The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I only entertain this idea.
Looking for constructive reviews, please.
WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence, mild/harsh language, I am a cruel woman.
Author's Note: This randomly popped into my head one night and is literally taking on a life of it's own. I have no idea what English summers are like, so I'm pulling heavily from New England weather. I've come to the conclusion that characters do not fair well when they're in my hands.
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- Catching A Scent -

Heat waves rolled along the rooftop, the heat of the day lingering long into the midnight hour. Her smile was genuine, his was genuinely fake, but it worked. Show her something, that's the line he had used, on oh so many girls with an eighty-seven percent success rate; it was less effective on men. She never doubted for a minute that something was amiss. She stared, star struck at the size and closeness of the moon, quietly asking if it was full. Something in the way he said not yet made her turn, the half smile on her face faded when she saw how he looked at her.

Lips curled to reveal teeth she didn't remember running her tongue along a half hour ago. Her mouth dropped open in shock. He smirked, hearing the scream rise in her throat. In a moment, he was on her, his jaws clamped tightly around her precious, slim throat. Muscles twitched haphazardly as rich crimson splashed onto the gravel rooftop. Gurgling escaped her slack mouth, eyes wide with terror. She pawed uselessly at the man around her throat. Her mouth stretched into a silent scream as his fingers dug into the flesh of her fit stomach. Her would-be voice vibrated in his jaws as he brought them together, before yanking his head from his victim.

Her body went limp in his arms, her mouth wide, her eyes suddenly dead. He dropped the lifeless corpse from his grip, struggling to get the amount of meat in his mouth down his throat. He crunched her larynx between molars before the sweet flesh slid into his stomach with an almost audible PLOP. Cracking his neck to the left first, then the right and stretching his tight muscles, he let loose a satisfactory growl.

He knelt next to his victim, his clawed fingers tearing into her thin club wear before cutting a y into the flesh of her chest. Precious moments slid by as he worked his fingers beneath her flesh, his practiced hands flaying the tissue between her skin and ribs. His fierce yellow eyes twinkled as her blood swam around his strong, dexterous digits. He snarled at her ribcage as he peeled back the large flaps of skin to reveal her insides, sickly red tendrils breaking with a snap as the skin came to rest at her sides. One solid punch broke through her ribs allowing his left hand to slide beneath the splintered bones.

Finding his prize, he gave a jerking pull, loosing her heart from its place in her chest. His eyes widened in marvel at the once alive organ in his blood drenched hand; a sight that he would never tire of. A low growl exited his throat as he smiled. He turned it, letting the moonlight bounce playfully along the arteries as they voided blood over his already stained digits.

With a sickening SQUELCH, he sank his fangs into her heart, easily tearing it in half. In a few chews, he swallowed the organ before hastily shoving the other half in his mouth. It wasn't long before the whole heart was reunited in his gut. Standing to face the moon, he threw his head back and released a monstrous howl, excess blood draining down his chin, staining his knit jumper red. He stared through heavily lidded eyes at the moon, his tongue flicking flesh from between his fangs.

His taught muscles began to loosen, his claws sliding painfully into recess once again. He grunted as his jaw popped, his teeth regaining their human size. The sclera of his eyes paled back to white as the yellow orange irises returned to their natural hazel state.

John Watson dropped hard to his knees, his painful transformation complete. He closed his eyes and just sat on his heels, breathing heavily while he waited for his heart to calm. John tipped his head back, opening his eyes slightly, hearing the very distant wail of police sirens. Sudden exhilaration pushed a manic laugh from his gut. When he stopped, John could still hear his laugh ringing out against the clear night. The crimson spillage caught his eye and a wicked grin danced on John's lips as he surveyed his kill.

"Another one for the papers," he whispered, her blood catching in his throat. John shakily stood; his knees threatening to lower him to the ground once more, in a state of near intoxication from his activities. Three steps away, he bent to one knee, trying to catch his breath and will the queasiness from his gut. A quick shake finally cleared his head. Standing, he grinned at the almost full moon.

"Tomorrow, my love." John blew a wet kiss to the moon before breaking into a hard run and jumping over the alleyway to the adjacent building. He quickened his pace, jumping over the London rooftops as he streaked across the city away from his kill and the wail of sirens that would find her. A sudden rumble of thunder paused John in his tracks. He turned to see the moon hidden from sight by storm clouds. He stuck his bloodied tongue out at the clouds, giving a quick sniff. The coming rain did little to hide the airy scent of the moon from him.

John turned for home when a third scent peaked in the air. He turned back, sniffing the air in earnest for a scent that had no business being found in a city like London. Indian spice, cinnamon, ginger, and the faintest hint of smoke and ammonia alighted the air. For the briefest moment, John lost control. His sclera quickly darkened to black and his eye color shifted dramatically.

He cast his bright eyes to the street below him, scouring for the source of the smell. John's eyes bounced from one human to the next, his nostrils flaring as the scent became stronger. He placed his bloody hands on the roof edge and looked straight down. The flash of a woolen coat was all John had seen, but the scent that wafted from it left little doubt in his mind that he'd found what he was searching for.

His eyes reverted to their respectable state as he left red handprints pushing from the street. This man of intriguing scent lived in London, so it wouldn't be that hard to find him again. Thunder sounded directly above John, opening the heavens upon him.

A wicked snarl curled John's lips. The growl began deep in his chest slowly working its way up his throat until it burst out of his mouth, only to be almost drowned out by another roll of thunder. John huffed at Mother Nature, the spices nearly ripped from the air. He stalked the rest of the way home in a very bad mood, nearly breaking down the door of his hovel.

He shook the rain from his body, leaving pink droplets scattered on the wooden floor of his flat. At least his shower wouldn't need to be as vigorous. Once showered and freshly dressed, John pulled raw steak and lager from the fridge before sulking onto his mattress. He ate in silence, wondering what the man of Indian spice could possibly look like and what a man who smelled like him was doing living in London.