Scotland Yard was an impressive building, reflecting any light given off from the city off of its massive, sprawling wall of windows. It was truly a great sight, John mused, and he never tired of seeing it. The cab slowed to a halt, so John went ahead and dropped what was a little more fare money than what was owed, and exited onto the sidewalk.
He took a moment to simply savour the air, closing his eyes and inhaling deep, slow scents into his nose. While his sense of smell was arguably on par with vampires, he didn't have a pesky bloodlust to worry about. He could smell the cologne of the woman's husband passing in front of him, without wanting to sink his teeth into her neck.
He only just remembered the blackened blood that stained his arms and clothing, though, so he pulled his coat further around his body and hurried inside.
While the Yard was always open, it wasn’t often active. At least, not to the human eye. John nodded to the man allowing access, shrugging his bag further onto his shoulder, and stepped onto the waiting lift.
He felt a tad silly doing the next bit, but it was required. He tapped in the Chamber's order, pressing some buttons twice and others at the same time, until all of the buttons blinked and rolled with light, and then went completely black. The lift lurched, hesitantly, and began to lower. John clasped his hands behind his back, lips pursed, and for the thousandth time wondered why they couldn’t just have a key for the floor. Or a button. Yes, a button would be nice, with the label ‘DON’T PUSH IF NOT A WEREWOLF OR VAMPIRE HUNTER. OR VAMPIRE-HUNTING WEREWOLF. IF NONE OF THOSE THINGS, FORGET WHAT YOU JUST READ.’
When the doors slid open and John stepped out to the floor, he wasn’t met with the heavy silence he used to encounter. Instead, the bustling only quieted a tad to appraise the new visitor, realize who it was, and offer a smile before turning back to what they were doing. John shrugged off his coat, hanging it off the rack, before venturing off to the Head’s office.
“Greg!” John bellowed with flat enthusiasm, dropping his bloody pack onto the man’s desk. Lestrade immediately jumped up, kicking away from his desk as a heart, dripping with black blood, rolled out onto a stack of important looking papers.
“Bloody nora, John! You don’t have to always show me the heart of the bloodsucker you did in, I’ll believe you.” Despite his former trepidation, Lestrade went ahead and grabbed the dead muscle, blood spattering onto his clothing. He studied it, moving it around in his hand before sighing under his breath and dropping it back onto the ruined papers. “It’s no use looking at the thing, I’m rubbish at this stuff.”
John cocked his head, trying to work Lestrade’s sanitizer into his blood-stained hands. “Rubbish at what, exactly?”
“At this identifying shite, knowing how old the vamp was from all these tubes and blood and such.” He looked at John sideways. “We just got a guy for that, you know.”
John perked a brow, caught a bit unawares. “A guy? Haven't heard of a new member in a good bit of time."
Lestrade shrugged, grabbing a pull of the sanitizer himself. “It’s not official, not yet anyway. He's an odd bloke, I'd think he were a vamp himself if I didn't know otherwise." He poked at the heart with a pen, gesturing around the office. "I gave him a tour the other day, all 'round the landing. He's rather..." He trailed off, at a loss for words.
John couldn't hide a smile. "He's rather what, Greg? Another Anderson, is he?”
The older man rolled his eyes, barking out a laugh. “Quite the opposite, actually. As soon as he met the irritating prat he demanded him to ‘aim his face away when offing a vampire, they have eyes like the rest of us’.”
John let out a laugh as well, hearty and filled with mirth. “Brilliant. When do I get to meet him?”
Lestrade jumped up, as if just reminded of an important meeting. He might as well have been. “Now, if you’d like. He’s been camped out in the morgue with Molly, telling the life stories of all the preserved vamps, bite victims, case records… I swear, John, I don’t even think he’s real. He knew my wife and I had a riff last night from my shoes. My shoes! The bloke’s either terrifyingly brilliant, or is my wife’s secret lover. Either way, I’m impressed.”
John stood up as well, pulling off his severely stained jumper and leaving on his (relatively) clean shirt. There wasn’t a need for modesty, not in this department. Shoving it in his pack, along with the stiffened heart, he slung it over his shoulder and followed Lestrade out the door, upping his step a bit to walk alongside the man.
