Chapter 2: Interloper


John was nearly driven insane by the itch tingling just beneath his skin. He craved the change, but the captive werewolf wouldn't dare transform while under the reluctant care of the unusual man he had encountered upon waking.

Faster than any human could have ever hoped, John's body had begun to heal, and the deep blue, mottled bruises that had been there before were non-existent. The recovery had sapped most of his energy throughout the night, and now he could guess it was hours past midnight and the moon was at it's highest.

John could feel the pull like a siren call, willing him to shed his human skin and run, run, run The wolf recognized danger and prowled restlessly, ready to take over once again at a moments notice. John growled, slapping a hand against the cement floor, the chain wrapped around his wrist clinking loudly with the movement. If his captor was going to keep him locked up down here, he could at least bring John food.

The werewolf could only guess it had been several hours since his untimely capture, and the dark haired man hadn't returned since John's initial awakening. His muscles were tense from the cold, shivers wracking his naked boy, remembering the chill of ice cold water hitting his bare skin.

John pulled his legs up to his body and wrapped his arms around them, head leaning forward to rest tiredly against his knees. God, he was hungry and dearly wished for some clothes to hide his vulnerability.

In the quiet of the dank basement, John thought of the hunters and their screams as they were ripped apart by a vicious pack. He thought of the screams of his own kin as they were murdered and how he just barely escaped unscathed. There was nothing to go back to now; there would be nowhere else to go once he was released, no one to stand with him against the hunters.

In all of his life, John had moments in which he had lived singularly, but he had never truly been alone. Whenever he needed assistance, his pack was there to defend him, as he was for them. Bill, Mike, Harry... They were all dead now. His pack mates had all faced a gruesome and undeserved death at the hands of men who wanted nothing more than to exterminate every last one of his kind out of fear and anger.

The itch was still there under John's skin, like fingertips skimming softly over every surface of his body, but the pain in his chest overrode it all. He didn't cry; he just felt... numb.

Alone.

Alone was what he had now.

...

The heavy steel door being unbolted and pulled open was what dragged John from a light doze. His body ached in discomfort from the taut position he'd slept in. The blond squinted against the torchlight being shown directly into his eyes, one hand slowly coming up, palm facing outwards in a weak defense against the assault on his vision.

It was a young black woman with cream coloured skin and dark, curly hair accompanied by an older male, most likely in his mid-thirties with salt and pepper hair cut close to the scalp. Wide brown eyes stared down at him in apparent interest, a bowl held in one hand and a set of brass knuckles clutched in the other.

So he was a fighter, ready to defend himself should the need arise, but John was neither up for the challenge nor did he see the point as he was outnumbered terribly. Also, the man had food.

The woman held a cup in one hand, that John prayed was mercifully full of water, and a torch in the other. She watched the captive with suspicion, chin slightly tilted upwards as the other man stepped forward to place the food at John's feet before turning and retrieving the cup from his companion, which was also placed next to the bowl.

John waited until the man had backed away a few feet before grabbing for the bowl. He was starving. The past few days he had been running from the hunters and the hunger hadn't set in yet. It was just a simple sausage and beans, but John found himself devouring it without delay. God, he felt like he could cry, the feeling of relief was so overwhelming. Shoving another handful into his mouth, John made to snatch the cup up with his unoccupied right hand, and swallowed as much water as he could manage.

The woman made a noise in the back of her throat, backing away as she watched John stuff a handful of beans past his cracked lips. "That's disgusting."

The other man watched quietly, a gleaming, knowing look in his eyes. John was almost sure that at some point, this man must have been in his position before. "Easy does it," his tone was placating, but his voice had a gruff quality that made every word he spoke sound akin to a low growl. "More where that came from if you behave."

The bowl was empty and the cup had been drained upon contact. John fell back against the pipe, ribs expanding and retracting quickly as he allowed himself to breathe again. More, he needed more.

"Please," he begged. He felt empty, and he didn't know if he was hungry for comfort or food. "More, please."

The grey haired man turned to the woman. "Sally, get more food and water for him. If Sherlock asks, it's for you."

Sally rolled her eyes muttering under her breath as she turned on her heel, tossing the torch to the man who caught it with deft hands. "Yeah, like he's going to fall for that shite."

When the woman disappeared from sight, the man knelt slowly, pocketing the brass knuckles and leveraging an arm on the leg that balanced his body in that position. "You got a name, mate?"

John regarded him suspiciously, wondering why the man wanted to know. He would be out of their hair soon, as if he were never there. John kept his lips sealed, at a loss of whether he should trust this man with that information or not.

Before he could answer, the curious stranger interrupted his thoughts. "It's alright if you don't want me to know." The man shrugged, "You just look like you've had a rough time of it, is all."

John blinked rapidly, eyes fluttering closed briefly as memories of his dead kin and ruthless hunters flashed across his mind in a rapid sequence. He opened them, only to see that man staring back at him, those eyes telling a story not too much unlike his own.

"John," he said cautiously. "John Watson." Lestrade flashed him a tight smile, standing as the sound of footsteps heading towards the door reached their ears.

