Mr. Wormwood recounted the night that he and John had met; it had been in Afghanistan, while John was at war, and the gargoyle had been on a case. He'd accidentally wound up nearby an army base one night, and while trying to slink away, saw a British soldier, who'd separated from his company and gone farther out in the desert, being attacked by a young manticore. And incredibly, he was able to kill it, even though as far as the gargoyle could smell, he was 100% human (Sherlock internally glowed with pride in his doctor's courage and skills). Intrigued, Mr. Wormwood came closer, and was horrified that the man then started to turn the gun on himself. He called out, "You really don't want to do that."

The man jumped, and suddenly the gargoyle in the trench coat found himself the target of the gun.

"Who are you?!" the soldier demanded. And then, with a tinge of desperation to his voice, "Did you see that?"

"You mean the manticore you just killed? Yeah."

"The what?"

"That's what that creature is called. A manticore. Looks like a lion with the head of a man and a scorpion's tail that can shoot poison barbs, yes?"

"...Yes. So you're saying it's...real?"

"Yeah, that manticore was very real. And if it had succeeded in its attempt to devour you, you would no longer be."

He was overcome by a wave of relief, and slowly (but still suspicious of the figure in the coat and fedora, especially out in the desert) lowered his gun.

"Who are you?" he asked again.

The other figure thought for a moment, and then said, "Mr. Wormwood will do for now. I come in peace."

"Captain Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"It's a pleasure."

There had been a small reprieve from the fighting during that time, so Mr. Wormwood and John were able to get acquainted, and talk about things. John had seen one or two monsters before in his lifetime-fae, who looked like humans except usually smaller and with pointed ears; a giant four-armed man standing in line at a delicatessen; Reapers who showed up at the sides of some of the people he hadn't been able to save, and sliced them with a sickle at the point when they died, leaving no mark. But he usually dismissed them as imagination or hallucinations; this was the first time one had ever actually attacked him. He'd been sure that he had finally gone mad, and wanted to end the problem permanently, because he worried he had just accidentally killed something-or someone. So by showing up when he did, and explaining that the things he saw when often no one else did really were there, Mr. Wormwood had saved his life.

"I think Harry used to see them too, and that's why she drinks so much. I tried to tell her about it after I found out, but-well." John sighed.

Mr. Wormwood gave him a sympathetic look, then turned back to Sherlock. "Have you ever seen anything strange like that before?"

The detective shrugged. "If I did, I probably deleted it. Or it's buried deeply enough that I can't bring it to mind at the moment. Except-wait a moment. If I'm a hawage, does that mean my brother is too?"

"It generally runs in families, so yes. I've never heard of it being recessive."

"D_!" Sherlock growled. The other two looked at him in surprise, and he growled, "Once when I was six, I thought I saw Mycroft out in the yard talking to a man who seemed to be partly tree. But when I went out to look, he'd vanished, and Mycroft told me I'd just been imagining things! He knew about this side of the world this whole time, and he didn't tell me!" The lanky man scowled at this latest discovered injustice.

"I hear you; I've got an older brother too. And two older sisters-don't get me started on what life was like when they were teenagers." Mr. Wormwood shuddered at the memory.

They kept talking late into the night. At some point, John fell asleep, leaning his head against the back of his chair. Neither detective noticed at first; they were too busily engrossed in a sea of questions, descriptions and explanations. Despite his earlier claim, the gargoyle seemed to be in no hurry to collect Fang; like Sherlock, he loved an audience. He told the taller man about the MCPD, or Monster Control Police Department, whose job it was to make sure monsterkind was never revealed to humans; this sometimes involved big cover-ups, misdirection, disguising, and spells-similar to any human government. He told him about some of his old cases, and Sherlock had fun figuring them out before he told him the solution. And he answered as many of Sherlock's questions about monsters as he could.

"How strong are gargoyles?" asked Sherlock, eyeing Mr. Wormwood's wiry arms.

"A lot stronger than you, I know that."

"I don't believe it."

A gleam came to the gargoyle's red eyes. "Oh, no? Let me show you. Give me your hand."

Without a moment's hesitation, Sherlock held out his right hand, his pale skin even whiter than usual when compared to the gray of his companion.

"Now squeeze, hard as you can."

Sherlock did so, for ten seconds.

"Okay, my turn." Mr. Wormwood squeezed back. Three seconds later, he had mercy and let go, and Sherlock Holmes, white-faced and wincing profusely, began trying to massage his hand back together. It felt like all his bones had been simultaneously crushed.

"I did warn you," said the gargoyle with a grin. "You should know that lack of bulk doesn't mean lack of strength."

"I was just curious."

"Well, at least you know now never to challenge me to a wrestling match."

At nearly two a.m. Mr. Wormwood looked at his watch and groaned.

"Mr. Ishida's going to be really mad; I need to take the little guy and get back home. The trial's in two days."

Sherlock looked down at Fang, who was asleep on his lap, and who he'd been absentmindedly stroking. "That's too bad. I can tell John is fond of him."

"Yeah, he's sweet." Mr. Wormwood stood up, and stretched, turning his head from side to side to get the crick out of it. "However, since his old owner, Arlo 'Meathead' Pasquale died without any next of kin, there's always the possibility that I could assign you two ownership of him. Since you're both not quite human, and Doc at least has promised to keep this a secret, I doubt my superiors would object."

"We'll consider it," John murmured, having become at least partially awake.

"Okay, good." Mr. Wormwood held out his arms for the dragon. Sherlock gingerly lifted Fang; the creature dug his claws into his pant legs in protest, and whimpered. But eventually he was placed in the detective's arms. He looked at Sherlock strangely.

"Mr. Holmes, I really think one of your ancestors must have been a dragon or something." He turned to John. "Care to say goodbye?"

John stood up with an amused smile, and gently scratched Fang behind the ears.

"Bye, buddy. It's been nice having you around."

Fang made a pleased growling noise, and then his tongue snaked out across the doctor's hand. John smiled, turning his hand and rubbing at a spot right under the dragon's chin. Fang's blue eyes closed halfway, and his entire body went limp like a rag doll. When he moved his hand away, Mr. Wormwood retrieved his disguise and pulled it on, winding Fang around his neck just like John had considered doing.

"Dunno when I'll see either of you again, but I enjoyed it. I'll bring him back if I'm allowed. Oh, and I should warn you: now that you know monsters are real, word is probably going to get out, and sooner or later you might have some more...interesting clients show up now and then. The type you can't write about in your blog, or the MCPD'll be on you like a ton of bricks."

"We wouldn't dream of it," John promised.

"Good." Mr. Wormwood put on his sunglasses, and slipped back up the stairs to John's room. The two men followed, in time to see him fly out the window.

When he shut the window again, John looked sideways at Sherlock, in a semi-ashamed manner.

"Sorry I didn't think you could handle it. I should have known better."

The detective shrugged. "It was a logical conclusion, based on a past moment when you'd seen me experience something out of the ordinary. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"Still sorry that my secrecy upset you."

Sherlock grinned impishly. "Usually this sort of conversation has us in reverse roles."

"If it happens at all." John nodded, and then got a grin of his own. "...So, Mr. Wormwood deduced that you love me."

The grin was wiped from Sherlock's face in an instant. "You're supposed to be the one who thinks it beneath him to eavesdrop on a conversation unless I need you to."

"Guess you must be rubbing off on me," John chuckled.

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock stalked out of his friend's room.

And, for the most part, their life didn't change all that much. But about a week later, Fang was returned to them, and then a monster showed up with a case.