Greg walked into Scotland Yard, feeling very self-conscious about the giant wolf at his side. John had been very reluctant at the idea of the collar and leash, but had soon realized the necessity of it when even the pet store clerk had been startled by his appearance. When they walked with him on a leash though, a few people still stared, but it was more out of curiosity than their brain kicking into fight or flight instinct. Leash trumped Wolf. Greg didn't doubt John would still be giving him shit the next time he transformed back into a human though.
"Get your puppy face on," he told John when they stood in front of the Yard, looking for all the world like they were going into battle.
It wasn't so far from the truth: the walk to his office went without a hitch because Greg breezed through the madness of it all, ignoring the towering piles of files, the coffee-stained mugs strewn everywhere, the harassed looking detectives and their reluctant witnesses or suspects. He didn't even stop when he heard Donovan calling his name, because his office, his safe haven, was right there, a couple of feet away… One… He pushed the door open and ushered John in.
"Lestrade!" she said again, but she wasn't looking at him, peering around his body instead.
"Yes?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.
"I thought I saw… It is!" she gushed, her tone too high pitched for comfort as she pushed passed him.
Greg just groaned and closed the door behind them. Donovan, for all that she didn't want to be seen as a woman, was cooing at his "pet" like women usually did with babies. It was a disturbing sight coming from her, so he ignored the scene and checked his mails, memos and on-going cases, but when she was still engrossed in her admiration for John, who was preening and snuggling up to her, he cleared his throat.
"I'm sure you have better things to do," he told her.
She stood and brushed off some strands of his wolf's golden fur from her vest and trousers but she was still grinning.
"I didn't know you had a dog. He's beautiful. What's his name."
Greg's mind went blank. He couldn't very well call him John, even if that was his name. It was too human a name when they were trying to make him as dog-like as possible. Then he remembered John's middle name when he'd checked up his missing person's file.
"Hamish," he answered. "I'm just keeping him for a friend."
Yeah, for John, he sniggered to himself. He certainly didn't own him. No one owned John Watson. His wolf form rather suited him for that. Strong and independent. It was a wonder he'd accepted to shack up with him instead of roughing it in the parks of London now that he thought about it.
"What breed is he?" Donovan asked, still petting John's head as if she couldn't bear to leave his side.
"Uhm?" Greg said, pretending to be distracted by some paperwork. "Some sort of husky, I think. Have you finished that report on the bank incident? I don't think I've seen it go through?"
Finally, Donovan snapped out of her puppy-love daze and became the professional sergeant he was used to, saying she was just about finished. Greg breathed out in relief when she left.
"That actually went better than expected," Greg told John who padded over to his desk and rested his head on top of a file. "Hey, don't slobber over that," he said snatching it out from under him. "Donovan is sharp. If she doesn't suspect anything, I think we're probably safe."
John licked his hand in answer. Greg wasn't sure what it meant but he petted his head and buried himself in the never-ending paperwork that filled the time between cases. Paperwork grew like weeds at the Yard. He wouldn't say he was looking forward to a good murder, but he certainly was thinking it very hard.
All day long, Yarders came to visit John who had apparently become the new mascot on their floor and had somehow acquired a cushion to sleep on, a squishy ball to play with, a bone that might as well belong to a diplodocus given its size, and a bowl of water. The things just kept appearing in his office every time he had his back turned. Greg couldn't fault the bowl of water though. John had scared one of the janitors half to death when he'd found the giant "dog" drinking from the bucket of water he'd just filled and Greg had to apologize to the poor guy when he'd checked what the commotion was about. John accepted all the attention with good grace, seemingly enjoying all the petting and compliments. But maybe he really did. God knows he'd been alone for far too long. So maybe Greg was a bit jealous, then. Not of his colleagues' attentions. God, no. But he was used to having John all to himself and now, he had to share him with the whole bloody division, support staff and visitors. When his office door opened again, Donovan visiting for what felt like the hundredth time that day, he almost groaned in annoyance, but she quickly held up her hands.
