A/N: I would like to thank my beautiful Beta Tishbing! She is so patient! Please hang in there friends. Here's some back story! And I've updated two chapters for this since you've all been so patient! I love the positive reviews and encouragement! You are all such a wonderful community to be apart of! Thanks for reading and reviewing!

CHAPTER 10: SIMILAR DEMONS

Lestrade had dreams of running in open fields, howling with his pack, the fresh air filling his lungs and the cool damp earth flying under his heavy paws.

He was young again and his brothers and sisters were there, barking their laughter and nipping playfully at his tail and heels. Lestrade, in his youth, had been fast as lighting. It was ironic that his hair had gone gray, gray like silver.

He wondered about his friends. How hunger, war and worse had befallen them one by one. He had been solitary for far too long but the wolf packs had rebuilt their numbers through peace. The peace treaty was fragile but Lestrade knew its worth. Too many young pups had no real idea what war looked like, what it did to your insides to be parted in death by your brethren.

The old dog wished for none of that. He was far too old to wish for war. It was for this reason the gray haired Lestrade had accepted the truce from the head of the Holmes family. As much as he loathed what the elder Holmes and his sire had done to many of good wolf, Lestrade had worked for some years with the new head of the Holmes House.

Lestrade was lost in his dreams and for a moment the wolf halted in his steps coming to an open meadow, the sun was near setting now. The great wolf turned to glance up at the starless sky.

"You never came back for me. You knew I was going to my death and you chose to save yourself." A blond young man wearing simple brown peasant's clothing. "Where is your honor?" The young man frowned, turning his back on the whimpering wolf. No apology could be spoken in this form.

"Coward." The young man sniffed. Then louder, he turned with accusing blue eyes and a condemning finger he pointed with a shaking hand. "COWARD!"

The wolf howled and shook his great head in response, his large front paws digging into the damp earth.

"I wanted to go home and see my Mary. My wife was going to have my child. What became of them? Did you even look? You could have protected them. You failed me. And you failed her. COWARD!"

Lestrade awoke, sitting up abruptly. Hands were easing him back. "Woah there, mate. You're alright. Stay calm. You'll be fine."

"Johann." Lestrade's voice was raspy and hoarse. He felt as if he had swallowed a bucket of sand.

"John. John Watson remember." John, not Johann, offered the wolf a straw and the older man drank greedily. "Woah there, not too fast you'll make yourself sick."

Lestrade nodded, laying back against the soft pillows. He sighed. It had all been a dream. "Who are you? Why are you here?" Haunting me. John started to speak but Lestrade cut the young man off with a heavy hand. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Where's Mycroft? Was anyone else hurt?"

"No, only you. And there has been, what seems, a big misunderstanding." John looked over his shoulder towards the doorway. He could hear yelling in the hall.

"What kind of misunderstanding?" Lestrade demanded. Refusing more water, he took a deep breath and glared at the ghost sitting next to him.

~0~

Mycroft sat, shoulders and back straight. He would not pace and he would betray any sense of worry. He was not going to break down or make hopeless demands. He was no fool. Obviously he had been set up. He narrowed his eyes on the silver reinforced door in front of him. The tiny cell was made of cold stone. Not that he needed comfort. This dingy cell reeked of dog.

The head of the Holmes house, was reminded of Gregory Lestrade. The gray haired wolf was tolerable for a Were. In fact, Mycroft had grown quite tolerating of the lean muscular Were with a grainy voice. Lestrade wasn't one to be thoughtless with his words and he was polite, again, for a Were.

It was preposterous what he was being accused of. Mycroft had fought with the unnamed vampire that dared try to give the wrong blood to the unconscious wolf. The elder Holmes couldn't explain his reasoning, but he felt protective over the Wolf.

