A/N: Thank you AussieMaelstrom for having an overwhelming amount of patience to my silliness! This is quite different from anything I've ever written here.

It is an AU that I had the idea of during the weekend all of a sudden.

I blame several of the amazing sherlolly-writers for having inspired me, as I've been wanting to do something of this kind for a while. I have no idea if this is something people would read however, but do read on. Luckily I will turn my eyes towards my other work for now, as to distract me.

The fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress

Until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest

The saints can't help me now the ropes have been unbound

I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallow'd ground

1989

Her brown hair flew into her face, strands tangling themselves together, while her auburn eyes narrowed to read the tiny slip held between her fingertips with the address she knew by heart now. She caught sight of the wooden sign attached to one of the barren trees, Holmes house, it said. Molly pocketed the paper, tugging on the straps of her rug-sack, as she wandered the muddy path spread with yellowed leaves in her school uniform. She knew by the grey clouds overhead that it would rain, and hurriedly buttoned her coat before she started to run past the gloomy trees that loomed over her.

The wind pulled at her clothes, a deep voice whispering her forward, almost causing her to stumble in her sprint. It was a voice beckoning her to hurry, as the rain started to fall in great torrents. By the time she reached the black gate leaving the forest behind her, she was drenched to the bone, her cold trembling hands soon clutching the steel gate adorned with black roses. It had to be there of course, for she could hear the voice carry over the wind belonging to a man in pain.

Six months earlier –

The monitor beeped in the background, signalling his heartbeat, the rhythm a slow hum that she couldn't ignore even how hard she tried. He was being kept alive; this was his last moments with her, and there were stains of tears already shed upon her rosy cheeks. Her father's hand was large, the veins glaring through his pale skin. He was using the last of his strength to squeeze her hand in comfort. There was no comfort to be found in the hospital room, even how much his soft brown eyes sought her face out, and she tried not to cry. She didn't want to cry in front of him, not as life seemed to be draining him, bit by bit, and she couldn't do anything. In this room she was useless, this wasn't a trifle cold, no, it was death taking him.

None of the doctors were familiar with the infection that had struck him, constantly making him new concoctions in hopes that he would stop coughing blood, but in the end they knew there was nothing to be done. He tried speaking, stroking his thumb over her hand, "It's ok, dad – you don't – you don't need to talk, ok," she said in a small voice, while he drew a ragged breath.

"It's important," he wheezed, his expression stoic, "Very important."

"It can wait - I'm here, dad," she lied, trying to smile, but it was a strain on her mouth. They'd lost her mother years ago, now he would be following her. Molly had hoped that when that time came she'd be older, that she'd be better prepared, that she'd finally accept that people perished, but she wasn't at all ready. He was everything she had left, and he was spending his last days making no sense. He wasn't cracking jokes, there was no smile playing at his lips, all that was left of him was this failing body - Arthur Hooper was dying.

"You have to promise-," he said clearing his throat, though his voice remained gravelly, " – you have to see – him – he will help – you'll be safe then."

"Dad, I'm fine – we're in a hospital," she said, though he looked aggravated by her answer, and she humoured him, "Who dad?"

"I can't teach you, there's not enough time," he said blinking furiously at her, and she rather hoped he was sane.

Her aunt wasn't supporting that theory at all, though she was barely present, spending most of her time chatting up the staff, and having fags, then spending it with her brother in law. Molly supposed that her aunt might be right, even if she didn't wish to agree with her at all, despite the fact that her dad was speaking of a soulless man and other things that made the nurses shush him before increasing his morphine. None of which did him any good, for he didn't complain of any pain. She wanted him lucid, wanted to see his eyes open, and present, even if he wasn't making much sense, it was something to cling to, "Teach me what?" she said hoping he had enough strength to keep talking.

"The ways of our family," he said with a brief smile.

