Panthera Pardus

Chapter 4: The Case of the Ginger Haired League

The next morning, John ambled down the stairs in a sleepy daze. He'd had a full night's sleep last night with no nightmares. His body automatically moved towards the kitchen and the small six-cup coffee pot that sat on the counter. Deftly, he put in a new filter and some coffee grounds before adding the water and pushing the button to start the process. Toast was next, as he slipped two slices of bread in the toaster. Next he made his way downstairs where the morning post was sitting just outside the door. He brought in both his and Mrs. Hudson's copy. By the time he made it back upstairs, his toast and coffee were ready.

As he made to spread raspberry jam over his toast, John felt a warm pair of arms encircle his waist and a cold nose bury itself in his neck. He smiled as he paused in his jam ministrations. "G'morning, Sherlock," he murmured.

The man behind him snuffled further into John's neck and squeezed his arms tighter, but did not respond verbally. John smirked and continued to put jam on his toast. Once he was finished he set the knife down and moved to pour a cup of coffee. Sherlock followed, not letting go of his bond mate. John shuffled along and set both plate of toast and cup of coffee on the table. It was at this point that he realized it would be very difficult to sit down. "Sherlock, I'd like to eat my breakfast now."

Sherlock grumbled, but finally let go of John and took a seat next to him instead. John happily ate his toast while reading the front page of the morning post, something about a foreign dignitary visiting the country soon. "Any cases?" Sherlock asked then.

John glanced up over the top of his paper and shook his head. "Nothing in here. Have you checked the website?"

"Boring."

"Really? I thought that one with the girl's fiancé was interesting."

"Men go missing all the time, John."

"Does that make it any less important that they be found?"

Sherlock gave him a side-long look. "They hadn't even met, John. They'd only exchanged e-mails back and forth and even then, no pictures. The boy probably got cold feet and ran out."

"Fine, what about that one with the man claiming something about a Ginger Haired League?"

Sherlock glanced up again, this time with more curiosity. "I have to admit that that one caught my eye."

"So? What are we doing here?"

"My thoughts precisely, John." At this Sherlock jumped out of his chair and hurried to his room where he proceeded to get dressed.

John shook his head indulgently, but folded up the paper and finished the last swallow of his coffee. Despite Sherlock's suddenly urgent desire for John to hurry up, John took a shower before getting dressed. However it resulted in Sherlock grabbing hold of his jacket and thrusting it at John before marching out the door and hailing down a cab. John let out an exasperated sigh and locked the door before joining Sherlock in the taxi. After telling the cabbie where to go, John relaxed back into the seat. In fact, he felt more relaxed than he had in ages. Glancing over at Sherlock, a feeling came over him, one of calm and content. He smiled. If this was what it felt like even when the bond was only partially complete, John could only imagine what it would be like with a full bond.

They arrived at their destination in Finsbury Park after thirty minutes or so driving. John had called their client to let them know they were coming, so when they arrived on the doorstep of the man's residence, the door flew open and a ginger haired man smiled at them, urging them to come inside. "Thank you so much for coming!" The man said leading them up some stairs to the parlor where fresh tea was waiting.

"Mr. Wilson," John addressed the man after he'd been settled with a cup of tea. "Why don't you tell us your story, and we'll see if we can help?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything as he sipped at his milky tea. Jabez Wilson, nodded and started his story. "I'm a pawnbroker, as you may have noticed. My shop's down stairs. Anyway, this all started when my assistant, Vincent Spaulding, pointed out an ad in the paper asking for red-haired men to fill a position. He thought I would fit the bill, so on a whim during lunch, I went to apply. To my surprise I got the position. Something about my hair being the exact shade of red they were looking for." The man took a sip of tea before continuing. "It was simple work, really. All I did was sit in an office and copy down paperwork. They gave me papers that needed to be typed and I sat there and typed them. Paid three hundred quid a week, so I wasn't going to complain about the mundaneness of it."

