Chapter Seven

Survived the night?
SH

The text came through just as the car was pulling up to the side of the road outside John's flat, but John didn't check his phone until after he was inside. He was exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed and sleep for at least a day, despite the fact that he had been incapable of sleeping through the night ever since he returned home from Afghanistan. It was tempting to ignore the phone that vibrated in his pocket, but he pulled it out after a moment to see if it was anything important, and once he had checked it he decided he might as well respond.

More or less.

I didn't promise that you
would have a pleasant night.
I merely guaranteed that it
would keep you from doing
any damage.
SH

Yeah, thanks. The wolf didn't
like being locked up, especially
not where it smelt like vampire.

Intriguing that you talk about 'the
wolf' as if it's a separate entity.
SH

I'm sure my brother's scent is
quite disgusting. It doesn't surprise
me that you would not enjoy it.
SH

Wasn't your brother. Smelt like you.

Is that so? Interesting.
SH

Why?

Why is it interesting, or why does
my brother's basement smell like
me?
SH

Both, I guess.

It smells like me because I have
spent some time in there in the
past. It is interesting because
that was some time ago. I'd not
realised my scent would linger.
SH

Why were you spending time in
a basement?

Hardly an interesting story. I'd
much rather hear about your
night.
SH

Not interesting either. Long,
tiring and painful.

How long does shifting take?
SH

I don't know. A little while.

Interesting. Well, you may be
reassured to know that it
becomes easier with time.
SH

And you'd be an expert on
werewolves, would you?

I know that those I've met in the
past have shifted in response to
my scent, and that could not have
taken them more than a matter
of seconds.
SH

Great. So, maybe in a few years'
time I won't be in so much pain
once a month.

Perhaps you should try
shifting of your own accord. If you
do it enough I'm sure your body
will become faster at it.
SH

Hah, funny. Easy for you to say, you're
not the one who would be in
excruciating pain.

For a while, yes, but it would be more
beneficial for you in the long run.
SH

Yeah, no.

You're being foolish. This is logical.
You would benefit from being able
to control yourself.
SH

I can control myself fine.

And you could control yourself
more if you could shift on
command.
SH

I'm tired. Goodnight.

John.
SH

John didn't reply, tossing his phone down on the bed and closing his eyes. With the exhaustion pulling at his mind, it didn't take him long to drift off into unconsciousness.

OoO

In some stories, there is a rule that vampires cannot enter a building without being verbally invited in by the owner. This is incorrect, which was convenient for Sherlock, because it would be very difficult to search for evidence in a house of a potential murderer if he had to ask that potential murderer for permission to enter. However, when it came to his older brother, Sherlock had always wished that he could keep the man out of his flat simply by saying, "No, you cannot come in."

He had expected Mycroft to turn up after he allowed John to use his basement, presumably seeing it as an invitation for communication with Sherlock. He would probably see it as a favour that Sherlock should owe him, and he would undoubtedly have some dull job for Sherlock to do to repay him. However, Sherlock had held onto hope that he might not have to speak to Mycroft for at least a few days before the man inevitably thought it was time to stick his oversized nose into Sherlock's business.

Quite unfortunately, Mycroft's oversized nose ended up poking through the door of the Baker Street flat only half an hour or so after John had decided to stop replying to Sherlock's texts. Sherlock could hear him when his landlady opened the door downstairs (perhaps he would not be able to escape Mycroft even if vampires could not enter a building without permission, because Mrs Hudson was far too open and far too trusting). He briefly considered jumping out the window to avoid a conversation, but Mycroft reached the top of the stairs before he had time to execute his plan.

"Really, Sherlock," he said as he stepped through the doorway, looking down his nose at the state of the flat. "Does Mrs Hudson appreciate you making such a mess of the place?"

Sherlock picked up his violin case and brought it over to his usual chair, sitting down and pulling out the bow and a cloth so that he could clean it. The instrument was not in need of a clean, but if he was watching his hand move over the bow, he did not have to look at his brother. "Let's make this quick, Mycroft," he said. "You're not here on a social visit; you're here to ask a favour in return for letting John use your basement. You undoubtedly have a job for me in your file." He pointed to the folder beneath Mycroft's arm with his bow before returning to cleaning it.

"Ah, yes, John Watson," said Mycroft, as if he had only paid attention to a portion of what Sherlock said. "An unusual character, isn't he? Interesting that you've chosen to befriend a werewolf."

"He's not my friend, Mycroft."

"Of course not. You merely offered him a place to spend the full moon out of boredom, did you?"

"It was convenient. Surely you wouldn't have preferred having to cover the tracks of a bloodthirsty werewolf."

Mycroft hummed. "Do be careful, Sherlock," he said. "Let's not forget what happened to Victor."