She almost felt like laughing, "I know how to make your special pancakes," she said, but the laughter clung to her throat, not willing to be let out, as she bit back the tears. She wanted to shout at him, to shake him – for having not told her he was sick, and for trying to avoid going to the hospital before it was too late.

He jerked his head slightly, "He will help," he said hoarsely. He repeated that sentence many times, not that it made any sense, and he didn't seem inclined to explain who he was.

She was just glad he was still talking; however he quieted down after a while, but she never left his side. When she woke up, the hand she held in her palm was cold, and the machine was still working to keep him alive, but he was already gone.

- Six months later -

In her father's will, she was the sole heir, of course most of the money remaining - how little it was – got handed over to her aunt Lucy who was her guardian from now on. Molly knew by the look of pleasure appearing on her aunt's face that none of that money would be seen when she turned eighteen, as Lucy would most likely claim, "It costs to have a sixteen year old living with you," and of course her aunt suddenly had new things that Molly knew she couldn't afford with the wages she had.

It was disheartening to know that the time she spent working hard at school was being wasted, for she would most likely never have a shot at uni anyway. She still kept on reading, doing her best, and hoping that it would be fine in the end.

Her aunt wasn't exactly keeping her spirits up with muttering, "Arthur was a bit of a nutter," repeatedly, "Your mum was mental for having married him." Molly suspected it had to do with the various things her father left her, of course there were photo-albums, small trinkets, and even some jewellery her mum had owned, that her aunt took for safe-keeping, but the most curious item was a leather-bound journal.

Inside the journal there was handwriting, some of which by her mother's hand, and some by her dad – pages littered with text – and some with drawings. There was a foreword addressed to her – To Molly for when she will need it. Molly didn't know why she would need a book that was clearly about vampires, which threw her off immediately, and made her wonder if her father had wanted to be a writer, since he'd never mentioned the book while she grew up.

It unnerved her that there were constant mentions of a soulless man, the same thing her dad had repeatedly warned about to all around her in the hospital, and now he apparently thought of it while he was by all means sane. Amidst the pages however there was a piece of paper, used like a bookmark, where an address was stood – above it the words; for help.

She didn't know why she would need help, neither did she seek it either, but she had looked up the address. It was outside of London, some miles off, but she didn't feel like going there. Molly felt tempted to ring up the number and ask if they knew of her father's apparent fantasies, but she thought better of it, focusing her energy in her school instead. For maybe her aunt was quite right about her dad being weird, but she didn't throw the journal away, instead keeping it on her nightstand occasionally scouring through the pages for a read. There were vampires, werewolves, monsters, and unimaginable sorts in the pages; things that made the hairs on her neck stand up, but she laughed it away. After all, there was no such thing as monsters in the dark.

After her father's death she'd gotten used to living with her aunt, adhering to her schedule, there were no strict rules, but she knew she had to fend for herself most of the time. Her aunt Lucy didn't feel terribly inclined to guard her, "After all you're sixteen, you'll be alright," she said, like she always did, right before she'd leave for hours – not returning until the crack of dawn, and then she'd spend it in bed watching bad television until she fell asleep with a unlit cigarette dangling in her mouth. Molly was certain if she wasn't around that the woman would end up being burned up in her bed, for often she'd find a cigarette still burning in her mouth, and she'd dispose of it, before the worst would happen, "You know how to handle yourself, right?" said her aunt, more to herself than to Molly.

She looked up from the book in her lap, taking in the sight of aunt in a new pink dress, "Right?" her aunt said with a slight nod towards her.

"Yeah," said Molly directing her eyes back to her maths book with a sigh. Her aunt didn't say goodbye, before disappearing off to God knows where, and Molly didn't feel at a loss with her leaving. There wasn't exactly much love between the pair of them, for her aunt hadn't been anything but particularly annoyed to be saddled with her upon her father's death. She however didn't seem irritated at being rewarded with some money from her father, not that she used any of it on Molly (causing her to pilfer pounds from her for food).