"This continued for about a month. Most of my business is done in the evening, so I was able to dedicate at least three mornings a week to the typing. That was, until two days ago I showed up and there was a sign on the door saying that the League of Red Haired Men has dissolved. Naturally I was confused, so I marched up to my office only to find it empty. The desk, the computer, the bookshelf, the papers, all of it gone! When I went down to ask the landlord of the building about a Red Haired League, he said he knew nothing, just that the space had been rented for a month by a Duncan Ross."

"Now, my query to you, Mr. Holmes, is what happened to the League? Where have they gone? Not to mention I do miss the extra money each week."

Sherlock was sitting very still in his chair, the milky tea halfway between saucer and mouth. "I believe, Mr. Wilson, that I will take the case."

"You will?" John and Mr. Wilson said at the same time.

John had thought the case not interesting enough for Sherlock, but apparently he was wrong. "Indeed," Sherlock replied, sipping from his tea. "A few questions though before we leave." Mr. Wilson nodded, and Sherlock continued. "Firstly, where was it that you did your work for the Red Haired League?"

"About five blocks away to the east. Quite convenient actually."

Sherlock nodded then asked, "How long has Mr. Spaulding, your assistant been working for you?"

"Oh I don't know. Probably about three months now. He's very promising. Does an excellent job with numbers."

Sherlock nodded. "And is he here today?"

"Yes actually. He should be down stairs getting ready for the afternoon business."

"Then I would like to speak to him."

"Of course, of course! By all means." Mr. Wilson waived a hand towards the door, and Sherlock sprang to his feet and marched down the stairs. John followed the lithe man, noticing the graceful way he carried himself and not believing how much like a cat he looked now that he knew of Sherlock's true nature. He smiled a bit as he followed Sherlock into the main office of the pawnbroker shop. "Vince?" Mr. Wilson called out.

There was silence for a moment before they heard someone clattering up the stairs from the basement. A moment later, a dark haired young man perhaps twenty three years old, emerged from the stairwell. "Sir?" he asked when he got to the top.

"What where you doing in the basement?"

"Sorry, sir. Needed more forms," he said holding up a small pile of paperwork."

"I thought you just brought some up yesterday? Never mind. These men would like to speak with you."

Vince turned his attention to Sherlock and John. Sherlock, eyed the young man speculatively. "Vincent Spaulding?"

"Aye, sir, that's me."

"How long have you worked here?"

"Going on three months now, Sir."

"And do you enjoy your job?"

"Yes, sir. I like being Mr. Wilson's assistant."

Sherlock nodded, then turned back towards John, and Mr. Wilson. "I think that will be all," he said with a false smile. "I'll get back to you when I have more information."

"Yes, yes, of course," Mr. Wilson nodded along, as Sherlock led John out of the shop and back into the street.

"What was that all about, Sherlock?" John asked once they were far enough away that Mr. Wilson wouldn't here.

"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed as he looked up and down the street, in particular, at the small bank just next door to Mr. Wilson's shop.

"I asked what that was all about. Do you know what's going on with the Red Haired League? I've never heard of it before."

"Of course you haven't, John. I expect it was only invented about three months ago." Sherlock smiled.

John furrowed in brow in confusion. "What are you on about?"

"I do believe I've just solved the case, but I believe we'll be needing Lestrade for this next part."

"You're going to ask Lestrade for help?"

Sherlock nodded and without any further commentary, flagged down a cab and directed it back to Baker Street. The entire time, his thumbs were flying over the keyboard on his phone. By the time they'd arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock was done texting and had a rather smug grin attached to his face. "So are you going to explain at all?" John asked as he hung up his coat.

Sherlock grinned and stepped towards John, a predatory look in his eyes. "In a moment, I have something I need to do right now."

John's eyes widened and he took a step back. Sherlock closed the distance between them then, pressing John up against the wall as he attacked the shorter man's neck. John let out a low moan at the feel of Sherlock's warm length pressed up against him. Small kisses rained down his neck and face, followed by short nips to his skin. "Sherlock," John gasped out.

