A/N Thanks again to all the AWESOME people who reviewed, alerted or added to you favourites! You all get free cookies. Sorry it's been so long, reality kind of crept up on me.
Adrenaline shot through his body, shock momentarily dulling the irrational hysteria he had been thrown into. His naturally accelerated heartbeat increased frantically until the beats were almost indistinguishable.
Fight or flight?
He mentally berated himself, trying in vain to suppress the instinct. No matter how illogical it was, the overwhelming urge to run or fight tore at his mind and battered his senses until he couldn't see straight. He clenched his eyes shut as a sudden wave of nausea struck him. He leaned slightly on the wall near the doorway as dizziness joined the fray.
FIGHT OR FLIGHT!
It wasn't until he heard someone calling him that he came back to himself. He opened his eyes even though the world still seemed to be pitching unnaturally forwards. They had been calling him for a while it seemed.
"John! I said are you alright?"
Lestrade didn't seem overly concerned, just slightly irritated he had been forced to repeat himself so many times to get a response.
By now most people in the room were looking at him. The seemingly banished tremor in his left hand suddenly returned with a vengence.
He just couldn't do this. He would rather get shot again. And right now, he didn't care who was watching.
He could feel every set of eyes, Sherlock's included, on him as he walked out of the room without a word.
While he really would have liked to follow John and confront him on why he was acting so strangely, he was much more interested in the dead body. He slowly circled it, taking in everything.
"Most...interesting."
Anderson chose that moment to butt his rather thick head in.
"Interesting? Its a flipping werewolf for goodness sake and all you can say is 'interesting'?"
He pointedly ignored him. Really, why did anyone tolerate the man?
How the victim died was simple, but determining what it was exactly was the hard part. Because werewolves were either men or wolves, so therefore this was technically not a werewolf.
It's shape resembled a man. It had a wolf-like tail; large canines protruded from its open jaws, long dark brown hair that extended half a meter down its back giving it a mane-like appearance, large pointed ears and eyes that were not quite human. Back claws extended from its fingernails encrusted with dried blood. A dagger was embedded in the creatures' stomach up to the hilt, the falcon shaped carving sticking out, dark red blood in a pool from the fatal wound.
Cause of death: Rapid loss of blood from stab wound. Stabbed several times prior fatal wound. Missing one molar and one canine. Blood around mouth area, not the victims. Body position and facial expressions indicate victim was in a fight, though not of the same kind. The unique pure silver carving on the dagger and sheath suggests wealth and consideration, possibly gang symbol. There are no extra sets of footprints, therefore victim and assailant were alone. Its possible that the murderer did not plan the attack as it was rather messily executed.
So, a gang murder but not planned. But there is enough between the two that they will murder each other on sight.
Sherlock paused in his analysis. There was just something that didn't add up.
Why would John react like that?
His brain answered the question for him.
Possible involvement? Though it is highly unlikely he is involved in any sort of gang and even more unlikely he is any sort of...wolf. Feathers affirm this, as does the fear showed in his eyes. Defection from the gang is a possible solution, though still unlikely. He showed fear upon seeing the creature and also fear of the dagger.
Conclusion: Since John is afraid of both parties, he therefore must have been pursued by some point by both.
While his newly discovered information settled in his brain, he relayed the information he had acquired from the body to Lestrade.
Vaguely, John noticed his feet were moving. He was so caught up in his mind that he didn't notice any of his surroundings. He felt strangely detached from the world as his memories painfully assaulted him.
He could smell it. The overwhelming stench of disinfectant. He could feel his skin tingling in response the the imaginary pinpricks of numerous needles penetrating his flesh. He could see the cages, piled high on one another in the vast room. He could hear the voices that were responsible.
Talking about their success from their experiments.
Mumbling about another 'inconvenient' death.
Whispering the remarkable results they obtained.
Thinking about how rich they would become.
I'm having a panic attack.
He could hardly walk anymore. His whole body was wracked with tremors. Slowly, he made his way to a more or less deserted side street.