Now his deviation into sentiment had him here, in a cell caged like a mongrel dog. He wasn't a naive fool. He realized that any kind of trial would be biased. His family name carried much history and many crimes against the wolves. His fate was sealed and he only hoped his younger brother Sherlock would not follow too soon behind him. Not that anyone would mourn the passing of any Holmes not even their own blood-line. He sighed, thinking of his wayward brother. Who would keep him in check?

This was what sentiment got you. He thought of Sherlock's mother and held back the urge to shake his head. She had walked into the sun and he remembered holding tight to his youngest brother's small hand. She had been the only and last person he had mourned for. Poor broken Sherlock. His mother had a fragile constitution. Something she most likely had passed onto her only child. Father had brought the woman home after an unusually long hunting trip.

This woman was princess from some distant land given as offering for her father's wish of immortality. Such a steep price, in Mycroft's eyes, but to the human king it was a small price to pay, his soul and his daughter.

Sherlock's mother, although turned against her will, had been kind to the younger man. She had been the only kindness he had known. Sometimes, the woman would hum a sad foreign song and play a harp for him while he studied his books.

All thought the auburn haired beauty was his true wellspring, forgetting that his own mother had died in childbirth. Mycroft never minded this. Even Sherrinford, who resented the new Queen, had forgotten that the woman wasn't truly Mycroft's mother.

Then Sherlock came along, a thin, tiny mewing little thing with dark hair and gray sharp eyes. The woman that suffered father's abuses was fading and it took the last of her to have the child. She loved him at first but soon her light started to dim. Mycroft had seen it in some of the servants father had brought home. The ill-used blood dolls. She was becoming skin and bones and never sang or played her harp.

The house felt darker and colder once more. Until one morning, she came to Mycroft wearing the dress she had first worn those years ago when she was first brought to the home as queen. Sherrinford never like the vampiress, his own mother had been killed by father when she tried to start a revolt against the cruel king.

Sherrinford knew it wasn't safe to cross father and forbidden to touch the Queen. However, it never stopped him from whispering callous evils into her ear when no one was around. Mycroft was too young to protect the fragile newling.

That last morning the Queen lead a confused Sherlock into Mycroft's room. The younger Holmes had pouted and tried to wiggle free of her tight hold.

She kneeled down, placing the child's hand into his brother's. "Here. He's your responsibility now." She took Mycroft's confused face into her ice cold hands. "Promise me you will always take care of him. That's what big brother's do. They take care of their little brothers."

"I can take care of myself." Sherlock had growled pulling his hand free. Mycroft was sitting up in bed blinking sleep from his eyes. He knew it was too early to be awake. The iron curtains were still over the windows.

"Oh, Sherlock. I wish someday for someone to love you. If only someone would love you." She whispered.

And then took her leave. Mycroft had followed confused, his bare feet making no noise against the cold stone of their old home.

He had questions for her and she wasn't herself. He could see that her eyes were red rimmed and she was upset. Had father taken his fists to her again?

Then she went to the doors and he cried out. "DON'T!"

She turned back to him. "Love makes you do funny things." She stepped into the sun and Mycroft could only hold tight to Sherlock as he yelled for the flaming corpse that quickly turned to ash.

Mycroft snapped out of his dark memories. Why was he thinking of her now? These things he could never fix. It was useless sentiment. He needed to not give up. He had to get out of here and soon.

~0~

Harry pulled her black hoodie over her short hair, dark circles of her eyes very evident. She needed a fix. She wiped the back of her bleeding nose with her shaking hand, her Uncle had sent her on a mission and she still hadn't found the little bastard of a brother. Now Uncle had cut her off and she was stuck playing errand girl for the damn Doll Makers. She'd already lured five good healthy prospects into the clutches of her new masters. She needed one more to fill her quota for the night before her employers would give her the reward she craved. A bit of HEMA.

Usually these hospitals had some good prospective Dolls. Healthy nurses or volunteers, so easily tricked into helping a poor unfortunate. Except tonight there were an unusual amount of wolves and vampires lingering about. She hissed in irritation, staying out of sight, not having the strength to fight. If only she had her HEMA hit and then she could easily rip them apart or at least put up a good fight.

