Warnings: Graphic gore, monsters eating children, death of children
They don't have a name. There was nothing they called each other, nor did they care. Names were not important.
Which was why Sherlock gave himself one. Of course he could've given himself something a bit more ironic like 'Bob' or 'Gerry.' He found he'd rather like the name Sherlock.
He doesn't bother telling the others about it, of course. It was not like they would care. The humans gave them names, dozens of them. Demon. Monster. Ghoul. The one Sherlock enjoyed the most, because it was so obvious yet so strange, was 'slender man.'
A nightmare personified was probably the best description anyone could give.
All they want, all they ever will want are children. Their smiles, their laughter, their blood, their teeth, their souls. Some of them spend years coaxing their child closer and closer to them, to finally gobble them up. Others prefer to take a bite, a nibble, before clamping down with teeth. The truly selfish ones don't bother with preparation and simply take the child from the bed which they slept on.
Sherlock was no different. He had needs just like the others, and yet that was where he was different. He took what was needed, and that was it. No more, no less.
There were plenty of children to go around, so it was not as if jealousy and greed was a common conception in their circle. But many of the slender men gave Sherlock a wide birth. They didn't understand him, didn't understand why he chose to be radically different. This was what they did, what they've always done.
It was not as if Sherlock hadn't tried. There was always something stopping him from ever taking that final step.
There was Greg Lestrade for example. Sherlock often played with him in the woods behind his house, simply enjoying the way the young boy took such enthusiastic steps to try to single Sherlock out from the dozens and dozens of trees.
Many slender men follow their children when they move, but when Greg moved, Sherlock let him be. There was no need to follow if he wasn't planning to take anymore from the boy.
There was also Sally Donovan. The girl sometimes sat up all night, talking to Sherlock avidly about her day, showing him the picture books she'd bring back from school. That all quickly ended when Sally's older brother corrupted her mind with the thoughts of 'boogey men.' Frightened and confused, Sally had called Sherlock a 'freak' the next time she saw him, tossing her favorite books right at his head.
The closest he'd ever got to taking a child was Chris Anderson, a snot-nosed boy who liked to aim pebbles at Sherlock's head with his slingshot.
The moment Sherlock tried to take him, Anderson began crying. Sherlock found it so pathetic he'd left the boy alone.