Well, I've been terribly blocked for ages. I know how I want the story to go, have the whole thing plotted but reworking the chapters into something that can actually be read is slow going at this time. Hopefully summer will get me back into writing. Thanks to those who read and especially to those who review. It's lovely to hear from you. Here's a bit of a fun chapter from John's perspective. Regular disclaimers apply.

Your whole world could change

If only you just broke through

Through the fears inside your head

'Cause your fears are doing nothing for you

Keep your head up, your mind open

You'll always come through

'Cause living it up, it's a big deal

It's good for you

(Go! - Tones On Tail)

John Watson was having one of those evenings, the kind that started off with a simple invitation, an innocent request for his presence from his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. But these summons would invariably, John knew, morph into incidences of escalating danger.

Oh these evenings started of benignly enough; a bit of Italian, a cup of coffee, there was even that time that it was Christmas dinner with his family. Just a little assistance, John, nothing more really. By the way do you have your gun?

He would assure John that he only wished for a different perspective, a fresh set of eyes and ears. But these evenings somehow always unfolded in the same way. And that always seemed to involve running. Lots of running. Whether it was in pursuit or escape didn't seem to matter much, only that at some point in the evening they would be hoofing it – that much was a given.

And so John should have known that what began with some lovely baked treats courtesy of a congested Mrs Hudson, happily consumed in the sitting room of 221B, would likely progress to the point of fisticuffs. There might even be shots fired, bomb threats, blackmail - you could never really be too sure when Sherlock was involved.

Of course John had to admit, at least to himself that this was precisely what drew him to the consulting detective. But that didn't mean that he expected every encounter with the man to end in a fight or flight situation.

And at first it had seemed a bit slow, this case in which Sherlock seemed unusually tight-lipped, and all that was required of John was to play cabbie for the night. So he drove around London, dutifully following Sherlock's directions, which meandered through the city without much rhyme or reason by John's observations.

When they had reached the Danse Macabre, which appeared to be a sort of vampire-themed goth dance club, Sherlock had instructed him to keep driving, but to stay close and wait for his text. Then his confounding friend had hopped out of the car and the doors of the club closed, swallowing him whole.

Of course John understood the implication. The suggestion of danger requiring the need for a hasty retreat was understood. After all, he had known Sherlock long enough to read the subtext and it wasn't like the man had an ounce of subtlety.

And so John had spent the next hour or so driving around, resisting the siren call of caffeine, as his eyelids felt increasingly weighed down. Sleep was a rare and precious commodity in the Watson household since Emily's birth, and his energy was waning in the absence of an adrenaline-fueled pursuit. But he passed by the late night coffee shops without slowing because if he had learned anything about stake outs over the years, it was to go easy on the beverages. Fleeing for one's life rarely afforded time for piss breaks!

With danger no where in sight, and boredom the only imminent threat, John was beginning to wish he had ignored Sherlock's earlier text altogether. If he had done so, he might at this very moment be at home with Mary and Emily. Because though John might crave action and danger, there was a lot to be said for a night spent on the sofa with Mary and Emily and a movie. And if they were lucky and got the baby down to sleep without a fuss there would be a chance of for a good snog and a grope, because that was something else that was a rare and precious commodity since the birth and as any new parents would attest, opportunities had to be taken where presented, even if that only meant a 3 am quickie in the loo!

On that thought, John pulled over to check in with his wife. Though the couple had had a rocky start, Mary had proven to be surprisingly amenable when it came to her husband's participation in Sherlock's 'little adventures', as she liked to refer to them,usually said with a smirk and accompanied by the making of air quotations. But even a saint's patience had its limits and she appreciated a call or text every now and again, letting her know that they were still alive and fairly unscathed, within reason, of course.

It was funny, this game they played. John rarely liked to admit that there was any real risk he was taking and so he let Mary know he was alright in indirect ways. It was an unspoken agreement that jokes at Sherlock's expense was a vehicle of communication and underneath, it was a way of saying 'I'm fine. Sherlock's fine. Should be home before long'.