Molly sighed, settling the book on the table, before she started working at the equation at hand, but she was surprised to hear the doorbell unexpectedly go off.

She looked up in wonder realising just how very dark it was, taking to stand up in pure reflex only to remember that her aunt never rang on the doorbell, and the door was generally left shut, but never locked. Molly walked to the door intending to open it, but the doorbell went off a second time causing her to jump slightly. She almost laughed at her own silliness, though anxiety started to settle in her, but it could be someone from school – however she never had anyone visit – "Molly," said a voice causing her skin to crawl.

Her hand that had been hovering over the doorknob pulled back immediately at that voice, her eyes staring fearfully at the wooden door, for it was said softly, ever so nicely, and only caused the hairs to stand up on back of her neck, as it was the voice of her father.

"Molly, I know you're there – doing your school work like a good little girl, aren't you just?" continued the voice, holding in the doorbell now - letting the shrill sound ring through the house, as she slowly back away from the door in shock.

It was her dad – or was it?

Her dad had died, she'd been there, she'd seen him turn cold, she'd seen them try to get him back, and none of it worked, but she could hear his voice, "MOLLY!" the voice yelled, though whoever it was – was using his fist to hammer on the door now.

She went towards the window besides the door drawing the curtains to the side, but she couldn't see anything from that angle. Molly walked back to the door biting her lip, it was obviously someone taking the mickey out of her – one of the boys at school, "Wrong – wrong house," she said finally daring to speak.

"You sure, Molly? I don't think so," said the voice, pressing the doorbell another time, "You know it's rude to let someone wait," he said, when he'd stopped another round of ringing.

"Who are you?"

"Daddy's home," said the voice in a loud whisper.

"I'll call – I'll call the police," she cried out hoping that whoever it was would disappear – she had to be imagining it was her dad's voice – but she knew it was. She would recognise that voice anywhere, which was why her hand was clutched around the phone now.

"Oh – do – I love me some police," said the voice, and she settled the phone on the receiver, "Or you could be a good girl, and invite me in?"

Invite me in? Why did that sound familiar to her?

"What do you want?"

"You – you'd be a nice little play-thing, don't you think? We'd have loads of fun," said the voice, mimicking the familiar laugh of her fathers, but it didn't bring warmth to her heart.

Her father never laughed like that, he would never, it was cold and with not an ounce of humanity in it – it didn't at all seem real – he was dead. She had to be dreaming, she couldn't be – the laughter stopped – there was no sound beyond the door, just her low breath from the inside.

She reached for the doorknob, but she thought better of it. Whoever it was, they had to have gone off, probably too bored to bother her anymore – it was maybe some mad person getting their rocks off – though it didn't sit right with her at all.

She turned on most of the lights in the house, slowly going through the rooms, trying to keep herself calm as she checked if anyone was in the house, but she was alone. In the end she went to the window in the kitchen that had a better view of the front door, but there was no one there.

When Molly finally tucked herself under her duvet that night (not without stacking one of her smaller closets in front of her bedroom door) she was rifling through the pages of the journal, letting her eyes fall upon a sentence that she thought of when he'd asked – A vampire can only enter if you invite them in. Do not invite those without souls.

She didn't fall asleep until daylight started to creep into her bedroom, and she woke up as she always did to the sound of her aunt locking herself in. Molly hastily got dressed, eyeing the journal on her nightstand, while packing her rug-sack, and knew that despite putting on her school-uniform she'd be skiving off for the first time in her life. She packed her lunch as always, not mentioning anything of last night's guest to her aunt, though briefly hoping it was one of her aunts friends, however she knew most of them, and none of them were that – special. Needless to say she did feel like she was overreacting, though she still wanted to understand if her dad was in fact making sense, and if the note stuck in the pages for help was actually important. She didn't know if it was, but she didn't want someone like that in front of her door again, whether or not it had anything to do with her dad.

From all she knew her dad dealt with all kinds of people, but it didn't seem like him at all. She could still feel in her gut that the person would return, they would return for her, for whatever they needed her for, and she knew she had to go wherever that note led her.

