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“The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.”

— Edgar Allan Poe

Dusk was falling when William's shoes sank into the mud as he walked among the pale tombstones bearing inscriptions that time had blurred. The cadaverous trees surrounding the cemetery inspired nothing more than the curious thought that they seemed to move. The wind blew through the branches, shaking them slightly before a spiral of fog opened up and eliminated the path. For any human, that would be a signal to retrace their steps, but for William, who already knew this place had a heartbeat and will of its own, it indicated he was going the right way.

The Cemetery of the Fallen Maiden was one of the most hidden corners of Transylvania. If you searched the maps, it wouldn't appear. If you asked how to get there, no one could say for certain how to do it, though everyone had heard of it. What was known without a doubt was that it was a piece of land from the past that appeared and disappeared at its whim. It was said to be no place for humans, since the first vampire, whose name no one wanted to mention, created this place for his kind during the hunt of the sixteenth century.

It was a nest of beasts. And it had its own rules: at this hour it was friendly, for example, as long as you didn't look back. You had to ignore the footsteps that followed closely behind, dragging with them ragged breaths, growls suppressed by the whisper of the wind, and that unfathomable putrid stench that made him wrinkle his nose.

"Don't look back, or you'll regret it..." was the inscription carved on the arch, dressed with the solemnity of that place's past, which only revealed itself to those who weren't seeking it.

For William, it was amusing to find it, because he was good at predicting where it would appear and had even learned the pattern. No matter how much it wanted to hide, William would find it if he wanted to go there.

He wasn't exactly a hunter, though to many he gave off that roughness of being someone who would easily get his hands bloody. However, that wasn't the case. He was simply someone who knew how to defend himself in these carrion times. He carried nothing more than a silver crucifix, a sword on his back, a knife strapped to his thigh, and a revolver at his waist. The rest was intelligence and a bit of garlic in the backpack hanging under his black spiral cape. Sometimes he carried mountain ash and wild rose branches, but since the last zombie outbreak, he'd run out.

That panorama didn't discourage him, and instead, he knew to respect enemy territory. He wouldn't draw the attention of the spawn that laughed underground.

He stopped in the middle of the fog bank when the tinkling of a bell moved slightly by the wind announced that he was near the cemetery's guardian. And his predictions weren't far from correct, as the yellowish light of the candle shining in those spirals of white sheet that awakened shivers made him walk in a straight line.

It didn't take long to reach the ornate stone portal, with rings of iron twisted and rusted by time. It was a chapel that held no saint, and a candle without reason, which was the only source of light in that well of darkness that was only swept by the capricious beams of the moon.

William placed a second candle, which he'd been holding in his hand since entering that cemetery, and lit it. The match left a wisp of smoke and he used it to trace a word in the air. He wanted to enter and find a certain creature.

A request. Permission from the baron who guarded the cemetery and the monsters that took refuge there.

The wide-brimmed hat hid the lines of his face, but anyone who saw him could swear he was smiling, even when he wasn't.

The candle he placed plausibly began to bend in two, forming an arch, and the flame at its head remained lit. It was the answer he needed.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" William asked the guardian.

The two flames flickered, and a breeze made the fire dance toward the right. Beyond, a tombstone moved, where a path forked toward a wasteland where the trees became more lush and darkness engulfed the entire place.

William nodded and bowed.

"Thank you very much."

He took the bent candle that was now an arch and set off, accompanied by the faint glow that didn't extinguish despite the wind, despite the position, letting the wax drip onto his gloved hand. He could barely perceive the heat beneath the fog that erased the contours. He had to carry it with him, because it was proof that he had permission to enter and not be attacked by the beasts he might encounter along the way.

His walk didn't last long before the footsteps pursuing him had stopped in front of the cemetery baron's chapel. Now he felt safer. Or so he thought.

When the sound of the violin reached his ears, a shudder climbed up his spine, coiling around his bones. The path ceased to be guarded by the immensity of skeletal branches and consecrated iron arches, exposing a bare and darkened sky with a shimmering moon that cast needles of light on the tall figure of a man standing on the roof of a mausoleum.

His skin was completely white, as if the moon had sculpted his skin with its limestone tears, marking it forever. He wore an impeccable cloth suit and frock coat, with Hessian boots and a blue ribbon that enclosed his long jet-black hair floating in the icy spirals of that indomitable wind. His nails protruded from his fingers, but they didn't prevent him from holding the violin bow as he gave a concert to a few standing dead who were grouped in front of him. What stood out most about that creature was that on his right hand he wore a golden ring. His eyes were closed, revealing a crimson eyeliner.

It was impossible not to fall into the nets of the spell that this creature, dressed in human appearance, was in reality the glimpse of reality that foretold calamities. William knew he was in love with a demon, but he cared little. The beauty of that face seemed painful to him, unbearable. He would always admire those lips that smiled showing the tips of deadly fangs, the casual elegance of his movements, and the shadow he cast beneath him that was the silhouette of a winged beast.

He had contemplated him for so long and still couldn't help but be mesmerized by his music, by his hands, claws, that produced that delicate melody in honor of those who were gone, whose vibration spread throughout the place.

A glacial current descended from above, dragging in its wake a whirlwind of leaves that gathered at his feet and extinguished, with solemn delicacy, the flame of his candle. William lowered his gaze, and the candle, which had been white before, was now black as his glove.

He let it fall to the ground. And he looked at the man, well, creature, who continued creating those notes that he found himself unable to interrupt.

"What a splendid night, don't you think, Liam? But dispense with the lights, if you'd be so kind. My friends and I don't like them," the vampire spoke without opening his eyes, without opening his mouth, because those speaking were the corpses that now had their diaphanous gaze directed at him. "Have you come to visit your brother? I've taken good care of him."

William tried not to let those words disturb him. Not because the vampire before him was one of the most lethal, nor because of the multitude of corpses that spoke to him. He'd long since grown accustomed to such frivolities, since demons had abandoned hell to stroll among the living. However, he had only one weakness, and that was precisely his brother.

He walked toward the small garden of dead roses in front of the mausoleum, fenced by an iron railing with ornaments that traced a large circle and enclosed two rows of tombs. Inside, there were empty holes where the living dead had emerged due to the spell of the demon who seduced with the chant of his instrument. In one of the corners of this place where those who have abandoned this world rest, his little brother was sitting atop his own grave. His skin lay grayish and the pupils of his eyes were translucent sockets. He had a mortal wound that began at his cheek and extended to his chest, no longer bleeding, but opening his rib cage in two.

William approached him with a smile.