Sherlock let out a low growl that really didn't sound like anything a human should be able to do, and continued to lick and nip at John's neck. "Sherlock, hang on." With much will power, Sherlock backed off a little bit. His body was still plastered to John's, but he was no longer attacking the doctor's neck. "What brought this on?" John asked. "Not that I'm complaining, but…" he trailed off.

"I'm scenting you, John," Sherlock said as though this explained everything.

"You're what?"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and backed away from John, but didn't loosen his grip on the doctor's hand. He led the shorter man to the sofa where they both sat down. "Scenting is the act of making something or someone smell like yourself."

"I know what scenting is, Sherlock. Why were you doing it to me?"

"Because I realized that I hadn't done it yet and that needed to be corrected."

John raised a speculative eyebrow at his flatmate. "It's because of the jacket, isn't it?" Sherlock smirked, but didn't say anything. "It still smells like your brother, so you want to make sure that I smell like you." Sherlock shrugged. John sighed exasperatedly. "Fine, it's all fine."

Sherlock grinned and nearly jumped John. The shorter man was pushed back as Sherlock stretched out over top of him. He let out a contented sigh as he nuzzled into John's neck. John allowed his flatmate to scent him, his hand running over Sherlock's back gently. "So are you going to tell me about the case? You said you solved it?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock raised his head slightly. "I deduced it all nearly by the time we saw Vincent… if that's his real name." John raised an eyebrow perplexed. "Did you see the man's trousers, John? His knees were dirty." John blushed and looked away. "No! Nothing like that!" Sherlock reprimanded. "His knees were dirty because he'd been down in the basement where he was checking on the tunnel he and his associate, Duncan Ross (though I doubt that's his real name either), have been digging between Mr. Wilson's establishment and through to the bank next door."

"What? How is that even possible?"

"The bank is a very old one and doesn't quite have all the up-to-date features that newer ones do. For example, basement rooms that are lined with brick. Quite easy to break through in comparison to concrete, I should think." Sherlock's voice had that analytical tone he always used when deducing things, but his constant nuzzling along John's throat bespoke of what the man was truly concerned with.

"They're going to rob the bank? Sherlock, we need to stop them!" John tried to push Sherlock off, but the shape shifter growled and pinned John down once more.

"No need to worry, John. I intend to be there to see them caught, but the heist isn't planned till later tonight." Sherlock rested more comfortably on top of John as the shorter man relaxed at his flatmate's words.

"How do you know it'll be tonight?"

"Elementary, John. They've obviously finished digging the tunnel, else they wouldn't have dissolved the Red Haired League. They dug the tunnel while Jabez Wilson wasn't there, too much noise. As for why they haven't done it before? The League was dissolved only two days ago. They had to wait for tonight, because the bank is closed tomorrow, it being Sunday, and therefore they'll have a larger head start in leaving the country."

John was silent for a moment as he worked out everything Sherlock had just said. After a few minutes, he spoke again. "You've let Lestrade know? The texting on the way home?"

Sherlock nodded, managing to both answer John's question and nuzzle against him some more. John settled in and Sherlock went nearly boneless on top of him. Had anyone told John two days ago, that John would be this comfortable under his flatmate, he never would have believed them. However over the past forty-eight hours, everything had changed. John knew things he'd never thought possible now, which in turn made him wonder just what else was out there? If shape shifters existed, then what other mythological creature were out there? That was a conversation that he would have with Sherlock at a later time. Now, he was entirely too comfortable to think that much, so he closed his eyes and simply focused on Sherlock's steady breaths warming the side of his neck.

: : :

John jerked awake to the chiming of Sherlock's ringtone. He had to take a moment to remember where he was (under his flatmate, who was intimately close to his neck… well his entire body really). Sherlock stretched and nuzzled into John a bit more. "John," he murmured.

"Your phone, Sherlock."

"In my right pocket."

John sighed, but reached into Sherlock's right trouser pocket and retrieved his phone. The lit up screen announced that Detective Inspector Lestrade calling. "Lestrade?" John answered the phone.

