It appears to me that a lycanthrope's greatest assets are his strength and his imperviousness to harm. Though you have, of course, several weaknesses, the one trait that I notice most in all wolves – and over the years, we have met and conversed with many, both friend and foe – is their unfailing determination. You, my dear fellow, are stubborn to the core, and this was only enhanced by that dogged – if you will excuse the pun – determination of a wolf on the hunt.

De Silva was a fool. He was old, crafty, strong and determined, but nonetheless he was a fool.

He was a fool because he underestimated his opponent. I pray, Watson, that you will never make the same mistake.

Holmes braced himself to run, despite knowing that he could never outpace the wolf even if, by some miracle, he avoided the initial attack. The Count's thick, bushy tail wafted from side to side slowly, as he coiled himself up, muscles bunched, ready to pounce on his helpless prey.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," another voice cut calmly through the growls of the Count, "This gun contains silver bullets, Jeremiah."

Holmes raised his eyes, even as the wolf-Count turned. Standing behind the werewolf was a tall woman, her arm outstretched, the early morning sun glittering on the polished barrel of a revolver. She glared at him with undisguised malevolence, scowling. The Count growled at her, turning his back on Holmes.

Holmes assessed the woman with a glance. She wore mourning black; a long, billowing dress with a tight bodice and an oversized hat, accompanied by a veil that covered her face. Her hands were hidden under black silk gloves, and beneath the veil her face was pale and thin, with shadowed, grey eyes. Tucked under her hat were tresses of dark brown hair, and she moved with the haughty grace of a woman used to being superior to everyone around her.

"You are Holmes?" she asked, directly, glancing at him only briefly.

Holmes nodded, carefully, all too aware of the danger he found himself in; "I am, madam. I presume you to be the Countess Teresa de Silva."

Beneath her veil, the woman twitched a small smile and inclined her head. Holmes did not fail to notice the revelation of a small, sharp fang as she did so, and his suspicions were confirmed. It was then that Holmes saw the movement behind her, and he quirked his eyebrow slightly when he observed, flanking the Countess, the two smaller wolves he had seen briefly the preceding night.

"Isaac! Ishtar!" she snapped at them each in turn, "Stay back, you stupid dogs – you are no match for this creature!"

The two wolves at her side growled defensively. Count de Silva snarled back at them, but the smaller wolves were not dissuaded this time, Holmes noted with interest.

"I have no quarrel with you, Mr Holmes," the Countess said, quietly, "you may leave, if you wish – I will dispatch this flea-bitten mongrel, I will leave your city. No one will remark the death of a stray mutt…"

"I beg to differ, madam – this man has already killed one man, and may have seriously injured a friend of mine. I have my own investigations at hand…"

"You cannot hope to best him. I am surprised that you take this so calmly – clearly you understand what he is!"

"You stupid witch," the Count snarled, "he works with a bloody werewolf! There's more than one in this city – kill me, and you won't get far with these rotten half-breeds!"

Holmes observed the growls of the two smaller wolves – could that account for their size? Were they the offspring of a mixed race? Fascinating! He opened his mouth to ask a question, but was cut off when the Count let out a sharp bark.

"Drop that gun and give in, vampire," he growled at her, "I promise I'll make it quick…"

"Oh, be silent, Jeremiah!" she replied, "I have won; and I will have your pelt adorning the floor of the hall. You will make a wonderful rug – much better than having a mangy cur for a husband. First of all, though – Mr Holmes…"

She barely flicked him a glance, keeping her attention focussed on her husband; "You will leave now, Mr Holmes, and you will make no attempt to follow me. If you do, Isaac and Ishtar will tear you apart. Is that understood?"

Holmes was about to protest, when a low growl rent the air. Relief flooded through him, even as the Countess's eyes widened in fear. She did not turn, however, too afraid to turn her back on her husband and too terrified to face what was now behind her. Isaac, the wolf to her left, identifiable by a patch of white fur on the tip of his nose, gave a low whine, even as Ishtar growled, turning to face this new threat.

"Caution, my dear fellow, that gun contains silver bullets," Holmes warned.

Watson paced slowly up the alleyway, growling, his head low and teeth bared; "Don't trust her, Holmes – she's the vampire."

"I had already surmised as much, old chap," Holmes replied, calmly, "well, Countess – what do you propose to do now?"

"I am so glad you asked, Mr Holmes… Ishtar! Issac! Tear him apart!"

Holmes had no time to react, as the two wolves sprang towards him, and a single shot echoed through the alleyway.