Sherlock looked up from his bow to glare at his brother. "Hurry up, Mycroft. What is it that you want me to do?"

Mycroft moved over to the table at the side of the room, placing the folder down on top of it. "There have been reports of a hunter making his way through Britain," he explained. "He was last sighted in York, and I believe he may be gradually heading towards London. I would like you to track him, and ensure that he does not pose a risk here."

"A hunter? Dull."

"Maybe so, Sherlock, but I'm sure you are aware of the risk that hunters pose to us."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If he arrives in London, I will take care of it. Go home, Mycroft. Don't you have a country to run?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, and Sherlock quickly lifted his violin to its place beneath his chin, running the bow over the strings in a way to produce a screeching noise to drown out the sound of his voice. After a couple of minutes of this, Mycroft took the hint, and he turned and headed back out the door.

OoO

Sherlock didn't hear from John at all for the rest of the day, so he made sure to head over to John's flat bright and early the following morning, in order to catch him before he headed off to wherever his destination was that day. He arrived there around the same time that he usually did, around the time that John usually left his house. He knew John didn't have a job (the times he came home, for one thing, were too irregular, and John wouldn't be living in a tiny little army bedsit if he was earning money rather than living on an army pension), but yet he was a man of routine, which came as no surprise given his military history. John's day started at the same time every day, like clockwork, and so, when John failed to come out of his flat for ten whole minutes after his usual time, it struck Sherlock as incredibly odd. He wondered briefly if John had left earlier than usual, but the scent on the footpath outside of the door was too weak to be new. So, Sherlock decided that there were more productive things he could be doing than standing outside waiting.

He pressed the buzzer for the doorbell, waited two seconds, and then pressed it again twice for good measure. When this failed to bring John downstairs, he knocked three times on the door, and then pressed the buzzer again. He repeated this twice before the door finally opened, revealing one very frustrated-looking John Watson. He was still dressed in his pyjamas, hair messy, and despite how late it was in the morning, he was still looking tired. He glared at Sherlock as he opened the door. "You know, when someone doesn't answer the door the first time you ring the bell, it might mean that they're sleeping, and probably want to be left doing just that."

"You never sleep this late," Sherlock stated. "You should have been awake by now."

John gave him a look. "When you have all of your bones broken and restructured twice in one night, you can talk to me."

"That was two nights ago. You had all of yesterday to sleep it off."

John let out a frustrated sigh, lifting a hand to his face and rubbing his eyes. "I'm not going to get any more sleep this morning, am I?" he muttered. "Right. I need tea."

He turned to make his way back up into his flat, and that was a good enough invitation for Sherlock to follow.

John's flat was scarcely good enough to be considered a flat, but Sherlock hadn't had high expectations. He scanned around the few rooms briefly, taking in everything he could in a short space of time. The bed was unmade, but John was already moving over to fix that up as Sherlock took in the room. This was undoubtedly a habit from his army days, and the fact that it wasn't made already confirmed what Sherlock had already hypothesized – John had only just gotten out of bed. The state of the bed also suggested restless sleep.

There was a cup in the sink, filled with water – John had had a cup of tea yesterday, but had left the cup to soak rather than choosing to clean it up. That must have been unusual – John was a tidy person generally, given the state of his flat. However, the fact that he'd not cleaned up last night was no surprise, given how tired he had claimed to be. John always smelt faintly of tea – clearly it was something he had a lot of, likely more when he was emotional when he needed some sort of comfort or some way to calm down. He must have been worked up after shifting, in need of the calming drink, but still too tired to wash up properly.

John finished making his bed, and walked over to the kitchen (which could not be called a kitchen; it was a counter at the side of the room with some necessary appliances on it) to put the kettle on. "Did you want..." he started, and then cut himself off, frowning slightly, before asking, "Vampires wouldn't really drink tea, would they?"

"We can eat and drink, but we do not require it. We don't get anything out of it except for the taste, which is nothing special in comparison to blood."

"Right. Well, did you want tea?"

Sherlock's lip quirked slightly, and he shook his head. "No."

John nodded once, taking out a mug from the cupboard rather than cleaning the one that was still in the sink, and he took an Earl Grey tea bag from a box in the other cupboard. "Right. So, why did you think it was a good idea to wake me up?" he asked, looking over at Sherlock while he waited for the kettle to boil. "Did you want something?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You weren't texting me, and I was bored. Besides, I'm interested. I've seen werewolves shift before, but you would be the only one willing to really explain it to me.

"Who said I was willing to explain it to you?"

Sherlock cocked his head to one side. "Well, you're the only werewolf who hasn't lunged at my throat, so I figure you're the most likely."

John smirked slightly at that. The kettle boiled, and he poured hot water into his cup. "All right," he said after a moment, jiggling the tea bag around in the water. "What do you want to know?"