Yep, so this werewolf AU thing? Totally happening. I don't even know, but I figured hey, if I'm going to bring werewolves into this fandom, I'm going to do it right. We shall see how it goes. So here, have a werewolf 'verse!

This is the long, plotty AU that I was thinking about earlier, and I finally got it settled into something resembling a plot. There will be five parts total, probably a little longer than this one, and it'll be generally more serious in tone than Good Dogs, but Reese and his awkward humor will probably sneak in somehow.

Some backgroud: If you haven't read Good Dogs, here's the gist of the story: John Reese is a werewolf, Finch and Carter know, Reese is fiercely protective of his couch and the pack, and he bit Finch to keep him from dying. And we go from there!

Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest, so CBS, you no sue, y/y?

Where the Wild Things Are

moon night

Sarah Greene is twenty-six years old. She has a boyfriend, a little brother, and two parents who love her. She has her whole life ahead of her, and it's shaping up to be an important one—already she's involved in some of the most talked-about issues of the day.

Sarah Greene is a lawyer, and she has never seen a werewolf.

She is about to die.

Sarah Greene is human, and so she doesn't see the shadow slip behind her, hear the rattle of claws on concrete. She doesn't smell the old blood or hear a soft, hungry growl.

She doesn't know she's going to die.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls, and others join him in song. Sarah Greene isn't worried. Everyone knows that wolves are penned in on moon nights, so they can't hurt normal people. She doesn't even think to look behind her, at the shadow creeping closer.

Sarah Greene doesn't look around. She doesn't stop, even for a second. She turns down a dim street, typing on her phone (she's late for a date—she thinks her boyfriend might propose), and doesn't hear the excited snarl.

Sarah Greene smiles at her phone and almost makes it across the street.

Then, Sarah Greene is dead.

waning night

That, Finch thinks faintly, stomach rolling, is a squirrel. He looks away and flushes the toilet before he can really think about it.

There isn't nearly enough mouthwash in the world to get rid of the taste in Finch's mouth—blood, vomit, and something he's pretty sure is squirrel—but he certainly tries, swishing Listerine around until his tongue burns.

There's still steam clogging up the mirror and Finch wipes it away carefully, studying himself.

He doesn't look any different. Same hair, same eyes, same face and shoulders and hands. He looks human.

His teeth are normal—a little worn down, even. His nails are still bitten down to the quick—a habit he's been trying to break for decades—and his eyes are blue. Human. Normal.

He doesn't look like a werewolf.

He looks like a normal, if very tired, human being.

(Except there's a round, shiny circle scarring his chest, and another on his back. This scar is pink and stretched tight, like it's already a month old. It isn't. And there's another set of scars on his shoulder, puncture wounds in a clean semi-circle. They're just as pink and old-looking as the one on his chest. He got them last night.

The scars are, respectively, a gunshot and a wolf bite.)

Harold Finch is not human, not anymore.

The bite itches. Finch doesn't know if that's normal or if he's having some kind of reaction to the wolf or what, but he doesn't really want to ask Reese. If he's being honest, he doesn't want to even see Reese—or anyone—at all. He wants to crawl into something warm and soft and never move again, or, failing that, stop throwing up bits of squirrel and pretend last night never happened.

So far, if he ignores the full-body ache and the new scars, he can almost—almost—pretend that he's human.

That he wasn't shot last night and, in a desperate attempt not to die, told Reese to bite him.

Thankfully, he doesn't remember much after getting shot—blinding stabs of pain, Reese swearing, half-shifted, himself saying yes, do it, bite me, and then Reese's fangs closing down on his shoulder.

After that, nothing.

Which is probably for the best, seeing as how he ate a squirrel and probably did some other wolfish things he as a human wouldn't be proud of.

Am I supposed to remember the change?

Reese seems to. He's a remarkably aware wolf, and he doesn't even need the full moon to change—though Finch doesn't know how or why, because from what he understands, most wolves can only shift once a month and most of them are downright feral—so he'd be the one to ask, but, again, Finch really doesn't want to see him right now.

And he's glad he doesn't remember. He, quite frankly, does not want to. He doesn't remember his injury—the one that even now, with werewolf healing coursing through his blood, makes it hard to walk and damn near impossible to turn his head—and he's glad, because then there is no panic, no recurring nightmares and flashbacks, there's only the aftermath, and dealing with it.