"John?"

"Yeah, Sherlock's being lazy."

"Ah," Lestrade intoned, knowing exactly what John was talking about. "Right, well we need you guys to get to the bank. Sherlock mentioned the heist would take place around midnight."

John brought his watch up to eye level and was a bit surprised that it said twenty three hundred hours. "Right. I'll get him down there."

"See you soon."

John hung up and returned the phone to Sherlock's pocket. "We need to get down to the bank," John explained, trying to push Sherlock up. However the man was surprisingly heavy. "Sherlock," John nudged the man.

The detective groaned and slowly got to his feet. "Time?"

"Twenty-three hundred hours." John sat up as well.

At this, Sherlock jumped to his feet. "We're going to be late, John!" He ran to retrieve his shoes and threw John's at him.

John managed to duck the thrown shoes, and glared at his flatmate. "Sherlock, calm down. We'll get there with plenty of time." He proceeded to slip his shoes on, before rising to get his jacket. Sherlock had already wrapped his long heavy coat around him and tied his scarf. "It's only a twenty-five minute cab ride."

Sherlock wasn't listening though and impatiently held out John's jacket, allowing the older man to slip his arms in before spinning him around and zipping him up. "Come on, John," Sherlock led the way out the door, leaving John to lock up.

They caught a cab shortly and made it, just like John said, within twenty-five minutes. Greg Lestrade was waiting for them in an unmarked police car across the street from the bank along with three other officers. The silver haired man got out of the car and met them as they reached the front door to the bank. "Expected you here a bit earlier, truth be told," he said as he opened the door using the key the bank manager had given him earlier that day.

Neither Sherlock nor John replied, but Sherlock frowned as he led the group into the bank and down into the basement. John had been expecting some kind of obvious hole in the wall, but the room looked just as it should. Sherlock, however, seemed to know exactly what was going on. He marched up to the brick wall connected to Jabez Wilson's shop and knocked lightly in several spots before pointing at an area in particular. "This is where they'll come through. The wall is weakened here, but hasn't been broken through yet."

"Great, you two get back now," Lestrade said waving them away.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as Lestrade requested and moved with John to hide behind a row of boxes. Lestrade instructed two of the back-up officers to wait outside in case the burglars tried to run back through the tunnel and out Mr. Wilson's shop. Which left just Officer Lorentz with Lestrade. It was nearly time. John checked his watch again to discover it was just past midnight now. Sherlock tensed when he saw the time, but relaxed again when John put a calm hand on his thigh. They waited for several more long minutes. Sherlock knew it was imperative to remain quiet, but the still of the night was becoming almost unbearable. He knew that tonight was the night, was absolutely certain of it.

He was just about to get up, when they heard a soft scratching behind the wall. He and John rose to their knees to peer over the boxes, while Lestrade and Lorentz readied their stances on either side of the part of the wall Sherlock had pointed out. Next a dull thud could be heard and the brick started to crumble, bit by bit. Soon there was a hole large enough for a man to get through, and indeed a man did crawl through. "Freeze! Police!" Lestrade shouted as the second man's head was just appearing.

Both men froze for a second, but only for a second. The first man darted for the stairs, Officer Lorentz on his tail. The second attempted to crawl back into the tunnel. Lestrade made to crouch down and to follow, but Sherlock had already dove in, grabbing the man's ankles.

"Sherlock!"

"No!"

John and Lestrade shouted at the same time. Sherlock didn't listen though as he struggled with the man in the tunnel. Low grunts could be heard as kicks and punches were exchanged. Lestrade was about to attempt to crawl in the tunnel as well when a shocked yelp was heard. "SHERLOCK!" John yelled and rushed forward.

With Lestrade's help, John was able to pull his flatmate back through the tunnel opening. Despite the dark lighting, John could see the bloom of blood in between Sherlock's hands pressed over his abdomen. Lestrade gave John a worried look, but John shook his head. "I'll take care of him. Go!"

