Disclaimer: not mine, they belong to Sir Arthur and the BBC, I'm just borrowing. I hope you're all enjoying the story so far!


The dark of the night had faded to grey by the time Sherlock stalked angrily up the long gravel driveway back to the mansion. His hunt had been a dismal failure. The doe he'd tracked for miles had proved a more cunning adversary than he'd been prepared for, and had evaded his claws. He was exhausted, ravenous, and furious at himself and the world in general. It was an unpropitious moment for a change in his circumstances.

He let himself in at the main entrance, and, with some difficulty, straightened until he stood on two legs once more. He snorted – he'd be fit for nothing until he ate. He hated the physical demands of this beastly form, but he was forced to concede to them. He'd raid the pantry for some raw meat and hunt again tonight... Sherlock glanced idly at the floor as he thought.

The impression of a foot – no, feet. On the carpet. And not Mrs. Hudson's.

The information passed through his brain faster than the speed of sound and an instant later he was at the door to the sitting room. Animal's ears picked up the sound of four people, all asleep, one snoring loudly, one snoring quietly, two more just breathing. He reached out one wickedly clawed hand and pushed the door open.

He stood, incredulously, for an instant. There had been only one single visitor to the mansion in the five years since the curse descended upon them, and now here were four. Three men, one woman, all of whom had been hunted through the woods by his compatriots judging by the mud spatter on their clothes (from running) and the small snags in the fabric (some from thorns and other debris, but the tears in the woman's coat were definitely from claws). Two of the men were police officers, judging by their shoes (black, unadorned, suitable for a job that required conventionality but with extra grip on the soles in case of physical exertion), the girl worked in a laboratory of some description, probably with dead bodies also (the distinctive smell of formaldehyde emanating off her clothing and the callused fingers caused by sewing with particularly tough thread, mostly likely on corpses), the dark-haired man was a smoker, judging by his snoring, and the last of them, the fair-haired one, the quiet one...

Was looking at him.

Sherlock had been so preoccupied in practising his deductive reasoning (it had been years since he'd had the chance to apply it to multiple humans) that he'd completely failed to register the change in breathing pattern from one of his unexpected guests. How unbelievably stupid of him!

And now he was being regarded by deep blue eyes.

Sherlock looked back, and ice blue met deep blue.

It was only the shock that was keeping the fair-haired man silent and still, from his vantage point on one side of the fireplace. But as Sherlock looked, he saw shock loosen its hold in the other man's eyes, just a little – to allow another emotion through. Surprise? Speculation?

Interesting.

But Sherlock had no more time for analysis. The dark-haired man, snoring away on the other side of the fireplace, snorted at something in his sleep, blinked awake in an instant, spied Sherlock hovering in the doorway and let out a blood-curdling shriek. And then things got very confused.

'Anderson!' The fair-haired man sprang up. 'Don't!'

Anderson ignored him and dived over the arm of the chair. The other two occupants of the room came awake immediately, the man with salt-and-pepper hair springing to his feet in readiness, the girl sitting bolt upright in terror. She let out another scream, one Sherlock would have described as glass-shattering. It was enough to make him wince and start backwards out of the room.

'Molly, no! Greg – everyone – just stay calm! It's not the one that attacked us in the woods!' the fair man cried out.

'John!' the girl cried, grabbing hold of some shoes from the floor by the sofa and scrambling towards him. The man with salt-and-pepper hair – Greg – was wide-eyed and Sherlock could sense his fear, but he was controlling himself quite admirably. He leapt over to join John and the girl – Molly – and all of them, stood and faced what they thought was a mindless, ravening monster.

For an endless second, everyone just looked. Sherlock was running through possibilities in his quicksilver mind, wondering whether to depart, return as a human and offer some excuse for his monstrous alter ego (a stray or a creature he kept as sentry) or to brazen it out and pretend to be a dumb but friendly beast (humiliating, and his clothes would require much inventive explaining away, whatever option he chose, but needs must).

And then Anderson did quite possibly the worst thing anyone could have done in their present circumstances. From his hiding place behind the chair, he got hold of the first thing that came to hand and hurled it at the creature lurking in the doorway. Which might not have been so bad, had it not been Sherlock's Stradivarius, which he had left lying by the fireplace.

The delicate instrument missed Sherlock entirely, but struck the doorframe violently. There was a hideous crack of shattering wood, a moan as the strings were wrenched from their pegs, and Sherlock's most cherished possession lay at his feet, a splintered, mangled mess.

'Oh, no!' came a female voice from somewhere behind Sherlock, and some remote part of him registered Mrs. Hudson's presence. But he was too preoccupied with the fate of his violin to pay her any mind. He stared in horror at his beloved Strad before dropping to all fours and reaching out to touch the wreckage in disbelief. 'No. No!' he cried.

'What the –' the silvery-haired man uttered in astonishment. 'You can talk?'

Sherlock leapt back onto two hind feet, incandescent with rage, lips pulled back in his most savage snarl, rearing back up to his full height of nearly seven feet. 'You utter fool!' he roared at Anderson, who took the easy way out of his plight, and fainted.

