It was hot, and sandy, and there was just enough a breeze to tickle the ruff of John's neck. He narrowed his eyes and stuck his nose in the air, sniffing eagerly.

And there - he caught it, that scent. It was familiar. It was comforting. He yipped and started running, paws fumbling for traction on the overly warm and fine sand. He found a rhythm and settled in.

He was getting closer - the scent was strong and growing stronger, when something darted in front of him, something dark and dangerous and it smelled like home.

He stopped, nearly toppling over, head whipping towards the dark blur. It was another wolf - dark, almost black fur, and piercing eyes.

He knew this wolf without ever having seen it.

Sherlock. Mate.

He stood there, staring, as Sherlock did the same. Cautiously, Sherlock began to move closer as John paced a few short steps in either direction, howling howling so softly it was almost a whine.

And then they were nose to nose, watching and sniffing. Which was when John got a shock.

Sherlock laid down in front of him, and whined.

John glanced around and growled, prowling around Sherlock protectively as he did so, glaring into the empty expanses around them. Mate. Safe. He'd be damned if anything or anyone would get past him.

"That's sweet."

He turned, eyes meeting those of Colonel Sebastian Moran. His head dipped low and he snarled, keeping himself between him and Sherlock. There was a rifle - high powered, sniper scope, beautiful and deadly - in his hands.

The gun came up, and John froze. He heard Sherlock behind him - hear him yelp, felt him scrambling away. But he couldn't move. That was it. The gun that had shot him, he was sure of it. That was the man and the gun that had done this to him - had made him this creature, had forced it on him, and had then hunted him.

And he couldn't move. He wanted to - he wanted to leap at him, claw him, sink teeth and fangs into his skin and rend. He wanted to see him suffer.

He could see Moran smile, and he saw the finger on the trigger. The sound of the gun firing was loud, impossibly loud, and yet he could hear Sherlock howling behind him over it all, as though his mate's voice would drown out everything else, even the sound of his death. Then the pain bloomed, and he fell.

He woke with a shout, hand clutched at his blanket and heart beating too fast.

He grabbed his cane and limped quickly into the bathroom, where he wretched until his stomach was empty. With shaking hands, he turned on the shower, positioning the ridiculous plastic chair he had to use directly under the spray. He stayed kneeling on the floor as he took off his shirt, then carefully shimmied out of his pants.

The water was warm and comforting and when he closed his eyes, it felt nothing like blood, which was thicker and could never be confused with water, really.

One word echoed in his head. Mate. He'd looked at Sherlock - in a dream, but still it had been Sherlock - and thought, This is my mate. My. Mate.

He stayed there, the water beating down on him until it was cold, hiding him from the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. Then he dried off and re-dressed, and made his way back to bed. He checked his alarm, and closed his eyes.

He did not dream again.


The next evening, John stepped up to the door at 221B, looking it over and thinking that he could always do much worse.

The scent of wolf was mixed with the sandwich shop next door, as well as a hint of perfume, and all of it combined with the normal scents and smells of the city. It smelled remarkably welcoming, despite everything.

He wrapped the brass knocker a few times, then turned just as he heard a cab door open, sending a familiar scent straight from his nose to his groin.

He held out his hand. "Ah, Mr. Holmes." When in doubt, formal always worked best.

"Sherlock, please." His hand was warm, even through the glove, and he seemed to hold John's hand just a bit longer than most people would. Of course, most people didn't turn into wild animals on a regular basis, so perhaps it was just as well.

Sherlock was standing close, too close really, and John glanced around. "Well, this is a prime spot." He glanced back, saw Sherlock retreat a step. "Must be expensive."

Sherlock was staring at him interestedly, a slight smirk on his lips. "The landlady - Mrs. Hudson - she's given me a special deal. We've a bit of history, and on top of that, she owes me a favour." Sherlock glanced out at the street, nostrils flaring subtly. "Few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out."

