A/N: It's Friiiiiday, which means that it's update time! But, first things first…

THANK YOU, so very much, for all your reviews and support for this fic! It really means a lot, especially since my 'Who'-fic typing is only just in the beginning. (HUGS)

Awkay, because I have a feeling that you didn't come here to read my a/n babblings… Let's go! I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

A Little Bit of Feminine Touch

In the safety of his room, where no one except for the cameras Mycroft Holmes may or may not have installed could see him, John finally gave himself the permission to break down. Just a little bit. For a few moments.

Harry… Harry was dead. Never coming back. And no matter how many times and how bitterly they'd fought… No matter how many times she'd broken his heart…

He shoved his fist into his mouth hard, using it along with all his willpower to keep a scream from breaking free while he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

/ "Harry", he whispered once. When he was only five-years-old and suffering from a alarmingly high fever. "Stay?"

Harry sighed. Her hand was comforting while it stroked his sweat covered hair. "Sorry, Johnny. I have to go to bed. But I'll come back in the morning."

John blinked blearily, his stomach dropping just a little. He was almost asleep again. "Promise?" he murmured.

Harry grinned. It was so bright and comforting that no being in the universe would've dared to question its power. "I promise. It's what sisters do." /

John's eyes opened, so quickly that in a bit more coherent state of mind it might've startled him. He gritted his teeth and inhaled a sharp breath. Blissfully unaware of the streaks of tears on his cheeks and of the pitiable trembling that'd taken over all his body. And right there he did what he'd grown accustomed to doing all his life.

He forced himself back up again and carried on solely with the power of his determination.

Downstairs the remaining group did their best to keep themselves focused on something productive. At the moment it wasn't John – a, apparently very much not human John – who was in his room, grieving the loss of his only living family member. At the moment the most productive, the most useful, thing to do was to try and find a way, any way, to keep John's entire remaining species alive. To keep John and his unborn daughter alive.

Or at least that was what they tried to tell themselves.

"These…" Greg frowned, desperately trying to find the correct word. "… creatures…"

"Danshées", Sherlock and the Doctor corrected simultaneously and clearly instinctively, one almost offended and the other audibly irritated.

Greg looked at the two dryly. Lovely. A stereo Sherlock was exactly what his headache needed to be soothed. "Yes, Danshées. Sorry." He really wasn't. "Tell me, so that even I understand… What the hell are they?"

"A very old introduced species. I've found some marks of them, a long time ago, from a entirely different planet. No one knows how or why they ended up on Earth. They're not exactly the kind of a species that likes to answer questions." The Doctor gave the DI a sharp, almost demanding look. "Can I see the crime scene photos again?"

Greg was well aware that he was most likely insane to allow the man to lay a hand on highly classified evidence. But he was desperate, stuck, fed up and in a desperate need to bring an end to whatever this was as fast as possible. So he did as he'd been asked to. "So… Shapeshifting aliens. Alright." Which, of course, it wasn't. "Why are they killing residents of London?"

The Doctor frowned. "That's what I'm wondering", the alien admitted. "They have the same instincts as wolves. They are ruthless if necessary and extremely territorial but they shouldn't be openly looking for confrontations like this, unprovoked. These kills…" The man shivered upon remembering the crime scene photos. "They're too brutal and calculative to be merely the result of territorial disputes. We need to find out what's causing this behavior to bring an end to it."

Sherlock, who'd been worryingly quiet since John withdrew, gritted his teeth loudly. There was something chilling in the detective's eyes. "We may not have time for that", the tall Brit pointed out sharply. The rest of the thought wasn't voiced but it hung heavily in the air.

Instantly the Doctor's whole posture straightened and the genius' eyes clashed heatedly. "This is a entire species you're talking about! Yes, they're a threat, I regret to admit that. But we will not simply destroy them. We have no right to make such a decision."

Greg gulped hard, feeling a sudden need to interfere. "Okay, let's calm down. Surely that wasn't what Sherlock meant."

Sherlock's jawline tightened and the man's eyes darkened still but no words were offered and the silence that followed was heavier than lead.

"So…", Greg breathed out at last. "What's the next move?" He didn't like taking orders but if he was perfectly honest with himself in this case he didn't have the slightest clue how to proceed. And it infuriated him.

"While Danshées aren't as shy to show their appearance as John's species they still don't enjoy doing so in front of those they don't trust. And having a chat with them… may not turn out strictly pleasant", the Doctor mused out loud. "But if we want to get to the root of this we need to find one of them."

Sherlock nodded slowly. It was easy to see the wheels turning. "I have contacts that may be able to help." Already as he spoke the detective was sending a text, without a doubt activating his own miniature army.

The Doctor appeared curious but refrained from asking.

That was when they heard the sound of a door opening. Three heads turned just in time to see John appearing. The former army medic seemed to be in control over himself but just barely. The steel in his eyes was almost enough to mask the recently shed tears.