"Well, John Watson, you had Sherlock riled up quite a bit."

"Really Lestrade, you're left alone for a moment and already making friends with the prisoner." A deep baritone interrupted their stilted dialogue, scathingly mocking.

John already knew who it was before he turned to look.

Lestrade turned to meet the other man who strode in with a replacement bowl and refilled cup. Rolling his eyes, John caught the words the man hissed under his breath. "Damn it, Sally!"

Lestrade took a step back as the dark haired man from the night before placed the cup and bowl at his feet again, and John wasted no time, reaching for both. He knew he was making a spectacle of himself, but this is the most John had eaten in days, and anything was a godsend at this point. The food suffered much the same fate as the bowl of meat and beans before.

The man didn't look away politely like the others, rather he just stared with those oddly coloured eyes, face set in a deep frown as if he were trying to puzzle something out.

"Why, exactly, are we keeping him chained down here like a prisoner, Sherlock?"

The man - Sherlock - turned and shot the him a look that quite clearly displayed how stupid of a question he considered that to be. Lestrade, whose hands had previously been folded over his chest, lifted them outwards in surrender, a placating gesture. "Isn't he supposed to be recuperating? I mean, down here it's a bit-" Lestrade swiveled a finger in the air, motioning to the room in general and its current state.

"It's fine," Sherlock bit out in deep annoyance, not backing away from the stare down he and Lestrade were currently engaged in. "He won't be here for much longer."

Lestrade folded his arms, his face forming into a somewhat fatherly expression of stern disapproval. "Sherlock, you know as well as I do that he has nowhere else to go."

"Not my problem." Sherlock's tone was firm and he got his point across quite efficiently, John thought. Lestrade didn't challenge him, but his lips tightened in obvious frustration.

John cleared his throat, ending the wordless feud between the two and held up his index finger. "Still here," he pointed out. "Just to remind you, I didn't actually ask for your help so if you'd kindly release me, I'll be on my way. Thanks."

Greg snickered behind his hand at the narrow eyed glare currently drilling a hole in John's head. Sherlock procured a key out of his pocket and without preamble, stepped forward and into John's space without so much as a forewarning.

"With pleasure," Sherlock growled, yanking the chain closer, thus roughly jostling John's arm and wrist in a vindictive, childish manner.

"Ow!" John yanked the chain back, reveling in the fact that he had nearly unbalanced Sherlock. Turning to Lestrade who watched with barely concealed amusement, he jerked his head sideways indicating the dark haired man currently fighting with his cuffs. "Is he always such an arsehole?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Lestrade replied drily.

Sherlock growled, an inhuman noise that John found himself stilling at, lips snapping shut on a witty remark. "Shut up and stay still."

Sherlock made quick work of the cuffs once John began to cooperate, albeit a bit reluctantly, and shoved them into one of the many pockets of a great wool coat that would look quite ridiculous on anyone else.

"There," the brunette waved a dismissive hand in John's general direction. "You're free. Get out."

Lestrade took this moment to voice a protest, appearing baffled by his friend's careless demeanor. "Now wait just a minute, Sherlock! You can't just toss him out now!"

John stood slowly on shaky legs, bones creaking in protest against the change in position. One small step found him stumbling sideways against the rusty pipe he'd been chained to all night. John hadn't felt this week since he was a pup. His body had healed, but a night on cold, damp cement hadn't done a thing to replenish his energy.

Lestrade hurried over to lend him an arm, and gratefully, John leaned a bit of his weight on the grey haired man. "Christ, Sherlock, the man can barely hold himself up."

John didn't know why this Lestrade fellow was fighting so hard to convince Sherlock to allow him to stay, but John had a feeling it had a bit to do with the look he'd seen in Lestrade's eyes the first they met. Somewhere, at some time, someone must have done the same for him. John found that he wanted to hear this man's story before it was time for him to depart.

Sherlock rolled his eyes so dramatically, John feared they would roll out of his head, scowling at the older man. "Oh, Lestrade, when are you going to learn that your bleeding heart doesn't extend to everyone within a five foot radius or otherwise. Don't force your moral crisis onto me. I assure you, it won't work."

The tall brunette turned those eyes onto him, and once again, the feeling of being stripped down and cut open made him feel just as uneasy as the first time. John wrapped his arms around his naked body, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable and judged. The taller male followed the movement, eyes predatory in their intensity, and John didn't know if the small spark of excitement he caught was just his imagination.

Sherlock sighed loudly, verdigris eyes narrowing as his lips curled into a snarl that distorted what John would otherwise think were rather unconventionally attractive features. "What is it with you and your ridiculous supplications? Lestrade, the hero; Lestrade the savior. One day," Sherlock said, eyes gone completely cold, "I will no longer listen to them."

Something in the way he spoke those last words made John's spine straighten in alarm. Who was this man and what happened to make him so frigid? Lestrade must have felt it too, because he swallowed before continuing on, not quite masking his wariness.

"You know what happened," Lestrade paused, breathing deeply, slowly, in and then out, "and you know what I came from. For me, do this for me, Sherlock."