Lestrade's mouth tightened and he nodded before diving into the tunnel. Officer Lorentz had already cuffed and led the first man out of the basement, which left John and Sherlock alone. "You're so stupid, Sherlock! Why did you do that?" John reprimanded as he pried Sherlock's hands away from his wound to see the extent of the damage.

Sherlock grunted in pain as John ripped his silk shirt in order to see the stab wound. "I couldn't let him get away," he managed to say.

"Lestrade had it under control. You didn't have to get involved." John could see that though the wound was deep and would need stitches, it wasn't fatal. He reapplied pressure against the wound and hoped that Lestrade or one of the other officers would come back soon. He wasn't sure he could carry Sherlock outside. "We're going to have a long talk when we get home, but for now, put your hands back over here and put pressure on it."

Sherlock gasped as he put pressure on the wound, but kept the pressure steady. John, ignoring the fact that he had blood all over his hands, got Sherlock to sit up, and ducked under the detective's arm. With strength borne from years of army conditioning and adrenaline, John lugged Sherlock up and managed to pull him up the stairs.

A medic team had been called while John had been attending Sherlock, and they met the flatmates at the top of the stairs. With the additional help, John walked with Sherlock out to the medic's van where they rushed to staunch the bleeding. John stayed by Sherlock's side, giving advice that was probably not needed, but made him feel better. Sherlock would most likely need stitches and a blood transfusion, but John was nearly certain that he would live.

Several long minutes later, one of the medics led John to sit inside the van and wrapped a bright orange shock blanket around his shoulders. John rolled his eyes at the blanket, but gratefully accepted the tea the medic van's driver offered him from his own personal thermos.

"He going to be okay?" Lestrade asked walking over to John.

John nodded as he swallowed a sip of hot tea. "Yeah. He'll be bed ridden for a couple of days, but should be back to normal soon."

Lestrade scoffed. "A couple of days? If you can keep him in bed for more than eight hours I'll buy you a pint."

John laughed and nodded. "You're probably right. Did you get both men?"

"Yeah. Duncan Ross and Vincent Spaulding are aliases for Arthur Reed and Douglas Young. Both of whom are wanted for several counts of theft and breaking and entering. The yard's been looking for them for months. I hate to say it, but we really owe Sherlock for this one."

John smiled. "I won't tell him if you don't."

"Deal," Lestrade smirked. "Right. I've got loads of paperwork to do before I can pass out. Take care, John." Lestrade clasped a friendly hand on John's shoulder before walking back towards the other officers.

John took another sip of hot tea as the medic team loaded up the van and prepared to transport to the hospital. They allowed John to sit in the front for the journey and before John knew it, Sherlock was laying in a bed with an IV and stitches lacing up the jagged hole in his side. The orange shock blanket had been replaced by a hospital standard issue blanket and John's Styrofoam cup of tea had been refilled twice. John inhaled deeply as a yawn overtook him and leaned back in the uncomfortable hospital bedside chair. He set his cup of tea up on the window sill before it spilt, and was just about to close his eyes when a soft sound caught his attention.

"John," the soft moan came from Sherlock.

John's tiredness evaporated and he scooted closer. "Sherlock? I'm right here, Sherlock." John rested his hand on top of Sherlock's cold one, wrapping his fingers around it. There was a slight twitch in the hand before it curled loosely around John's.

Sherlock seemed to relax back into the bed even more, giving into the pain-numbing drugs. He fell back asleep, and John smiled as he scooted his chair closer so he could keep a hold of Sherlock's hand while he slept. Leaning forward, John rested his head on his arm on the bed and closed his eyes, submitting the exhaustion that was had been knocking at him for hours now. He didn't care that his neck and back and shoulder would hurt in the morning. All that mattered was that Sherlock was safe and would be okay.

oxoxoxoxo

A/N: Hey, so I hope you're enjoying this so far! The reviews have been very positive. I have a pretty good idea of where the story line will be going. Now I just need to write it. sigh Wish me luck!