Once upon a time there was a young man who always wore a blue scarf when he went crime solving. The people called him Little Blue Sherlock, because of his blue scarf and because he was seldom happy.
He lived in a house with a kindly old woman named Mrs. Hudson who baked beautiful pies. He also had a brother, but they weren't close and his sibling lived far away so they couldn't bicker at each other.
One day, Mrs. Hudson baked some small cakes, fried some bacon and put all of her delicious food into a wicker traveling basket.
"Oh Little Blue Sherlock," she called upstairs, "Won't you come and take this basket to your brother? He's been dieting again and I'm afraid he's caught ill."
Sherlock snarled down the stairs that he was not his brother's delivery service.
After some ear pulling and various threats Little Blue Sherlock was ready to ride out to find his brother's house.
"Take care dear, stick to the main roads and be wary of strangers," Mrs. Hudson warned, wrapping his scarf protectively around his bare head like a hood. "There's been a wolf abound lately, snatching up little children and their baskets."
"I know Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock groaned, "I've been on that case for weeks now. And I'm not a child anymore. Although, if you feel strongly for my safety I could take my harpoon?"
But she had already shoved him out of the house and slammed the front door.
So Sherlock tucked the basket under his arm and went hiking off to find his brother's house.
Along the way he passed a few members of Scotland Yard who echoed Mrs. Hudson's warnings.
"Watch out for the Wolf Little Blue Sherlock," they tittered like nesting birds, "He's coming to eat you!"
"My name is Sherlock!" he cried, "Just Sherlock! I have no idea where you got this whole 'Little Blue' thing from! I'm six-foot one!"
They giggled idiotically until he was out of their sight. As Sherlock passed into the darker part of the city, he stumbled upon a little brown path of what seemed to be bread crumbs.
"Stupid Mycroft," he thought, realizing his brother had already cheated on his diet. They weren't bread crumbs, they were cake crumbs.
He followed the crumbs for a time until a dark figure stepped into his path.
"Hello Sherlock," it growled as he slowly took in the creature's improbable body. "Or should I call you sexy?"
"Canis Lupis," Sherlock deduced, scrutinizing the wolf in front of him with an appraising eye. It stood on its hind paws like a pair of feet with its forepaws crossed in front of his thick barrel chest in a sassy gesture. A loose navy blue tie hung down from around his neck like a discarded leash.
"Guilty!" the Wolf squealed, "So, where are you headed, hot stuff?"
Sherlock mentally checked his temperature and found it a few degrees insufficient of hot.
"I'm going to my brother's to mock him and ruin his diet."
"Sounds like fun. Would you mind if I tag along?" The Wolf said, grinning toothy. His fangs were sharp and pointed into his blood-red mouth like two rows of ice cream cones.
Sherlock, being clever and unusually brave, answered: "Hold on one second, I'll call Graham and ask him."
"Graham?"
"Inspector Graham Lestrade of Scotland Yard? He's a good friend of Mycroft's and we're supposed to meet up ahead to walk together."
The Wolf's eyes became wide and his unorthodox face perfectly framed his shock.
"Oh," he muttered, "I just remembered some pigs I'm supposed to attend to; maybe some other time." And with that he ran off.
Sherlock chuckled to himself and continued walking the path of ruined cake.
Along the way he ran into John, who was sitting on a bench thumbing the gun in the back of his trousers.
"Hullo John!" he called happily.
"Hi there Little Blue," John called back, making Sherlock wince.
"What are you doing here?"
John smiled, "Lestrade called and said he needed someone to keep an eye on this street corner. The Wolf was spotted here twice."
Sherlock puffed out his chest proudly, "I just saw the Wolf on that street over there!" he pointed behind him.
Astonished, John demanded an immediate explanation, which the boasting detective happily gave.
"I don't understand," he said once the tale had finished, "why didn't you chase after him recklessly like you'd normally do?"
"I cannot miss this chance to smear my brother's face in his only weakness, the git."
John sighed, smiling at the childish sibling rivalry.
"Would you like me to follow you to make sure the Wolf does not seek you out again?"
Sherlock turned his nose up at the offer, "Absolutely not John, go and alert Scotland Yard immediately. I shall be fine on my own."