"A body was found on the banks of the Thames," she said quickly and smiled smugly when she added. "I thought Hamish might enjoy a walk."
Donovan was finding the whole situation a lot less amusing when she had to settle for the back seat because John wouldn't give up the passenger seat, he'd even showed her his long, sharp white fangs in warning, and then she got even more disgruntled when they found Sherlock already at the crime scene.
"Did you call him?" she snapped.
"Of course not," Greg replied with a warning tone. "You were with me the whole time, Donovan."
Don't be an idiot, was not said, but the subtext was loud enough that she apologised before climbing out of the car. Greg dawdled for a bit to warn John.
"That tall man with the curly hair," he said pointing him out. "Be careful, he's very, very smart. I'm not kidding. He can tell what I ate this morning just by looking at me. If anyone can see right through you, it'll be him… Maybe you should wait here. Just in case."
John growled. He had been cooped up all day, so Greg relented with a sigh and got out, holding the door for John before he marched to the crime scene, John held on a leash while he did his best dog impression.
"Wait here," he told him. "Even I can't have my dog trudging all over a crime scene."
He handed the leash to a weary looking Met officer who looked like he'd rather jump in the Thames than have John anywhere near him, then ducked under the tape.
"Sherlock," he said with a nod, not bothering to ask how he'd gotten on this side of the tape without his knowing or consent.
He'd probably just flashed one of his stolen badges or teared his way through the officers with vicious deductions. They should know better, but Greg really couldn't blame them either. Sherlock had a way of shocking people into compliance. A quick survey of the scene and victim proved it to be pretty straightforward, so either he was missing something vital or Sherlock was so bored as to want even the most boring of cases. The lanky figure of the consulting detective was standing eerily still, which was odd in itself since he was usually full of manic energy at crime scenes. Not this time though, the tall man was just standing over the body with his head bowed.
"Sherlock?" he asked, more worried now.
Sherlock finally looked him in the eye and there was sorrow lurking just beneath the surface.
"Oh," he gasped out softly, taking another look at the young girl who had washed up on the muddy shore, her small figure battered but still dressed with large, unfeminine clothes. Warm, sensible clothes. "Is she one of yours, then?"
Sherlock nodded and looked down again. He knew more homeless people than anyone else in this city thanks to his large and active network. He knew them well.
"She went by Scissors. She traded haircuts for other services. Smart girl. Young too," he paused and coughed, highly uncharacteristic of the man. Greg waited him out. "Sixteen, originally from Surrey going by her accent, hung around Blue Joe and The Captain, whom you both know. They might know her real name if you can find them."
Greg noted it down and thanked him.
"Any idea what might have happened to her since you're here?"
The patented Holmes long-suffering look hit him full force.
"Surely even you can see that."
"I can. I was wondering if there was more to it since you're here."
Sherlock shook his head, explaining that another of his homeless had told him about her and he'd come to check no one was after his network.
"Why would you think anyone was after them?"
"To undermine me. They are a valuable resource, as you well know," Sherlock huffed, then continued in barely a whisper. "Something is brewing. Something big. I've been waiting for it for some time now. I just wanted to make sure it wasn't him."
"Him?" Greg asked, eyebrows arched.
Sherlock was often cryptic but not voluntarily cryptic. It was usually just a result of Greg not being able to follow his leaps in deduction and thought process. But now he was being as cryptic as his brother, which had to be a sign of impending doom.
"You have a dog, Lestrade? Are you really that lonely without you wife? It's so… pedestrian," he scanned the perimeter and his eyes landed on John.
Greg's heart rate skyrocketed. This was the real test of his wolf's ability to blend in. Sherlock blinked but his eyes never left John.
"Unusual breed," he commented before examining him now, his pale eyes narrowing.
Uh, oh, I'm in trouble now.
"You've been drinking less coffee and haven't smoked for five...no, six days. Your sleeping and eating habits seem to have improved, too." He hummed. "Maybe there's something to be said for pets."