"I'm giving him a concert, but he doesn't seem very pleased. It's a pity," Sherlock commented.

"He never liked your music," William noted. His voice was weak as he entered the circle of living dead and went to his brother, knowing that Louis could only hear him while the vampire continued playing. "You knew I would come today, didn't you, Sherly?"

"It was natural."

The sound of the violin followed a funeral melody that held everyone captive, even William himself, who knelt before his little brother, Louis.

"Hello, Louis. I came to visit you."

His brother turned his head in search of the sound but without finding it. Tears burned in William's eyes, but he contained them with the dignity of rage. Louis tried to open his mouth and then closed it. William understood. While the vampire had the power to raise the dead, most couldn't speak. Some had completed intricate spells, nonetheless, they could barely pronounce a word or two.

"I want to tell you that I've avenged you. I've killed the one who did this to you. You can rest in peace, my brother."

The dead man's petrified fingers moved gently and caught his finger. It was better than nothing, and William smiled with relief.

He stood up, brushing off his knees, and turned toward the monster with human form who continued playing the violin. Immutable to his emotions. Immutable to the brothers' conversation. Immutable to the fact that in a few hours dawn would break.

"You can stop now, Sherly. I've finished," William spoke in a soft voice. "Put him to sleep. I wouldn't want his body to deteriorate."

The hand playing the instrument stopped, and the dead who had been enraptured by the music came to themselves. William helped Louis enter the coffin again, laying him down with utmost consideration despite his rigid limbs, and kissed his forehead with that fraternal love of an older brother.

"We'll awaken your consciousness, Louis, even if it's the last thing I do."

When he closed the lid, he released a muffled sigh that seemed to drain his energy. He heard a gurgling behind him. Turning around, he saw the dead who had lain before, now rising with clumsy movements in front of the mausoleum, advancing toward him. Their mouths opened, and from them flowed a black liquid that ran down their chests.

William unsheathed his sword. A clean silver line cut through the air. Heads detached from necks and bodies fell to the ground with convulsions in their limbs. It would suffice until dawn, and the sacred fire, that of the sun, would take care of the rest. They were erroneous prototypes of Sherlock's experiments, so they weren't worth keeping... alive?

In the same manner, the visitor made a graceful turn and drew his pistol to fire directly at the vampire's face. Sherlock barely moved his head to dodge the bullet. His chin rested on his hand and he smiled with pleasure. Behind him rose a winged angel that cast a shadow that highlighted the crimson of those eyes that now shone with amusement and that touch of indifference.

The marble statue had come loose from its base by the shot that had been accurate. However, without much effort, that statue, which would be impossible for a man to lift, was stopped with a single raised arm by that monster. He closed his fist and that angelic figure was reduced to pieces of limestone that left minuscule particles of dust that floated and adopted undulating forms that whispered among themselves.

"A futile fight, as always, but the training has worked. You have better aim now," Sherlock alluded nonchalantly. "I appreciate you entertaining me with these fights."

"You're welcome, but come down from there," William responded. "I want to touch you."

"Am I hearing an uncivilized request from you? There's no doubt that miracles exist. However, Liam, you have blood on your leg and it's unbearable to me. Wash it, please, if you want to have the honor of my approach," his companion requested, laughing under his breath. "That wound smells of rust and it's not difficult for me to guess that humans have attacked you. Then they say we're the beasts."

William hadn't noticed he had a wound on his leg, and he approached to sit on one of the tombs that was clean, with a polished cement sheet and freshly placed flowers. The inscription on the tombstone was indistinguishable. Apparently, the dead person there either didn't want to come out or had already escaped. Perhaps the former.

Extracting his hunting knife, he cut the pant leg where there was an inclined line that was bleeding. How dangerous. Sherlock had shown that with the centuries he already had indomitable control, but it was better not to torture him.

"I'm sorry, Sherly. It must be unpleasant for you," William apologized. Sherlock was already in front of him, who knows when, and crouched down to see the wound. "I can do it myself. It's not necessary."

Ignoring his words, the vampire, with his claws, lethal and resembling white needles, took his leg with utmost delicacy, studying it carefully.

"Why did they attack you?" His sharp nail traced a line over the wound, and then another and another, forming a pentagon with an oracle inside.

"They believed I was a vampire again." William sighed, containing a whistle when a sting opened its spikes in his wound. He knew Sherlock was retaining the bleeding with his own magic, but it didn't cease to amuse him. It was a simple act to cover the wound even with a rag, though he understood the reasons, the smell of blood might be plunging him into torment.

A chuckle from the true monster seduced the air, pulling him from his thoughts. The severed heads of the dead imitated the laughter.

"How naive humans are. Believing that having eyes like ours doesn't make you part of our species. Did they attack you in daylight?"

"Yes," William said, smiling. "They said I was a vampire who could withstand the sun."

"The first one hasn't existed. Even the toxin I developed no longer works. God hates us and doesn't want to see our faces in His omnipresent presence to illuminate and warm His children. The moon is the mercy He has given us wretches, but it's always amusing to remember that our creator detests us for having fallen into the claws of His exiled one, even when Genesis speaks that I am His creature above all else. And despite the fact that blood no longer flows through my veins, my heart doesn't beat, and my body moves only by a curse. But many no longer fall into those lamentations and we're grateful for the mercy that the moon doesn't incinerate us."

He released his hair, taking the blue ribbon in his hands and bandaging the wound with pragmatic and subtle movements, of one who. He finished quickly, and William didn't realize how sharp the pain had been until it vanished.

"Thank you, Sherly. It must have been difficult for you considering you hate my blood."

"I don't hate your blood. How dramatic you are," Sherlock defended himself, standing up with his hands in his pockets. "I just don't like the taste."

Without letting that comment escape, William leaned on his elbows to recline backward and expose his neck a little.

"What an offense, Mister Vampire, to be so exquisite with your palate."

At his position, the vampire's unshakeable posture wavered a little. A victory.

"The taste of a soul tormented by guilt and pain is something I usually avoid. I have enough of my own."

"That explains why you only drank from me years ago."

"Back then you were just a scarlet apple that shone in its own essence." He made a turn on his feet and then raised both index fingers to place them in front of him. "But now, I'm afraid, my dear Liam, you've let yourself be contaminated by the cancer of this world."

The curly hair now fell over his shoulders and made him look so young. Less than thirty, and William was already older than him, despite having known him when he was just a teenager.

William was now thirty-two, but Sherlock would always be twenty-seven.