“Molly, eh?” John mused aloud, nodding to the few people that still straightened up whenever he walked near. “Never could have a conversation with the gal, though she’s nice enough. Rather flighty.”
“That’s only to you, John,” He pointed out, gesturing around them. “You’re the only werewolf in London, a species considered to be the exact opposite of vampires.” He shrugged. “Most of us, who’ve known of all this fantasy shite since we were little, have been taught to practically praise any werewolf we stumble across. Your kind has-”
John waved a hand, the tips of his ears warming at the notion. “I know, I know. I don’t need a history lesson, Greg. I’m just along for the ride.”
Lestrade jabbed him with his elbow, playfully, before scanning his card and pushing open the metal door leading to the morgue. When he held it open for John and didn’t follow him inside, he didn’t offer an explanation, only winking and letting the heavy door shut with locking finality.
The first thing John noticed was the smell.
“Bloody hell,” he groaned, plugging his nose as he stumbled further into the morgue. A gasp, and then Molly was before him, her hands hovering worriedly over his shoulders (as she was too shy to actually touch him). He shook his head, waving her off. “I’m fine, I’m fine, just… Christ, what is that?”
She blushed. “It’s-”
“Blood influenced by vampirical gastric acid, being subjected to rapid fermentation.”
John started, darting his eyes around the room, until it landed on the holder of the deep, echoing voice.
If John was in his other form, his hackles would be positively raised.
The man was tall and pale, broad and bony underneath a thin layer of twining muscle. His curly hair was tamed and contrasted starkly against his skin, locks the colour of the darkest chocolate. His eyes, tilted and considerably spaced, were pale and storming into the very vestige of John’s soul, suddenly bared and open beneath their scrutiny. It was immensely unnerving, and the threat of a Change was just hinting against his bones, something that he usually had impeccable control at. Swallowing it down, he tried his best to calm himself.
He couldn't even begin to imagine what he looked like to the man, so determined to be unafraid with wide eyes and a tensed jaw. His blood was racing, and everything inside of him was screaming to flee, to get as far away from the man as he could.
But a more rational, more dominant, more human part of him was so painfully intrigued that it didn't notice itself openly staring - no, gaping - at him, but it sure as hell noted that the man was already staring back, his features heavily masked except for the slightest hint of appreciation.
John’s mouth began moving before his brain determined exactly what he was planning on saying. "Blood..." he cleared his throat, taking a step further into territory that made his teeth threaten to bare. "Blood is unable to ferment, it's sugar levels aren't high enough to actually make the product."
The man hummed, seeming completely unaffected despite his rapid eyes, scanning him with a touch of something akin to appreciation. "Quite right, at least on the front you're familiar with. The glucose levels in vampires are higher than ours, including the gastric acid that digests the blood. Which is actually a rather instrumental part of the blood craving they possess, as well as the makeup of their venom along with it's... properties."
He faltered at that last bit, and John felt his cheeks begin to heat. Yes, the properties of vampire venom were rather... he shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He didn't want to dwell on that.
Instead, he walked further forward, holding his breath of the horrid stench as he inched closer to the man. His muscles twitched against his bones, aching to phase, but he then held out his (uncharacteristically steady) hand instead.
"John Watson," he greeted, trying to avoid inhaling through his sensitive nose. He mustered a half-arsed smile, though it might have come out as more of a grimace. "Werewolf, Vampire Hunter, Unicorn Rider, Fairy Catcher... the works, I suppose."
Sherlock chuckled politely, and his eyes took on a bit of a playful edge before darting down to the offered palm. "I know who you are," he pointed out, almost in a suggestive fashion, but then he clasped John's hand and gave it a steady, firm shake. His hand was strikingly cold, and he seemed to use that to his advantage, assessing John's reaction from even such small of an aspect. His lips twitched.
"Sherlock Holmes, newest member of the Chamber. Pleasure to meet you, John."
And then a twinkle touched his features, an emotion that John couldn't quite place, and his hand tightened around the one he had yet released.
"Now, do tell me, Afghanistan or Iraq?"
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