He said it all as though this were nothing special. "Sorry… you stopped her husband being executed?" That was certainly impressive.

"Oh no! I ensured it." Sherlock gave John a closed-mouth smile, and John felt his throat dry up. They stood there for what was, in truth, only another few seconds, but which felt like an entire week as they stared at each other. John still could not flush out the rather lewd images pinging through his head, and had essentially given up on it for now. Instead, he stared at Sherlock, wondering if his brain was producing the same interesting visuals.

The door opened then, and an older woman beamed out at them.

"Sherlock! Look at you." Her voice was warm and motherly and she held out her arms. John wasn't certain what he'd been expecting, but Sherlock stepping forward with a large, genuine smile as he hugged her and kissed her cheek had most definitely not been on the list of scenarios.

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson."

Mrs. Hudson turned and beamed at him. He smiled at her, and the moment their eyes met, John felt something stronger than static but just a shade weaker than electricity pass through his entire being.

What the

"Hello, come in!"

"Hi, thank you." He manoeuvred himself up the steps and into the flat, taking care not to touch Mrs. Hudson if possible.

"Shall we?" Sherlock was just behind him, the warmth comforting after… whatever that had been. John stepped aside and waited as Sherlock brushed past him, taking the steps two at a time. John glared after the rapidly disappearing coattails in envy, then took a deep breath and heaved himself up each step, refusing to wince at the twinges and flares of pain in his leg. He absolutely would not be pitied for this, not by this man or that… woman, not by anyone, not ever.

He turned on the small landing in the middle of the steps, and looked up, pushing himself into movement. Sherlock stood in front of the door, anticipation blazing in his eyes. Once John reached the top, Sherlock opened the door with a flourish, stepping in and whirling through what John found to be a truly chaotic sitting room.

Despite the mess, it was… John let out a breath, feeling a quirk to the side of his mouth. The flat was everything his safe little bedsit wasn't. This was open, it was large, it was… it was absolute discord and anarchy. Nothing matched, nothing was new and clean, and everything was perfect, aside the stacks of junk. That, however, was easily fixed.

"Well this could be very nice." John turned slowly, taking it all in. "Very nice indeed."

Sherlock, who hadn't stopped moving since he'd opened the door, finally paused next to John. "Yes. Yes, I think so, my thoughts… precisely." He sounded so pleased. "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out-oh." John's voice died out as Sherlock's did. He stared at the man for a moment, certain he wasn't imagining the flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. "So this is-"

"Well, obviously I can um, straighten things up." Sherlock started moving again, grabbing files and papers and dumping them into boxes seemingly at random. "A bit." He picked up several pieces of mail, placing them on the mantel. A picket tool/knife jabbed through the paper and into the wood of the mantel, which John noticed was decorated with some rather strange paraphernalia.

He plucked up his cane, weight shifting uncomfortably to his left leg as he pointed. "That's a skull." He stared at it, wondering precisely how it came to be on Sherlock's mantel.

Sherlock spared it a glance. "Friend of mine." His face fell slightly. "Well, I say friend." He moved away again, taking off his coat and scarf. John looked back towards the door, where Mrs. Hudson was just stepping through, a smirk in place on her face.

"What do you think then, Dr. Watson?" John watched her a moment, still trying to figure out what she was. She grinned, looking entirely too pleased for someone who'd only just met him. "There's another bedroom upstairs. If you'll be needing two bedrooms."

Oh God. She could see it, couldn't she. She could tell, she knew what he was thinking, she knew…

No, that was crazy, of course she didn't. It wasn't as though they had some tangible, visible connection - hell, John wasn't even sure what he was feeling and imagining was reciprocated. It could just be his imagination. Or his instincts responding to a new and very dominant wolf. Or maybe he was bisexual and hadn't realised it until now.

Or, maybe they did - maybe everyone could see something between them. Hell if he knew, at this point.

"Of course we'll be needing two." He tried to put as much confidence into the statement as he could. She glanced towards Sherlock a bit, then smiled brightly at John.