They had met when William was eighteen, awakening those memories from the trunk where he'd filed them away. That torrid childhood in which he and Louis woke up weak, with an atrocious exhaustion that crushed their bones and brought deteriorating consequences. They never imagined that when they slept, they were visited by a shadow emerged from darkness that sank its fangs into both their necks, leaving barely two small marks that went unnoticed. Louis stopped having them later on, but for William it was quite the opposite.

They became more frequent. He began to sleep more. He lasted days in bed, until one day he recovered.

After that, he began to hear the sound of a violin every night beyond his window, and the silhouette of a man appeared in his garden. He resembled a nobleman lost in history who had escaped from books. William listened to him every night, marveled from his balcony, feeling a terrible familiarity with that serenade. There were times he couldn't resist the terrible temptation to pursue him, always with undesired results. When he went to him, the figure would disappear, leaving in his place only the unmistakable smell of tobacco.

It wasn't until one night, not knowing he'd become a sleepwalker, that he woke up sitting on one of the benches in the rose garden of the castle where he always saw the man. He was brought down to earth by a pain, a stab, a kind of drowsy pleasure, when that man was piercing him with fangs in his neck. That day he found the answer to his concerns.

Worse still, a door opened in his consciousness that had been closed to the world when, with his human blood on the vampire's lips, they joined with his own. It was brief and didn't go further.

"I waited many years for you, my love. What is your name now?" the vampire asked, taking his cheek and joining their foreheads.

He was under a fog of paralysis in which it was hard to think. William answered without realizing it because his mouth moved on its own. He felt the blood moisten his neck and the vampire leaned down to lick it before pulling away.

"William."

Through that closeness, William observed the scarlet eyes, just like his own, which had always been considered a bad omen. He never spoke of the contempt that he and Louis lived with, for that singularity, spurned by their parents and thrown into a pit. Even though Louis didn't have blood-red eyes, he was equally disgraced. It had been Albert, their adoptive older brother, who had found and rescued them.

William extended his hand and his fingers brushed the vampire's long eyelashes. He descended the slope of the jaw, on that skin as cold as touching snow and feeling numb fingers. He stopped at the lips and made him open his mouth to see the fangs.

"Sherly?" He pronounced that name, inadvertently, before he could understand it, unaware that he knew it, unconscious of the insane desire he had to throw himself into his arms and embrace him.

The vampire let a glass vial fall to the ground, shattering. A slight smoke came out of it but was driven away by the excessive cold. He stood up slowly.

"Come to me when you remember me." He walked away with his hands behind his back. "When you remember who you married."

And he left him alone in that garden that had a fountain sighing crystalline drops, surrounded by hedges and rosebushes. It was a beauty of architecture because it was perfect for lovers, though not for that season where winter dressed the streets and sent lashes of shivers. William realized he had a cape around his shoulders to protect him.

He smelled it. He smiled. Now he had something more than the sound of his instrument. A trace that this being was real.

The memories began to come to him. Every night he had a rain of dreams that stumbled over each other, leaving him breathless when Louis woke him.

They were images he didn't recognize. Though they had his image, his face, his voice, they felt so foreign to him.

The town had abandoned them because of their eye color, but they had grown accustomed to it. They only spoke with one of their neighbors who genuinely believed they were human, enchanted with the kindness of both Londoners fleeing their country plagued by a cholera outbreak, and that's how they arrived in lands like Transylvania where their older brother was. However, they found a terrible truth that had hit them like a wave: their older brother, Albert James Moriarty, had disappeared. They found nothing of him, except a letter from the banks where Albert left all his inheritance to them and that Gothic castle with a hundred closed doors, which was too large for two people. And then... for one.

Their neighbor gave each of them a crucifix, although William knew it was no longer so necessary. The vampire had stopped appearing after that blood kiss, his own blood, fortunately. He understood later that it had been mixed with the contents of the vial that he could never discover what it contained. His conclusions throbbed in his instinct, and it was that this flask was responsible for those vortices of memories that vibrated throughout his being. He understood they were remembrances of a past life.

Which had brought him irrepeatable pain in his chest, because every day he went out to wait for him in the same place where he'd left him, with the hope of seeing him again.

He already knew his name: Sherlock Holmes. They had been married. They had been happy. They had been condemned.

Far from embracing peace, he found himself crying every night, with a hand on his neck, on the slight marks of the fangs that left small scars. Louis did everything to console him, vast efforts to distract him, to try to take him away, but now William refused to leave that place as if his feet were nailed to the ground.

He cried alone and without rest, and unjustly accused himself for the deaths of the past. Sherlock's words that he engraved in his memories after that kiss:

"I'll wait for you in this anguished life, in this eternity suffocated by solitude and in these wastelands of a love that couldn't be carried out, extinguishing itself in the waters of death."

Trouble didn't take long to arrive, because soon a shadow fell over the town when at the end of October children began disappearing at dawn. They had been accused of being responsible, and a horde of angry villagers stationed themselves at the castle door, which was impossible to remove even when they tried countless times. It was a lair. Albert had thought of everything.

It was Sherlock who saved them. They watched through the immense windows of the castle as he appeared among them like a figure emerged from caverns, with his flaming eyes burning like embers, with his loose hair and a wide-brimmed hat. He had his hands in his pockets and began to laugh.

"You don't have the brains to differentiate humans from real vampires, or do you want me to demonstrate?" he spoke in a tenor voice, with endorsed words, and a chivalry that seduced weak minds.

The men leading the horde stepped back. There were one or two brave ones whom the vampire dodged without problems, stopping one of the sacred swords that burned his hand, but he didn't care, and through the smell of singed skin, he began to laugh. He threw the two men far away, but without killing them, and then returned to his initial position.

"It seems I've made an evident difference. For the moment, allow me to present to you the true culprit of this." He whistled and behind them came some living dead dragging a carriage with a 'man' tied to the top. "I present to you Baron Dublin."

The vampire Dublin let out shrieks, curses, imprisoned with bindings of thorns and roses with seals that had drawn blood crosses that seemed embedded in his dead skin.

"You can do what you want with him. He won't be able to free himself, and I advise you not to do it. On top of the carriage is the map where you'll find his lair."

"And the children?!" someone shouted.

Sherlock shrugged and raised an amused eyebrow.

"I won't do all the work for you. Or do you want a vampire of my level to be near those dear appetizers?" He laughed a little and looked at the immensity of the castle. "I'll give you one warning and it will be simple to understand: touch William James Moriarty, and this town will become my puppets for the rest of your lives."

And with that, he disappeared.

The village never attacked them again, only harbored an irreversible hatred toward William. They threw stones at him when they saw him, spat at him, cursed him, but he never returned such insults. Instead, he responded to those who sought him out for advice and help.