It felt right somehow, as if she was always going to go there – like she knew of it already. Her aunt was asleep in front of the telly when she finally left for school saying she'd be home around three o'clock, though she didn't know when she'd be back, but she was sure aunt Lucy didn't give three straws about that – more the fact that she was missing twenty pounds now.

Molly walked out, trying to shake off the idea of vampires – of a soulless man, as best she could, for if it was a vampire – he wasn't out in broad daylight, at least. It didn't comfort her a lot, that idea did, but at least it was something. She almost went to school at that, wondering if her imagination had properly gone against her, but she went to the over-ground train station, changing several trains, until she got a bus to her final stop. Molly was good with finding places really, had a knack for this sort of thing, but the houses in the area were spread apart, and none of them had any marked addresses. In the end she asked around, most people shook their heads reproachfully at her, until she came upon an old man, "Oh, yeah, right – that house – well – you just follow the path through the woods," he said jerking his head to the great overgrown forest, " there's signs, so you won't get lost, just don't stray from the path, and about ten minutes you'll find a massive gate – you can't miss it – it's the Holmes' estate that is."

Molly nodded at that, "Thanks," she said relieved.

The man stopped her for a second looking thoughtful, "What you going up there for?"

"Oh, I'm just visiting – family," she said.

He suddenly looked bewildered, soon giving her a grin under his moustache, "Well, that's good, I thought you were one of those kids who'd be trying to get in – they say it's haunted, rubbish really, everyone says that about a great old house."

"Haunted?" she said in an squeakier voice than intended.

"It's just a house, really. Not to worry, Molly," he said smiling down at her, taking his sixpence off his head to wipe his forehead.

She blinked, "Sorry – how do you-," she started, but he never let her finish waving her off until he walked the opposite direction. Molly stared after the man's back warily, " – know my name?" she muttered to herself.

Things were taking a strange turn, from people not wanting to give her any answers to one man knowing her name, and she felt a chill creep over her. It was the cold however, that's what she repeated to herself – must have forgotten I said my name to him – though she didn't know his name.

Holmes – that was a name she'd never heard before, though it felt strikingly familiar, but maybe her father had mentioned it once in passing. He knew loads of people, though he'd gotten less social after her mum died spending most of his time with her. She never quite knew how they coped, for he stayed mostly at home, as he used to travel a lot for his old job in an insurance company. In the end, despite her caution she strode through the forest hoping there was a logical explanation to it all, perhaps one served over a cup of tea, and one that would take less than an hour, so she could get back to aunt Lucy's sleeping form. Yet…she knew by the second she stepped into the forest threading upon the muddy path… "Molly," said a voice rattling through the wind like a whisper – that there would be no logical explanation within reason.

Her hands were on the gate that of course didn't open to her, she peered through the cracks seeing a large mansion in the distance, gaping in surprise, but soon flinging herself off the gate at loud – buzz – "Excuse me – but what are you doing?" said a woman's voice.

She tried to find the speaker, wherever it was hidden from her prying eyes, "Hi – err - is – is this the Holmes house?" she said uncertainly.

"Yes?" said the woman sounding rather impatient.

"Err – I'm sorry – I'm Molly Hooper – my-," but the woman hadn't let her finish as another buzz was heard – the gate swung open mechanically, " – thank you," said Molly, still looking for the camera.

She wasn't used to that sort of thing at all, it was a bit too posh for her, and she felt rather daft with her school uniform and rug-sack, though clearly they had to be expecting her. Wandering through the gate that slowly closed behind her, blanching slightly as she carried on forwards, the place itself didn't seem scary. It was a great white mansion, with well-kept grounds that would probably be blossoming if it weren't autumn. She walked on the pearly white gravel slightly bemused, wondering how her dad knew of these people, and why on earth this was where she'd get help – from what she didn't know. Molly just knew that the voice she heard, whatever it was, perhaps just the wind – it didn't scare her, rather the opposite, which was unsettling.