I remember all too well the day you turned to me, and asked me how to make a silver bullet. The implication of your statement chilled me to the core, but not just that. I saw the doubt in your eyes – you were afraid of what you had become, and you doubted your own ability to control it. You were asking the very worst of me, Watson.

You were asking me if I was capable of ending your life.

Hearing a very canine yelp of pain, Holmes saw the flurry of fur, and saw a wolf's body crash heavily to the ground. For one horrible instant, he thought that it was Watson.

Holmes's hand went to his coat pocket for his own specially-laden gun, but he was too slow. The first of the wolves crashed into him, slamming him to the ground. Stunned and winded, he managed to roll out of the way of a snapping jaw closing shut on air where previously his face had been. Blindly, he lashed out with a punch and was surprised – and pleased – when he was rewarded with a pained yelp. Then, suddenly, the weight pinning him down was gone. Barks and yelps split the air. Holmes forced himself into a sitting position, against the wall, scrabbling for the gun in his pocket. Drawing it, he tried to find a target, but the fight was too tumultuous for him to be sure of his target – he was relieved to see Watson amidst the fray, his distinctive size and markings making him easy to identify.

The doctor had obviously come to his aid, having decided to change forms again; a wolf-shape was more effective against other wolves, no doubt. Now, he struggled against Holmes's assailants, as the two of them clawed and bit at him viciously – no sooner would he have thrown one of them off than the other would be back, snapping and snarling, sinking teeth and claws into flesh and hanging on to Watson's back, preventing him from striking an effective blow.

With Ishtar clinging to him in such a fashion, Watson suddenly flung himself to one side, rolling over and successfully dislodging his unwanted passenger. Ishtar scrambled upright onto all fours, as Isaac growled menacingly. Watson turned on them and growled back; Holmes scarcely dared breathe – he had never heard such ferocity from his friend.

"I will not kill you," Watson snarled at the two of them, "but I warn you – do not threaten this man ever again. And know this – kill any human in this city and I will not hesitate to hunt you down."

He bared his teeth in a loud snarl to emphasise his words, and, as if on an unspoken agreement, Isaac and Ishtar let out a joint yelp and ran, tails between their hind legs. Watson sat down slowly, cautiously – Holmes could see from the exaggerated care with which he moved that his friend was hurt, and blood shone on his matted fur. Holmes slowly stood.

The wolf-form body of the Count lay dead in the alley, a small, neat hole between his eyes, which stared sightlessly after the two retreating wolves. Holmes crouched beside it. The Countess had not been lying – there, in the wound, was the glitter of silver. Holmes cursed under his breath – there was nothing he could do to hide either the bullet or the body. He wondered what Scotland Yard would make of this, and almost smiled at the thought.

Quickly, he crossed back to Watson, who was beginning to pull himself together, though he was panting somewhat breathlessly.

"Are you badly hurt, my dear fellow?"

"Just a few minutes, Holmes," Watson panted, "and it will heal… are you… did they…?"

"Neither of them managed to bite me," Holmes reassured him, quickly, "my skin is unbroken, I assure you."

Watson nodded, and then let his head drop, lying down on the cold stone of the pavement. Holmes stood over him, glancing around – thus far, they had been unobserved, but… in the distance, a police whistle sounded, and Holmes suppressed a groan. With the stories in the morning papers about a hellish hound haunting the streets of London and tearing people limb from limb, the beat constables were on the lookout for any large dog…

"I am sorry, Watson – we must make ourselves scarce – we cannot be discovered here, though I must observe what happens!"

Watson pulled himself to his feet. Calling to mind his mental map of London, Holmes led his companion to a small yard not far from the scene. A man, shovelling coal into a wheelbarrow from a bunker in the corner, looked at them in surprise, and not a little fear on sight of Watson. Holmes held up a sovereign, and the man's eyes widened.

"You did not see us."

"See who?"

The sovereign and the man disappeared, and Holmes peered out through the gate, as Watson sat beside him, wounds gradually and miraculously healing, though he remained utterly exhausted. Holmes waited for as long as he dared, hearing the noise and movement in the nearby alleyway, as the police began to arrive. He glanced down at Watson.

"I know that you're tired, old chap, and I know you want to change back, but I think we have no choice. I will need to pass you off as an ordinary hound for now… can you manage it?"

"Of course, Holmes. Lead the way."

"So you've found your big dog then, Gregson?" Lestrade teased.

