Title: Of Consulting Detectives and Full Moons

Summary: John has been a werewolf for as long as he can remember; its his secret. However, things will soon change because: 1) his new flatmate is Sherlock Holmes, and 2) he is slowly falling in love with said flatmate, and his wolf isn't far behind.

Disclaimer: AU. All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are properties of their respective owners.

Archiving: Ask for permission.

AN: This will go episode by episode, but with major differences. Spoilers for all episodes. Also, I'm American, so if there is a word that is not right ( aka american soccer=football) please tell me. Oh! Title may change, don't know yet.

AN 2: I am not going to do the crime scene in this chapter, merely skimming over it. I can put it in if you want though.

AN 3: Please review! Good or bad, I don't care!

A Wolf's Heart

A Study in Pink, Part Two

When John arrived at the address and knocked on the door, he didn't know what to expect. His human nose couldn't tell him much, but he knew this was a good neighborhood - and the smell coming from the small café seemed to testify to that even more.

A cab pulled onto the curb in front of the flat and Sherlock Holmes stepped out. Paying the driver, he turned to John. "Mrs. Hudson, my landlady is giving me a special deal."

"Hello Mr. Holmes." John held out his hand and Sherlock shook it.

"Sherlock, please. Getting a special rate, here; she owes me a favor. A few years ago her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

"You stopped her husband from being executed?"

Sherlock gave him a manic grin. "Oh no, I ensured it."

John gave him a startled look; who the bloody hell was this man?

"Sherlock!"

His momentary shock had distracted him enough that he didn't hear the door open. The woman, if he had to guess was Mrs. Hudson and immediately reminded him of someone's mother, pulled Sherlock into a hug. She pulled away when her attention found John.

"Well hello! Who might you be?"

Sherlock gave her a small, genuine, smile. "Mrs. Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson."

Instead of shaking his hand, she too pulled him into a hug. "Hello! Come on in."

The flat, it seemed, was up the stairs, but Sherlock waited patiently for John to limp up. From the hallway to the flat itself, it felt like home right away. While there were still boxes and papers cluttered about the room, it was large enough for two people easily. His nose detected the weird scent of chemicals, but a quick look into the kitchen cum laboratory answered his question.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes, my thoughts exactly."

"Once everything is cleaned out-"

"I already had my things moved in-"

John looked at Sherlock; all this was his stuff? "Oh."

Sherlock nervously flittered around, putting papers into boxes and moving them - even stabbing a knife into a few. "Obviously I can straighten things up."

"Is that a skull?" John asked.'

"Friend of mine…well, when I say friend…"

"What do you think, Doctor Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked, finalley breaking the conversation between the two. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing it."

John frowned. "Of course we'll be needing it."

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner's got married ones." Oh hell, she thought - "Sherlock! The mess you've made!"

Right, moving on. As Sherlock turned to his computer, John remembered something. "I looked you up on the internet last night. The science of deduction."

"What did you think?"

John couldn't help but laugh; this man had such an ego. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes. And I can read your military career by your face and your leg, and your brothers drinking habits by your mobile phone."

"How?"

Sherlock gave a smirk and looked back to his computer.

"What do you think about these suicides Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your alley. Three exactly the same."

"Four. There's been a forth, but there is something different this time."

"A fourth?"

John was about to ask the same thing when it hit him. Even in his human form, werewolves extruded power that could be detected even if he was blind, deaf, and couldn't smell. His wolf stood in the back of his mind; hackles raised and a growl at it's lips.

A man swept into the flat, out of breath and looking haggard. He had to be in his mid-forties, if John could guess, with silvering hair.

"Where?" Sherlock asked immediately.

The man barely gave him a glance before looking at Sherlock. "Brixton; Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave a note? This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock scowled. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"But I need an assistant!"

The man seemed to ignore that statement, as if it came out of Sherlock's mouth all the time. "Will you come?"

"Not in the police car, I'll be right behind."

The man sighed in relief. "Thank you."

Once again, the man barely gave John a glance before he left and disappeared down the stairs. Did he even notice John was like him? Or was he still new to being a wolf he wasn't used to his senses?

"What was that?" He asked Sherlock, beyond confused.

Sherlock grinned at him in excitement. "Brilliant! Four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John! Have a cup of tea, and make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" With that, Sherlock swept out of the flat, the door closing behind him with a slam.

Dear god, who was that man?

"Look at him, rushing about. My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest that leg."

"Damn my leg!" The stress and anger that had put him on edge caused by the other wolf spilled over, though he instantly regretted it. "Sorry. I am so sorry. It's just sometimes this stupid thing…"

Mrs. Hudson gave him a warm smile. "I understand. I have a hip."

John sighed and ran his hands over his face, listening as Mrs. Hudson made her way downstairs. He had seen more crazy things in the past ten minutes than he had in a week over seas.

The day's paper crumbled as he sat down in the nearest chair. He would have ignored it, if he hadn't seen the man's face that had just spoken to Sherlock. 'DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation,' the caption said.

"You're a doctor." Sherlock's voice came from the doorway, startling John; he hadn't even heard him come home. "In fact, you're an army doctor."

John's eyes furrowed in confusion. "Yes?"

"Any good?"

"Very."

"You've seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths."

"Yes."

"A bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course, yes. Enough, for a lifetime. Far too much." Where was he going with this?

"Want to see some more?"

John grinned and stood up. "Oh god yes." He happily followed Sherlock out the door and down the stairs, shouting at Mrs. Hudson that he was leaving too.

