

"Here," he said, tugging my hand until I stood. He pulled me gently out into the long hallway until we approached the main front door. There was a tall mirror on the wall just there and he had me stand in front of it while he went to turn on some more lights.

The lights came on, still a little too bright for me, but I squinted at my reflection as this was obviously what he wanted me to do.

And then I saw.

I saw myself, but the me in the mirror was someone vastly different to the self I remembered. I forgot all about the brightness of the lights.

My skin had always been pale with freckles, but now ... now I looked like I was made of porcelain and my freckles had faded into the merest memory of themselves. My lips seemed darker and my eyes ... whether it was the bright lights or not, my eyes were wide and bright and their pale blue had become an extraordinary cerulean. And my hair ... Thick and golden-red, it coiled itself heavily around my face.

And then Mycroft stood directly behind me so that I was staring at both our reflections simultaneously.

And then I saw.

And I remembered. My hand raised to rest against my throat of its own volition.

And I knew what it was that was so concerning him, this man whom I had come to love. This wonderful, marvellous, ageless man. This vampire.

As now was I.

I, vampire.

###

The End

My grateful thanks to everyone who has left feedback on this story which has taken over a year to conclude. I've had several people ask what's going to happen next, but I'm not sure if there should be another section, or if the story has already run its course. Either way, it has been a wonderful experience writing something that enabled me to take my time and go into as much detail as I wanted without feeling rushed. Onwards and upwards!