With fumbling fingers he removed his jumper and then his shirt. As an afterthought he kept a hold of them.
He jumped as high as he could, which was considerably higher than anyone should be able to and took off into the sky beginning his ascent, his wings beating powerfully.
Flight gave him the feeling of control. The ability to go wherever he wanted made him feel a freedom he had for a time only imagined about. So, naturally, he would find his way to the skies when all else seemed to be thrown off balance. Even though his wings were shaking, he still managed to stay aloft. The sense of security of being alone in the skies, however fake, manage to soothe his metaphorically ruffled feathers and calm him down some.
He lowered and landed roughly on the roof of a skyscraper when he had settled considerably. He grimaced as he rolled his bad shoulder, the pain dulling slightly as he stretched it. Sitting down on the roof, he decided he was going to have to think this through considerably. Mistakes in this game were fatal.
A frown settled onto his features whilst he concentrated on sorting through all the variables and possible outcomes.
"You WHAT? How could you have lost him?"
The man was uncharacteristically angry. He very rarely seemed to show much of any emotion, but it seemed this time he was determined to take it out on them.
He stood a little straighter as he tried to control his irritation. While the man was raging at his other team members he bared his teeth in a sneer.
What did the fool expect? If those stupid idiots who thought they were so high and mighty hadn't tipped him, they would have had him by now. And we wouldn't have lost Jared.
At the remembrance of losing their former team member his anger stirred. But maybe it was for the best. Jared always was slightly reckless.
"You are the new generation, you have trained for years. We extended your lives to specifically allow for the training you went through so you would have a better chance at getting him and you failed again. If you don't catch him in the next twelve months, unharmed, you will all be decommissioned."
We winced slightly at that. It had taken them almost a decade of painstaking searching and hunting to find him and now he could be anywhere. And most of their research came from the team that had expired while they were still in training. This man is almost impossible to find when he put his mind to it.
"He knows we are here. You will be leaving in an hour to..."
The familiar words passed him by as he continued his train of thought.
But this team is strong. Stronger than the last. We are faster, stronger, smarter and better fighters. We will get this done.
"You are all dismissed."
The man walked away out of the room. Probably to report to his superior that they still hadn't caught him. That wouldn't end well.
He turned to address his team.
"You heard him. In an hour we leave, so everyone be ready. He's somewhere in central London. He knows we're here, so he will be on the move. And, remember. If he ends up dead the person who killed him will pay with his life."
He ended the sentence with a snarl. There was no way he would deal with the consequences for that huge a mistake. His tail twitched impatiently.
The whole team was anxious, not something borne out of fear, but of anticipation. Finally they all headed out, shedding all appearance of men, snarling and growling every step of the way with the twilight sky illuminating their path. Their howls echoed and warped around them as they bounded and loped through the countryside towards London.
They walked silently to their base, the dying rays of light providing some coverage from prying eyes.
While the death of the Eraser was pleasing, they still had yet to find their main goal.
Each one of them, when they took their oath, swore to rid the Earth of the abominations that now tainted it. And even though mankind was in disarray they could tolerate it. They had nothing against any of the races on the Earth, their gang was not racist.
The only thing they would not stand?
He fingered his dagger reassuringly.
A mutation.
Glancing at his wristwatch, John realized he had been lost in thought for three hours. It was now 9:25pm.
Blast. Lost track of time.
He took off into the night sky towards Baker St. He had just folded his wings to start a dive when a sharp pain suddenly flared up in his right wing. He lost all movement in his limbs almost immediately and started to fall.
Just before he hit the ground, he swore he made out the wolfish faces of the Erasers.
I don't know that much about werewolves, so i am not sure if they can be half/half or whatever. So, for the sake of this story, they can't. Thought I would add some other POV's here as well. Writing Sherlock is REALLY hard (for me) and i spent forever trying to do it, so i hope it turned out okay.
You know the drill by now. Like=Review. Hate=Review.
(Though i would prefer constructive criticism instead of hate mail.)