'Oh, spare me,' the fair man muttered as Anderson hit the floor in a heap, but Sherlock was too enraged to appreciate the man's coolness in the face of danger. Growling, he turned on the three people still standing. The girl screamed and hid her face in the shoulder of the fair man.

Sherlock's capacity for rational thought was all but erased by her terror. His rage was appalling he knew, but the fear of those standing in front of him was caused by his difference, his monstrosity. He despised himself already – was that not enough? What right did these intruders have to come here and remind him of what he'd been reduced to?

'I should slaughter every one of you for this!' he rumbled. 'In fact, I think I will. Starting with him!' He lunged towards the unconscious man – only to find his path blocked by the fair man. John, that was what they had called him.

Sherlock halted, dumbfounded. He was nearly seven feet worth of concentrated bloodthirstiness and malevolence, and this man saw fit to throw himself in his way? He was either tremendously brave or even more stupid than most. Perhaps both.

'Stop!' John protested. The greying man made a grab for him, and got hold of his arm, but didn't manage to pull him out of Sherlock's way. 'Look, he's an idiot, and we're really sorry about the violin –'

'Sorry?!' Sherlock sputtered. 'That violin was the most precious thing in this house and you destroyed it! You think a mere apology will suffice? I want blood!'

John blanched, but stood firm. 'You can't kill him. Not just for being stupid.'

Sherlock snarled, contemplating just shoving the man aside and falling on the idiot still lying dead to the world, but he had to admire John's gutsiness. 'Why ever not?' he growled.

'Well, if you went about killing everyone who's stupid, you wouldn't have time to breathe,' John answered, and despite himself, Sherlock smirked inwardly, though he maintained his expression of ferocity. 'And please, don't take a man's life over an instrument. It's hardly a fair trade.'

'Listen to him, dear,' came Mrs. Hudson's voice.

'I agree, it's hardly a fair trade,' Sherlock said coolly, and he saw John and heard Mrs. Hudson heave premature sighs of relief. 'One life isn't nearly enough for what you've done,' he continued, snarling rabidly, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's squeak of protest. 'I hold you all responsible for this! You come here, find shelter from what hunted you and repay hospitality in this manner? And think you can fob me off with an apology?'

He lunged and caught hold of John's free arm with his clawed hand. The man named Greg started forward but Sherlock simply knocked him off his feet onto the sofa with a single swipe, where he lay stunned. The girl screamed again, but Sherlock paid her no heed. He bent his long arm, pulling John forward, pulling him up, so that the man had to stand on tiptoe to maintain his balance. So they stood, face to face. John looked up at him, fearful but resolute.

'I want a life for this! His, the girl's, yours, it doesn't matter, but I want my due,' Sherlock growled at him. And he did – he wanted to claw, tear, gouge, rend limb from limb.

John took a deep breath. 'Fine. You want a life? Have mine, then.'

'No!' Greg shouted. Molly whimpered a protest, and Mrs. Hudson made a noise of exclamation, but neither Sherlock nor John paid anyone any heed. The world for them had narrowed to the man and the beast, looking one another in the eyes, searching for any weakness or compassion or unawareness that would allow them to emerge victorious.

Sherlock stared into the eyes of the man facing him and saw that John meant what he said. His life for those of his companions – and just like that, an idea, a plan, fully-formed, emerged in Sherlock's ingenious brain. This man's sense of duty and self-sacrifice could be made excellent use of in Sherlock's efforts at breaking his curse.

'That... is an intriguing idea,' he drawled speculatively, watching John carefully for his reaction. 'My master would be pleased.'

'Master?' John asked nervously. Sherlock barked a laugh.

'I serve the one who lives here. He has been seeking for a companion for quite some time. Someone to assist him in his work. If I were to procure him such an assistant, I daresay he would overlook your destruction of his most precious possession.'

Sherlock narrowed his pale eyes at John. 'And since you offer your own life...'

'What the hell are you suggesting? Are you offering him a job?' Greg asked incredulously, still sprawled on the couch. Sherlock snarled at him, and he fell silent.

'In a manner of speaking. John, isn't it?' he asked, turning back to the man he still held in his cruel grip. 'What is your full name?'

'John Watson. Doctor John Hamish Watson,' John answered. Sherlock studied his face yet again, watching the play of emotions across it. Fear, hope, anger. The man's very soul could probably be read through his face, Sherlock could deduce even in their brief acquaintance that he must be a terrible liar. So much the better.

'Then, Doctor John Hamish Watson, I have a proposition for you,' he rumbled, almost caressingly. 'If you agree to remain here, and act as companion and assistant to my master, your friends can go free and unharmed. I'll even throw in that moron –' with a gesture towards the still-unconscious Anderson '– as an act of goodwill.'

'Stay? For how long?' John asked warily. Sherlock bared his teeth – an expression that couldn't truly be termed a smile. He ran through a timeframe in his mind, calculating how long various research and experiments would take, but the end result was impossible to predict with any degree of certainty. There were too many unknown variables in the equation, most notably the man standing in front of him. So he went for the safest option.

'Forever.'


Author's Notes: Yes, Anderson's a total idiot, but then we all knew that, didn't we? More soon, please keep reading and favouriting!