She wasn't supposed to hear voices, she'd never heard voices before, and now she'd heard two opposing ones. One in the wild, and one outside her doors, which wasn't exactly normal, but she suspected that her family had never been. She wished she had her dad so she could ask him for advice, or at least have him explain everything, but she instead met an old woman in a deep purple dress with a friendly smile, "Hello – dear – I'm Mrs Hudson," she said meeting her on the path with an umbrella over her head, that she moved over Molly as well.

Molly grinned feeling slightly at ease, since the woman didn't seem as intimidating in front of the house at least, for she recognised her voice from the buzzer, "Hi – sorry – I didn't know how to get in," she said pointing towards the gate.

She waved a hand at her, "It's fine, we're just used to people getting lost that's all – it's an often walked path," the woman said, as they both started walking to the house together.

Molly didn't exactly see anyone else walking, or anywhere near the forest, though she didn't argue, "You gave me a bit of a fright though – I was in the middle of my tea," said Mrs Hudson with a laugh.

"So…you've got camera's?" she said turning her head towards the gate, as they finally reached the white stone steps to the house.

"Oh, yes – he does love putting them gadgets up. Ruining all my begonias while at it too – Mycroft does, but I suspect you know all about him, then?" said Mrs Hudson, as they stood before the door.

Molly frowned, "No – not exactly, you see I found this note-," she brought up the piece of paper, " – it said for help in my dad's journal."

Mrs Hudson took the affronted piece of paper staring at it wide-eyed, her eyes soon turning towards Molly, "Oh dear," she said looking worried.

Mrs Hudson apologised that they didn't have anything in her size to change from her wet uniform, though Molly didn't complain, as she got handed a blanket, a cup of tea, and then a plate of freshly baked biscuits, "We never get visitors," she said seeming well-pleased, "Their my own recipe, chocolate of course, it's good to see someone enjoying them for once," she said eyeing Molly who ate a couple in rapid succession only then realising how much her journey had taken out of her.

Mrs Hudson informed her that it was her who took care of the house, "Though not as an housekeeper, mind you, I rule over the staff of course," but Molly hadn't spotted anyone wandering around either, "We haven't got many of them though – most of the rooms have been boarded up."

"Oh right," said Molly sitting cross-legged in the flowery-patterned chair that creaked every time she moved too abruptly.

Mrs Hudson hadn't answered any of her questions regarding her father, so she stopped asking allowing the woman to show her around the house. It was a great big house, seemingly even bigger on the inside, with its high ceilings and opaque walls adorned with art dating back to the 1700s from the look of it, and some more modern pieces. She was of course shown to the less than friendly-looking study that was rather dark compared to the others, the curtains pulled, and the only source of light being a weak-lit chandelier that hung low in the ceiling. She was still impressed where she was sat, "He's not a big fan of colours, I like to keep it a bit light, makes one feel less dreary, don't you think?" Molly agreed, though she could see the small influences that Mrs Hudson had in the room, and she was sitting on it.

After a while the woman left her on her own, "Mycroft will be out soon to see you – I'll try to find you something to wear for tonight." Before Molly could ask about her obviously staying over the woman wandered off whispering to herself, and the door to the study was smacked shut. Her appetite was immediately ruined, making her drop the remaining biscuit in her hand on the platter and setting it on the tall table besides her.

There was a great many trinkets in the room, from an old globe – to a large world-map on one wall. Behind a great mahogany desk there was a bookcase that reached the ceiling. The books seemed often in use, though most of them in foreign languages, and very few in English that she could see, but she took note of the obvious first editions. She couldn't help taking a peek at them all, though she felt out of place with her uniform skirt riding up every so often.