With his hospitality and service, he won over a good percentage of the population, enough to live in peace for a few years. Someone had told him to visit one of the swamp witches, who could tell him more information about the vampire who had saved them.

To clear his doubts, William went to visit her to learn more about that matter, drawing a scream from the old woman who languished in a scarlet tunic with skin eaten away by the years.

"Gwilym?" she stammered, stunned, upon recognizing him.

William sketched a smile but waved his hand dismissively. Despite the fact they had never seen each other before, despite never having exchanged a single syllable, he spoke with the same familiarity from his past life.

"It's been a while, Evalyne. You can call me William. If I come to you, it's because I know Sherlock did too."

She cleared her throat, emerging from her stupor. She was as old as the scriptures themselves, so it was natural that she would recognize him.

"Does he know you've returned?"

Narrowing his eyes to evade that feeling and that guilt, William nodded.

"Of course he knows, he restored my memories." He paused gravely to emphasize his next words. "But now I can't find him."

"Did he tell you to do so?"

He moved his head in affirmation again.

"He found me at eighteen, saved me at nineteen. And at twenty-two, I still can't find him."

The witch swallowed and chewed on a few seeds, without any expression revealing a hint of her thoughts.

"He tried to revive you in so many ways. He insulted God in the most terrible ways you can imagine, and he achieved such a feat of preserving your memories in a jar and keeping your corpse intact, waiting for the day to bring you back to life. It seems like a blessing or a curse that you've been reincarnated. Do you remember anything else from your past?"

A rather direct question that William received with a kind laugh.

"Glimpses. I killed myself because a vampire gave me his blood to drink, and before I could turn, I drove a sword into my chest and then threw myself into the sea. That's why my eyes are scarlet, but I'm still human. It's a mark of what I was before and a curse I carry." He sighed. "If I had known I had turned Sherly before dying..." William pressed his hand to his heart, which beat unlike Sherlock's. "I left him alone in this empty world, turned into a monster."

William stood up.

"What must I do to find him?"

"It's impossible to find that cemetery. It's bewitched."

"I will find my husband, Evalyne. I keep aging while he waits for me. My life is but a breath to my beloved. He's waited for me all these years, and I want to tell him that he has found me. That now we'll be together."

"You should stay away from him. Getting close will only bring you trouble."

"I'm prepared for that."

But... even with his prodigious mind, which could withstand the breaking points of ancient pain, the hatred of supposed believers who threw holy water at him, and the lacerations of a longing that was killing him, he couldn't foresee the one mistake he would make, which would be the worst of his life.

It happened that same year, when he knew he had finally found that damned cemetery. William had started the investigation without involving anyone, despite the castle having been filled with new subordinates and the endless hallways no longer whispering echoes. They had offered to help him, to create an information network, but received a sensible refusal to avoid collateral damage.

His caution served no purpose. Because Sherlock had harvested countless enemies over the years. Not only due to his impetuous, disinterested, and disobedient personality but also because he had assassinated a primordial vampire and its subordinates desired revenge. He had also interfered with the Dublin project that belonged to a group of ancestral vampires. In short, he had enemies aplenty who wished to capture him.

All the castle windows shattered at once. A blast of shadows entered through them, scarlet eyes and a thirst for blood. William had refused to hand over his information. He would rather die than serve the love of his life on a silver platter, prepared to receive the vampire's slash had Louis not intervened.

He could barely process his brother's blood falling onto his face, the screams of Moran, Bond... or was it Fred? A tense stillness took hold of him, the kind of silence that precedes thunder. William noticed the air beginning to crystallize around them and the vampires observing one another.

William felt cold. Impassive, he gathered the fragments of his memories and pieced them together. He felt that this was the first time in his life he was completely awake. Everything seemed clear and sharp, as if he were seeing through new eyes. As if he didn't need vision at all and was looking at the world directly with his mind.

A voice in his head seemed to whisper.

To be hated by God will always be our punishment, but it is your best weapon.

A silver sword with an inscription on its blade appeared before him, emerging from nowhere, as if an angel had sent it. The inscription read: and God created man... in His image and likeness.

That day would be remembered as one of the few times a human would live to tell how he killed several vampires, except the one he wanted. The one who had murdered Louis.

The fury blazing in his blood had erupted, and he found himself confronting the truth he could never escape from the prophecy of his first life:

"When rage eclipses your soul and the moon claims your blood, the man you were will die... and the beast that will make men and monsters tremble will be born."

William became the vampires' nightmare not only because of the loss of his brother but because they were the cause of many of their misfortunes.

Later, at Louis's funeral, beneath an overcast sky where the sun was nearly always veiled by heavy clouds, William bid farewell to his brother with only a handful of people present. If they had been in London, perhaps it would have rained... as it did every day in that city where poetic souls wept. But no, they were not in London.

The remnants of his family left him alone, in intimate mourning, so he could pay this courtesy to his little brother. When the sun hid and the moon shyly appeared, sweeping those damp alleyways with its silver breath, a silhouette appeared sitting atop Louis's grave.

William felt his veins ignite and the sword in his hand, burning, reminding him of the spilled blood, made the first slash. But it accomplished nothing, as fingers stopped his wrist.

"I'm sorry, Liam. This is my fault."

Those words were worse than a spit, turning his mood virulent, though not against Sherlock. Never against anyone but himself.

"It's mine and mine alone."

"I can bring him back."

"You're lying, Sherlock Holmes," William refuted, with no real heat in his voice, only a kind of breathless irritation.

"A little, but I can bring you a substitute version," the vampire replied with serene patience.

No. He would not desecrate his brother. William remembered the corpses that had escorted the carriage to Dublin. But if... if he could say goodbye, if only he could...

"Can you truly...?"

"It will take me years to recover his memories, just as I did with you." The vampire observed him with those eyes so deserving of pity, so pleading, as if it were the first emotion he had allowed himself after centuries of conformity. "I still can't make them speak, but I'm close."

God was the sole creator of all things. He shouldn't play with His rules, he shouldn't...

To hell with everything.

"Do it. I'll avenge him. And I don't want you to interfere. I'll seek you out, I don't need you to come to me."

Opening the arid earth with a shovel, with that winged hat and that cape billowing though there was no wind, Sherlock extracted the coffin. Before opening it, he removed his hat and approached William to let it fall onto his head. He also removed his cape.

Despite his rage, his pain... William allowed himself the hint of a smile. The saddest ever.

"Will you keep waiting for me?"

Taking the deceased body of the younger brother in his arms, the vampire smiled at him.

"Forevermore, my love."

