Title: Of Consulting Detectives and Full Moons

Summary: John has been a werewolf for as long as he can remember; it's his secret. However, things will soon change because: 1) his new flat mate is Sherlock Holmes, and 2) he is slowly falling in love with said flat mate, 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: Please review! Good or bad, I don't care!

AN 3: I have no Beta, so unless you want to be mine, all faults are my own.

A Wolf's Heart

A Study in Pink, Part Three

He didn't think anything of it, when the public phone rang. It could have been pranksters, a number typed wrong, or anything of that nature. It was a fleeting thought in his mind as he walked passed. As he tried to hail a taxi, the phone rang in a Chinese restaurant, stopping before a man could pick it up. Then another public phone rang, and he knew it couldn't be coincidence.

"Hello?"

"There's a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowned. "Who is this? Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?"

At the mention of his name, his wolf bristled and his eyes sought out the camera. "Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." And just like that, the camera moved. Not something subtle, but completely so that it was now pointed away from him and onto the street.

"There's another camera on the building opposite of you. Do you see it? And finally, at the top of the building to your right."

John watched at both moved away from him. "How are you doing that?"

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." With that, the man on the phone hung up.

A black car, a fancy one that John couldn't think the name of, pulled up to the curb in front of him. A man, harmless looking but John knew better, stepped out of the passenger side and opened the back. A silent order. John was trapped, with an enemy who had control of the network and he had no name of.

Thankful for the gun still at the small of his back, although it might not be of use at the moment, he silently slid into the car, the door closing behind him. He was surprised to find he was not alone in the back. A human woman - they were all human in here - sat beside him, typing fast on her BlackBerry. She was gorgeous, with wavy brown hair and a tan complexion, but something in her body told him she was very off limits. Which the wolf agreed and John ignored.

"Hello. What's your name, then?"

She didn't even look up from her phone, but there was a humorous smile on her face. "Umm, Anthea."

"Is that your real name?"

"No."

Figures. He was so bad with women.

The rest of the ride was silent. It was nearly an hour drive, and he could have fallen asleep if his senses weren't on high alert. The car eventually stopped in an old warehouse. It was empty, save for a man leaning against an umbrella and a chair.

When John stepped out of the car and was close enough, the man spoke. "Have a seat, John."

So this was the man who had called him, and John knew exactly who it was. "You know, I've got a phone. It's very clever and all, but you could just…phone me…on my phone."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. The leg must be hurting you, sit down."

John nearly growled at the man; he was not a dog. "I don't want to sit down."

The man smirked. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening."

The man gave a small chuckle. "Yes. The bravery of a soldier." The smile disappeared. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

A yes, his crazy sort-of-not-flat mate. "I don't have one; I barely know him. Met him…yesterday."

"And since yesterday you moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy enouncement by the end of the week?"

John nearly growled again; this man was getting on his nerves. "Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing your not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy?"

"Enemy?" Alright, this was a little bit odd. He has never made an enemy who was the enemy of a man he just met.

"In his mind, certainly. If you ask him, he would say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John couldn't help it, he rolled his eyes. "Well thank god your above all of that."

The man gave him a condescending look, but John ignored it as he phone went off. Brining it out of his pocket, the looked at the text.

Baker Street.

Come at once

if convenient.

SH

"I hope I'm not distracting you."

He looked at his phone again - how the hell did Sherlock get his number - before putting it away. "Not distracting me at all."

"Do you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

John couldn't help but let some of his other half bleed through. "It really couldn't."

"If you do move into, um," the man paused, reaching into his pocket to bring out a small pad, "two hundred and twenty-one bee Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?" John grounded out.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel…uncomfortable with. Just, tell me what he's up to."

This time, John did growl as he let his wolf out. "You and your mate need to stay out of my life."

The man's face closed up, but his eyes betrayed him - surprise, with a small hint of fear. "Ah. I should have known. Gregory had called me earlier about a new wolf. Though he definitely did not tell me you were with Sherlock."

"And you know what I can do, what my kind can do."

"Yes."

It was illegal to kill another wolf's mate, punishable by death unless provoked. The mate's of wolves, just like werewolves themselves, gave off a presence that screamed both 'mate' and the name of said wolf they were mated to. John had detected both as soon as he stepped out of the car.

