Written for a Tumblr prompt I saw on my Dash this morning. I needed some outside writing for a bit while I continue to work on my other stories, including Glimpse of Gold. This one was just fun.

Original Prompt is that John Watson is a serial killer. Everything else I just ran with.

Wolves Are Allergic To Wool

It turned out that John Watson was a Serial Killer.

And not just any serial killer, oh no, The Serial Killer.

The Wolf

The one Sherlock Holmes had been looking for, for over three years, just out of reach.

Elusive, sneaky, cunning.

He'd probably never figured it out either, not if his brother hadn't insisted that there was something wrong about the mild mannered doctor who he'd taken in as a flatmate. That the little jumper-clad, tea loving man was a little too perfect, a little too calm, cool, and collected. At first Sherlock had been suspicious as well, what with the man not even hesitating to kill for him on the first day they'd met, but after living with the ex-military man for a while all his suspicions had flown right out the window. It was just old military training, that's all, that's all it ever was. Not even Detective Inspector Lestrade had suspected anything but the norm from Dr. John Watson, not in all their dealings with one another, all the late night cases, the early morning jogs after criminals through the fog. No one had believed anything bad of John except Mycroft, and that was only because he'd thought the man a little too innocent, a little too normal.

Sherlock had resented him for it, and he still does, to an extent.

He hates himself more than anything else.

Because John was the best friend Sherlock had ever had, and as it turned out, the best companion and rival too. Of course they'd faced down Moriarty together, but now that John's web of lies had been uncovered, it turns out that he'd come searching for Sherlock to help him be rid of Moriarty's threat permanently. You see, Jim Moriarty had been slowly taking over the criminal element in London, which meant that there was a web growing that was threatening the safety of John's little excursions. Everyone knew that the criminal element were untrustworthy, and the more they banded together under one leader, the more of a threat they posed to solitary killers like John Watson. He had realized this after a close call a few weeks before going in search of the famed Sherlock Holmes, who he'd looked up on the internet and then set out to find. It hadn't been a coincidence that he'd shown up to St. Bart's with an old school friend like Mike Stamford, someone easily controlled and manipulated, to first meet him. It had all been a rouse to throw off Sherlock's criminal nose.

"Nothing ever happens to me."

John'd said, sullen as could be, before giving Sherlock a grin so idiotic, so helpless, that he'd had no other option than to be drawn into the rouse. And what a rouse it'd been too. Sherlock had been so completely fooled by his dopey facade, so completely taken in by his mild-mannered, honorably discharged face that he hadn't even questioned all those dates that John had with so many different women. Three-Continents Watson, he'd said once when Sherlock had raised an eyebrow in his direction as he prepared to go out for the night, and they'd left it at that. It never even occurred to him to ask their names, what they did for a living, anything like that, he hadn't cared at the time. It occurred to him now that all those women, all of those dates, all of those people, were nothing more than his victims, notches on his belt. It made Sherlock sick to his stomach to think about how fully the wool had been pulled over his eyes by a lumbering wolf. Just how much he'd been taken in by good old John Watson and his happy-go-lucky persona.

Of course his brother was lauding it over his head now in his own way, how he'd been living with a serial killer for over three years without knowing it, how Moriarty's sudden disappearance a few months after their first face to face confrontation made a whole Hell of a lot more sense now. How all those criminals had gone missing so soon after cropping up within his path. It hadn't been the threat of him or his brain that had sent them running, oh no, it was them grabbing the attention of John Watson that had sealed their fates. John could have left after that, after finally being rid of Moriarty for good, but he hadn't, and that was the part that confused Sherlock the most. There was no evidence, no sign of foul play, no sign of anything amiss. Sherlock would never have suspected anything without his brother's insistence.

A majority of the bodies John had been rid of would be found when Mycroft began trudging the river as Watson's boots had told, or at least bits and pieces of them would anyways. Mycroft had suspected that that was the most obvious place to take the bodies, since Sherlock and he walked them so often. Not only was he familiar with them, the mud covered boots would have an explanation, an automatic cover. He'd never had to make an effort to hide what was in plain sight. The rest of them would probably never be found, forever doomed to be scattered in unmarked graves all across of London Proper. God how could he be so stupid? It all made so much sense now...

Now his wayward flatmate was incarcerated in the depths of some hole that Mycroft and DI Lestrade had picked out, roughly chained to the chair he'd been seated in for over twenty-four hours. He hadn't said a word since his arrest at Baker Street, his smile and a few parting words the last Sherlock had heard from him when Lestrade's team had taken him away, escorted by men in Mycroft's control. They'd been sitting in the living room together only moments before when John had put down his newspaper and folded his hands in a position that Sherlock had never seen the smaller man use before, his face suddenly very, very hard. He'd gotten up to glance out the window before turning to the desk behind him, second drawer where Sherlock knew he kept his Browning, drawing the weapon out before turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock who had watched calmly until the gun was pointed between his eyes and John took a deep, steady breath before the entirety of John just simply melted away completely. It left behind nothing but the killer, The Wolf hidden beneath John Watson's striped jumper.

He'd told Sherlock then that he'd miss him, that nothing that was going to come out was his fault or his responsibility. The blood was all upon John's hands, not his, and not to worry. That Sherlock was a good man and an even better detective. Then Mycroft had busted in and held John at gunpoint after busting down the door personally, his normally calm and collected attire disheveled and rumpled with urgency. The two had had a stand off for all of five minutes before John had dropped the weapon and put his hands behind his head. Mycroft had not dropped his sure-fire aim, hadn't even hesitated.

"So good to finally meet The Wolf in person, Dr. Watson, if that's even your real name." Mycroft was in his full Ice Man persona, tone unwavering, unyielding. "There's no record of you before you joined the army of course, and that sister of yours has been dead for well over 18 months. Same goes for her wife. Both taken from their flat."

"Missing, actually. Only presumed dead, not that anyone will ever prove that in a court of law. You'd need actual evidence for that, Mycroft." John shrugged, his back fully to Sherlock now, like he no longer even existed in the same sphere as the two of them. "Not that you'll ever find it. It's a wonder you came this far. Wolf tracks, I hear, are hard to follow."

"Its a wonder I never noticed before. After all, I've stood in your Den many times."

"Scents are muddled the closer you get to home."

John had just laughed as Mycroft called for Lestrade, for his team, as he was being hauled out of 221 B Baker Street, out of Sherlock's life. Out of normalcy. He'd never even glanced back at Sherlock as his rights were read to him, as handcuffs were slapped uncaring onto tiny wrists. It was much like watching them try to muzzle a wolf, except the wolf itself was perfectly okay with being man-handled into its straps. John never stopped grinning. Mycroft had frowned down at him as the once-thought friends of both of them had drug John away by his lead, armed escort leading the way.

The Wolf had finally been penned.

Sherlock had no doubt that it would be short lived.

And then John Watson -The Wolf- would come for him.