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“Ah, I feel a bit out of place. A private room in such a posh restaurant."
“It's to celebrate solving the case, Inspector. Think nothing of it."
“Thanks to your brother,sir. Honestly, I'm grateful. The Yard's been copping it from all sides with the tabloids screaming about those serial murders."
“People crave sensationalism, after all."
“Quite right."
“Now then... do tell me precisely how Sherlock unravelled this case.”
“Blimey, this is delicious."
“Inspector?"
“Oh, sorry. The report, yeah. But don't worry—a bit of pre-dinner wine won't get me pissed. I'm fine."
“Still, best to get the case discussion out of the way before the meal."
“Ah, but I'm alright. I can tuck into dinner staring at dismembered bodies, y'know? Habit’s a scary thing, haha."
“…”
"Sorry, you're not like that, are you? Shall we save it for after the meal then?"
“No. Let's get it done now."
“Is that 'cause you want to enjoy the meal proper? Feels a bit like a date, this. You ever bring someone here to chat 'em up?"
“Inspector. The report."
“Sorry, sir. Right, let's begin. Sherlock was sharp as ever, but John's medical know-how was the clincher this time. Bloody impressive."
“Go on."
“Really drove home how brilliant John is as a doctor. So clever.Bet Sherlock fell for him all over again. With him around, your brother's health is guaranteed for life."
“Your personal opinions can wait. The report, if you please."
“Ah, sorry. First time we've had dinner alone like this—got me all flustered. Rambling on, aren't I?"
“You're apologising far too much. Anyway, the report."
“We'd narrowed the suspect profile from the crime scenes—limited range, specific days and times—so the investigation was on track."
"Indeed."
“But who would've thought it'd turn out this unexpected."
“I'm not accusing you lot of incompetence or slacking—not a word of it."
“Did that sound a bit defensive?"
“A tad."
“You see right through me, don't you? Always have."
“You're rather transparent”
“Only rather? So sometimes even you can't read me?"
“Rarely."
“Being a mystery to you? That's oddly flattering."
“(I didn't say that.) Ah, Inspector. Let's continue the report, shall we?"
“Sorry, sorry! My fault for rabbiting on—starters have arrived. Bloody lovely, these."
“No help for it. We'll talk over the meal."
"The victims were all bludgeoned from behind, but cause of death was exsanguination from carotid damage. Sherlock pointed out the blood-draining wasn't just for kicks—there was a reason. The killer needed it, or thought they did."
“And that's where John's medical input came in."
“Spot on. He suggested porphyria. DNA from the wounds showed severe anaemia, so we ran tests—bang on the money. Checked hospitals, and up popped our suspect. Her doctor lover got her out of a facility into home care in May. Matches the first kill."
“Nasty illness."
“You know it?"
“Not to John's level, but I've read up. Rare genetic defect. Photosensitivity means avoiding direct sunlight; no cure yet, just transfusions and meds. Causes neuropsychiatric symptoms, haemolytic anaemia—the lot."
“You're awfully well-versed in it."
“Several royals had it from the 16th to 18th century. George III's a prime suspect."
“John said inbreeding in medieval times made it more common... Now it's once-in-a-red-moon rare. Docs go years without seeing a case."
“Blue moon, yes.”
“Though tonight's cherry-red."
"True. Haven't seen it this red in ages. Probably high atmospheric moisture.
ーAh, I will. have the soup's beetroot potage.”
“Same for me, please."
“Treatment wasn't sorted back then, so they fed patients animal or human blood. That's where vampire legends started, some say. Garlic ramps up porphyrins—patients couldn't metabolise it, symptoms worsened. Hence the 'vampires hate garlic' bit."
“Makes sense."
“John mentioned acquired cases too, not just genetic?"
“Yeah. Our killer onset in her teens. Puberty blues made her think she was a vampire. Court'll take that into account, I reckon."
“Puberty: the cruellest season of life."
“Eh? You a little devil back then?"
“A general observation, not personal."
“Bet you were top of the class by day, twisting blokes like me round your finger after hours.”
“Are you drunk? Acquired cases can hit middle-aged boozers too. Early treatment clears it in weeks. You might want to watch it."
“Health check's top marks for my age. Cheers for the concern. Didn't know you cared."
“…”
“So, the suspect—brunette, pale as milk, straight out of a vampire tale. Stunner."
"I see."
“But personally,you’re prettier... Whoa! You alright?"
“Sorry—waiter! Spilled my glass. Towel, please!"
“Ah..."
“Suit's not wet, is it?"
“Fine, fine. You said something rather ridiculous, and it made my hand slip.Not drunk, are you?"
“Nah, stone cold sober. Good thing it was water."
“Anything else for the report?"