"Both of you?" She asked, coming out of her flat.

"Possible suicides, four of them. There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" Sherlock said with a grin, planting a kiss on her cheek.

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue in disappointment, but there was a small fighting to come through. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

John couldn't help but grin at Sherlock's child-like excitement. He couldn't believe he was following this lunatic.

Once in a taxi, Sherlock started texting frantically on his phone, fingers flying a mile a minute. Without even looking at him, Sherlock gave a sigh and spoke. "Okay, you've got questions."

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"A crime scene. Next."

Right, okay. "Who are you, and what do you do?"

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective…"

"But?"

"Police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

Right, this man sure has an ego. "Police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock gave him a smirk, looking him up and down, just like he did at Bart's. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, when I said Afghanistan or Iraq you look surprised."

"How did you know?" John asked - like he would ever forget that moment.

"I didn't know, I saw. The haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. By your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Your face is tan, but no tan below the wrists says you were abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it. So it's at least partially psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances were traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, sun tan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist."

"You have a psychosomatic limp; of course you have a therapist. And then there is your brother."

"Hm?"

Sherlock pointed to the phone in his hand, which he handed over. "Your phone's expensive: email enabled, mp3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share; you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches — not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already."

Sherlock flipped the phone over, showing the words carved in the back. "The engraving?" John asked.

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live; unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

John looked at him, surprised etched on his face. "How can you possibly know about the drinking?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge, but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

"I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

John opened his mouth, then closed it, gathering his thoughts. "That…was amazing."

Sherlock looked at him, his face blank but there was shock in his eyes. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath. "'Piss off'"

John couldn't help but laugh.


Less than an hour later, after an extraordinary deduction on the crime scene, John was standing in an alley across from a very posh house, minus Sherlock - the man had swept out of the crime scene and promptly disappeared. John went back to his flat, and packed a bag before leaving. Finding a good place, he shifted and began to hunt.

It was difficult to find the right trail that led to Lestrade's home, as the man was a cop and seemed to be every where in the city. But John had been a wolf for many years. He had been surprised, though, to find the trail had led to a part of London that housed people of the more wealthy status. Finding another good spot, he shifted back and put the clothes on he had brought, slipping his gun under his jumper - he might be a wolf, but he still felt comfortable with the weight of his gun at his back.

It wasn't until the wee hours of the morning when Lestrade at came home. At first John thought the man hadn't seen him, as he didn't even look In John's direction, but then he left the gate and the door open. John's shoulder and leg were aching something fierce because of the shift, so it took him a little longer than usual to get inside the door.

The inside was something he was not expecting; soft, warm colors and mismatched furniture greeted him instead of a lifeless home.

"The house is my mate's." Lestrade said as he walked out from the kitchen, carrying two cups of steaming liquid. He handed John one and motioned to the living room. "I wouldn't move in unless I got to redecorate."

John sat down on one of the few chairs, easing the weight off his leg. "So you knew, then?"

Lestrade chuckled and nodded. "Of course. I sensed you the moment I stepped out of my cruiser. How long then?"

"Nearly thirty years now."

Lestrade swore. "You couldn't be no more than thirty-five! Are you natural?"

John chuckled. "I'm thirty-nine, but thank you. No, I was attacked when I was ten, a day before my birthday, actually - happy birthday to me." He said, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder. He was lucky, they had said. He just found it lucky that the bullet wound covered up the old scars.

"Damn. Do you know who did it?"

John shook his head. "Not a clue. What about you, if you don't mind me asking?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I'm a natural; mum was one, dad was not. Mum was always the strong and stubborn one, figured her genes would be too."

John couldn't help but look at the man in awe. Purebred, pure's, naturals, whatever you felt like calling them, were rare. So rare, that if two wolves mated and had a child, said child only had a one percent chance of being a wolf - the percent halved if one parent was human. John had met only ten wolves in his life, and none of them were or knew a natural.

Lestrade laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen a wolf so shocked."

"I figured you'd be more…"

"Prissy?" Lestrade finished, not even the slightest offended. "I don't think I could ever do that. My mate's enough for the both of us. Now, about you being here."

John winced; he should have seen this coming. This was Lestrade's territory, and John was trespassing. "Right. Give me a few days and I can be out of your hair."

"Woah! Hold on! I wasn't going to suggest that! I was just going to give you some places you could safely go and shift when you needed to."

"Oh." John couldn't stop the blush that spread through his cheeks. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I'm guessing your used to wolves that go by pack hierarchy still?"

John nodded. He had lived with a small pack with his mentor when he was trained. He figured all wolves were like that.

"It's not like that here. While we do have a few scuffles and a few wolf gangs, there is no hierarchy. We are not going to kick you out of London because your not of pack."

"How many of us are there then?"

Lestrade thought about that for a moment. "I think there are thirty of us now, and there are a few that visit London on vacation periodically."

John couldn't help but be shocked. While the number of wolves have grown in the past decade, most live near woods, forests, and other unpopulated areas. The only time he had ever seen a wolf in the city, was when he was twelve and the wolf was a homeless loner.

Lestrade grinned at the shocked looked, like he was expecting it. "Why don't you go home and sleep on it, let your body process it all. When I get off, I can show you the good spots around town, how does that sound?"

John nodded and set down his cup as he stood up, which he realized he hadn't even taken a sip of. "Thank you."

"Of course. Good night John."

As John walked out the door, he found out he wouldn't be home that night.