A/N For the record, I *loved* the ending to this show. I just love these two more and really want a second series. This'll have to do for now...

Yesterday's Light

From the window, Count Dracula watched the first rays of sunlight rise from the depths of the city, signalling the start of another day. He didn't recoil at the sight, or hiss in pain as the sun began to caress his face, but nor did he gaze in wonder at the flaming orb he'd waited centuries to see again. The rapture the sight had initially brought had burnt out rather quickly, to be replaced by an ache that dwelled somewhere deep inside of him. And unlike the hunger that drove him to kill, this was an ache that could not be salved. Not without her. And she was now so firmly entwined with the sun that whenever he gazed upon its beauty he could think only of the woman who had returned it to him. Agatha.

Agatha who had turned his world into a twenty-four hour all he could eat buffet not so she could claim victory over him, or revel in his fear and shame, but because she could find compassion for even him, the monster who had destroyed her entire world and who had condemned her to another painful death. In that moment, standing in the sun's embrace and watching her struggle for every breath, he'd known that he loved her; had loved her since he'd walked out of the sea and met her doppelgänger who had been just as intelligent, just as witty, just as brave but just not Agatha; had loved her since the Demeter when she'd managed to talk herself out of a lynching and into command of the ship; had maybe even loved her since the convent when she'd dared to challenge him like nobody ever before.

Turning away from the window, his gaze settled on the long table that dominated the room. Its surface was smooth and pale, glinting where the sun reached around his form, making his shadow the table's sole burden, but he could still see her lying there. He could still make out her scent. He could still feel her presence all around him. It was to be expected, perhaps. For more than a week he'd cradled her body in his arms, wanting to be the first thing she saw when she was re-born, but his hopes of doing so had faded as each day had passed.

Some took days to revive; some took only hours. Johnny had taken less than a minute. But there was a cut off point and he'd been forced to accept that Agatha would never return. He wanted to believe that it was for the best: if she'd come back whole she would most likely have hated him for turning her into a vampire; if she'd come back as anything less than Agatha he would have definitely hated himself for turning her into nothing more than a beast. Frank, having fretted the entire week due to the odour of death creeping out from under the door, had made swift work of removing the body and setting in play some sort of cover up before launching straight back into talk of world domination. A low growl had silenced the lawyer for now.

Leaning forward, he placed both hands palm down on the short edge of the table and closed his eyes. There, in the darkness, he could remember his last moments with her before she'd died. In the real world he had laid her out on the table, shushing her faint pain-filled gasps of surprise before sinking his teeth into the flesh of her neck. In the dream world he had laid her out on his cape, given honest answers to her questions and then sank inside of her. Laying in her arms, his cape still wrapped around her modesty and her fingers stroking through his hair, had been as close to Heaven as he'd ever get.

It would have been the perfect end but instead he'd found himself waking up, groggy and nauseous, and half sprawled across a very dead Van Helsing. Maybe drinking poisoned blood wasn't actually fatal to vampires; he'd never drank quite so much before but he had survived all his previous encounters. Maybe it was because he couldn't end his own life that he hadn't been allowed to sacrifice it for her, either. Or maybe her God just had a sense of humour. He'd spent centuries fruitlessly searching for the perfect bride, for somebody who'd worship him, who'd obey his every word, and who would adore him above all others, only to fall in love himself - and with a woman who had questioned not only his word but his very being, who'd compared him to a lowly beast, and who'd always been another's bride. A woman he could never have.

Opening his eyes, the table remained bare but she still thrummed inside of him, like blood flowing through his veins. Its rhythm was a siren song calling out to him but he couldn't follow its tune. He couldn't follow her where she'd gone. A soft sigh escaped his lips. He needed to let her go. Maybe Frank was right and England was supposed to be his land of plenty, his springboard to greatness. But his appetite for such things had been dulled.

It might be grief over losing Agatha; it might be death not giving him size but taking it away instead. Either way, it was all her doing; she may not love him but she would probably love all of this. And that, at least, made him smile.