Greg wondered if that was all true since it seemed to have happened without any conscious effort on his part. To his horror, Sherlock sauntered away, making a beeline for John, but he was intercepted at the last moment by Donovan.
"Don't touch him, freak," she snapped. "You're not going to do some weird experiment on Hamish."
"Hamish," Sherlock snorted. "He's hardly of Scottish descent."
Donovan was about to start a verbal war with Sherlock. Again. Greg could see her gearing up, hear the insults before they had even formed in her own mind, so he waved her off to supervise the SOCO team. She loved doing that since she could buddy up to Anderson.
Sherlock ducked under the tape and crouched in front of John while Greg's hands hovered in a panic over him, trying to think of a way to pry him away from his wolf, but the detective was already examining him with minutiae. Greg was almost expecting Sherlock to whip out his pocket magnifying-glass. John, bless him, was scratching his flank with his hind leg, pretending to be completely disinterested in the detective.
"There's something… I can't quite put my finger on it."
Lestrade inhaled sharply, waiting for the moment Sherlock would stand up dramatically and point an accusing finger at John, exclaiming: "Aha! A werewolf!", so he felt rather let down when Sherlock patted John's head perfunctorily, as if he'd seen it done before and was mimicking the gesture from memory, then got up and commented blandly: "But I'm no dog expert."
Without warning, John licked Sherlock's hand. The look of disgust on his face was priceless and Greg had to bite back a laugh as he looked at him wiping his hand on the constable's sleeve. Poor guy still daren't move but whether it was because of the wolf or Sherlock, he wasn't sure. Greg told him take a break and grab a coffee, while Sherlock disappeared off on some other adventure, leaving him to deal with the sad death of the young homeless girl.
They were just clearing off the scene an hour later when Sherlock texted him for backup. Seriously. Texted him for backup. That was probably a first in the history of mankind, and he wasn't sure whether to laugh or not. Greg still didn't know why Sherlock didn't like calling directly, but he followed the instructions anyway, because Sherlock never asked for help if it he could help it, so he had no doubt the situation was dire. And that's how he ended up in a good old shoot out on the docks.
"What the hell is this about?" Greg growled once he had managed to crawl up to Sherlock's position with John at his side, growling at the shooters. He caught him by the collar when it looked like he was about to run head on towards them and had Donovan babysit him while their armed officers took position on their flanks.
"I was just asking questions," Sherlock said defensively. Greg waited. "I might have asked the wrong questions," he admitted. "I thought they would know something about Scissors, but it turns out they're just smuggling drugs."
"Right," Greg said with narrowed eyes. "You know I'm going to pat you down once those idiots are under arrest."
"I'm clean. I'm not-"
"Yeah? Well, sorry for being suspicious. I'm not taking any risks after the last time."
Sherlock went into a strop after that, sulking so loudly, he might as well have been screaming, but suddenly, he was on his feet and running off to the west of the shooting.
"Sherlock!" Greg called, alarmed that he was barely staying under cover by running bent over in two. "Sherlock, come back here, you idiot!"
"Just let him be," Donovan groused. "He's always running into trouble."
Greg scowled at her, wondering if she'd actually be happy if Sherlock got himself killed. His face twisted in disgust but before he could say anything he might regret later, he ran after Sherlock shadowed by John soon after. In the dark warehouse door through which he last saw Sherlock's coat tails disappear, Greg stopped and took the security off his gun before glancing in. Pitch black. He was literally going in blind.
"Fuck. Why does he always do this?"
A bullet ricocheted nearby and John whined, nudging him with his snout to go in. Greg trusted his instincts. It's not like they had better cover outside the warehouse than inside. The silence in the cavernous building was almost as bad as the dark. Shouldn't he be hearing Sherlock? His footsteps at the very least. A door slammed somewhere in the distance, then a shout that could have been Sherlock or one of the drug smugglers or whatever else was in here. Greg ran in that direction, then finally spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance. No one else had quite that coat and mane of curly hair. Relief flooded him, then dread soon after when he heard a gunshot and Sherlock disappeared from view. Hopefully he had just ducked, but…
"Sherlock!"