William felt the sting of tears burning in his eyes and rose to the cement surface, approaching the vampire to kiss his lips. The fangs were hidden, so he could taste them once more, and they awakened that familiarity. It stirred the embers of his dormant will, of his heart, and converted it into a living flame within his soul. Dead hope and perhaps the desire to become a sinner... only for him and for his brother.

With him, everything feels right. Even the immoral. The improper. The profane. The disgusting. Sherlock was the one who made him feel complete, even when they had only exchanged words. Nevertheless, the truth was that he was the only one William had ever chosen. In his previous life and in this one.

"Take care of my brother," William requested, caressing his brother's face where the mortal wound was. Then he remembered something important he hadn't been able to ask. "Were you the one who threw me the holy sword?"

Sherlock shook his head and squinted, making visible that beautiful crimson line above his eyelid that William wanted to outline with his finger.

"No, but it was someone you know very well. I've spoken with him. He asked me to keep the secret, so I must be faithful to that."

William raised an eyebrow.

"I'll find out eventually."

"I'm sure you will. But Liam, be careful with your actions, you'll bear a great burden if you decide to continue with this," the vampire warned, and lowering his gaze to Louis, he studied his ashen face. "There's the same frequency in him that I felt in your first corpse." 

Responding to the first comment, the human spoke:

"The Creator won't return him to me. Go, we'll talk later, you and I," he said goodbye, his tone a bit more vehement this time, as if he were struggling within himself between maintaining his distance and explaining his feelings. His gaze grew softer, though still full of determination. "My beloved husband."

Returning to that present, William had the taste of bitterness burning on his lips. No matter how much he fought, it seemed like an endless cycle of losses. Everyone had somehow lost their humanity. Moran became a werewolf, Fred ended up in the hands of a witch's curse, Louis is a walking corpse and he... there he was, whole, and human.

Sherlock was sitting beside him, atop Louis's grave as had become customary. The actions were the same: William rested his head on his shoulder, without feeling that gentle warmth, as if he were leaning against a marble wall. But it wasn't like that, it was his Sherlock, who took his hand between his own and traced the veins on the back. The gesture made him smile, the tickle of the nail, the butterfly kisses left on his wrist and, with the other hand, with long slender fingers caressing his thigh. But for Sherlock it wasn't an act of seduction, but of calming him.

William turned his gaze and found himself contemplating those twilight eyes. The rest was a learned dance. They drew closer, slowly, surrounded by corpses in that barren and abandoned cemetery where they remembered they could love each other. Their lips joined and it was a complete song. He would never tire of seeing the act of love transformed into an art form that they made real, when it was with him, and no one but Sherlock.

They transformed their life into a cycle of death and reincarnation, while the immortal existed, crying to the moon through music when he played the violin, waiting for his beloved.

On Sherlock's side, he always knew when William's soul returned. He just gave him time to grow. To be free. But William would always go to him, drawn by that magnetism with which their souls were bound.

And William didn't want to think anymore. He savored that mouth overflowing with bad words, taking his cheek, impatient, pushing him back against the cement surface, climbing onto his body. He sat on his abdomen, surrounding him with his thighs.

"Your brother won't like what we're doing," the vampire mocked without guilt.

"He'll forgive me, besides, I don't plan to go any further." Then he lay beside him, resting his head on his chest and cursing himself once more, because Sherlock's heart didn't beat.

"Forgive me, Sherly, for having turned you into this. Now, I was reborn and I'm human, while you, you're condemned to this."

It was a conversation that repeated constantly. In that same place. In the same position, while both worked on how to awaken Louis's consciousness. The vampire would always answer. No matter how many times William asked.

"It's not your fault."

"Stop saying that."

Sherlock sat up a little, drawing him into the arc of his arms, despite never being able to give him comfort with his body anymore. What he could do was with words, with his love that hadn't faded over those years, that furnace still burning, sparking sweet words for him: that he was beautiful, that he had missed him so much, that he had worked years to recover his memories, but without being able to do anything with them. And all until he learned from Evalyne that William's soul entered a spiral of reincarnation, due to his inexhaustible desire to find Sherlock. His desperation to be by his side. The anger over an interrupted life.

"I don't regret this dissolute and absolutely miserable life, condemned to be cursed by the sun, by the divine word and by man, because among the miseries harvested in these years: I have been able to find you again."

William shook his head, bringing his hands to his head.

"But I'll die if you don't transform me."

"You'll keep reincarnating and I'll keep waiting for you."

"I can't bear that you can only enjoy me for a hundred years, Sherly. And that you still have my first corpse in your mausoleum."

William had long ago discovered that Sherlock had been working on restoring consciousness to the corpse of his first life, and the simplest reason was the only one for which a man would prefer to remain a beast: for love. He had never allowed him to see it, and since he had returned his memories, Sherlock hadn't drunk blood from him again.

He had been wondering for quite some time who Sherlock was feeding on. Whenever he asked the question, Sherlock evaded it with half-truths that ultimately said nothing.

Sherlock's laughter pulled him from his thoughts, observing that smooth, pale neck, where he wished to trace the edges with his finger.

"I can't believe you're jealous of yourself, Liam."

"Burn it."

"I'm not capable of that."

"Then I'll do it."

"Liam..."

"Why do you insist on keeping it when, right now, at this moment, in this second, you have me in front of you?"

That question gave no quarter to arguments and was a sting to the excuses the vampire wanted to shield himself with.

In clear surrender, Sherlock sighed.

"You're... right."

He carefully moved away from him to stand up, making a circle on the ground. The simple movement of his leg was like a dance, the natural displacement of his hip, as captivating as the promise that burns in an ember and the fire flickers at will. Finally, Sherlock opened his hand, and the violin along with its bow flew toward him, taking it with a smile.

He exhibited that silver beauty with his power that enveloped everything like a mantle when the music began to float, shaking the air, extending behind him like a pair of immense invisible wings. The deformed shadow under his feet that would never be that of a man.

He only played one long note, followed by a shorter one, making it like a kind of peaceful whistle and the air in the cemetery stirred. The trees whispered among themselves. The tombstones moved, fearful. From the arid and deathly earth, the ground began to tremble and beyond them, in the back where a stone wall rose, a crack opened in the ground.

Thorned roots began to emerge from the pit like serpentine snakes, engulfing the walls. From them, beautiful roses were born, and a black coffin slowly emerged, guarded by those lethal and beautiful flowers that enveloped it.

And slowly, the vines released it. The rose petals began to float in the air.

Sherlock lowered the violin, slowly, as if it hurt him. He let it fall as if he didn't care. He took a step. A full and almost yearning smile uncoiled on the vampire's lips.