Opening her eyes, Agatha was greeted by a bright, overwhelming light. For the briefest of moments she thought that she was being welcomed into Heaven but then she remembered all that had passed and abandoned that dream. The light began to recede as her vision adjusted to her surroundings and she was able to ascertain that she was lying inside a long box. One hand sought out her confines and her curiosity, but also her wariness, increased at the feel of metal against her skin. As always, her curiosity triumphed over her sense of danger. Slowly sitting up, in what she could only surmise was a metal coffin, she frowned at the sight before her. Three walls of glass, each large pane framed by metal from which hung cylinders of light, enclosed her and the only doorway was fortified with bars. She was being held captive and she knew why; the worrisome part was how anybody else had come to be in possession of that knowledge.

Drowning had not been a pleasant way to die but, unlike the lynching that had almost brought about her end onboard the Demeter, she had not fought against death's icy-cold pull. Count Dracula had been defeated and her own contagion-ridden body could not be allowed to reach England's shores. Before the inky blackness had consumed her completely, the last thought that had run through her mind had concerned the almost fateful symmetry that had condemned her to the bottom of the North Sea alongside her adversary. Her very next thought, as she'd woken on the dark sea bed, choking on water-filled lungs and heart-filled despair, had been unbecoming of both a nun and a lady. It'd taken her a few moments to accept that she didn't need to breathe and then another few to cough up the contents of her lungs. The next few moments had been spent in contemplation.

She'd never quite worked out the limits of a vampire's capabilities; Count Dracula had not been the most amenable test subject and she'd been forced to terminate her experiment before reaching a firm conclusion. The explosion on the Demeter had sent the Count scuttling away in what she had assumed was self-preservation but her being able to survive underwater had seemed to suggest there'd been no danger. And that, perhaps, she had also failed to stop him. To confirm her fears one way or the other she'd set about locating the Count but treading the sea bed had been tiring. Eventually she'd had to pause, conceding that perhaps the water did pose a threat, and then the darkness had swallowed her again. Until she'd woken again but in this strange place rather than the bottom of the sea.

Escaping her coffin, which had been placed in the centre of the room, she ran her gaze around her surroundings once again. It was a peculiar assortment of familiar and strange. There was an easily recognisable table but its accompanying chair, though obviously for sitting upon, was quite unlike anything she'd seen before. And those lights; they weren't candles or torches or oil lamps. She took a step towards one wall, marvelling at the bright white light and idly wondering if the thick glass would be sufficient to hold a vampire. As her attention shifted to the glass, the bright lights inside her cage battled against the gloominess outside of it, turning the battle line into a crude mirror and she frowned further at her own reflection. She looked much like herself, habit included, only a little more dishevelled than usual. Her fingers, now bearing fresh nails, smoothed unsuccessfully at some of the bigger creases.

Outside her prison walls more of those bright lights began to flicker into life; she lost sight of her reflection but discovered two men standing guard with what looked like some kind of rifle in their respective hands. She swallowed at the sight of the weapons, even though she had seen first hand that bullets had made no impact on a vampire, and tasted blood on her tongue. It wasn't hers. It also made her stomach contract with a hunger she'd never known before and she'd spent a childhood in poverty, followed by most of her adult life in religious abstention. She was suddenly very aware of the people outside; she could smell them, could hear their unique pulse rates and, despite the horror behind it all, she found it fascinating. All of her senses felt sharper and her body almost thrummed with power.

Footsteps from a third person dragged her attention towards a newly revealed tunnel and Agatha refocussed her thoughts. Whoever was in charge was about to make themselves known and she needed to hold her nerve. She would engage with them, would even co-operate to an extent but she wanted answers to her own questions, too. How had she arrived here? Had she washed up on the shore or had she been found at sea? How did her captors know what she was? Who were her captors? And what on Earth had happened to Count Dracula?

The owner of the footsteps emerged from the darkness and Agatha was surprised to see a short, blonde-haired woman dressed in what appeared to be men's clothing. Almost as surprising as the woman's attire was the way she looked at Agatha: it was as if she was staring at a ghost.