A/N : I know, I know, I haven't finished the ten million other stories I've written but this one has been bouncing around in my head and I had to write it before it melted away into nothingness. I promise I will get back to the others. I graduated this May so I will have a lot more time to write. Anyway, I don't own Doctor Who, Supernatural or Sherlock but own various paraphernalia from all three. Now onto the story!

August 2015

The countryside flew by in a blur of blue, green, and brown as the car sped through the summer landscape of the English countryside. The gravel road crunched beneath the tires as the car drove over it. John Watson sat in the driver's seat, both hands on the wheel, his wedding band standing out in stark contrast to his almost colorless hands because he was holding the wheel so tight. He wasn't a big fan of dirt roads but his passenger was too deep in his own thoughts to have been able to drive. John shifted uncomfortably in his black coat. It was getting pretty toasty in the car and the air conditioner had broken sometime back in June. He couldn't roll the windows down either and unless he wanted to be coated in a fine layer of dust.

John glanced at the passenger seat. His best friend, Sherlock Holmes, was currently occupying this seat. His eyes were closed and his hands were steepled beneath his chin. He had been unusually quiet throughout this whole case. What had started out as something strange and wonderful to Sherlock had turned into something of a nightmare. Several weeks back Greg Lestrade said that two of his men had found the body of a well-to-do businessman in a rubbish heap outside his girlfriend's apartment complex. What caught Sherlock's attention was the fact that the body seemed perfectly intact if it weren't for the gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be. At first it looked like the girlfriend had done it, but when they spoke to the girl she said she had been in Germany for a lecture series she was speaking in. Her alibi was solid. Still, Sherlock was not deterred. He hacked into her accounts to see if she had taken enough out to hire a hit on him. Nothing. He looked into the girlfriend's past to see if she if she had a disgruntled ex. She had one ex and he had gotten married four years previous so it was highly unlikely he would be angry she was with someone else.

That was when the second body was found. Greg had called and told John and Sherlock to meet him at a local dump. When they arrived, Greg had led them to a spot the police had taped off. Sitting on top of the rubbish heap was a little girl with blonde curls and freckles. She wore a cheerleading outfit for a middle school only a few blocks away. Greg confirmed her name was Emily Rossman, 13, and that her house was about three or four blocks from here. Her parents had called her in missing last night when she didn't return from cheer practice. The body was a grisly sight but Sherlock knelt by her body and examined the gaping wound in her chest.

"Her heart is missing," he murmured. Suddenly, it went from possibly an unhappy girlfriend to a serial killer. John knelt down as well to examine the damage. Her chest had been physically ripped open in a violent manner. It also looked like there were bite marks on the arteries and veins around where her heart should have been. Was there some sicko out there who was sicking his dog on random strangers?

When they met with Molly that afternoon in the morgue she didn't ease either of their fears. She was very shakened by the whole ordeal, seemingly near tears as she monotonously gave her report. She said that both the businessman and Emily had been alive when their hearts had been removed. She also said John had been right when he thought the teeth marks were canine but not of the domestic kind; they resembled that of a wolf. John furrowed his brow as she spoke. There hadn't been wolves in Britain for years. Perhaps it was a Pit bull or a Rottweiler or a German shepherd? The strangeness of the attack didn't stop there. What really shook them all was that she had found ample amounts of human saliva in the wound. John could feel the bile crawling up his throat and he noticed Greg was probably feeling his lunch too. Sherlock on the other hand only hardened his face. John recognized this look. This killer had crossed a line and Sherlock would not rest until the killer was brought to justice in one way or another.

Molly continued saying she had found dog hairs on the victim's clothing but had been unable to identify the species. She said it was very wolf-like but it didn't quite match. There were also deep gouges on the arms of both victim's as though they had thrown their arms up in defense. They were clustered in groups of five lines, with one not quite lined up with the others as though that toe was facing a slightly different direction; like an opposable thumb.

The murders didn't stop there either. The next day, a man in his early thirties was found in his car mauled the same way as the other two victims. The windshield had been smashed to bits. Sherlock found trace amounts of blood from the attacker. The results came up muddled, canine but not quite. That night Sherlock got a call from Wiggins confirming one of the Homeless Network had been mauled in a shopping center parking lot. Both were missing their hearts and Sherlock was no closer to finding a killer. Her grew increasingly frustrated to the point where John threatened to tie him down because he was frightening Mrs. Hudson with shouts and vigorous violin playing.

Then, right when Sherlock thought he had a decent lead, the attacks stopped. For whatever reason, the serial killer decided to take a break. Due to lack in activity the trail ran cold and Sherlock fell into stony acknowledgement that he had lost this one. Greg stuck the files in the cold case bin and everyone fell into an uneasy routine of normal life. John could have sworn he caught Sherlock going back to that case every now and then between cases as though he thought he might find something he had missed.

