I'm sorry this keeps taking so long between updates, I'm truly doing my best !

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The heart grew closer to the wolf's ears, and the voice as well. The wolf whined again, gently, as if it understood. It didn't know why the voice was broken and sad, but it understood sadness enough to not like it. Pushing back on its forefeet, the wolf landed on all fours again before pacing from left to right, head hanging lower, as if to try and see through the small gap between wall and tiles.

Sherlock heard the wolf moving away from the door and he sighed heavily. "John, I'm coming in okay?" he spoke, softly, trying to keep his voice steady. He twisted the key and slowly opened the door, peering inside and locating John immediately. He knew he was big, but he never thought he would be /that/ big. Somehow it didn't frighten him. Much the contrary, it made him feel oddly safe.

For the wolf, there were sounds. There were odd sounds, and a subtle growl came from the depth of the wolf's ribcage, before it ceased, when the door opened and a figure came in. Eyeing the figure, the wolf sneered, showing its teeth, as a way to intimidate the newcomer.

Sherlock looked down, knowing that when looked in the eyes by a stranger, a wolf would take it as a threat and most likely attack. So he kept his head low and his wings tucked in, again, trying not to show any sign of threat. He wanted him to know that Sherlock was a friend. Not a foe. "Hey John," he said lightly, closing the door behind him, looking at the wolf's huge paws.

The yellow eyes flickered from the figure to the wings, and there came a growl while its tongue came through its teeth, trying to intimidate the figure. Wings. The wolf hated the wings. The wings were like birds. And they came from the sky, dropping silver on it. The claws scratched the floor until the voice came again. Unmuffled by the door in between, it rang crystal clear in the wolf's ears, and the sneer disappeared. Ears still flat against its skull, the wolf took a step forward, trying to identify the figure. There was something familiar. But what?

Sherlock leaned towards the door and wiped away his tears. "You really are big, aren't you?" he chuckled softly, wrapping his arms around himself and closing his eyes. "You remind me of her in some ways," he looked up, his sad eyes meeting John's for a brief moment. When the figure raised its hands to wipe away the tears, the wolf sneered again, ready to jump if it proved to be a threat. Staying those few feet away from the figure, the wolf could heart the heart, the lungs, the words. Everything. Sharp senses.

"You have the same kindness in your eyes, the same gentle touch… She liked to stroke my wings. She said that she wanted to be a wolf with wings," he smiled again. The wolf finally decided to take a step closer to the figure, ears flat across its skull, weary and ready to bite or jump back at the slightest sign of attack or danger. There was a smell on the figure, a familiar smell. One which was in the room as well, on the bed. Near the bottle too. On the shirt, on the floor, too. Maybe it was a sign. If the figure had the same scent on him, it could only be a sign. Sherlock would take a step back when the wolf stepped towards him, but the door wouldn't allow him. He looked in John's eyes and spoke softly. "Come on. Back up a little. I might feel a bit safer with you, but that doesn't mean I am a complete idiot. Then again, Maybe I am. I'm in a room talking to a hungry Wolf that only has to jump on me and break my neck and have his jolly tasty meal of the month," he looked down at his feet and hesitantly held his hand up towards him. Sherlock was almost giving himself on a silver platter! Was he that desperate to die? He looked up again and his wings flinched slightly. And then he knew this had all been a mistake.

When the figure's eyes locked on those of the wolf, the growl came back. Softly, but it stayed present. Then the eyes went down, the growling ceased. The voice didn't seem broken nor sad now. The wolf stopped coming closer, its eyes judging the figure. Thinking. The wolf was trying to figure out whether or not to leave the figure alone. When suddenly one of the wings flinched, startling the wolf, which acted out of instinct. Its jaws closed on the hand held out and ripped at it violently before opening up again, feeling the blood on its tongue, growling, sneering, and barking. Frontleg spread, inhaling in order to make itself look bigger, the wolf sneered, showing its teeth, before snapping at the figure again, trying to catch something with its teeth, going for one of the wings, jumping on it, its paws landing on the wall, catching itself, claws gripping through the wallpaper revealing the silver which suddenly burnt the skin again, making the wolf retreat, furious, with its teeth bloodied.

Sherlock was too startled to scream. The pain shooting him as he fell to the floor. And then his wing was the target. The pain shot through all of his body before the Wolf growled in agony. /Silver/, he thought, as he squirmed on the floor. He knew his end was there and then when a big paw hit him right across the cheek and upper arm, knocking him unconscious, with the words /I'm sorry I failed you too/, spinning around in his head. His injured wing draped over his body, covering him completely.