"Oh don't worry, we get all sorts 'round here." As John watched, something flashed in her eyes. Not an emotion, not a feeling - an actual flash, like lightning striking right in front of him.

"What… what are…"

Mrs. Hudson didn't respond as she strode past him into the kitchen. "Sherlock, the mess you've made…" Her tone was motherly, and Sherlock glanced at her with a smirk and rolled eyes.

"She's-"

"The pack witch." Sherlock grabbed a laptop from under several file folders and placed it on the table, shoving it back a bit and knocking several small stacks of papers to the floor.

"Oi! I can hear you, young man!" John's head whipped back towards the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson was bustling about, putting plates and glasses in the sink. "It's practitioner, as you well know."

"Yes, yes." Sherlock sounded bored as he flipped open his laptop. "I know, witch."

Mrs. Hudson's heals click-clacked rather loudly as she came back to the living room. "You watch your mouth or you'll watch it disappear."

Despite her words, she was smiling, and Sherlock looked as though he was barely containing a fit of giggles.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

"That's better." She turned and, head held high, went right back to picking up after Sherlock.

John had never felt so out of his depth before, even when he'd been strapped naked to a chair and informed that werewolves were real. His head was swimming, and he glanced around, finding a Union Jack pillow and tossing it into a chair, gracelessly flopping into it and leaning back. At least now, he wasn't in danger of falling over in shock.

Sherlock was still quiet as he powered up the computer, and the sudden quiet between the three of them was making John uneasy.

"I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock paused, hands going to his pockets as he turned back to face John. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website. The… Science of Deduction."

There was no mistaking the physical restraint Sherlock was exercising as he tried to look less than chuffed. "What did you think?"

Well, that was an easy answer. John made a face. Sherlock made one in return. It was possibly the most human thing John had seen him do thus far.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes." Well, at least he believed what he'd said on there, there was no question about that. "And I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

Jesus, what a prat. "How?"

Sherlock said nothing, and turned away.

Right. That was helpful.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your alley. Three exactly the same…" Mrs. Hudson was coming back now, paper in hand as she-

No. No, she wasn't actually holding the paper. It was… floating, was the only word John had for it. Floating along in front of her as she wiped her hands on a small towel.

Shit, she really was a witch then. Practitioner. He'd call her anything she preferred as long as she didn't use that against him. John took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried counting to ten.

He got as far as two.

"Four."

He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, who was moving towards one of the windows that looked out over Baker Street - John could hear a car slowing down out there.

"There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?"

Well, it seemed being a witch didn't give you better hearing, then. One more piece of information John wasn't sure what to do with.

The door downstairs opened quickly, and whoever had arrived was taking the steps two at a time. He was also, John was relieved to know, entirely human.

A man with short, silver hair stepped into the sitting room.

Sherlock wasted no time with formalities. "Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

Sherlock affected a bored look as his rapid questioning betrayed his interest. "What's new about this one, you wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" Even the policeman sounded intrigued by this.

"Yeah."

"This one did." A thrill went through John as he watched Sherlock, who looked to be calculating things already. "Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock sounded hopeful.

"Anderson."

John could smell it as well as feel it as the disdain rolled off Sherlock - definitely not who he'd been hoping for, then. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant." The policeman was pleading without trying to look like he was pleading. John wondered - just for a moment - if he knew the truth about Sherlock, about what he really was.

"I need an assistant."

"Will you come?" And now, he'd given up all pretences and was simply begging. John wondered just how bad all of this really was, if the man was here begging for help.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." He gave a small bow as he said, glancing over at John and Mrs. Hudson before turning and running back down the stairs. The sound of the door closing drew John's eyes back to Sherlock, who was standing with his hands shoved into his pockets as a sly grin came over him.