So John sent her a text, a joke poking fun at Sherlock finally embracing his inner goth at some vampire dance club. He expected Mary to return with her own sharp witticism, some quip or jab they might share but it never came. Mary's response was unexpected to say the least.

Her message was brief, the tone terse. Though he didn't understand why, he felt a chill like ice water spill down his spine.

Stay out of Vampire business, John. Tell Sherlock. Don't get involved with them! Promise me you'll tell him!

John Watson had always considered himself to be a modern open minded man. When equality of marriage finally, finally became legal in the UK, John had only thought it was about bloody time. He had no patience for those who would discriminate due to race, gender, sexuality or religion. He knew that bigotry in any form was more than a bit not good.

And up until this moment, he had thought that Mary was like minded in this regard.

He and Mary had watched the Great Revelation as news broke, flooding the media with the juiciest and most sensational story in years. There was little else on the telly during the initial reports; or talked about in the streets, around the water cooler, or anywhere else for that matter. John had tried to wrap his mind around the fact that vampires were actually real and only wanted to be recognized as contributing members of society, rather than something the film industry had created to be feared. The Watson's agreed how incredibly exciting this was, a day for the history books!

But now that he thought about it, hadn't Mary's expression appeared pinched and worried when she thought he wasn't looking?

Well, it seemed odd, didn't it, now as he clutched his mobile in his fist as he read his wife's response for a second time?

John sent a quick reassuring message but he had no time to give it any further thought because that was when his mobile sounded once again. This time it was not Mary.

South St. alley. Quickly. I may have attracted some unwanted attention.

Unwanted attention? No translation needed! Expecting the worst, he stepped on the gas, sped across the street and pulled into the alley only to see Sherlock emerge from the fire exit in the company of some scantily clad goth girl. There was no immediate sign of a chase.

And then Sherlock and the girl were in the back seat as John sped off into the night and Sherlock was not only insisting that the girl was none other than Molly Hooper but he was also expected to believe that she was a vampire?

No. Just . . . No.

But of course then there were the teeth. Fangs, actually. Real honest-to-God fangs! They just seemed to sort of pop out from no where. And so how was he to deny their existence?

They were parked at an odd angle several blocks from the vampire club as John tried to make sense of the situation, all the while Sherlock and Molly were shooting angry looks at one another as they bickered.

"Except it would seem that I am wrong on one more point." Sherlock had said.

"And what would that be?" Molly asked, brow arched.

"It would seem that you really can fall for a sociopath every time."

Molly stared at Sherlock for a second. "You're really going to go there now?"

"I'm just stating the obvious." Sherlock pointed out, trying to sound helpful though his tone fairly dripped with insincerity.

"Molly's a vampire." John eyes were unfocussed.

He seemed to be staring at the space between Sherlock and Molly's shoulders, body half turned in the driver's seat, elbow propped to see his passengers. He no longer heard the words that were now being exchanged. Instead, he was completely preoccupied with the task of trying to absorb the information that had just been dropped on him with all the force of an atomic bomb.

"I just don't think that this is the time to drag out my so-called romantic failures! Especially when you're the one who drove most of them off!" Molly's annoyance was growing more pronounced.

"It's the ideal time. If we examine the pattern closely perhaps we could break the cycle."

"Molly Hooper is a vampire." John muttered to himself.

Now John was smiling - it looked slightly deranged - and shaking his head. Molly Hooper wasn't a vampire. She was that smart, nerdy woman from Bart's, the one who cut up bodies and had an enormous crush on his friend. She made lame jokes about cadavers and sang along to pop tunes while she worked. No doubt, he had somehow misheard. And should that surprise him? Because these things happened all the time when Sherlock was involved. He probably assumed that John had some insight regarding whatever was going on in the massive brain of his; and Molly? Why, she no doubt had just had the misfortune of getting caught up in the back draft of one of his convoluted schemes, that's all.

To think Molly Hooper, a vampire! It was ridiculous! It was almost laughable. He had an almost irresistible urge to giggle.

"Believe me, Sherlock, at this point I have no plans on dating, um . . . ," Molly pantomimed looking at a non existent wrist watch, ". . . ever again, so it's sort of a moot point now. Don't imagine many nice blokes look for undead girls as potential marriage material. So please don't feel the need to analyze my love life because there won't be any!"