Her legs had grown, and her skirt definitely hadn't, she couldn't exactly do anything about it either – but was glad that she'd dried up. She rather Mr Holmes not see her with a see-through white shirt. When she stood on her toes to pull out a copy of Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand Leagues under the sea, a man cleared his throat immediately causing her to yelp and almost stagger backwards like a fool, letting the book collide onto the floor with a clatter.

Molly stood flushing a deep red at the sight of a man in the doorway wearing a tailored light-grey suit, "You – must be Molly," he said with a raised brow coming to her aid and picking the offending book that he sat back in the bookcase.

"I am Mycroft Holmes," he said giving a brief smile holding out his hand, his palm was cool when she touched it, "Pleasure." He released her hand after a careful shake, seating himself behind the desk gesturing for her to sit.

He was of course a business man, making her wonder if he too was involved in insurance, though he looked too-well off for that, as they didn't exactly live like this when she grew up. She settled in the wooden chair in front of the desk, and felt herself grow nervous for he was rather imposing man.

Mr Holmes was staring at her with his mouth pursed, his hands folded on top of each other on the desk. "Now – Miss Hooper – how may I help you?" he said after a minute of her awkwardly shifting in her seat, unsure where to start.

She didn't know what to say to him, or if he'd believe her, and of the voice, or voices she'd heard, "Err – you see – Mr Holmes – my dad – he-," she gave a bit of a breathy laugh at that, "It's just, sorry – he said I could come here for help. I should – I should go," she said feeling stupid.

"Your father was a good man, it is a shame that he is lost to this world," he said causing her to still.

Mr Holmes sighed his eyes turning towards the curtains, looking contemplative, before they swept over her, "You have been living with your aunt – that of course explains the length of your skirt. She hasn't been taking care of you properly, I suspect, from the way you haven't removed those crumbs – undernourished, but still growing – in length of course."

Molly sat down at that gaping, promptly shutting her mouth, "I have, but how-," she said pulling at her skirt.

"You are a growing girl, Miss Hooper. It is noticeable that your uniform is one size too small for you, though I do not mention this in any suspicious manner – it is merely an observation – I know very little of your aunt, only in passing."

"How did you know my dad?"

He smiled at that, "We worked together, on certain projects that were beneficial for us both, of course – it is all a bit intricate, but it still begs the question as to why you are here," he said looking at her pointedly.

She looked at him sheepishly, "For help?" she said.

Mr Holmes seemed amused, snorting briefly, "And what is it you need help with, exactly? I am not one for charity cases, Miss Hooper, and if that is the occasion as to why I am bestowed with your presence I am not the one you should be asking."

"I'm not here for money – he left me a journal."

"A journal?" said Mr Holmes with a peculiar expression, "I find there is no point in investigating old clues in your father's journal – none of it will bring him back."

She grimaced at him frustrated by the man's assumptions, "I'm sorry, but I am not here for money – or to bring my dad back – even if that were possible," she bit back taking to her feet, "There was someone at my door last night – he wanted me to let him in – and – and – he was speaking with my dad's voice!" She quickly shut her mouth at that, flushed with anger, and worried that he'd be telling her off for being out of her mind any second.

He looked thoughtful however, stroking his chin, as his eyes darted well above her head, "Did he say what his name was?"

Molly slowly sank into the chair, steadying her breath, "No – he – he – never said his name," she said staring at her hands.

Several minutes past, for she could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway – he didn't believe her of course, and she could barely meet his eye, but he finally broke the silence,

"Molly - your father lived the lie that you were safe, and of course with his presence you were, but he wasn't the same man after the loss of your mother. Arthur wanted to believe it would be his last sacrifice, unfortunately it wasn't, and yet again – we are at the beginning of it all once more. He had not wished this upon you, though I saw the signs –," he said raising a brow in exasperation, "- my brother won't like it of course, as there are certainly some old resentments that will be dug up," Mr Holmes stood up from his seat, "Come with me."

She looked up from her seat in surprise, "Where are we going?"