Then exactly one month from the first attack another body turned up. This one came from a park in Bristol. It appeared that the victim, a young woman in her mid-20's, had been on an evening jog when she was mauled. John and Sherlock had just left the local morgue in hopes that they might find something at the crime scene. Like all the other bodies, her heart was violently ripped from her.

"Turn right at the next junction," Sherlock murmured. John nearly jumped out of his skin. He hadn't expected Sherlock to say anything and last he'd checked, Sherlock's eyes had been closed.

"Sure thing," John replied. He slowed down as he came to the turn and pulled into a parking lot for a trailhead. It was late afternoon so most of the people present were chatting around cars as they packed up their hiking gear. Some people whispered as they realized Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were pulling in. Still famous outside London it would seem. The two men climbed out of the car. Sherlock headed straight for the trail ignoring all the gasps and pointing in his direction. John smiled and waved before hurrying after him.

They were on the trail for about 45 minutes before Sherlock stopped. On the trail ahead of him was the unmistakable mark of a bloodstain. It was a bit scuffed up from people walking over it so the original spill radius was lost. The mortician had mentioned something about the police deeming it an animal attack and saw no reason to close down the trail. Judging by Sherlock's grunt as he looked around he disagreed. John noticed that the foliage to the right of the trail was torn and trampled.

"He must have come from this side of the trail," John said pointing it out to Sherlock.

"Yes, the shoe print suggests as much," Sherlock replied.

"Shoe print?" John questioned.

"Yes, under the scrub oak," Sherlock replied scanning the bloodstain and then leaping into the foliage on the left. Sure enough, when John lifted some of the torn plants he found a muddy footprint.

"It's a woman's size seven," Sherlock said as he trudged around on the other side.

"So a woman is killing all these people?" John asked.

"Possibly, it could have been the jogger's shoe but I doubt it. It's too pristine. If it were the jogger's it would be smeared as she would have been dragged off into the woods," Sherlock explained.

"Would a woman be able to drag another woman off into the woods?" John asked. "Stacie looked like she could have put up a good fight."

The jogger, Stacie, had been on her university's rugby team. She wasn't exactly a small girl.

"Possibly, but again unlikely," Sherlock replied. He growled and threw a stone to the ground. "None of the evidence adds up! This is increasingly more frustrating the longer this goes on."

"Maybe we're trying to connect too much," John suggested. "Maybe this isn't one killer. Maybe it's a cult."

"Already thought of that," Sherlock said. "No evidence,"

"Don't you have any theories?" John asked.

"One but I'm fairly certain I would be deemed completely mental for suggesting it," Sherlock replied tartly.

"Sherlock, you shot a guy in the head at point blank range," John said drily. "People already think you're mental."

Sherlock just shrugged and kept up his search. John watched him for a few minutes before he sighed. "Maybe-"

"There is no maybe John!" Sherlock shouted. "We have a crazed serial killer who seems to have moved from London to Bristol and who seemingly attacks random people at random so we have no way of tracking them down! I can't even tell if a person is doing the actual killing or if it's a dog because Molly can't seem to isolate a DNA strand!"

"Sherlock, I think we should head home. Let's call Molly on the way back and we'll reconvene at Baker Street and try from the beginning. We had to have missed something. It has happened before, you've said it yourself," John said calmly. Sherlock sighed in frustration but didn't argue. He climbed out of the bushes and back onto the trail. The sun was nearly set. John started down the trail, Sherlock trailing behind like an angry toddler.

The sun was completely down thirty minutes later and the moon was just climbing into the sky when Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. John paused when he heard Sherlock freeze. He turned around but knew better than to say anything. Years as a soldier had taught him to be silent whenever possible. Sherlock put a finger to his lips and pointed into the woods just ahead of them where the trail turned to the right and vanished. John turned to look where he was looking but he didn't see or hear so much as a rustle in the leaves.

Suddenly to his left he heard a low rumbling growl not too unlike an angry dog. He slowly reached behind him to where he had tucked his gun into his waistband. A twig snapped off to their left where the growling was coming from. Sherlock whipped his head in that direction just as a guttural growl much like a mountain lion broke the semi-silence and a wild-eyed woman leapt out of the woods at him. Sherlock stumbled backward and before the woman reached him, a bullet tore through her temple and she collapsed in a heap. Sherlock was leaning against a tree. He looked at John who held his gun, still smoking, pointed at the woman. Sherlock cleared his throat and stood straight trying to appear unaffected but failing.

"Well, my vote is on rabid pedestrian," John said with a weak laugh. "We should probably call the police."

"Yes, I suppose-" Sherlock stopped midsentence. He was inching his way around the body when she started to stir. "John, run!"