I can deal with this, Finch thinks, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn't even have to deal with it right away. The next full moon is in twenty-eight days. That's a month to prepare, to settle into it. He'll pick Reese's knowledge later, prepare, and when the moon comes, he'll be fine.

Harold Finch is good at being fine.

Moving stiffly—he aches all over, good god what did he do to himself last night—he dresses, careful of the bite and the healing bullet hole in his chest. From there he limps down the stairs and into the street, where his driver is waiting to whisk him to the library.

Finch doesn't talk to the man, not today. Instead he stares out the window at all the people rushing past. Humans, for the most part, though he's sure there's a wolf or two in there somewhere. He doesn't know yet—the wolf's fabled sense of smell hasn't hit him.

Everything looks the same. The streets, the people, the sun, the colors, all of it looks the same. Like he's still human.

It's disconcerting, to say the least.

Finch tries not to think about it.

Instead, he thinks about the Machine, and its newest number. Alejandro Cruz is a thirty-five year old businessman, the VP of Imaginum Health Care, a pharmaceutical company. His number came up this morning, actually, only an hour ago, so whatever danger he's in probably isn't pressing, but, well, pharmaceutical company. After the last pharmaceutical company fiasco, Finch is inclined to think all of them are evil and anyone who is connected to them is either in danger of assassination or killing someone.

And besides, working will keep his mind of his new… furry problem.

For the rest of the—painfully long, morning traffic is terrible—ride, Finch keeps himself occupied with Alejandro Cruz's past and financial records. The man has a few speeding tickets and one DUI but no outstanding debts or suspicious money flow, and all in all he looks rather clean. But, again, pharmaceutical company, so there has to be a skeleton in some closet somewhere, and Finch will find it.

When the car finally does stop, he's compiled a fairly in-depth analysis of Cruz's life, an excellent place for Mr. Reese to start, and he almost feels human—just the right combination of caffeinated, sleep-deprived, and motivated—as he limps up the library's faded steps.

And then he sees Reese sprawled across the couch like he owns the damn thing, watching the news intently, and he almost turns around and walks out the door before the other can notice him.

"Finch," Reese says quietly. Damn. Not sneaking away, then. Of course Reese smelled him. Or heard him. Whatever.

"Mister Reese," Finch says brusquely, going in like he means it, files tucked under his arm. "Watching the news, are we?"

Reese's eyes—unsettling wolfish, even now, when normally it's impossible to even guess that Reese is sometimes four-legged and furry—track him across the room. "You haven't heard?"

Finch frowns. "Heard what?"

"A girl was killed last night," Reese says. "By a wolf."

Finch's throat closes. "Not—" he manages, stomach rolling, thinking of the squirrel—or was it—that he threw up.

"Not by us," Reese reassures him. "We were in Manhattan all night, this woman died in Brooklyn."

"Manhattan? All night?"

Reese nods. "She was killed pretty early in the evening too, right after moonrise. You wouldn'tve been able to attack anyone then, you were still shifting."

Finch nods. Again, he's very glad that he doesn't remember. He's not going to have flashbacks of ripping into things, not yet, at least. He can still be fine.

"Will I remember?" he asks, before he can stop himself. "Changing, I mean. Being a wolf."

Reese's eyes soften, become more human, just for a minute. "Yes," he says. "After you get used to it, anyway."

Used to it, Finch thinks, and doesn't say anything. He watches the newscast instead.

"Sarah Greene, a twenty-six year old lawyer, was found killed this morning in what appears to be the first wolf attack in five months.

"Miss Greene was walking home from work when she was brutally attacked under the full moon. She was killed almost instantly. Wolf hairs have been found at the scene and all Brooklyn-area werewolves are being rounded up for questioning as we speak—the police will not let such an attack go unpunished.

"If you have any information on this attack, a hotline is being set up by the police. Please call the number on your screen. There is a two thousand dollar reward for information leading to the wolf's capture, and please, by careful out there."

The screen flashes a 1-800 number and a picture of the dead woman's—Sarah Greene's—body, mercifully covered by a sheet. Dark, broad bloodstains seep under the covering and Finch can see one pale, slashed wrist sticking out from underneath, clearly chewed to nearly the bone.

His stomach rolls and he sags, closing his eyes and fighting back the wave of nausea. "Do attacks—" he starts, then has to stop. "Do attacks like that happen often?"

