John wasn't doing so well. This job wasn't an easy one to begin with, but John had handled these kinds on things before. Wendigos weren't that hard to kill, the problem was, that usually there's not only one all by it's lonesome. They lived in families, and John was currently trapped by a family of four; the father and 3 children, two daughters and a son. They cackled happily as the drew knives and other sharp objects across John's skin. He wasn't sure that he would make it out of this one alive.

He suffered- for hours, cuts and scratches dotting his muscular form; his shirt in shreds. John noticed that the wendigos had stopped, and were now preparing to finish him off. He closed his eyes, accepting his fate.

The funny thing was, the pain never came. John was a statue for a good minute before he took a chance and peeked open his left eye. The monsters were now at the far wall, slumped against the wood in a pile; dead. John was thoroughly confused, for a moment, then he felt a faint pair of hands working at the constraints that held his hands. He jumped, turning his head around quickly, and came face to face with a mop of soft, curly dark hair. It was that demon again, and it was laughing. "What are you doing here?" John sighed, relaxing a bit and slumping a fraction of an inch in the chair.

"You said before that you didn't need me to do your job. So I backed off on this one. But I was still needed anyways." Sherlock said, releasing John's hands.

The hunter rubbed his wrists, and stood to turn and face Sherlock. "You are impossible. Why didn't I just kill you in the first place?"

Sherlock shrugged. "If you did get rid of me, you wouldn't be alive right now." He pointed out.

John stopped, grumbling to himself. "Yeah, okay, point taken. Thanks, by the way." He said, almost inaudibly.

"Did- what's his name, Lestrade or whatever- send you here?" Sherlock said awkwardly. Probably just trying to create small talk.

The hunter raised an eyebrow at the odd question. "No…" He spoke eventually. "I found it."

"John, I have another question."

"What now?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Huh?"

"I'm not repeating myself."

"How could you possibly know about that?"

Sherlock turned to face John head on, that smirk still lingering. "The posture when you stand says military, along with the short hair and the stern expression. You're shoulder was injured on battle and now has a small tick in it whenever you lift it a certain way. The faint tan-line on your wrists and neck; nobody would get those if they were at that climate for just a vacation. Where would a military man of your age get an injury and a tan like that: Afghanistan or Iraq."

"That was…amazing." John breathed.

"What?"

"How did you do that?"

"Answer the question."

"Afghanistan…but how?"

Sherlock smiled. "I saw it. I am a sociopath you see, and my brain performs at a higher rate than most anyone or anything."

John chuckled. "Fantastic."

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock said softly, his smile partially fading as he turned away slightly.

"What do people normally say?"

"…piss off…"

John snickered at that; Sherlock as well, but on a much softer scale. Not soon after the hunters wounds were beginning to sting. "I should go now…see ya."

Sherlock leapt forward and clenched onto John's wrist. He stopped and whipped around. "What now?" He said impatiently.

"No one has ever said that to me." The demon spoke quietly.

"Said what?"

"Fantastic…"

"Oh…well, uhm…you're welcome?"

Sherlock smiled once again, his white teeth glinting. "I'll see you again then." His gentlemanly demeanor returning quickly as he released his grip and stepped back.

John stayed silent, staring for a moment, but broke his gaze and left without another word.