A/N: Hello! This story is the sequel/continuance of my previous supernatural/AU Holmes story, "Hounded". It does help if you have read it, or else you won't understand "furry Watson" references... this is the first time I have started posting chapters to a story that I haven't already finished at least in draft. I keep changing my mind about the direction to take this, so I apologise now if the updates are sporadic.
My thanks to all those people who read & reviewed Hounded, but especially to Bartimus Crotchety, because a) You were right; b) You sparked something with your picture... http:/ community . livejournal .com/watsons_#cutid1 ... and c) When I grow up, I want to write at least half as good as you do. This story is dedicated to you, in the fervent hope that it doesn't turn out too bad.
My Dearest Watson,
I write this sitting in our shared rooms at Baker Street. I do not know why I have begun this narrative. You have often said that writing helps you to think – I have done nothing but think, these past few weeks. I have never had any problem with sitting down and concentrating upon a problem, subjecting it to the intense scrutiny of my analytical mind. I have always been satisfied to leave the art of writing to you… but I digress.
I wonder if you will ever read this account… I have no wish to offend you, my dear fellow, but I cannot bring myself to say these things aloud. I suspect that you would not judge me for my thoughts, but such baring of my soul is as alien to my nature as to cause harm to another is to yours.
So, instead, I shall record my observations and deductions, Doctor, as fastidiously as I record my case notes and my chemical experiments, but I shall keep this journal far from sight and prying eyes. It is a risk, for the secrets it holds could destroy the lives of many, but it is my fervent hope that by keeping such a record, we may one day find a solution to our problem. Perhaps it will not be in my lifetime; if I were a gambling man, I would wager that your life expectancy will be somewhat longer than my own. Indeed, I doubt that I will pass this journal on to you while there is still breath in my body, but no matter what the manner of my passing, I am certain that it shall only fall into your hands.
But my purpose is not to dwell on the inevitable demise of a frail human body. My purpose is to record all of the information on the enigma at hand. The problem that faces me now is one that I think I may never solve, Watson.
That problem is you, and what you have become.
I shall not narrate the beginning circumstances, for I know that in that regard you have kept your own notes. I shall begin my recollections and observations from some weeks later. I recall very clearly one particular night…
The night air was cool and still. Grey clouds hung low over the city of London, and wisps of mist drifted slowly downwards, gradually threatening to envelop the city by morning. Dawn was still several hours away. A dog's howl echoed through a distant street. A few hardy or desperate souls wandered the alleyways, as a lone hansom clopped and clattered down the cobbled main street. It was a perfect night… if one wished to remain obscure and unseen.
Sherlock Holmes slipped soundlessly through the shadows of a back street between two rows of residential houses. He paused, blue-grey eyes wide and alert as he glanced around, seeing and hearing nothing extraordinary over the night-time noises of the city. A chained-up dog barked and whined somewhere in the next street; a drunk was singing loudly outside the nearest tavern, and a domestic argument raged behind closed doors in one of the houses.
Holmes moved on, passing locked wooden gates, until he reached the one he was looking for. It was a rotting, damp, wooden affair, paint peeling from the worm-pocked surface. However, when he pushed it with a leather-gloved hand, the gate slid open noiselessly. He had purposely been there earlier in the week, disguised as a workman, and had oiled the hinges in advance of the night's sojourn. The house, as he had expected, was in darkness, save for a dull glow emanating from an upstairs window. A brief smile flickered across his features; the window was open, and the gaslight coming from within told him that the burglars he was pursuing had walked straight into his trap.
Reaching into his pocket, Holmes pulled out a small, tin whistle. He blew on it, and, although it made no audible sound, it clearly announced his presence to one person in particular. He then silently pushed open the back door of the house – again, the hinges had been oiled well in advance. With a light tread, he climbed the stairs, although he already knew what he was going to find. When he pushed open the door to the back bedroom, he could barely suppress a smile.
"Gentlemen," he greeted the scene with a dispassionate nod, "I am glad to see that you have availed yourselves of my hospitality."
"D…D… Don't let that… that thing… anywhere near me!" yelped one of two terrified men, from where he cowered behind the bed.
The other would-be burglar had somehow managed to climb on top of the wardrobe, where he curled into the small space between it and the ceiling, trembling in terror. Holmes could see ripped holes in their clothing, torn by something incredibly sharp, which had managed to avoid breaking the skin beneath. He permitted himself a small, evil smile.
"Good work," he nodded, to the only other occupant in the room, "hold, now."
The fourth occupant, a massive canine, growled menacingly, causing both of the men to start in alarm, even as the huge dog sat obediently on its haunches. It was big, bigger than any other dog either man had seen, with large brown eyes and wickedly sharp teeth. Its fur was a dark brown colour, dappled with white, grey and black, and, as they had both discovered, the hound had extremely sharp claws at well.
"Scotland Yard will be along shortly to collect you, gentlemen," Holmes told the two men, conversationally, "In the meantime, I am pleased to say that this is not the residence of Lord Forsythe's allegedly light-fingered scullery maid; you will not find any stolen diamonds here."
"Bugger the diamonds," whined the man on top of the wardrobe, close to tears, "where the bloody hell did you find that rabid monster?"
"He belongs to… to a friend of mine," Holmes replied, gracing the hound with a tight smile, "he is very obedient… usually. He does not take kindly to intruders, however…"
Another deep, rumbling growl made both of the said intruders tremble again, as Holmes raised a hand.