He can't see Reese's face now, half-hidden in shadow. "No. Only a sick wolf attacks people like that."

"And there aren't many sick wolves?"

Reese gives him a flat look. "No."

Finch decides not to ask, and turns away from the screen. "We have a new number," he says.

Reese leans forward, frowning slightly. "Finch," he starts.

"Alejandro Cruz," Finch says, purposely dismissing Reese's concern. Reese's eyes darken and his mouth thins, but he doesn't say anything. He's good at that, not saying anything, and Finch appreciates it right now. "Thirty-five, a business man. Works for the pharmaceutical company Imaginum Health Care as the Vice President of Marketing."

At pharmaceutical company Reese curls his lip slightly, teeth gleaming, and Finch almost smiles a bit. It's always nice to see that someone shares in his paranoia.

"He has no convictions, sealed or otherwise, but when he was sixteen he was accused of sexually assaulting a classmate. Charges were dropped and the matter was not pursued. Start there," Finch says, handing over the file.

Reese takes it, pausing for a moment, locking eyes with Finch. That, for some reason, makes him incredibly uncomfortable and somewhere in the back of his mind he hears a very faint, very soft growl.

The wolf.

He chooses to ignore it. He has twenty-eight days to ignore it, it's fine.

Reese, of course, notices, but he still doesn't say anything, taking the file and standing up, brushing himself off.

"Try and get some rest," he says. "I'll be fine on my own for a bit. Moon night is tough on you, the first time. You should sleep it off. If you need me, call."

"It gets easier?"

"Much," Reese promises, the same way he'd promised that it wouldn't hurt, to turn, but Finch still limps and aches something terrible so he doesn't put much trust in it.

He offers a tiny little smile anyway and sends the man off after their person of interest. Reese goes (though he hesitates at the door, clearly wanting to say something but not sure if he's welcome to, which he most certainly is not), and Finch is alone again. He paces the length of the library, trying to hear that growl in his head again, but the wolf, if it was the wolf, his wolf, is quiet.

Asleep, for now.

Stay that way, Finch says sternly. The wolf doesn't respond, not that he thought it would. Does the wolf talk? Does it understand? It's a wolf after all, a wild animal. All the articles he can find—and he's found many, starting right after he walked into the library and found a large, territorial werewolf where his partner should've been—say that werewolves can't control themselves, as the wolf.

Wolves are wild. Wolves hunt, and chase, and sometimes kill, as poor Ms. Greene learned. Finch can't help but think what if it was us who killed her, what if Reese isn't there to stop me?

Later, Finch will ask some questions, like how and what and why? Can I be controlled? Am I a killer?

(He does not want to hear the answer to that question, to any of these questions. Is he a killer? If he is a wolf, then yes.)

But now. Now, he just wants to sleep. And stop aching. And forget that last night ever happened, that he pulled a werewolf out of a police station and got himself shot and had said werewolf bite him because Harold Finch is too afraid to die.

He ends up sinking down against the wall, stretching his bad leg out in front of him, rubbing the pained muscles absentmindedly.

If you could see me now, he thinks at Nathan, almost wryly. He's very tired, and his stomach seems to have settled somewhat, and the sun, despite the winter cold outside, feels warm on his face.

Finch yawns, he can't help it, and somewhere deep inside his mind, the wolf yawns too. And then, he sleeps.

There is something terribly comforting about the hunt. Catching the first scent. Following it, learning the prey's habits. Seeing the prey, stalking, hiding in the shadows.

It's mostly just play, usually. Reese eats enough in his human skin to keep the wolf happy, and besides, his wolf tame. Ish. Whatever. Humans aren't fun to hunt-as-prey anyway. They're too stupid, too unobservant.

And they have guns. With, occasionally, silver bullets. The wolf knows this, and therefore generally does not want to go hunting-for-kill when humans are involved.

Hunting-for-play, though…

The wolf hums in his chest, perfectly happy.

Reese kind of hates it, right now. He's currently in the middle of the werewolf equivalent of a midlife crisis and the wolf is trying to smother him in contentment.

It is, unfortunately, working. Reese has been with the wolf for so long now that it's hard separating wolf from John and their emotions get all tangled, which generally makes his anger angry and his happiness a fountain of joy, or something, and it's really very annoying, especially when he's feeling one thing and the wolf is feeling another.

The wolf is happy, but right now Reese is very, very… confused. That's a good word for it.