John nodded and raced off to alert the policemen that there was a wolf hunting between those two streets as Sherlock steadfastly picked up the crumb trail and followed it to its source.
Little did they both know that the Wolf had been watching and listening. He heard of Sherlock's clever deceit and was frustrated by how he'd been tricked.
But a plan was bubbling in his great, predatory mind. He raced ahead of Sherlock and, sniffing around the street carefully, he picked the cake crumb trail up and followed it swiftly to a posh, stately house.
He knew he'd beaten Sherlock to the by more than five minutes, so he let himself break in slowly. Stealthily, he crept upon the eldest Holmes, who he could hear breathing heavily in bed. The smell of cake was overwhelming.
He slunk into the room and found Mycroft lying flat on the bed, snoozing in a sugar coma. His stomach was slightly distended and his breathing labored from the pressure of the cake sitting in his belly.
A floorboard creaked from under the Wolf and Mycroft jolted awake with a start.
The Wolf didn't blink, merely rested is paws on the bed, grinning merrily.
"You're stuffed full, aren't you?" gray eyes regarded him wearily. "You can't even move to get me, can you?"
Mycroft didn't move, but moaned slightly.
The Wolf smirked viciously, realizing to his grim satisfaction that the Holmeses were falling into the belly of the beast.
In the meanwhile, Sherlock had become frustrated with following the trail and had taken some of the bacon from the basket to eat. If Mycroft was going to make him work this hard just to deliver food, then he was going to impose a tax.
Abruptly, he found himself standing at the front door of a house, with the cake trail clearly continuing inside. He finished the bacon and knocked on the door. It swung open under his knuckles.
Sherlock shivered. It was very unlike Mycroft to leave his door unlocked.
Sherlock cautiously snuck inside. The house had a cloyingly sweet smell clinging to the dense air, like frosting and blood.
Even though he'd never been to his brother's house before he quickly deduced where the bedroom would be. Mycroft was painfully obvious.
The room was fairly sparse, having no furniture but a long four poster bed. Mycroft, the lazy lump, had buried himself under a thick duvet pulled over his head.
"Wake up git, I've brought you some real food." Little Blue Sherlock shouted, dropping the basket roughly on the floor.
Mycroft's voice was meek, yet husky.
"Whose there?"
Sherlock laughed cruelly, feeling a bit sorry for his brother after all.
"Poor bastard, you really are sick aren't you?" he chuckled walking around the bed to take a good look at his brother's miserable face. "You don't sound like yourself!"
Mycroft had the covers tugged tightly over his face, blocking out all light.
Sherlock tugged playfully on the sheets, trying to free his head.
"God, you really did it this time Mycroft," he teased, "You're as big as a cow!"
Mycroft muttered something that sounded like "I'd save on milk."
A bit of blanked tugged away from his head and short choppy black hair fell into view.
Sherlock scrunched up his nose in partial disgust, "You've dyed your hair. I don't like it!"
Now Mycroft clearly stated, "It's a new look I'm trying out."
Sherlock tugged on the blanket with all of his weight, trying to wrest it from Mycroft's iron grip and that's when he noticed the pillow beneath Mycroft's head. It had been shredded by something with sharp talons and feathers were neatly strewn around his head like a white halo.
"My…" the words trickled out of him harshly. He dropped the blanket and backed himself against the wall. "What large talons you have."
One of the claws peeked out from under the shroud of blankets, flexing ominously and tearing into the mattress.
The claw was followed by a leathery black nose, a snout, gleaming onyx eyes and the sudden realization that he had not been talking to Mycroft at all.
"The better to cut you with, Little Blue!" the Wolf snarled, his ivory teeth on display.
Sherlock was momentarily frozen in panic, but as the Wolf untangled himself from the blankets he found the strength to throw himself from the wall and start running.
The beast slammed into the wall mere moments after he'd escaped, biting and ripping at the air.
Sherlock grabbed at the door knob and screamed as the old thing jammed. He twisted and beat his fist against the door, certain that any moment would be his last.
Then, he heard laughter. He slowly turned, full of dread, to face the Wolf.