His phone beeped again, and he didn't hesitate to bring it out.

If inconvenient,

come anyway.

SH

He couldn't help but smirk. His new flat mate was interesting. "Good." His phone beeped again.

Could be dangerous.

SH

With a sharp smile that showed of his fangs, he limped back to the car.


When John entered the flat, he found Sherlock lying on the couch, his hand pressing against his other arm. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock lifted his sleeve slightly and showed off his arm. "Nicotine patch. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

John snorted. "Good news for breathing."

"Ugh! Breathing! Breathing is boring!"

John shook his head in disbelief as he walked over to the man. His arm was halfway covered by his hand, but he could still see what was on it. "Is that three patches?"

"It's a three patch problem. Can I use your phone?"

"My phone?" John asked in disbelief.

"Always a chance my number will be recognized; it's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah she's downstairs. I tried yelling but she didn't hear."

"I was on the other side of London!"

"Yeah, no hurry."

With a growl - he seemed to be doing that a lot these days - he dug his phone out of his pocket and slapped it into Sherlock's waiting hand. He sat down in the chair closest to Sherlock, trying to control his anger.

"Is this about the case?"

"Her case," Sherlock breathed out, putting his hands together under his chin.

"Her case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase from her. First big mistake."

"Okay. He took her case. So?"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it. On my desk there's a number. I want you to send a text."

John wondered if he wolf could get a headache too. "You've brought me here, to send a text."

"Text, yes. The number on my desk." John heaved himself up with a sigh and took his phone back. Making his way to Sherlock's desk, there must have been something in his posture because Sherlock continued speaking. "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?"

"An enemy," John clarified.

"Oh! Which one?" Sherlock asked, his voice betraying how not very surprised he was.

"Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlock looked over at him. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"No…"

Sherlock hummed in disappointment. "Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

Uh huh. "Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On my desk, the number!"

John sighed. It took him a few moments, but he finally found the stupid paper with the number; Sherlock was seriously the messiest person he had ever met. Opening a new text message, he began to type in the number when he realized there was a name on said paper.

"Jennifer Wilson. That was... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes. That's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

A few milliseconds of blessed silence. "Have you done it yet?"

"Ye-hang on!"

And Sherlock promptly ignored him. "These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street, please come.'"

"You blacked out?"

"What? No... No!" Sherlock leapt off the couch quickly, climbing over the coffee table to disappear from John's vision. "Type and send it. Quickly. Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?"

Sherlock reappeared in his vision, carrying something. "22 Northumberland Street. Hurry up!"

With a roll of his eyes, John finished the text and turned to Sherlock - and a very pink case. "That's... That's the pink lady's case, that's Jennifer Wilson's case."

"Yes, obviously. Oh, perhaps I should mention - I didn't kill her."

John frowned. "I never said you did."

"Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then, yes."

John couldn't help but roll his eyes. Sherlock was a genius, and a little bit crazy, but a murderer? No. Something told him Sherlock wasn't even close.

"Okay. How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention - particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink. You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" God, this man was a genius.

"It had to be pink, obviously."

"Why didn't I think of that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's sarcasm. "Because you're an idiot." John looked at him sharply. "No, no, no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How could I?"

"Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one, you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home?"

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home."

Ah yes, that was right. He remembered Sherlock deducing the lovers by the ring on her finger. Then it hit him. "Why did I just send that text?"

"Well, the question is where is her phone now?"

"She could have lost it."

"Yes. Or?"

"The murderer! You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

It didn't matter. Back up, rewind, whatever. "Sorry...what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?"

His phone began ringing, and a quick glance showed the number was being withheld. Sherlock gave him a smirk. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer... would panic."

As quick as lighting, Sherlock closed the case and was up, putting on his jacket and scarf. John turned to him.

"Have you talked to the police?"

"So why are you talking to me?"

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," Sherlock said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well. you could just sit there and...watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?" John asked in complete disbelief.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...problem?"

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?"

"She said...you get off on this. You enjoy it."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "And I said 'dangerous', and here you are."

John let out a mixture of a laugh and a growl as he leapt to his feat. "Damn it!"