Sherlock leapt over her and the two sped off down the trail. Another guttural growl told them the woman wasn't too far behind them. It was only a matter of minutes before they burst out of the woods and into the now empty parking lot. John fumbled with the keys before Sherlock shouted. John whipped around as the woman burst through the trees. He quickly tossed the keys to Sherlock and pulled out his gun. The woman charged him. John stumbled back. Her eyes were a violent, bloodshot red and in her mouth was an alarming set of sharp pointed teeth. He shot at her again hitting her in the shoulder. She didn't even stutter.

"John get in!" Sherlock shouted. John rolled over the nose of the car and wrenched open the driver's side door. He slammed the door shut behind him and hit the gas, backing up at an alarming rate. The car hit the woman and rolled over her.

"No offense John but if shooting her has little to no effect on her I doubt that a vehicle will!" Sherlock shouted.

"I panicked, okay?" John spat back.

"Well panic some more and get us out of here!" Sherlock shouted as the woman stood up. She was an awful sight covered from head to toe in blood, her hair matted with blood, mud, and leaves. Her head had even concaved in the back and yet she was still standing. One of her wrists was dangling at a sickening angle clearly broken and yet she growled and charged them again slamming into the car and making it rock on two wheels for a moment.

"Right," John hit the gas and sped out of the parking lot and down the gravel road. The woman chased after them but was soon lost in the dust cloud left by the car. Sherlock glanced behind them. When he saw she was no longer behind them he faced front again and slumped in his seat.

"What the hell happened back there?" John shouted covering his fright with an angry burst. "That bullet I put in her forehead should have done the trick!"

"My guess is that the bullet didn't work because it wasn't made of silver," Sherlock replied more than a little out of breath. He was gripping the door handle and the armrest rather tightly. He didn't want his emotions showing though he thought John was a bit preoccupied at the moment.

"Because it wasn't…are you bloody insane?!" John shouted. "Why would it have to be silver?!"

"A silver bullet in the heart is the only way to kill a werewolf," Sherlock said as though it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

"I beg your pardon?" John said.

"I did warn you that my theory was a bit odd," Sherlock snapped. "You have to admit it fits with the evidence."

"Werewolves aren't real! Hollywood invented them for horror flicks!" John shouted hysterically.

"Then how do you explain the condition of that woman with her wild eyes and foaming mouth full of sharp canines? Or the fact that a bullet in her head only slowed her for a moment and how she was barely stunned by a car running over her? What about all the attacks from the case? Human saliva but tooth marks of a dog? Or the fact that they only occurred during the full moon?"

"You have completely lost it!" John shouted hitting the paved main road and tearing off toward London.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth!" Sherlock argued.

"Werewolves are impossible!" John retorted. He growled in frustration. "If they turn out to be real I'll eat my dog."

"What dog?" Sherlock asked.

"My bulldog, Gladstone? I've had him for nearly a year," John said.

"Oh,"

John sighed. "You know for being so observant you can be utterly oblivious sometimes. So now what?"

"As much as it pains me, I need to call Mycroft. He may have contacts who can explain what we just saw," Sherlock sighed grudgingly pulling out his phone.

$ $# %$#^

Dean took a large bite out of his burger and munched happily. He and Sam had stopped at a diner on their way out of a small town in Iowa. They had just disposed of a troublesome poltergeist and Dean had insisted he was starving and needed to stop. Sam decided he wasn't going to argue because things had been tenuous with his brother and he didn't want to get in an argument.

So now Sam sat watching in disdain as his brother devoured a hamburger while mayo and ketchup seeped out of the sandwich and down the sides of his mouth. He scrunched his nose and shook his head in disgust.

"Watching you eat is so unappetizing," he commented looking out the window to avoid watching Dean.

"Ven doene wash," Dean said around a mouthful of beef. Sam sighed and shook his head. Then he stood up.

"I'm going to run to the restroom. Don't take off without me," he said.

"Doene fa lin," Dean said taking another bite of his meal. Sam shook his head again and headed for the back of the diner where a dirty sign said "RESTROOM" and pushed open the door for the men's one. The bathroom was dingy with very little light and in desperate need of a good wash. Sam ignored this and went to the rusty sink and turned on the faucet. He filled his hands with water and splashed his face. He was exhausted and he couldn't wait to fall into his bed. He glanced into the mirror and nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Dammit, Cas!" he shouted.

"I have some bad news," Castiel said ignoring Sam's irritation at his sudden appearance. Sam groaned.

"When are you ever going to show up with good news? Isn't that what angels should do?"

Castiel cocked his head in confusion. Sam just shook his head and waved his hand. "Never mind, what's the bad news?"

"A great evil has returned," Castiel said solemnly.

"Another one?" Sam asked in a bored tone.

"Unfortunately," Castiel replied. "Lucifer's right-hand man has come out to play again. No one has seen him in over a hundred years."

"And who is Lucifer's right-hand man?" Sam asked.

"Back in the day he was called Teival. These days I believe more know him as Legion."