No answer. Greg cursed and ran faster, but he was already out of breath. Out of shape, he realized. It wasn't long before he had to stop, but another shot rang out and he took cover. A shout and angry bellows echoed. What the hell was happening over there? John whined again, looking like he wanted to go ahead.
"No," Greg hissed.
He couldn't let John put himself in danger, not even for Sherlock. He was just a civilian, he had nothing to do with this whole mess. But his wolf yipped and shot off, fast as the wind.
"No! John!"
But he was ignored, he couldn't even see him anymore. Greg ran after him as fast he could, knowing he wouldn't be of much help when he arrived wheezing like an old man, but he didn't t care. He had to find them. They were the closest thing he had to friends and now, both Sherlock and John were in danger. Why did he always get saddled with idiots who ran headfirst into danger? Did they want him to have a heart attack?
The crates stocked in the warehouse made it a veritable labyrinth with twists and turns and dead-ends but Greg plowed on, slowly but surely, until he reached a metal stairway that lead to a network of catwalks where he'd last glimpsed Sherlock. John would be with him by now, he was sure of it. And there, right there, a glimpse of gold, a darker shadow, another gunshot and then a yelp.
"No! Nonono!"
All Greg had time to see after that was the back of some stranger disappearing into the shadows. He didn't try stopping him, he had more important business to attend to.
"Sherlock?"
"I'm fine," he grunted, picking himself off the floor. "Your dog pushed me out of the way."
"John?" he called when his wolf didn't get back up, but he was breathing, he could the fur moving up and down, up and down. Maybe a bit too fast. "John?"
"John?" Sherlock echoed quizzically.
Greg ignored him. He kneeled next to John and tried to roll him over but his hand came up wet and sticky. Blood.
"No," he choked out. "You idiot."
He'd taken the bullet for Sherlock. Idiots, the both of them. He tried picking John up but his fur was disappearing, his shape changing. Panicked, Greg looked at Sherlock who was staring open mouthed as his wolf turned into a man. Greg could see it clearly now: a bullet wound bleeding profusely from the shoulder.
"Sherlock," he snapped and the wide eyes reluctantly slid towards him. "Help him. You've got to help him."
"How? What… How? We can't take him to the hospital... A vet? I don't know!?"
Seeing Sherlock panic for perhaps the first time in his life, and just when he really needed him too, Greg flicked him in the middle of the forehead, then held his head between his hands to make him still and look him in his eyes.
"Think, Sherlock. Think!"
Sherlock blinked and his fluttering hands stopped, he was all economy of movements now as he pulled off his scarf and wrapped it tightly around the bullet wound.
"Apply pressure," he ordered and Greg did, waiting for the next instruction. Sherlock could save John if he only put his mind to it. He could do anything. "I know someone. Follow me."
Greg took off his coat to cover John, then picked him up in his arms, thankful he was rather small for a man. He managed to keep pressure on the wound with his own body, but Sherlock's scarf was getting darker by the minute and they had to take a detour to avoid the other Yarders. When they got to his car, Sherlock took the wheel without argument and Greg cradled John in the back, alarmed when he shifted back into a wolf again, wondering what it meant. Was it a good sign? A bad one?
The man Sherlock took him too was not so amenable to take them in.
"You vant I heal your dog?" he asked skeptically when Sherlock pushed his way in. "I no dog-tor."
Greg set John down on what had obviously been used as an operating table before, but it looked old and not all that clean. He gave Sherlock a doubtful look, but saw money exchange hands between the two men. He hoped he was right to trust Sherlock with this. He hoped John wouldn't transform again because he certainly didn't trust this so called doctor with such a secret, even if he had to trust him with John's life.