"Come, my love." His voice was a chant. A petition. A permission. "Someone wants to see you."

The lid moved carefully, leaving a creaking sound in the air that was also accompanied by the weak and pitiful howling of dogs from afar, coming from all directions.

A skeletal hand, with traces of skin and wearing a wedding ring on its ring finger, appeared. William was accustomed to seeing the living dead, they were common outbreaks when witches spat on cemetery grounds. He dealt with them every week, but seeing himself emerge from that coffin wearing a beautiful white tunic really got to him. He brought his hand to his mouth to stop the retching.

Gwilym's bare feet touched the ground. Despite the centuries after his demise, the corpse was very well preserved. William didn't remember from his past life having lost his left eye and didn't know if it was a result of throwing himself into the sea, or an event that had been lost in memory.

"He can walk without your music," William pointed out, eyes widening in surprise.

"I told you I'm close to reviving a corpse's mind."

"But I'm here."

"I wonder what would happen."

The vampire's eyebrows as well as his lips arched with certain glee.

"Sherly..." William sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Sherlock laughed, dismissing it, walking toward Gwilym, which irritated William a little, though he didn't know why.

"You look beautiful as always, darling," the vampire mentioned, and bent down to kiss the corpse's hand. "I've had a terrible hunger these days, would you help your husband?"

Gwilym processed the information, and despite most corpses being unable to speak, he understood. With crude but much more fluid movements than Louis's, he opened his tunic and Sherlock bent toward him, taking him by the waist to bite his neck. The corpse let out a small sound, like the whisper of a breeze, as if it were a sigh and embraced his husband.

Well, that... resolved his doubts. He now knew where Sherlock drank blood from.

William looked away, feeling he shouldn't be watching that. Sherlock had told him on one occasion that he had managed to make his body pump blood through a spell he had been developing, in his vain attempts to bring him back to life. So all that remained was a corpse with a putrefied heart that still beat. It fed on Sherlock's musical energy.

He also learned that when he had committed suicide in full transition to vampirism, his body had remained in limbo, falling into a half immortality.

Sherlock separated from Gwilym's neck, with a thread of black blood running down his jaw. He smiled at his beautiful corpse, with those spirals forming on his lips and his fangs showing slightly. The corpse kissed his cheek.

"I love you too, Gwilym."

A throat clearing was heard and the couple turned toward him.

"Get away, Sherly."

William already had the sword pointing at them.

"I've changed my mind, Liam. I can't let you kill him."

"Leave my first corpse behind. You have me here," William warned, a severe shadow covering his expression. "Let go of that part of my past. You can feed on me and not on that nauseating blood."

Before Sherlock could refute, it was Gwilym who moved away from the vampire and walked, with stumbling steps toward him. Despite his impassive expression, he seemed to try to move the edges of his lips in the hint of a smile.

Gwilym and William observed each other. He stopped a few palms away from him. He exhibited no stench. On the contrary, he seemed clean and smelled of rose essence. The corpse, after a minute of just observing him, calmly removed his wedding ring and handed it to him. A transition. Past and present. And so he would be, when he must do it centuries ahead, with his other self.

William sighed tremulously as he took the ring. And finally, the last open door. The missing piece of his puzzle.

More memories came to him, the most important ones, when Sherlock and he were married in a chapel without saints in the light of a small family and no one to judge them. Not knowing there was a vampire who had fallen in love with him and wanted to claim him.

That same night, they had just consummated their love on those white sheets, full of roses, his favorite flower, and Gwilym was asleep when a shadow entered through the window cracks, wearing Sherlock's appearance who had been in the bathroom at that moment.

The vampire had made a cut in his own corners with his fangs and joined his mouth with Gwilym's, who allowed it believing it was his husband.

It was the worst thing that could have happened to them. The misfortunes didn't stop coming, as if they were gifts for their recent marriage. Gwilym noticed the metallic taste, different from his mouth, and his instinct made him push the false Sherlock who began to laugh uproariously.

The real Sherlock appeared and, at that moment, the newlywed couple understood everything.

"We'll be together forever, Gwilym," the vampire expressed, showing his stern and true face, disappearing before them.

It was too late when, hours later, the transformation began. They both knew it.

Sherlock despaired, but Gwilym had resigned himself to the facts. The transformation was inevitable. They had been just a common couple, without important positions, except their minds. They had no weapons to defend themselves from vampires, not even crucifixes. Jack, their butler, got them in that same hour.

"Sherly..."

"No..."

"My love."

"I can't."

"I need..." And he brought a hand to his chest when his eyes were already changing. "... you to kill me."

But Sherlock couldn't.

The only thing that had occurred to Gwilym was to pierce his heart with the sword bathed in holy water that Jack got before it stopped beating. He already knew he was about to lose consciousness, his mind flickered, his voice broke, releasing roars. From his mouth, two fangs emerged, his nails lengthened and he hunched like an animal, desperate with a thirst that burned his throat and his reasoning trembling on a thread. He had to act fast.

Sherlock had put all his efforts to prevent it. They had struggled because he didn't want him to do it. Gwilym pushed him with vehement and inhuman force against the wall, rushing toward him to dig his nails into his neck. Blood was already flowing from his husband's temple and neck, where he dug his nails, strangling him.

He had covered his mouth with the other hand and approached the veins that shone before his new vision that made him see the entire circulatory system. But he wasn't fully transformed yet, and the sound of Sherlock's pain made him wake up.

Gwilym jumped away. Sherlock was lying against the wall and the orientation of his back was at an impossible angle. He shook his head. No.

Sherlock stretched his hand toward him in his last breath. Blood flowed from his lips.

No. No...

No.

Taking the sword, Gwilym ran toward the light. He ran with steps that were increasingly faster. He ran knowing he had killed his husband, or had left him in a critical state, he ran... without feeling pain, only thirst. Desperation. Rage.

He didn't hesitate when he pierced his chest and broke the immense window to throw himself into the sea.

The rest was history. Sherlock transformed into a vampire, because he had bitten Gwilym's hand to accompany him. But in the end, he was left alone.

It took time for Sherlock to process the nascent hunger. To become a wild animal. To lose his mind. The most valuable thing for him. He had gone to the moors. The frozen caverns, which only he didn't fear, became his dwelling, the only one that man didn't deny him.

He knew he killed two locals, or maybe three? Those memories were already diffuse for him.

Someone had found him, though he didn't remember who either. They took care of him and protected him from the first terrible months of vampirism. Sherlock was grateful for those desolate passages, for they were kinder to him than those of the human species.