"Good! Now you're beginning to see reason!" Sherlock declared.

Undead? Did Molly just refer to herself as undead? John blinked and blinked, and blinked some more.

"Molly. Molly the pathologist. A vampire." John said, eyes fluttering madly and looking around as if he was just waking up.

"Yes, John, we've established that. Please try to keep up!" Sherlock snapped.

"Cat owner, Molly?" John asked. "Wooly jumper, Molly? Molly, the one who makes that muddy tasting coffee? That Molly?"

Now Sherlock and Molly were both looking at him with some concern. He seemed sort of . . . twitchy.

"My coffee doesn't taste muddy." Molly muttered as she retracted her fangs.

John's eyes widened dramatically at that.

"We-eell actually, it does." Sherlock provided.

"You've got red on you." John observed pointing over the back of the seat at the blood on Molly's fingers.

She started to move to wipe her hands on Sherlock's coat. John thought she looked just pissed off enough to do it, but she seemed to think better on that and sat there helplessly for a moment until John dug out a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over the seat. Molly muttered a thanks as she took it.

"We had words with Tom." Sherlock calmly stated, sounding almost bored.

"Ha ha, yeah. Words. Hang on . . . did you just say Tom? You don't mean Molly's Tom."

"Do we have to call him Molly's Tom?" The pathologist-turned-vampire scrubbed at her hands with the handkerchief.

Sherlock gave John an abbreviated version of recent events, leaving out certain details such as Molly almost dining on Sherlock, and his little visit with Ms Gainsborough in Donor's Alley.

John decided that some deep breathing might be in order. Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his face with the palm of his hand.

"Jesus! I thought vampires were supposed to be good."

"Well gosh John," Molly said," I guess that makes us a bit like people that way. You can't judge an entire group by the actions of a few."

"She's right, John"

"And just like that, you believe in Vampires, do you?"

Sherlock ignored the question.

Molly turned and looked at Sherlock with confusion. "You knew it was Tom, didn't you? How did you figure it out?"

"It was really quite simple. Statistically speaking, ex-lovers top the list of murder suspects. Typical. Boring. When I searched popular vampire venues within the city and cross referenced them with the names of management, I found that The Danse Macabre's had one Tamlane Lewellyn on staff. Making the leap from that name to Thomas Lewison was exceedingly simple. I -"

"This is insanity, you know that, right?" John interrupted.

"What ever are you talking about, John?"

"You're planning to bring a vampire in on murder charges, aren't you? You want to charge Tom with murder for . . . for turning Molly!"

"Obviously. That is the intention."

"Christ Sherlock! How can you charge a vampire with Molly's murder when she's right here?" He gestured wildly with both hands over the back of the seat, in Molly's direction. "They'll throw us out of court. That is, if they give us the time of day to begin with."

"Sherlock -" Molly said quietly.

"But it's the truth, John! Check her vitals signs! A human couldn't possibly live in the state she's in, and this was against her will. What else would you call this? Clearly it is a case of murder!"

"John-" Molly whispered.

"But, how will a court of law see it when the victim can sit trial for her own murder?"

"Maybe we sh-" Molly tried again.

"Then this will be a catalyst for the revision of outdated laws, John! Finally something interesting!"

"What you call interesting, I call bloody dangerous! You've seen what they can do. You'll get yourself killed and how am I going to tell Emily that her Godfather was killed by a rogue group of vampires?"

"Shut up!" Molly yelled.

John and Sherlock both looked at Molly, startled by her outburst.

"I hate to interrupt your debate, but we seem to have company!" Molly pointed to the front of the car and both of the men turned to look. Lit by the glare of the headlights, right there on the street not two metres in front of the car, stood a vampire, one Sherlock recognized from Tom's security staff.

"Shit!" John gasped.

The man looked like he had just walked off of a movie set, such a modern vampire stereotype was he. He was bald with a tattoo of a serpent inked in black, coiled around his skull. The snake's head seemed to crawl across his cheek, the tongue flicking his chin. The length of it wrapped around his head, disappearing around back only to reappeared on his other cheek, the tail tapering off in a spiraled coil.