Mr Holmes glanced at her briefly, "A small excursion to one of the less travelled to spots in the house – my brother's of course – bring that letter-knife – you can carry it," he said gesturing towards the desk.

She was still seated looking at the letter-knife on the desk with a horrified expression on her face.

"Do not fear, Molly. I do not intend to kill you, no," he said with a much more pleasanter voice holding the door to the study open to her, while she slowly walked through into the hallway.

He started to walk at a rather rapid pace, passing room upon room; Molly caught glimpses of more art adorning the walls. They walked further and further into the house, walking down several steps, continuing downwards – his brother certainly kept to himself by the look of it –until they'd gotten to, "The final step," he said not sounding out of breath what-so-ever, despite his stocky frame.

She suddenly stopped when she saw a vast portrait on the wall above the steps that abruptly captivated her. The painting was unlike all of the others. It was a portrait of a peculiar looking dark haired man with a pair of stunning blue eyes wearing regimentals – and a bored expression on his face.

Molly almost laughed; it was a curious countenance to see on such an old portrait, most of them always seemed so proud and stoic, "Is – is it a family portrait? Some ancestor of yours?" she asked turning to Mr Holmes who was on his way down the steps.

He turned towards her mid-step, his eyes upon the portrait, "Ah," he said smirking, "I suppose this will be most amusing."

She looked at him confused, but he just beckoned her down the steps towards the room she assumed was his brother's. Molly felt wrong the minute they'd gotten to a bleak, poorly lit hallway, paint chipping off the walls, and her sense of dread suddenly increasing by tenfold, "Err – sorry – but is this -,"

"The basement, yes," he said unaffected still walking ahead of her.

She still had the letter-knife in her hand; though she didn't exactly know how to use it so it would perhaps be of no use if anything were to happen- what exactly she didn't know. His brother was most likely fond of the bleaker aspect of life, though she felt a tingling sensation that she was thinking over it wrong – "Molly."

There it was again – the voice – from the woods – "Did – did you – hear that?" she stuttered nervously.

Mr Holmes didn't stop, not even turning round to her, "There are things that your father never intended to tell you," he said. "He had hoped there would be no reason to do so, so did I, but your life will have to be carved in the same path. There is a way, a way to be safe, but you will have to sacrifice yourself-,"

"What?" she said wide-eyed standing stock-still.

Mr Holmes chuckled, "Only a drop of blood, that will be enough I suspect – it will be pure, which should be sufficient," he said walking towards a black door, its paint completely intact unlike some of the others they'd past.

"A drop of blood?"

"Yes indeed – of course – if you do not want to – you can live your days in fear, but this will above all things make you understand everything," he said turning to her bowing his head slightly.

"Every - everything?" she repeated.

"Everything," he said grinning so his teeth were briefly bared. She swore she saw fangs, swore that she saw a flash of red in his eyes, though none of it seemed alarming to her, "Come girl." The voice was pleasant, soothing, the greatest comfort to her soul, still…

Her body felt willing to move forward, however her feet were grounded - it was only a whisper in her head – a voice prodding her forward, and she recognised it, "Mycroft?" she said to Mr Holmes who looked slightly aghast.

"Clearly not, " he said rolling his eyes.

Molly wondered what had come over her, though she didn't feel frightened of Mr Holmes at all, "I presume it does run in the family," he said with a huff opening the black door.

The door creaked, a gust of wind seeping through the hallway rifling through their clothing, causing her to stand closely to his back. He walked through; she ambled slowly after, seeing the layers of thick dust that shifted beneath her shoes, as she peered around the room.

The walls and floors were made of white marble. In the middle of the room there was a large square-length box, like a, "Is that a – a – coffin?" she said walking quickly after Mr Holmes who took long strides in front of her, as the black door slammed shut behind them by the force of the wind.

"It's a tomb."

There weren't any windows in the room, which made her anxious, although by the bored look in Mr Holmes' face she knew it wasn't anything to be frightened of, as she wasn't afraid of him. The reason to the latter she did not know, she only knew she could trust him.