"You're so cute," the beast gushed, "I could just eat you up!"
Sherlock threw himself against the door again and this time it swung open miraculously under his weight, sending him toppling to the floor.
He hit the ground hard with his hands under him. From across the room the beast's heavy footpads became louder as he trotted closer. His meal was trying to escape and he felt no need to rush the kill.
Sherlock shoved himself to his feet and unsteadily stumbled through the house, reaching desperately for the front door. He felt as though he'd descended into some sort of nightmare where a monster would chase him endlessly through darkened halls and escape would always be just mere feet away.
But eventually he did reach the door. He threw it open and stepped out into the streets hoping that he could scream and alert a passerby that someone was trying to murder him, but to his disappointment and dismay there were no passersby. The street was empty and deserted and no one heard his cry.
Except for the Wolf, who snuck up behind him and grabbed his waist and his arm, pulling him back into the dark house.
"Come on Little Blue," he growled in his ear, "Being with me doesn't have to be bad, just think of all the interesting people you'll meet down deep in my belly. You'll be one with everyone I ever ate, mingling inside of me."
Sherlock screamed louder as the darkness enveloped him. With one arm he clung to the door jamb, but the Wolf was too powerful and it lifted him off of his feet.
He then repurposed his free hand to peeling the wolf's shaggy arm from his nicely ironed suit.
"Let go of me you stupid mutt!" he hissed and swore, kicking and lashing at his canine captor. "Bad dog!"
The Wolf roared angrily and snapped at his ear with his powerful jaws, just missing ripping the delicate skin. Sherlock stilled.
"I've eaten geniuses like you before!" he boasted, slicking his fangs with a swipe from his tongue. "And preparation is always torture. But there's nothing sweeter than giving a brat his Just Desserts!"
In short order he had Sherlock tied up hand and foot and had muffled his cries with a wad of cloth. The young detective was dropped unceremoniously on the couch to await the Wolf's mealtime preparations.
He skillfully removed Sherlock's shoes, fumbling slightly over the knots with his paws before simply shredding the laces, and started systematically separating and biting his toes.
Little Blue Sherlock screeched in pain as the beast tormented the sensitive digits.
The Wolf lapped up the tricking blood, carefully avoiding a stain on the furniture, and giggled deliriously to himself. Sherlock was panicking and fear filled his blood with adrenaline, which made the wolf woozy with delight.
He was so happy, he didn't notice John softly push the door open and creep over to the pair until he was standing behind the Wolf, gun pointed straight at his heart. John's soldier instincts had kicked in around halfway to Scotland Yard and he had turned around to follow his danger-prone friend. He'd arrived just in time to see Sherlock vanish into the house, pulled by an unseen force in the shadows. John had immediately known, however, what it was that had captured Sherlock.
The pleading eyes of Little Blue Sherlock looked up at him beseechingly as the Wolf continued to suckle blood from his toes.
When John pulled back the hammer, the Wolf reacted to the little click by spinning around. Fortunately John wasn't one for waiting for grass to grow under his feet and pulled the trigger shortly after. The Wolf slid down at John's feet, a defeated beast beneath the hunter, instantly dead.
John freed a squirming Sherlock, who shot up from the now blood soaked couch and began to hobble around painfully.
"Help me find Mycroft!" he demanded, trailing blood around in his wake, "I need to know what the wolf did to him!"
They found Mycroft later locked in a large walk-in cupboard. The Wolf had shut him up in there to keep him out-of-the-way, but he'd found some Pepto-Bismol in the darkness and felt better, to Sherlock's disgust (and secret relief).
John carried Little Blue Sherlock bridal-style to a bed where he treated his feet and called Scotland Yard. Little Blue Sherlock turned red with anger at the indignity of his treatment.
The Yarders raised a bit of hell over Sherlock having been confronted by the killer, but he gestured to his heavily bandaged feet and stated that when the next psychopathic semi-bestial killer hit London they would be more than welcome to act as bait in his stead.
Sherlock and John ate cake and bacon in front of Mycroft, who excused himself to visit the restroom looking rather green.
They laughed and got crumbs everywhere, then went home to Mrs. Hudson for tea and bed.
The End.