On one hand—or paw, as it may be—he just turned a person. He turned a human being, and someone he knew, someone the wolf considered pack. (Which might be part of its happiness problem—the wolf sings pack now, and he kind of wants to smother it.) Wolves aren't supposed to turn others. It's still called a curse, after all, still technically "illegal."

Being wolf means being collared, registered, locked up on moon night and slowly going crazy.

On the other paw—hand, damn it—Finch would've died. Reese smelled all the blood—Finch was bleeding out. The turn saved his life.

The first and second turns were always the wildest, the strongest, with the wolf coming in fast and strong. The burst of newborn wolf had been enough to heal Finch's wounds—the new ones, anyway—and save his life.

But he is wolf now. He probably doesn't realize it just yet. His sense of smell hadn't come in, for one, and for two his wolf will be sleeping until after the second shift. Finch is, aside from faster healing and a more finely developed sense of paranoia—not that he needs that, by the way—human. Mostly.

Reese is torn between I saved a person's life and I just turned someone, and the wolf is torn between fond exasperation at its person and wild, cheerful joy.

Pack-safe-now, it says, like he's still a stupid cub. Yeah. He really, really hates it.

The wolf doesn't understand things like morals and laws and human rules—part of the reason Reese is very good at his job, actually—and so doesn't understand his current "confusion."

Hunt-time, it tells him, and Reese reluctantly pulls himself out of his thoughts, shaking vigorously to get rid of the pins and needles and the sting of the wind.

Alejandro Cruz is on the move.

Hunt-time!

Reese ignores the wolf, slipping into the crowd after Cruz. Even back here he can smell the man—sharp sweat, the Philly Cheesesteak he just had for lunch, just a little hint of ambition—and following him isn't hard even though Cruz isn't tall or all that recognizable.

So far Reese has followed him from work—some fancy corporate office in central Manhattan—to lunch and now back again, it seems. Reese follows him to the building and then, once Cruz is inside and definitely heading to work, turns around and heads towards Cruz's apartment.

The wolf, bored now that there's no actual prey in sight, curls up in the corner of his mind, still smothering his confusion and anger and guilt—yes, guilt, he's definitely going to have to take that out of something later—with contentment.

Reese ignores it, as much as he can. Which, after thirty-something years of running around with it, isn't much. Damn thing.

Cruz lives in a very nice apartment building in a very nice neighborhood—typical of the young up-and-coming VP—with a tastefully decorated hallway and a solid, old oak door. Behind the smell of wood, flowers, and Febreeze, though, Reese can smell just the faintest hint of… rot.

His hackles go up, before he can help himself. This close to moon night, even on the waning side, the wolf is up and surging into the front before Reese is even aware of baring his fangs.

Death-danger-be-safe, the wolf murmurs. As if Reese needs the warning.

He carefully opens the heavy door, straining for any sign of a threat.

The apartment is empty.

Reese nudges the wolf back down, wiggling his fingers to get rid of his claws. Cruz's apartment is neat, organized, and barely-lived in. The bedroom smells like Febreeze—he really hates that stuff—and laundry detergent, not like someone's slept there recently, and there's exactly two packs of ramen noodles and half a carton of orange juice in the fridge.

Alejandro Cruz is clearly a busy man.

Reese wanders the apartment, sniffing at the corners. The wolf is still bristling, wary, but there's no one here to be wary of.

The smell of blood and rot bothers him, though. A neat freak like Cruz wouldn't let anything rot in his home, not even a little mouse. So what is it?

Reese wanders back through the kitchen again, towards the master bedroom. Kitchen's clear of dead animals, and the bedroom is too—even dust bunnies, this guy really is anal-retentive—so the bathroom, maybe?

The bathroom door is open and Reese walks in, wrinkling his nose. He hates bathrooms. They always smell strange, no matter how much Febreeze someone sprays.

Under the sink and around the toilet is clear. Only the shower is left, and Reese throws back the curtain, half convinced he's not going to find anything.

He stops, and the wolf snarls deeply.

Written on the wall in blood—human blood—are the words i'm coming for you.

Below the words, dangling around the faucet, is a single long, sharp tooth on a cord. Reese doesn't have to touch it to know that it's sharp—he has a set of his own, after all.

Fuck, Reese thinks, pocketing the wolf's tooth and backing out of the bathroom. As if I didn't have enough to deal with.