Disclaimer: I own nothing. A. N. Oops, sorry, accidental gore. ^^'''
It could almost have been a repeat of yesterday. Sherlock let himself into the burglar's house again, soft-footed and careful. Still not enough to be undetected. With a better understanding of the man's senses, he wasn't as surprised as he had been.
"I was wondering if you'd survived. When you'd come looking for your alpha if you did," the bastard rumbled, trying to stare him down.
Sherlock's snarl wasn't really much different from the one such a declaration would have elicited before his change. "Alpha? The most generous classification for you could be a chi. Twenty-second out of twenty-four. "
"How dare you?" the other growled.
"He's right, you know. You didn't even smell my presence this time. Sure, my smell is all over him, but - that's another thing. You didn't notice that he already had a lycan's claim literally on him. Are you ill or stupid? Because there is no third option." John entered the room, the least tall in the room, but somehow, Sherlock would have sworn his flatmate was the most imposing.
"You think you can come in my den..." The burglar tried to puff himself up, but he sounded less sure than he probably meant to.
"See, you could have fled yesterday, and eventually, the police would have caught you," John cut him off, "thanks to him." He pointed at Sherlock, who couldn't help preening a little. "But you had to put your filthy teeth on him. So, the thefts are going to just mysteriously stop."
He smiled. Even before he was intimate with his flatmate's true nature - and didn't it suddenly make much more sense? - Sherlock knew what that smile meant. Blood was about to be spilled, and if you were very, very lucky, and grovelled deep enough, it may end up not being yours. That worked for him, at least. But he wasn't sure any amount of metaphorical - or literal - rolling on his belly and maybe pissing himself could have saved the mutt they were facing.
"If you want..." John rumbled, nodding towards him.
He did want. Sure, the sleuth wasn't unhappy with his change, or with the truth that had been unveiled to him. But he was alive by mere luck, and many other people weren't, because this subspecies of nightmare had targeted them. He could feel the fury mounting, and his body answering to it, settling into his new, murderous shape.
The other stumbled a step back. "It's not even night yet," he said.
"Idiot, then," John remarked, before moving to Sherlock's side, blond fur ruffled with anger. The burglar ran. It was lovely.
Chasing after criminals with John had always been the consulting detective's idea of brilliant entertainment. In this shape? He could smell their target's fear. Good. He should taste the same terror his victims had undoubtedly died in. Sure, the fact that he still had hands to slam doors closed on their muzzles was a minor annoyance. It turned out that a bounding wolf was no match for the place's hinges.
The flat was on the first floor, but that didn't stop anybody. Not the burglar from opening a window and leaping down, and much less Sherlock and John from following. The impact with the asphalt was easily absorbed, and in a different shape, the sleuth would have laughed, giddy.
"Keep tracking him," Sherlock barked. It took him a moment to realize he didn't actually have his usual vocal chords. If they weren't in the same form, or in a less adrenaline-fuelled situation, he'd probably overthink how to make himself understood.
But John barked right back, and Sherlock understood, "Ok," just fine, even if the sound wasn't any close to that.
Knowing London's streets like the back of his hand had always been useful to Sherlock on a hunt. Sure, their prey wasn't bound by one-way traffic rules and such, but he still had an inkling. He pressed on, rushing forward, jumping across alleys, rebounding off bins. Aaand... Sure enough, turning a corner, he saw the man right in front of him, John close on his trail.
Their burglar tried to swerve to the side, but a tall, brick wall stopped him. Still, for once the consulting detective could have been called unobservant - the kind of light had never mattered during a chase, so long as they could see enough to track down their quarry. So, he hadn't noticed the sun progressively setting on them.
Suddenly, the man wasn't there anymore, and the creature that had attacked Sherlock yesterday was back in front of him. He took an instinctive step back.
That emboldened his maker, but John's snapped, "Sherlock!" grounded him. Things were different now. He wasn't alone, and he wasn't helpless. He stood his ground this time. Dismissing him as a threat, the other turned around, growling deeply at John, who actually took a step forward, flashing his teeth again. Outraged, the black wolf nipped at his leg. He'd planned to do worse, but the feeling of blood on his tongue actually startled him into retreating - luckily, because the other turned with a roar, and he would not have held back in turn.
Instinctively, both John and he started circling around him, in ever-shrinking radii, leaving their target no room to attempt escape again. He kept turning here and there, no doubt trying to assess how to take down at least one of them.
Sherlock might have still been a little hesitant , but John's patience evaporated. A blond blur attacked the bigger, reddish-furred one. The detective wanted to help...but he knew better than to act without knowing how to. Soon, there was a body changing back into human in front of him, his throat savagely ripped open.
Perhaps he should have been concerned about it, but - just like every other time John had killed for him, with a bullet - Sherlock shivered a little, instead. He didn't really think, going to lap at John's bloody mouth and fur, cleaning him up. It wouldn't do to drip a trail back home. Sure, nobody would have suspected John, per se. But even Anderson would have been able to follow that, and he'd rather not waste time answering the idiot's pointless questions.