She was about to call it a night and hunt the park for homeless addicts. They weren't worth much but she might get lucky. Then she heard a familiar voice, her dulled senses heightened and dark eyes narrowed on a short blond human.

"You can't just-"

"Don't think you can ever tell me what I can or cannot do. No one asked for your help-"

"I know it dammit but I'm giving it. Your wounds are sealed but you're still not at full strength. I don't advise you on changing and -"

"Advice taken and disregarded."

"Dammit! Bloody Weres! Hopeless lot!" John threw his hands up and kept on the gray haired wolf's bare heels. A grin crossing her brother's untouched face as his eyes were focused on the open gown of the man in front of him. She sniffed the air, definitely a Were, scrunching up her nose she held her breath. Harry didn't care. What she saw following the unchanged Were was her ticket back into Uncle's good graces. Her skin itched and she watched her little brother smiling. He looked...looked happy? Of course he did. He was free. He was always Moriarty's favorite little treat. Perhaps she should skip Uncle's wrath and go straight to Mr. Moriarty. He could turn her and she could finally be free of the need for vampire's blood.

She started to follow the three undetected. She had learned long ago to remain unseen. She scowled at Johnny.

Always the favorite. He never had to endure what she had to. They always left him untouched. Well, sure they beat him but he always healed. He didn't have to play whore for Uncle's guests.

And Lord Moriarty had chosen John. Why John? He was going to turn the golden boy when she had put in all the work these last years. She had brought in blood dolls, had acted like an enforcer for her Uncle Seb. Well, until Johnny boy slipped through her defenses. Not once but twice.

She slipped through the emergency exit. Keeping an eye on the wolf, she snapped a quick picture with her outdated mobile. Time for an upgrade. Lots of things would change.

Two of her cohorts, also low level addicts, were waiting just outside sharing a nearly finished cig. It was hard to decipher genders with their baggy black hoodies. The red arm cuff, though, was very visible. Fucking idiots! She told them to keep a low profile. Amateurs.

"What's the deal, Harry? I thought we were bringing out the catch." Tony looked behind her, his bloodshot brown eyes darting around as if she were hiding someone under her black pullover.

"Yeah, what. It's getting late." Ana or Tonya whatever her name was, puffed on the cigarette as if it were her oxegen. Hands shaking, the red nailpolish she wore on her broken nails was starting to chip. "Where is the tribute! Dammit!" The addict forgot her cigarette and grasped at Harry's arms. "You are hiding them for yourself. You're trying to keep our hit for yourself!"

"G'off!" Harry growled her mobile clattering to the alley floor.

"It's true! Tony, look at her! Miss high and mighty she thinks she can keep it all!" Harry pushed the frantic addict from her only to be tackled by the other from behind.

"You have a hit on you Harry. I know you always have some. I just need a little."

Harry tried to break free, her strength wasn't the best. These two were starting to get the bleeds. Their eyes filling with blood and red tears started to spill. It happened during detox. Harry had seen it.

"What's this? I smell trash." A deep snarl.

Harry hissed, catching the whiff of wolf. Great. This was all she needed. The bodies of her companions were hurled against her and she was knocked off her feet, her face hitting the dirty alley's cement beneath her.

Rolling to her left and jumping to her feet she broke for a dead run as several pack wolves started to change and tear into her companions. She blindly crashed into someone. Falling back, she could hear the echos of wolves cracking bones and crushing skulls.

"Harry?" She was picking herself up. The hood of her black pullover had fallen back revealing her short greasy blond hair. IT was starting to grow back now that she wasn't on a steady diet of drugs.

"Johnny?" She flung herself forward, thinking quick. "Run! There's some wolves! And the bleeders are after me! It's not safe!" She tried to take hold of his wrist but he wasn't budging, just as she suspected. This might work for her, he was always so gullible.