When he had regained his consciousness, waking up in one of the caverns, naked, and with a letter that only said: I recovered your husband's corpse from the sea.

It hadn't turned to ashes. The sun hadn't scorched it. His beloved's body remained in the limbo of life and death. Half human and half vampire. More human than vampire.

They said you had to die to become a vampire, but he discovered in his study of his new species that vampire blood had to replace human blood and then reach the heart to transform it. Gwilym took his life when his heart was still human.

He supposed he had been very close to being a vampire, because when Sherlock bit him, the blood from Gwilym's hands was already vampiric. Sherlock had forgotten much of his memories, but over time he recovered them and then prepared to shepherd a wait for his revenge without desperation.

He wanted to find the vampire who entered his bed and destroyed their lives.

He discovered it had been one of the most powerful vampires in the region, a certain Alan, who was the new lord of the Devereaux clan. By that time, Sherlock was just a fledgling to face experienced vampires.

At that time, he only dedicated himself to caring for Gwilym's corpse, talking to him every day. Ten, twenty, fifty years passed. He had time to spare.

Sherlock was in no hurry nor did he get upset. He dedicated all those years to learning about Alan, about his clan, everything. Everything. He became his friend. He entered the organization.

They were years and centuries of camaraderie, in which he rubbed elbows with other vampires, who provided him with virgins to drink blood and he would lie if he said he never fell into temptation. Sherlock was a vampire and couldn't elude his nature.

They always asked him why he returned to the mountains and he only said that his beloved was waiting for him.

So he would lie down next to Gwilym, in that coffin of roses and tell him everything. He had developed the spell through his music to control the living dead, with the desire to revive him. The music danced in the air but all Gwilym did was sit. He looked at him with the only visible eye because he had lost the second one in the fall.

Once he managed to make him stand up, and got excited, running toward him but when the music stopped... Gwilym fell like a broken doll.

It was... a long story, so long that there wouldn't be enough pages to tell everything he did, everything he learned, everything he conjured, everything he lost, calling the force of lightning so that Gwilym's heart would beat.

He inspired admiration among those of his race, as well as fear and disgust.

They knew he had lost his head, and no one had to find out that he could already drink blood from his husband without harming humans. More than once they went to visit him, to find him in his study with all the walls covered with sketches of the human body, pentagrams, twisted spell books, oracles, notes everywhere, hanging strings exhibiting human dissections of corpses that no one visited. They looked at him with suspicion when they found the corpse of whom he said was his husband, sitting on his lap and ceremonially cross-legged, observing them inquisitively with the only scarlet eye. However, they swallowed their tongues, because Sherlock had advances for them so vampires could resist the sun.

Or so they believed, because every contribution Sherlock made was a silent poison that he infiltrated.

And when the moment came... Sherlock took revenge. He fulfilled his promise to avenge the blood that was poured into the sea. The shattered marriage. The echo of a love that survives beyond the grave.

William had no desire to describe the atrocities Sherlock committed to make a vampire resist the sun for one to two hours. It was the maximum he could achieve and it took him more than three centuries. And it was more than perfect for his plans when he demonstrated it on himself. No one had to find out that after the time, he injected himself with the toxin he had hidden in a stinger in his skull ring to pretend he could endure all day.

Ignorance, naivety and unawareness would always be guillotines for all species. Because no one ever found out that it almost killed him, that he returned crawling to the coffin where Gwilym was, lying beside him in that bed of roses, with very serious burns that took a long time to heal.

"Almost there, darling, almost there..." he murmured, caressing his cheek.

They had held a meeting to celebrate the success, and after recovering, Sherlock made sure most of them drank the toxin. He didn't care if a few survived, his prey was Alan. And he had been one of the first.

Without anyone knowing, the day before he had taken care of cracking the ceiling of the hall where they met with his enormous strength. That same night, he gave a presentation with his violin, warned them not to be overconfident, that experiments tend to have errors with a seductive smile. But he had achieved so many feats that they trusted him fervently, despite seeing him as a lunatic.

That day, Sherlock clearly didn't give them the toxin he had prepared, but delivered them a more amusing one, of course: Accelerate the cremation of their skins through contact with any light and even more so from the sun.

His music awakened the zombies that were on the roof and that would do nothing against powerful bloodsucking carnivores, but against the cracks he had left before, when dawn came. The vampires were quick to flee, but Sherlock had already thought of that, covering the windows and doors with holy water. And behind the wood: crucifixes. Of course, he hadn't touched any of that, he had been helped by a local named John who wanted revenge on Alan because he murdered his wife.

Sherlock had told his companion that, in case the corpses couldn't destroy the concrete, to use explosives.

Thus, taking the real toxin, he knew he wouldn't need more than an hour for that spectacle.

At that moment, the melody had just ended, and Sherlock ceremonially extended his hands and bowed to the applause in honor of his art. Luckily, John knew how to improvise when the ceiling collapsed. Hundreds of vampires were exposed to the newly awakening sun.

“And this is my final act,” declared Sherlock.

He trapped Alan under the ceiling where the entrance was, who had tried to escape but lost his hands when he grabbed the blessed knocker, and through a toothy smile, reddened eyes, Sherlock raised a hand toward his neck with blackened nails from the drug.

"Why, Holmes?! You're my right hand..." He was interrupted by Sherlock's laughter. "Why...?"

"Don't you remember me? After what you did to me?" His questions were loaded with deep offense. "And you still ask why?!"

But the primordial didn't remember. He would definitely remember having transformed that monster, Alan didn't feel his initial blood in him. He felt bewildered, perplexed and unable to organize ideas to the necessary extent to understand the true transcendence of what was happening.

Sherlock seemed to read the questions in his tormented expression.

"No, you're not my master. So you have no control over me, but my creator is the one who loved me beyond his own life. Do you know what that means, Alan? Do you know what it means that my transformed veins have the last thought of my husband, who cried thinking he had killed me? Do you have any idea of my creator's hatred toward you, of what he wanted to do to you, find you and kill you? My veins jump with hatred when they see you, and it's not mine that it comes from, but his. His voice in a distant whisper asking me to kill you and you must know well the bond between creator and creature, united forever.

"I've always had a curious mind, you know, Alan, and you gave me enough time to try so many things... But before trying them on you, I tried them on myself, so I'm sure of their result and what you're feeling. You want to move, and you can't, you want to think but you're sleepy, your hand on my wrist is to me the strength of a baby, I thought of everything, son of a whore. I'm a creation that has lost its king, forsaken by humans and abandoned in the world, with the only purpose that drives me and that is to destroy you." He looked back to verify that it was indeed daytime but being under the piece of ceiling that survived the explosion, none had died under its golden beauty. "Because nothing can kill us, nothing can take away this agony, nothing can save us from this bestial thirst that makes us killers... except the sun and sacred weapons. We are so strong and at the same time, so weak."