His face was skewered with many piercings and he wore a long black leather coat and tight leather trousers. The coat fell open at the front, revealing a pale white, bare-to-the-skin, chest. His eyes seemed to glow silver in the reflection of the headlights. His teeth were bared in a snarl, saliva dripping thickly from his fangs.

"Well, isn't this brilliant? We're about to be killed by a Blade extra." John stated calmly.

"John, can I make a suggestion?"

"What is it Sherlock?"

"I recommend putting the car in reverse. Quickly."

John didn't need more incentive. He threw the car in reverse, the tires squealing, spinning for a moment in the slush.

The vampire just stood there, eyes gleaming malevolently. John and Molly looked out the back window for obstacles behind them, while Sherlock kept his own eyes locked on the vampire. And so he was the only one who saw what happened next, and superior intelligence or not, it took some seconds for him to process what he witnessed. Because the vampire was there one moment and then he shot straight up into the air like a rocket, until he was out of sight. Just like that he was gone.

John turned forward to throw the car into gear in time to see the spot that the vampire had once occupied was now vacant.

"Where did he go?" He asked frantically.

For a moment Sherlock said nothing. He just slide down in his seat and tilted his head, trying to look out the window, eyes turned upward to the night sky.

"Which way Sherlock?" John asked losing his patience. "Because I would kind of like to move in the opposite direction!"

"That would be impossible, John."

"Oh? And why is that?" John snapped.

Sherlock just pointed up for a moment before he said. "Because he went that way."

John looked at Sherlock through the rear-view mirror and saw the direction of his gesture.

"Fuck!"

It was the only reply John could formulate, because really what else was there to say?

John threw the car into gear and took off as if all the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.

"Well, I guess it's true then." Molly mused.

"What?" John asked distractedly as he tried to look in every direction at once, whilst maintaining control over the speeding vehicle.

"Flying. I'd heard rumours about some vampires possessing the power of flight. I sort of thought that might be made up. You know, to make vampires seem more mysterious."

"Yes, because heaven knows they aren't mysterious enough already." John chuckled a little hysterically. "And this, Sherlock, just further proves my point. How are we supposed to investigate a case, facing an enemy with powers like that?"

"They do have weaknesses, John. We have only to discover them. Which brings me to my next point." He turned back to Molly. "Sunlight is one such weakness, is it not?"

"Yes. Had a couple of close calls. Believe me, there isn't an spf high enough to prevent a burn like that."

"Then how did Tom do it?" Sherlock muttered to himself.

"Do what." John asked.

"I'm referring to your wedding day, John. Tom walked about in full sunlight. If vampires truly combust when exposed to daylight, why didn't he?"

Molly shrugged. "It's funny, in all the months we were together, we rarely saw each other during the day. I never gave it much thought at the time. It always seemed to be our conflicting work schedules that were to blame. He's a junior barrister, or at least that's what he told me. Might well be just another one of his lies, come to think of it. Any way, he said he needed to work long hours. Being considered for a partnership was how he put it." Molly sighed.

"But now, knowing what he is . . .," she continued, "It's strange, isn't it? I've thought about this until I felt like I was going mental! I mean, we usually saw each other at night. But not always. I can recall several occasions when it was daylight. And I'm telling you, that should not be possible!"

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment before moving on.

"Let's disregard how he does it for the moment." Sherlock suggested. "We haven't enough information to determine the hows. It suffices to say that we cannot depend on sunlight as our only means of defense. Are there any other weaknesses that you know of, Molly?"

"What? And risk my membership at the undead country club?" Molly commented wryly. "Won't be happy until I'm left to snack on rats like the poor sod in the movie-"

"Can you do that?" John interrupted.

"Do what?"

"Live off of rats?"

"Well, um, no I can't." Molly fidgeted and looked out the window to avoid eye contact. Then she sighed in resignation.

"I tried. There. Are you happy? Molly Hooper, specialist registrar of Bart's bloody hospital tried, in a moment of famished desperation, to have a nibble on a rat."