Surprisingly it was Sherlock who reacted first. The detective's gaze scanned the smaller man from head to toe. "Feeling better?"

John nodded absentmindedly. Then took a deep breath before focusing on Greg. "You need someone to officially identify Harry's body, don't you? Let's go and get that done."

Greg shifted with discomfort. "John, she… She's not exactly in the… best condition. The coroner is still processing her. I don't think that it's a good idea…"

If anything John's eyes hardened, effectively halting the sentence. "Just… trust me. Whatever… Whatever will be waiting…" The former soldier cleared his throat and blinked quickly. "It can't be worse than what I've already imagined."

Greg frowned. He most definitely wasn't a fan of the idea but he knew that there was nothing he could do to stop the former soldier at the moment. "Fine."

"I'm coming along", Sherlock announced immediately. Greg was quite proud of himself for catching the faint crack on the mask of indifference. "There's some research that I need to do."

Greg barely managed to suppress the burst of laughter. Yeah, sure you do… "Alright, let's get going, then." He gave the Doctor a sharp look. To be honest he was glad that he'd have to leave only one madman to 221B. The poor apartment could only contain one unsupervised genius at a time. "You… Don't touch anything. Don't do anything. And don't even think about leaving."

Yes, John had seen his share of bodies. Yes, he'd been mentally preparing himself for something absolutely horrible. But this was sister, his Harry. His first comrade. Despite all the times he'd cursed her in his head and out loud.

Molly gave him a long, uncertain look and fidgeted. "I, uh… Greg probably told you that I haven't… processed her, yet. But her face… There shouldn't be too much damage, so…"

John nodded, his heart aching and racing in his chest. Molly was his friend but at the moment he had no patience left. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't tear his gaze away from the body that'd been covered by a white sheet. "Just… Just show me."

The white sheet was pulled away, just enough to show her face and a little bit of the upper body. In that very moment John's whole world spun. His knees were dangerously close to giving out underneath him. It was like the bottom had dropped from his world.

He'd been expecting something horrifying, certainly. But the sight before him… It was nothing like that. It wasn't gory. And he honestly didn't know if it made things easier or a thousand times harder.

The person before him was, without a doubt, Harriet Watson. The years of hard, alcohol induced life had left their marks on her but she was still stunningly beautiful. Small and much too thin, visibly fragile as a porcelain doll. Deathly pale, sans the hint of blood covering her long, blonde hair that framed her angel's face perfectly. Apart from a hint of bruising around her neck that blood was the only hint of damage he could see. It was like she'd been sleeping. Or pulling her cruelest prank ever.

John didn't realize that he'd been holding his breath until a choked, strangled gasp left him. His eyes blurred while he reached out a unsteady hand to brush her cheek, and it took longer than it should've before he realized what was disturbing his line of vision. "Harry…"

He felt Molly shift beside him. Her hand twitched but in the end she didn't touch him. "It… It was quick, John. The hit to the head… It rendered her unconscious." The coroner's gaze flickered towards him before she went on in a quiet, more than a little hesitant voice. "She didn't feel… the rest."

John didn't ask what 'the rest' entailed. He didn't want to know. Didn't think he'd be able to bear listening.

For a few more moments he stared at his sister. At her still somehow innocent, lifeless face. And choked out the only words he could think of. "I'm sorry…!"

Greg's guess that Sherlock had only one reason to accompany him and John became cemented when the taller man waited with him outside Molly's den, pacing furiously like a caged tiger and muttering constantly under his breath. Under any other circumstances the clear traces of how much the so-called psychopath cared would've been endearing. But at the moment Greg couldn't keep himself from casting impatient glances towards the door through which John disappeared with Molly what felt like decades earlier.

For some reason his memories chose to drag him back to Sherlock's fall. He could still remember, very vividly, the man John was then. It was the only other time he'd seen the former army medic's eyes look the way they did today. And it scared him.

Sherlock emitted something that sounded like a groan. The man glared at the door that separated them from John. "What's taking them so long?"

At the moment Greg didn't have the energy to feel the anger he should've. "What he's doing there… It isn't easy, Sherlock. Give him time."

"We don't have time!" Sherlock objected heatedly.

Right there Greg looked, really looked, at Sherlock. Finally seeing. It wasn't all that long ago Sherlock died for two years to save John's life. He knew, for a fact, that there was terrifyingly little the detective wouldn't have been willing to do for his blogger. And now… Now there was nothing Sherlock could do. Just then Molly's door opened, halting whatever Greg had been about to say. They turned simultaneously, postures stiff and trying to prepare themselves for anything. Instead of John, however, out came only Molly. There was a torn look on her face.

Sherlock frowned. "Where's John?"

Molly cleared her throat and wiped her eyes although there was no visible moisture. "In the toilet." She sighed. "It was Harry."

Greg muttered a half audible curse, rubbing his face roughly with one hand. Of course it'd been a almost sure thing, but… Somehow he'd still been hoping that this would be a loss that John wouldn't have to endure.