"My men will kill you!" Alan roared, his body gradually aging and losing the divinity of a cursed graceful youth.

Sherlock let escape a somber smile, born not from joy, but from the torment that inhabited him. His step was measured, almost reverent, when he bent toward that face of Alan that seemed to return his own reflection of misfortune.

"This is for what you did to the love of my life," he conjured with a furious tone, that hatred he reserved only for this day, with a blackish halo absorbing his spirit. "I was born from death and know no rest, my days are an eternity that slowly rots, but I shall delight in your suffering, dear Alan, for what you have taken from me."

A sacred sword pierced the door and also Alan who looked at him with eyes invaded by infinite rage.

"Tell me I didn't pierce you, Sherlock!" spoke a voice behind the door.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock applauded, smiling, without stopping looking at Alan. "I've weakened you through so many years, and you never noticed. Pride is the worst sin, my lord."

He was a primordial vampire, and Sherlock hadn't come out well from that fight, but the advantage would always be how much they had underestimated him. And he could have the pleasure of seeing that damned one burst before his eyes.

He fled to the cemetery of the Fallen Maiden along with John, who was his faithful assistant for many years.

CSome vampires managed to escape, of course, and they were the ones who wanted revenge by attacking William many, many, many years later.

The cycle... repeats itself.

So that had been his story.

William had felt his legs give out at the evidence of that past, and Sherlock was already there to hold him. He caught William and cradled him in his arms. They remained crouched on the floor, William with his head on his vampire's chest, and Gwilym joined them with fluid movements that could have been surprising.

"Liam, are you alright?" Sherlock wanted to know, fanning his hand to bring color back to William's face.

William nodded quietly.

"Let me process... this."

Gwilym's cold, hardened hand took his with a tenderness akin to love. William observed him. This had been him when death hadn't entered his home; this had been him when he still had a family; this had been him when he had believed he could finally be happy...

He didn't know why he had reincarnated, whether it was because of that ancient prophecy or perhaps a final blessing from God to forgive them, and all they were doing was insulting Him. But they would keep having a second chance. A third. A fourth.

Perhaps it was that omnipotent being who was moved upon seeing Sherlock's tears, who could do nothing while watching the image of his beloved throwing himself into the sea, an image that would torment him for eternity?

Perhaps it was a witch who wanted to play with fate?

Or perhaps just a coincidence?

Who knows. And at this point... William didn't care.

He looked at Sherlock and extended his hand to cup his cheek.

"You've been through so much, Sherly..."

Sherlock caught his hand and smiled, bringing their faces closer.

"But you're here."

Feeling tears rolling down his cheekbones, William repeatedly kissed Sherlock's cheeks.

"I am..."

Gwilym, kneeling beside them, picked up the sword that had been abandoned to the mercy of the floor when William fainted. He lifted the sword and handed it to William, giving him the determination to do it.

Sherlock tried to raise a hand, but the corpse touched his shoulder. Sherlock only nodded.

"Gwilym..." the vampire pleaded.

Although William had endured so many tragedies in this life, had lost his brothers, his eternal love was a vampire, and his friends lay scattered across the country transformed into monsters, he still wasn't immune to emotions. On the contrary, he felt them intensely. They hurt, tied to a nostalgia that belonged to them, but they had to let go now.

They had to move forward. All that remained was to try to prevent the wound inflicted by the past from opening even wider...

So, with that reasoning, William made the determination to end it himself, twice, with his own body.

Sherlock extended his arm to the sword's handle, not stopping its advance. Instead, he placed his hand on top of William's. If Sherlock could cry, he would have; William cried for both of them.

Gwilym closed his eyes, revealing something William hadn't noticed before: the same scarlet outline that vampires had. Then, Gwilym opened his arms and smiled.

The sword made a perfect diagonal cut through the neck that also pierced the heart. Gwilym's body, his first life, fell to the floor before them. A small light emerged from his chest and entered William's heart.

Pulling away instinctively, Sherlock was about to rush to the corpse before William stopped him, embracing him.

They fell to the floor.

"I'm here," William reminded him.

He held Sherlock tight against himself. And although his strength would never compare to that of a vampire, he threw all his effort into holding him because Sherlock wasn't resisting; instead, the vampire buried his face in William's chest and whimpered, without crying, because even that had been denied to him, which prolonged his suffering, muffling that pitiful wail.

"I'm here, my love. I'm here," William told him, sighing through tears, because he knew what was happening. "You haven't lost me. Sherlock, my Sherlock... It's me."

Strong arms knocked the air out of him when the vampire hugged him, clinging desperately to William like a frightened child. The perfect, ungovernable figure who had appeared to have infinite patience shattered into a thousand pieces.

He soon felt that pricking sensation in his neck as Sherlock sank his fangs into the throbbing vein. William let out a groan, a groan of surprise, of relief that Sherlock was finally dependent on him. He was his creator; he could claim him by right. He opened his legs for more comfort, granting the vampire more freedom. Let him take whatever he wanted from him. His blood. His life. Never was pain in that body atrophied by losses, by guilt, so welcome when giving its vital energy to its beloved vampire.

That delicious pressure subsided, and William found himself breathless. He stroked Sherlock's long, loose hair, smiling against his temple.

"You can still change your mind about transforming me."

But he didn't. Sherlock kept his promise. And century after century, every version of the human William would fall in love with the vampire, recovering his memories and entering that tireless exploration of the world until they found each other.

The shared sigh of two souls who never learned to say goodbye, and as a consequence of their longing, both souls that kept searching for each other until they met.

In one of their many lives, Sherlock and William had managed to discover how to restore consciousness to a corpse, and finally Louis walked among them. This caused the vampire to be hated even more for his artifices and profanities, though they couldn't do anything more than curse him. They had discovered that Albert had disappeared because he had also entered the bloodsucker lineage, but they managed to bring him back to them since his older brother had secretly helped him for a long time, so Albert joined the family that was already beginning to grow. Moran and Fred also returned; Bond was missing and they kept searching for him; they met a mad scientist named Herder who offered his benevolent knowledge for new foods for the vampires; and thus, finally, they were recovering what they had lost.

William accompanied them later, remaining as a living corpse thanks to being able to preserve their reason, wishing not to reincarnate anymore and to stay perpetually beside Sherlock.

They remained forever in the castle of horrors, where only monsters who knew how to love dwelt.