"Um, Sorry. Still trying to get used to you like this. Really Molly, I apologize. We're going to have to get used to a whole new set of rules for social etiquette. In the mean time I guess you will just have to expect that we're going to fuck it up on occasion."

"We, John? I don't remember asking Molly if she sucks on rats. Speak for yourself."

Molly waved her hand. "Just forget it, okay? Apology accepted. Let's move on. Where were we?"

That was when they spotted their bald friend, once more. He was on the street corner leaning against a lamp post and wagging a finger at them whilst smiling as if to say tut tut, naughty kids.

"Bugger!" John cursed. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"Just keep driving." Sherlock advised.

They passed and the vampire didn't appear to give chase. But when Molly looked out the back window she saw that he was gone.

A few streets further and there he was again, once more leaning on a lamp post smiling and shrugging, as if amused by his own antics.

John continued his litany of curses, spouting a louder string as the vampire appeared once more a few minutes later. But as John's agitation increased, Sherlock seemed to relax.

"It's a power play." He explained. "He doesn't mean to stop us tonight. It's a message from Tom that he isn't about to let this go. He may have access to a rather daunting number of followers, but he's rubbish at the game." Sherlock smirked and rolled his eyes.

"It's taken a good ten years off my life, so it seems he's done a bloody good job to me." John smacked the steering wheel with his fist. "And how are we to fight against that, Sherlock? Just how?"

"Well that depends on their weaknesses, now doesn't it?" He stated as if it was fairly obvious. "Molly?"

"Right. Weaknesses, eh? First off, I can tell what won't work. Garlic. That's just ridiculous, isn't it? All the garlic in the world won't stop a vampire. Could you imagine feeding on some bloke that just had Italian for dinner? Talk about indigestion." Molly snorted.

Sherlock just stared at her and Molly cleared her throat.

"Um, and unless you jab one through his heart, a crucifix is useless, too."

"But a stake through the heart, that really works, does it?" John asked.

"Yes. And there's something else. I overheard Tom talking with some of his security vamps about shutting down a man who was rumoured to make silver bullets. Anything silver is bad. Remember those silver hoop ear rings, I had?" Sherlock nodded. "Well, I tried to pick them up the other day and it felt like touching hot cinders."

"Okay. Yes. This is good stuff." John was nodding. "This is what we need to know. Do you know who he is, this man that makes silver bullets?"

Molly didn't but Sherlock reminded them that he was rather good at finding people.

"God, this is so strange." John laughed. "Here we are discussing wooden stakes and silver bullets. Who do we think we are? Fearless vampire killers?"

"Ugh, John. Please try to keep in mind that I'm a vampire, too."

John winced at his blunder. "Oh shit. Sorry again, Molly. I sort of forgot for a moment."

"I wish I could forget." Molly mumbled and she turned to look out her window and didn't speak for some time.

The trio made it back to Baker street with no further run-ins with their Blade friend. Still, when they left the relative safety of the confines of John's car to make their way to the door of 221, their eyes strained to see in every direction lest a new threat catch them unaware.

Sherlock, Molly and John splashed through puddles of melted snow and Sherlock worked swiftly to unlock the door.

Without a glance backward, Sherlock stepped inside and mounted the stairs as Molly made to skip over the door's thresh hold. John was bringing up the rear, hand grasping his Browning in his jacket pocket though his bullets he knew would be useless on vampires. Still, it was a comfort to feel its familiar weight in his palm.

John was so absorbed in the task of keeping watch that he didn't notice Molly balk just outside the door. He crashed into her back with a jolt and it was only due to sheer dumb luck that he managed to not blow an appendage off with the Browning still held loosely in his grasp. He stumbled back and very nearly fell on his ass but managed to save grace with some fancy footwork.

"Jesus, sorry Molly." John looked at the pathologist as she seemed to vacillate in the door way. It struck him that she should have been knocked off her feet with the force of the impact but at the moment there were more pressing issues to consider. "Don't you think we might stand a better chance of survival if we go inside?"

"Yes, of course. But I seem to be sort of . . .stuck."

"Stuck?" John took a step back to examine Molly's predicament but was unable to see anything that might be impeding her passage. There was no obstacles in her way, nothing seemed to snag Sherlock's coat that she still wore draped around her shoulders yet she remained as if tethered to the spot.