Growling, aggressive, the wolf began to pace around the figure which had covered itself with the wing. It had stopped moving. There was something wrong. He wasn't dead. But he wasn't supposed to /not/ move. Shaking its head, its mane like fur making it seem bigger, the wolf walked towards the figure and caught a few of the feather between its teeth, trying to pull the wing from the body. The scent was all over the figure. It was awkward. Stepping on the wing without care, the wolf reached the figure's head, one of its paws resting on the figures chest. There was blood. But it tasted.. bitter. The wolf didn't like it. It was acid. Bitter. It didn't like it. Pushing with its muzzle, the wolf tried to move the figure's face, and jumped back, in case there was a reaction. When nothing came, the wolf sat down, and stared for a few seconds, before bending its neck and letting out a howl. The first one, that night.

Sherlock was stuck in a limbo of an almost dream. Images haunting him, hands holding out to him and his dazed mind refusing to wake. He laid limp on the floor of 221c, vaguely feeling the wolf's attempts to wake him. In the limbo he was stuck in he could only hear the pain on billions of souls, screams that made his weak heart ache and his breathing become even more shallow. He wasn't sure of how long he spent in there, as his breath nearly left him but never really did. He was in hell, for sure. And then Saline's face appeared in front of his eyes. He was definitely dead now, absolutely for sure. How could he be seeing her so clearly? Her face deformed by the bigger wolf's attack, her dark caramel skin livid, her warm eyes cold as ice. It felt like years. Not knowing if he was dead or just sleeping or what. Not knowing was always a mystery to Sherlock. But truth was that his body didn't move for the rest of the night.

After the howl, the figure didn't move. It didn't move at all. The wolf tried to pull on one of the wings, like a cub would a toy. It tried to pull on the fabric, the clothes. It tried to pull the other wing. Stomping on the figure. When nothing seemed to work, it began to howl, louder. There was a response, somewhere. Then, there came noises. Other noises. Another voice, this time feminine. Old. Growling, the wolf stopped its howls, and stared at the door, hearing muffled voices. There was another masculine voice. /Sherlock's not here, there's something wrong/ it went, but the wolf couldn't understand it. There came footsteps, and then the door moved. Growling, suddenly defensive, the wolf stood on Sherlock's body, its paws on the detective's chest, trying to look as big as possible, sneering at the possible threat which would come through the door. The wolf wouldn't recognize the figure which came in, but it was Lestrade. He'd brought Mrs. Hudson home, and when Sherlock hadn't been in the flat, he'd decided to check on 221C. Upon seeing the wolf guarding, what he understood, as its prey, the Detective Inspector walked out the door, and after a few minutes, returned. The wolf had pulled Sherlock's body further into the room, in order to stand between it and the foreigner, as if to protect it. But, suddenly, there came a pain on its shoulder. Dizziness. Drowsiness. Stumbling, the wolf sneered at the stranger, and tried to catch him, to rip him to pieces. But its feet failed it, and it fell down, unable to move. There was a silver dart in its shoulder, and suddenly, there were other figures in the room. But that didn't matter. For the wolf collapsed almost immediatly, giving up every single strength left in its body to protect the detective at his feet.

Mrs Hudson got in the room behind them and made way. It was a Winged instinct to protect a Wolf. She screamed at them to stop and tried to pulled them away from the room. When none of them listened, her light-brown wings spread wide and she flapped them at the others screaming to leave her house immediately. Lestrade and the others eventually obliged and slowly made their way out of 221. Mrs Hudson promised the inspector that she would call him in the morning and give them information upon the boys. She knew that although John hadn't been in the 'pack' for long, people were generally fond of him. She did her best to take John's large body out of Sherlock's and she carefully examined the dart wound. Of course it was silver. "Those idiotic imbeciles," she hissed as she carefully removed the dart and threw it aside, stopping the bleeding with a large bed sheet. Then her attentions turned to Sherlock and she thought he was dead. But her feathers could still feel warmth irradiating from his body. If he kept losing blood like that it surely wouldn't be for long.

As the day dawned, she manages to lie John's now human body on the bed in 221c and Sherlock on her own bed, her old wings doing most of the work. Mrs Hudson had attended to John's wound and patched it up carefully, but most of her time was spent on Sherlock. She suspected several broken ribs, his wrist was shattered and his wings… it pained her to look at his wings, once so shiny, and strong, now all bloodied and possibly broken. She silently told him off for being so reckless, but she knew the call and the need that a Winged felt towards their charge. Sherlock looked incredibly broken, his cheek badly scratched and his arm equally injured. She closed the door to the room and let him rest as he turned back to 221c where she could see John's human figure laying down on the bed. He should be exhausted. She sat down and continued to clean his shoulder, softly applying the stinging nettle directly on the open wound. It would heal faster that way.


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