Gregson sighed. There was no reason for his fellow Inspector to be lurking around his case, but he knew Lestrade had received a chewing out from the Superintendent that morning. This was for not having gotten anywhere with the missing person case of Sir Isaiah Bryce, and for daring to suggest that the man's disappearance was voluntary following the murder of a couple of whores. Gregson had a feeling that Lestrade was licking his wounds, so to speak, in his favourite manner – mocking Gregson.

"Dog? It's a bloody monster," Gregson snorted, examining the beast lying in front of him, "Don't tell me you've ever seen a dog this big before!"

"Well, there was that case in Dartmoor with Holmes," Lestrade replied, folding his arms and admiring the dead creature that lay in the alley before them, "but that thing wasn't quite so big as this… what a brute! Who called it in?"

"Someone in one of the houses heard dogs fighting, thought one or both of them might be rabid… heard a gunshot, and went screaming to the nearest constable," Gregson responded, unable to take his eyes off the beast, "We should get it stuffed and mounted – I've never seen anything like it!"

Lestrade crouched down to examine the bullet-hole in the beasts' forehead. A fragment of the bullet was just visible, glittering with an odd brightness in the midday sun. He frowned… was that silver? He was about to direct Gregson's attention to it, when the other Inspector let out a low groan of dismay.

"Oh, Lord – look who's here…"

Lestrade glanced up and then immediately got to his feet, at the sound of a constable voicing a protest, to be snapped at by a very familiar tone. Sure enough, there was Sherlock Holmes, and behind him…

"Come on, Jenkins, let Mr Holmes through!" Lestrade called, and then greeted the detective as he approached, "Afternoon, Mr Holmes… uh… is that your dog?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes replied, curtly, "he belongs to a patient of Dr Watson's. I have borrowed him to, ah, to… to track a scent on one of my private cases. Yes. What is going on here?"

"We have a conclusion to the dog-attack case – the dead vagrant from the other night," Gregson replied, as Lestrade stepped aside, "Look at this brute, Holmes! Looks like it were out on the prowl – someone came across it and shot it."

With a silver bullet, Lestrade thought, but did not voice it. He couldn't quite face the derision he would get from Gregson, or from Holmes, for that matter.

"Fascinating specimen," Holmes commented, as the big hound behind him sat down on its haunches. Lestrade stared at it. It stared back. It was huge – not quite the size of the dead brute before him, but still…

"Woof," said the hound, in a bored tone.

Lestrade blinked. Could dogs sound bored? It hadn't actually barked, had it…? No dog ever actually 'said' woof…

"Holmes, your dog just said woof…"

"What other noise do you expect a dog to make?" Holmes said, irritably, "Really, Lestrade, it's about time you took some time off – the strain of work is obviously getting to you."

"Grr," agreed the hound.

Lestrade continued to stare at it, as Holmes made a cursory examination of the dead monster in the alleyway.

"Err…" Lestrade tried to think of something to say to the monstrous-looking creature, "Nice doggy? Good doggy?"

"Oh, really Lestrade!" Holmes snorted.

The big dog let out a low whine and glared at Lestrade, before glancing back at Holmes, who seemed to be doing his best not to laugh. Gregson smirked at his colleague's expression, but Lestrade noticed that his fellow Inspector was also keeping a healthy distance from Holmes's new pet.

"Yes, Gregson, this is definitely the culprit behind the dock-beggar's death," Holmes confirmed, "what do you intend to do with the corpse?"

"Turn it over to a taxidermist, I suppose," Gregson shrugged, "or burn it."

"I suggest the latter. The hound probably came to London aboard a boat from foreign climes – it could be rabid, or worse… burning it will avoid the spread of any nasty parasites it may be carrying."

"Probably a wise idea," Gregson agreed, "Jenkins, Petersen – let's get this thing out of here – take it down to the hospital for incineration!"

The constables moved to obey, as Holmes stepped away from the body, his hand slipping casually into his trouser pocket; "As interesting a diversion as this was, gentlemen, I have a case that awaits my attention. Good day to you!"

"Just a second," Lestrade indicated to the two constables to stop, and he saw Holmes hesitate as well, "I want to have another look at that bullet wound…"

The constables complied, as Lestrade crouched down again. He could no longer see the bullet… but he could have sworn that before, there was the glitter of silver…

"Where's the bullet?" he wondered, aloud.

"Probably in pieces, inside the thing's skull," Holmes replied, "bullets poorly cast often fragment on impact. Were you to study these things you might learn to practice your trade unassisted, Inspector…And as I said previously; a good day to you both, gentlemen!"