"I don't understand. Why can't you just go inside?"

"I-I," Molly seemed highly agitated, struggling to explain her immobility, "c-can't go inside until I'm invited."

"This isn't exactly the time for formalities, Molly. You must have been here a dozen times, you know the way."

"You don't understand, John. I know it's implied that I was invited here tonight. But I need something a bit more . . . formal. It's uh- it's a vampire thing."

John looked confused but decided to play along. "Um, Molly . . . please won't you come inside. Uh, I invite you to enter."

Molly struggled for a moment but she didn't budge.

"You don't live here anymore."

"Of course not. Haven't in quite some time."

"Then it can't be you."

"Can't be me what?" John asked completely perplexed.

"You can't invite me inside."

Just then Sherlock appeared on the landing. "Are you two planning to spend the whole night dithering about outside until one of Tom's immortal neanderthals breaks it's leash, or are you planning to come inside at any point in the foreseeable future?"

"We would, Sherlock." John answered from behind Molly. "But Molly says she can't enter until she is formally invited."

"Really. This is no time for social decorum." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he descended the stairs.

"Believe me, it's not good form that's stopping me!"

"She says she needs to be invited by the resident. Um, that's you, yeah? It's a Vampire thing."

"A Vampire thing?" Sherlock's expression changed to that of keen interest. "You can not enter without a formal invitation?"

"Yes, so why don't you invite me in now Sherlock!"

"May I try something first?"

"I guess . . ."

Sherlock took Molly arms and tried to pull her over the thresh hold of the door, and was quite surprised when he found that she couldn't be budged. He remembered picking her up easily after she had fainted at her flat. Now, as he tried to lift her off of her feet, it was as if her shoes were cemented to the ground or the laws of physics had changed solely for the tiny pathologist and now gravity had a much greater affect on her than those nearby.

"When we are through with this case Molly, I wonder if you would be interested in conducting some experiments? I would love to test some of your abilities and limits. Perhaps we could co author a paper?"

"Oh!" Sherlock interrupted himself. "But this is another weakness isn't it? Vampire are incapable of entering a human place of residence without invitation."

"Most vampires get around that by glamouring their way to an invitation."

"Fortunately that doesn't seem to be something I need be concerned about. Very well Molly, I formally invite you into my home."

Molly stumbled a bit as she stepped into the dimly lit hall of 221.

"You know Sherlock, you're right. This is your best defense. And even if some vampire somehow manages to finagle his way into your flat, you only need rescind the invitation and he will be forced to leave."

"You're kidding!" John exclaimed.

"Not at all. Would you like to test it out?"

Sherlock was excited by the prospect and quickly said, "Molly I rescind my invitation."

It was as if she had an invisible lasso around her waist. Molly was pulled backward, heels dragging on the floor as she was deposited just outside the door.

"That was bloody brilliant!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John was not as pleased. "That was creepy. Just invite her back in please."

"Molly, you are welcome to come back inside."

So she stepped briskly back through the door and they began to make their way up the stairs.

As they reached the landing Sherlock gave Molly a sidelong glance and said, "Molly I rescind my invitation."

Once more Molly was dragged by some invisible force, feet striking each stair with a thunk, thunk, thunk. This time the door opened of its own accord and she was deposited out on the street.

"Christ, Sherlock! Why did you do that?" John shouted.

"Fascinating!" Sherlock cried. "Truly extraordinary!"

Sherlock was like an excited child on Christmas morning, whereas Molly was nearing the end of her patience, so he quickly invited her in once more and though John knew that the consulting detective would love nothing more than to repeat the experiment a few more times, to his credit he refrained.

Soon they were in the flat, John pulled a chair from the kitchen, bringing it up to the fire Sherlock was building on the hearth. Once finished, he gestured for Molly to take a seat. As she did so, she pulled Sherlock's coat around herself while John and Sherlock settled themselves in their accustomed spots.

And so they turned to Molly as they would any client.

"I think you should tell us everything you know about Tom." John said

"Yes." Sherlock concurred. "And do start from the beginning."