Greg sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. "So… Now what?"

As though to answer his question at that very moment Sherlock cell phone bleeped, announcing a new text. The detective's eyebrow bounced up. "That was quick." The expression changed to something suspiciously close to worry when the man read the message.

"Sherlock?" Greg demanded firmly. His stomach had already knotted with dread. "What is it?"

Sherlock responded him with showing the text, which turned out to be from Mary Watson.

'It should be easy to do, since one of them is already here with me. Had been keeping an eye on me. I'll deliver her to Baker Street.'

"We have to go, now."

What the Doctor neglected to tell his new… comrades was that he'd invited company. But then again, he was never told that he wasn't allowed to let someone in. So when there was a nearly frantic knock on 221B's door he rushed to open without a hint of hesitation.

In a flash his arms were full of Donna Noble. "You infuriating little…!" She took a deep breath, giving him a evaluating look. "Are you alright? Why did it take you ages to finally call me?"

"I… was a bit busy." He found it the safest not to mention that he'd been interrogated by the police. "But I'm fine." Well, he did have some bumps and bruises but he'd dealt with a lot worse. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Donna looked at him like he'd said something incredibly stupid. "Because you just took a trip to the morgue, Spaceman." She couldn't quite hide her wince.

It was the Doctor's turn to worry. "And you? Are you alright?"

She nodded sharply. "I've got a mighty headache but that's all. Right now I'm a tad bit more about those werewolves you mentioned."

The Doctor told her everything that'd been discovered so far, all the annoyingly little he knew. Well, almost everything. Because there was this one little thing…

… that she, of course, caught a hint of instantly. "Doctor." There was some well justified suspicion on Donna's face. "There's something you're not not telling me. Spill."

He gritted his teeth. "This isn't something that you want to know. Trust me." He most definitely wasn't overjoyed that he knew this particular detail.

Donna's eyes narrowed. Gained the look that he knew entirely too well. "Tell me, right now. Or I'll tell Sherlock and John that you're hiding something." She then blinked twice, quickly. "We are going to help them, aren't we?"

The Doctor sighed. There was no way around it anymore. "We are going to help John's species. But… We won't be able to save everyone." Knowing that she wouldn't be satisfied without a more throughout explanation he went on, every word tasting horribly bitter on his tongue. "When I traveled to London once, to a period of time not far from here… I saw an obituary on a paper. And… I just met that man today." He looked at her, directly into eyes, to make sure that she understood the full gravity of the situation. "I looked at him, listened to him and talked to him, Donna. Knowing that very, very soon he'll die. And that there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Donna's eyes widened. Flames of desperate rage lit up in their depths. "But… You're a Time Lord! There's gotta be something…!"

"We're not gods, Donna!" He then sighed, trying to control his tone when he spoke again. "We can travel through time, yes. But… We can't interfere on certain things. We'd cause a rift and who knows how much further destruction. So…" He gritted his teeth, hard. "I… I'm sorry. But we can't. Some things… They're inevitable."

Donna buried her face into her hands. It took a bit too long before she spoke. "Which one of them is it?" she asked in the end, her voice quieter than it should've been.

The Doctor swallowed. The horrid taste from before hadn't gone anywhere. "Believe me, you're much happier not knowing." He knew that he would've been.

They were both on the edge. That's why they shivered when there was a unexpected, harsh knock on the door. They exchanged questioning glances before the Doctor moved to open.

Stood behind the door was a woman with shortcut blonde hair and a couple of bruises on her face. She had a gun pressed against the head of someone he couldn't see yet. "Are you the Doctor?" she demanded sharply, a dangerous flame taking over her eyes.

The Doctor nodded slowly while fighting the urge to take a step backwards. He was genuinely worried that she might turn the gun on him. "Yes", he admitted lenghtily. "And you are…?"

The woman's eyes calmed slightly but not enough to allow him to relax. "I'm Mary Watson. I told Sherlock that I'd… bring something over and he said that you'd be here."

The Doctor's eyebrow bounced up. Somehow curiosity managed to outweight the reasonable concern over the still entirely too present firearm. "Something?" he repeated.

Mary nodded. "You needed a Danshée." She yanked at her mystery companion, the gun not faltering for even a second. "Here's one."

The stranger was revealed and for once in his life the Doctor was speechles for a few moments. His eyes widened. At the moment he was very eager not to process the other reactions of his mind and body. "Irene Adler…?"

Despite the weapon still trained at her the woman grinned. It was the cheeky one he remembered all too well. "Hello again, Doctor."

TBC

A/N: NOW it's a party! (chuckles) But oh no, otherwise things sound a bit bleak right about now… We'll see how this mad ride continues.

Soooo… Thoughts? Questions? Comments? Rants? Please, do leave a note down below if you do!

Until next time, folks! I really hope that I'll see ya all there.

Take care!