During this, John could see Sherlock soften just the slightest. His body language was still tense, but frosty eyes lost some of their hard edge. John wished he knew what happened, to make a man like Sherlock give in to Lestrade's appeal. Whatever Lestrade had come from, it had to have been worse than anything John had been through before the hunters came.

Lestrade didn't back down from Sherlock's mercurial glare and the moment stretched interminably between the two, before Sherlock scoffed angrily.

"Do what you want, Lestrade. He will be your problem for the duration of his time here," the dark haired man snapped. He paused and turned to John, eyes hardening into threatening crystals. "As for you," he stalked forward, backing John into the water stained wall, "Don't think that I will not be watching your every move. You saw what I did to the hunters, and you know what I'm capable of doing to protect my pack."

So, he was the black wolf that attacked John that night. That didn't make John feel any better about this. "If you try anything, I won't be held accountable for your sudden 'unfortunate' demise."

John felt his shoulders pull up in defiance, ready to rip this tosser's throat out. "Are you threatening me," he growled between clenched teeth.

John didn't think it was possible for Sherlock to get any closer, but the man leaned directly into his face, pinning eyes on him alight with a vicious gleam. "Oh no, threats are tedious. I am promising you."

They were nose-to-nose now, chest puffed out with pride and bravado, and John wanted nothing more than to rearrange this buggers face, see that stupidly perfect nose drip red.

"Alright you two," Lestrade growled, stepping in between the men who were trembling with repressed violence. "Put your claws away, boys, there will be no killing," he stated, shooting Sherlock a pointed look, "and no fighting."

John's fists clenched painfully, nails biting into the skin of his palms as he fought the instinct to back down. Sherlock was the Alpha of this pack and whether John liked it or not, he was in the other wolf's territory.

Reluctantly, he backed away, smart enough to know he didn't posses the stamina nor the strength to squabble a fighter like Sherlock. John thought back to the night before, to the black wolf and the ferociousness in which he tore into his enemies. No, John thought, he wasn't quite ready for that.

Sherlock sensed his surrender and relaxed minutely, though sharp eyes still bore into John's warningly.

Finally, the man looked away and John felt himself slump in visible relief, and sag back against the wall feeling drained from the exchange.

Lestrade came to his side again to offer himself as a leaning post, while Sherlock observed the exchange without comment, before he turned and headed to the stairs. Once the man made it to the door, he turned to address Lestrade. "Once you're done playing nurse, come and find me. We have business to discuss."

Finally, the Alpha had left the room and Lestrade began to help him to the stairs, shaking his grey head as they went. "So, that was our pack leader, if you haven't figured that out for yourself already. He can be a bit of a wanker."

"I see," John grumbled as they began to tackle the stairs now. "Is he always that pleasant?"

Lestrade sighed, and John heard a heaviness to it that wasn't there before. "He found you at a bad time, or rather, you found us. We've been having a time of it with the hunters, and Sherlock doesn't trust outsiders." It made sense to John, in a way, but if Sherlock was so distrustful, why hadn't he just left him in the clearing?

"The way our kind are being hunted now, I don't reckon why we couldn't just join up and go after those bastards, but it's been every pack for themselves."

John shrugged. He used to think the same way, but just like humans, werewolves killed their own too, for land, power, and mates, even. John had encountered a few werewolves who killed just because they could. Lestrade stopped them at the top step, looking warily at the door before regarding John.

"There's going to be a lot of people up there who aren't going to want you here, a lot of riled up wolves itching for a fight. We all saw the hunters the night Sherlock came by you in the woods," Lestrade paused and shook his head, looking into John's eyes. "They're all a bit wary now, they think you've led them here and so does the pack leader. Whenever Sherlock is worried, then we all are, so try not to provoke them."

John's brow furrowed in bemusement. "You sure are going through a lot of trouble for me. Why?" John was suspicious of the man's motives. Though Lestrade was kind and very straight forward, the two of them had just met, and John didn't think that merited Lestrade jumping through hoops for him.

Lestrade smiled easily and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You know, rarely has anyone challenged Sherlock the way you did and lived to tell the tale. I like you, mate, and besides the fact, I wouldn't abandon one of my own." Lestrade's smile melted away. "We've turned away many wolves seeking shelter over these past few years, we don't know who to trust, but I've got a feeling about you. And Sherlock, as abrasive as he is, I think he likes you, too."

John laughed bitterly, ignoring the turn in his stomach at Lestrade's revelation. "If that's him liking someone, I would certainly not want to be hated by him."

John had meant it as a joke, but the grey-haired man grew serious all too quickly, and the younger wolf felt his smile fall away. "No, you really don't."

John tried not to shiver from his ominous response. It felt more like a warning to the young man and he'd rather heed it than to play with fire. If cooperating is what Sherlock wanted, he would get it. John didn't want a confrontation. "Right."

"Good," Lestrade replied, tone lightening now that John had acknowledged his subtle warning. "Let's get you upstairs. You look like you haven't had a proper wash in days."

John followed behind the jovial man, wondering if he would be better off turning tail and fleeing back into the woods. Everything about Sherlock made him cautious, but there was also a danger to the man that attracted John like a moth to a flame and that was what scared him.