"In a house?" she asked, while he stood in front of it.

"It is perhaps unusual for some – we however have several in this house – some of those doors you passed, of course, but most of them are empty – people do move on. My dear brother – he was – he was quite unusual already for his time," he said with a slight shake of his head.

He was talking of his brother in past tense, "Mr Holmes – are you a vam – a vamp," she couldn't even finish the sentence.

"Do call me Mycroft," he said not answering her question, though laughing as he started to push the top-half off the marble-casket.

She was ridiculously calm, only her palms were sweating, causing the letter-knife to almost slip out of her grasp. Molly walked to stand besides Mr Holmes worriedly looking up at him, while the top-half fell to the floor with a loud bang, "This is my brother."

She didn't know what to expect really; the stench that was let out was unbelievable, almost making her retch on the spot, though she was only swaying slightly on her feet.

It was a body or the remnants of it – it smelled of rot with its greenish colour, consisting mostly of brittle bones – there was not much man left in this brother of Mr Holmes, "Err – Mycroft – he seems a bit – dead?"

She felt foolish, overstating the glaringly obvious, and not being anything but fascinated. It couldn't exactly do anything to her, unlike Mr Holmes himself.

"Yes, quite," he said with a sigh, "However – I suggest you give me the letter-knife."

Molly swallowed, "Sorry?"

"I did tell you there was to be a sacrifice, didn't I?" he said chastising her.

She stared at him, then the corpse, and then at the letter-knife in her hand – the second she did what he wanted her to do everything would be understood. She knew pieces of the puzzle were in the journal, that even Mr Holmes was a part of that with his unexpected red eyes – and fangs – "Are you a – a – err - though?" she said.

"That remains to be seen," he quipped, "Give it to me, if you please?" She handed it over after a minute of feeling its weight in her hand knowing it would be quicker, though possibly quicker for him to have killed her, but she let that thought pass.

"Hold out your arm – your left arm," he said when she held out her right, her brows knitted at that, but she changed her arm.

"Will this hurt?" she asked, when he held her wrist tightly.

"Yes," he said his mouth turning upwards, however he only prodded the knives-edge into her ring finger – a quick jab – that made her yelp slightly, as he kept a firm grip on her.

He didn't release her, though she half-expected something to happen the minute blood came dripping out, but nothing did, "Is that it?" she asked.

"Not entirely," he said softly.

He dragged her along to stand aside the casket, "Hold your finger above his mouth."

"Err -,"

"Just do it, Miss Hooper," he said annoyed.

She took a steadying breath, for he'd let her wrist go, and he his head towards the corpse. Molly licked her dry lips, until she held her ring finger above the corpses mouth – she saw the teeth – the glaringly obvious fangs, but it didn't deter her. Slowly her blood trickled downwards, "Put some pressure on your finger," said Mr Holmes.

Molly did, watching more of it fall down upon the corpse, nothing seemed to be happening, but the corpse jerked in its spot. She gave a scream, quickly taking hold of Mr Holmes besides her who didn't shove her away – staring with mixture of horror and delight at what was happening – the mouth opening – its tongue lapping up her blood - nerves – skin – texture – it was rebuilding itself, "Oh my-," – it looked less green, more pink – muscles - tissue returning – from where – she didn't know – but there it was returning to – life? She held Mr Holmes's arm quite securely afraid she'd faint at the sight.

Then it was…complete.

The corpse, or rather the man's crystal blue eyes flew open, as he gave a great gasp for breath, though his eyes shut again quickly, and he stilled – looking like he was only asleep.

Molly let go of Mr Holmes's arm staring unabashedly into the marble-casket, gawking at a surprisingly familiar face – the high cheekbones, the dark curled hair, "He looks – he looks just like-,"

"The painting, of course - it is a portrait of him. He is a vampire, Miss Hooper, and you are his master. May I introduce to you – my brother – Sherlock Holmes?"