"You are Cartwright and Reamer," Holmes pronounced, glancing at each in turn, "you have been stealing from thieves; an interesting approach to crime. You steal items that have already been stolen, therefore avoiding the initial risk of breaking into the legal owner's homes. I have observed your activities for some time, and have, at some expense, procured some of the items you have stolen on behalf of my clients. I have already assessed your methods; you are well-known thieves and pick-pockets. It is simple to deduce that you therefore know of all of the accomplished house-robbers in the city. You wait until a major robbery or theft is reported, and you then establish for yourselves who committed the crime, before burglarising them yourselves. Very clever in theory, but very sloppy in practice – it was easy for me to place a fake news story about stolen diamonds, the scullery-maid a suspect, giving this address, and all I had to do then was wait for you to break into this house."
"Yes, yes, you're the bleeding genius, now get rid of that ruddy dog!" moaned the man behind the bed.
The huge hound snarled again, and Holmes half-turned at the sound of the front door being kicked open and voices sounding on the stairs. Scotland Yard had arrived; Holmes had warned them to keep a watch on the house for the week. The wolf-like dog looked up at Holmes with large, questioning brown eyes. Holmes looked down at it, and nodded.
"Ah, yes, of course," he murmured, as if to himself, "you may go."
At his word, the hound rose, gave one last snarl at the two robbers, and padded quietly out of the room, to which they both breathed an audible sigh of relief. Surprised shouts, yelps and curses on the stairs preceded the arrival of Inspector Gregson into the room, looking slightly pale.
"Mr Holmes!" he exclaimed, seeing the state of the two captives, "What happened? Did you see – a bloody great dog – it just…"
"Indeed, Inspector," Holmes's dry tone easily cut through the Inspector's surprise, "the dog belongs to… well, an acquaintance of Dr. Watson's. I merely, ah, asked for his assistance in trapping these two men, who, as you will be aware, can be quite dangerous when cornered."
"Aye," growled Gregson, "As I recall, they beat a street constable almost to death when he tried to apprehend them a couple of weeks ago – the poor lad's still recovering."
"We'll… we'll confess to everything…" the man on top of the wardrobe was being dragged down, none too gently, by two constables, "just keep that bloody dog away!"
Holmes suppressed a chuckle, schooling his face into an impassive mask, as he detailed to Gregson, with some degree of smugness, how he had set and sprung a trap for the malicious, clever house-breakers, who were now being led away, as meek as kittens. Gregson eyed the damage to their clothing, and whistled.
"Vicious looking dog that, Holmes," the Inspector said, warningly, "I hope the doctor's friend keeps it under good control – I wouldn't think twice about having a monster like that put down if it caused any trouble."
"He is very well trained," Holmes replied, hiding his amusement, "very intelligent, in fact, for a canine – and certainly of more assistance than several members of Scotland Yard that I could name."
Gregson bit back a curt response, knowing that it would only end in his personal humiliation if he entered into a verbal sparring match with the insufferable detective. Instead, the Inspector glanced around, changing the subject; "Where is Dr. Watson this evening, anyway? I had expected him to be here, when you told me we'd be making an arrest soon... thank God it was tonight, I don't think I could stand another all-night watch on this house. It's bloody freezing outside."
"Watson was called away to attend a patient," Holmes told him, turning away, "Unfortunately, no other doctor in the area was able to cover for him. He sends his regards. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think my work here is done. Good night, Inspector."
Without a further word, and ignoring Gregson's half-hearted protest, Holmes turned and walked out of the room, down the stairs, disappearing into the night.
Halfway down the street, Holmes was greeted by a familiar figure – one moment he was walking alone, and the next there was a four-legged friend padding along beside him.
"Good evening, Watson," Holmes said, in a low but conversational tone, "Excellent work today."
"Thank you, Holmes," the hound replied, politely, incongruously with his vicious, wolf-like appearance, "I must say, your timing was excellent – a few minutes longer, and one of them might have had a heart attack!"
"I noticed the tears in their clothing… you didn't bite either of them, I trust?"
"I was very careful not to break the skin. The last thing I want is another werewolf running around London, especially a criminal one! I simply disarmed them and terrified them into submission until your arrival."
Holmes nodded in the darkness as Watson, in his werewolf form, slunk along beside him in the shadows.
"If Gregson asks," Holmes said, suddenly, "it was a friend of yours who loaned me a large, vicious-looking guard dog for tonight's activities, and you were off attending to a patient. It was the best way I could think of to explain both your presence and your absence!"
"Understood," the wolf gave a growl of a laugh, "I think Gregson is afraid of dogs in any case – he was terrified when I came out of the room and passed him on the stairs!"
Holmes gave his characteristic bark of a laugh; "The poor fellow, he did look quite pale when he came in! He threatened to have you put down if you caused any trouble."
"Then for once I'll try to stay out of it, though I doubt he'd have much luck in any case," Watson responded, "Holmes, it's not far to Baker Street from here – I really need to, um… change back. I'll meet you there."
"Very well," Holmes inclined his head, "Take care, Watson – I shall see you in a few minutes."
Watson returned the nod, and bounded off into the night, as Holmes followed at a much more sedate pace.
Oh, Watson – it amuses me still to recall the numerous excuses and explanations I had to come up with for both your presence and simultaneous absence at crime scenes or arrests! The poor fools at Scotland Yard… your great strength and your excellent sense of smell have proved invaluable time and again, and although you always considered your condition to be a curse, you made it into one of your greatest assets.
Oh, but how tested you were in those early days! If only we had known that day what the dawn would bring us…