With that, he strode off, in the direction of Baker Street. The massive hound glanced at each of the Inspectors once more, and then bounded after the famous detective. Gregson and Lestrade exchanged a look. Gregson finally took pity on his colleague.

"You look done in. Fancy a drink?"

"Bloody hell, yes… Gregson, I swear…"

"You're cracking up. I know. Come on, old fellow – we can discuss my moving into your office when you finally give up under the pressure…"

Holmes led Watson on a circuitous route around the buildings until they reached the back door to Baker Street. Holmes climbed over the back wall with an ease borne of practice – he had done this numerous times before.

"The coast is clear, old fellow…" Holmes called, from the yard-garden. Watson steeled himself, pounced, and scrambled over the wall in a single leap.

Holmes tried to open the back door, but found it locked. He took out his keys, unlocked it, and stuck his head around the door, glancing around quickly.

"Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed, loudly, "Mrs Hudson!"

There was no reply, and no movement – clearly, their landlady had gone out to run errands. Holmes went all the way inside, and held the door open to permit Watson access. He closed the door, even as Watson was already heading through the kitchen to the hall, his claws clattering on the tiled floor.

"I'm going up to change, Holmes," he said, tiredly, "I… I shall also take a nap, I think…"

"By all means, my dear fellow," Holmes replied, absently, "Do call if you need anything…"

He heard the door close to Watson's chamber, as Holmes went up the stairs to the sitting room. He picked up his pipe, stuffed it to the brim with shag tobacco, lit it, and drew in a deep lungful. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the smashed remains of the silver bullet that had killed the Count. He was lucky Gregson and Lestrade had been too distracted by Watson to notice him pull it free of the wound with his tweezers – it seemed the silver bullet did not need to penetrate the brain to kill the wolf; the wound had in fact been remarkably shallow. He marvelled at the extent of the weakness to the precious metal, and wondered how Watson had survived the silver knife injury Sir Bryce had inflicted upon him those few weeks previously.

Smoking heavily, Holmes sat down in his armchair, fixed his eyes unseeingly on the mantelpiece, and began to disseminate the problem in his powerful mind. Watson was not like other werewolves. Watson had not been directly converted by a human werewolf, but by the bite of a demonic hound. Somehow, this lent him all of a werewolf's strength and a greater immunity to their weaknesses, but not absolute immunity…

Then there was also the conundrum of Isaac and Ishtar – the Count had called them 'half-breeds' and they seemed oddly loyal to the Countess, a vampire. Why? Were they her offspring? How had a wolf and a vampire come to be husband and wife? The two races hated one another implicitly. What was the reason for this? Why had the former spouses suddenly turned on one another? There were more questions than answers!

One thing was for sure. The Countess was still in London, as Holmes knew that it would be two days before a decent-sized cruise ship docked in the harbour, bound for America. He had already deduced that it would be this ship that the Countess would depart on. On such a long journey, he wondered, grimly, whether there might be unexplained deaths aboard amongst the lower classes of passenger… what should he do? If he apprehended her, how could he prove the murders that she had committed – the beggar and her husband? But then, how in all conscience could he simply allow her to leave England with her two unusual companions, knowing that she would only continue to prey on the weak, lost and vulnerable people, killing them only to drink their blood? The very thought was abhorrent – Holmes had, indeed, killed a vampire before – Sir Bryce – but that had been self-defence…

The problems reeled in his mind as he sank deeper into his chair, selecting one question at a time, disseminating the evidence gleaned from observation and deduction and subjecting the situation to the ice-cold intensity of his logical mind. Eventually, he reached a decision.

He could afford Watson another hours' sleep, and then…

Then they would have to hunt down a vampire.

That night haunts me, Watson, as I know the events of afterwards haunt you. I had made a conscious, reasoned decision that if I could not persuade the Countess to give up human blood, then I would have to kill her. Imagine it, Watson – trying to persuade a vampire not to drink blood! I am ever grateful that you were bitten by a wolf, and not one of their nefarious kind…

But I, Watson, I… the world's only consulting detective, the great Sherlock Holmes, I had decided that I must deliberately end the life of another sentient creature!

I had never foreseen myself as a vampire slayer…

Perhaps your Change changed me as well.

A/N: For those people commenting/asking; yes, you were right, the Countess is a vampire... yes, there will be more references to the half-breeds and more info in later chapters... and no, I don't know when I'll be able to update again. Sorry.