“Oh, yeah—Sherlock had us check blood banks. Whole blood bags went missing a few times, chalked up as errors. She copped to most. Her lover nicked 'em on night shifts. Porphyria folks can't go out days."
“Most'—so some she denies?"
“Yeah. Says she blacks out during kills. Like, instinct—craving fresh blood."
“Common with mental dissociation."
“Figured. Too many sick folks nearby for coincidence."
“Or perhaps other blood-cravers exist. Beings suppressing urges, lurking in shadows, nicking bags on the sly."
“…Eh?"
“Vampire clans take attractive human form to lure prey, shift to beasts when needed. They can command people, beasts, and even the weather with glance. half-breeds handle UV like normals."
"You know your stuff."
“Society's full of real monsters blending in. Living normal lives... mostly."
“…That sounds like..."
“Heh heh."
“Wait—you?"
“Joking.”
“Eh?"
“Just a joke, Inspector."
“Haha,—don't scare me like that!"
“Vampires? In reality? You believed me?"
“NASA hides aliens, don't they? You're the king of 'nothing to see here' intel."
“I do see something."
“What?"
“You're having filthy thoughts right now."
“Whoa, sorry! Thought you were seducing.”
“Seducing for what?"
“Something naughty."
“Why think that?"
“You flirt, worry about me, show cute slips—like spilling the glass. Then the vampire bit? Non-humans scare you deep down, right? Adorable."
“Utter misunderstanding."
“Oh... right."
“Anyway,The real terror's humans."
“Spot on. Bloody monsters, them. Fooled and embarrassed."
"Hold on. 'Them' who?"
“Sherlock and John."
“What'd they say?"
“Sherlock: 'Brother fancies you. Divorce final, he'll ask you out pronto.' John: 'Mycroft moves fast—sleeps with you first date.' So when you asked me to dinner... I got carried away."
“Appallingly rude."
“But you weren't interested, eh? What a prat I am."
“Inspector?"
“My life's one big cruel joke."
“Don't make that face."
“Now I know you don't fancy me, can't even smile."
“I never said I don't fancy you."
“What—not fancy me, but not not fancy me?Settle for that? I've thought you were bloody gorgeous since the day we met”
“Ah, really...”
“Enough. I get it. Look me in the eye and say 'I don't fancy you.' I'll drop it."
“No, I—"
“Look me in the eye properly."
“Inspector—"
“Don’t call me ‘Inspector’.”
“Lestrade.”
“First name."
“Greg."
“Now, tell me the truth."
“…I fancy you."
“Me too, Mycroft."
"You're quite incorrigible, you know. For me to take a liking to anyone outside the family — it’s practically a statistical anomaly."
“No idea, but they say it often."
"That lost-puppy, plaintive look in your eyes — most suspects would capitulate instantly."
“Don't cry foul—I pull the hard-man stare. Blokes crack under it."
"Hmm. I remain unconvinced."
“So, how about we get a bit cheeky, yeah? We just said we fancy each other, didn’t we?”
“Indeed? And what precisely do you have in mind?”
“Just saying… Feels like all those years of mucking about were just training to meet you.”
“Passionate."
“Together forever now."
“Marriage proposal already? A touch hasty."
“Gotta lock it down quick. Family motto—my style."
“Said that to your ex-wife?”
“Nah, she bulldozed me into it. You're special."
“I know you somewhat; you know little of me. No qualms rushing to forever?"
“Don't care for stars or blood types."
“Nor I."
“I'm serious. Served like a dog—now wolf, fox, whatever. Anything to make you happy."
“Understood, Greg. I'm yours... eternally."
“Mycroft—blimey, yes!"
"!?"
“Hm?"
“Put your shoes on! Do you know where your foot is?!"
“Your c**k."
“Don't say it!"
“Feet no good?"
“Not the issue. Private room or not—this is public."
“Tablecloth hides it."
“Greg."
“Stop if you hate it."
“I don't... hate it. But these socks—are they clean?"
“Fine, two days old."
“Tricky."
“You like this stuff."
“The waiter will arrive shortly to take our mains. Do try to appear civilised.”
"But you’re 𓄀 hard."
“‼︎𓄀!?”
“You're too sexy—pale wrists, long neck... Can't help it. Psychological displacement, yeah?"
“Behave. For now."
“Right, Mycroft."
“Yes?"
“Posh wine alright?"
“That look? Impossible to refuse."
“Heh, two centuries' loneliness ends tonight."
“Ever the dramatist.
Ah, for mains—duck confit for me,please.”
“And 1990 Château Margaux Premier Cru, please! For my mains,veal steak—no garlic chips, bloody rare."
“By the way,are you the sort who takes dessert after the main course?”
“Course I am. But tonight’s ‘dessert’—I’d rather savour it slowly. At yours or mine.”
ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