"Brilliant!" John reared back in his seat as he watched Sherlock actually leap into the hair with glee. "Yes! Oh, four serial suicides and now a note - OH! It's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food." Sherlock bustled about as he spoke, grabbing up his coat and scarf again.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" A door leading from the kitchen back into the stairway opened and shut, and John was left frowning after him, trying to figure out what had just transpired.

"Look at him, dashing' about. My husband was just the same, but… you're more the sitting down type, I can tell." John glanced up at Mrs. Hudson, who looked far too kind and motherly as she stood next to the chair. He looked away quickly, unable to school his features as much as he'd like. He was a werewolf, for pity's sake, and no matter what people thought when they saw his cane, he was not an invalid. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

And that was the breaking point. "DAMN MY LEG!" John regretted his outburst immediately. "Sorry. I'm… so sorry, it's just sometimes this… bloody thing." He whacked his foot with the end of his cane, shooting an attempted smile back at Mrs. Hudson. He knew it didn't work - never made it all the way to a smile - but she let it go.

"I understand dear, I've got a hip." She turned and began to leave to make the tea.

"Cuppa tea'd be lovely, thanks." John grabbed a newspaper, opening it up.

"Just this one dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple o' biscuits too, if you've got 'em." He flipped to another page.

"Not your housekeeper…"

A photograph caught his eye - it was the policeman that had just been here. The caption named him as DI Lestrade, and said he was the lead investigator in the strange suicides that had been happening lately. Well, at least it was something more than he'd known a minute and a half ago.

"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor." John flipped the paper down quickly, seeing Sherlock standing in the doorway. He was pulling on gloves. "And of course, a werewolf. One who seems to understand his instincts."

John stood up. "Yes." No point in arguing any of that. Sherlock likely wouldn't have believed him if he had.

Sherlock quirked his head as he looked John over. "Any good?"

John didn't smirk, but it was a near thing. "Very good."

Sherlock gave him a quick nod. "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths."

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"Of course, yes." He unconsciously shifted his left shoulder, just a bit. The reminder of his trouble was enough to make it twinge. "Enough… for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock's eyes blazed with understanding. He knew.

"Oh God, yes." John followed him out of the flat and down the stairs. "Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out!" He hoped he sounded as eager as he felt.

"Both of you?" She sounded as though she wanted to be put out at this - but she was failing miserably if that was the case. Instead, she sounded almost as pleased as John was.

Sherlock turned back, grinning. "Possible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting inside when there's finally something fun going on!" He bent down and kissed her cheek again, and she swatted his backside.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

Sherlock kept grinning as he turned away from her and continued on outside. "Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" And then he was bursting out onto the street, John following along behind him. He hadn't felt this free since he'd been running beside McMath in Afghanistan, four paws hitting the ground and wind and sand flying through his fur.

"Taxi!"

John slid into the backseat as Sherlock held the door, and they were off.


The cab was a bit more than John had been sure he could stand - himself, his strange and likely very mad flatmate who inspired such discomfiting urges, and a human driver who was probably oblivious to all of it. Just what a relatively new werewolf with PTSD and no clue what they were really doing at the moment needed. Of course, the energy and excitement that had surrounded Sherlock upon the DI's arrival had wiped out so many other thoughts and feelings and concerns that he'd been willing to do just about anything, really, as long as it kept him close to Sherlock.

And now here he sat, breathing slowly and glancing about like the caged animal he was, whilst Sherlock sat there fiddling about with his phone as though this were entirely normal for him.

Maybe it was. Maybe that was why he couldn't find a flatmate - no one would put up with him.

"OK, you've got questions."

Which itself was definitely not a question. John glanced at him feeling foolish and clumsy as he settled on a very simple and safe starter. "Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next."

Right. Stupid question, no matter what teachers said about them not existing. "Who are you, what do you do?"

"What do you think?"

So that was the angle. Make him think. Well, he could do that. "I'd say… private detective…"

"But?" Sherlock sounded… almost pleased. So, not a private detective. "But the police don't go to private detectives."

A smirk. He was pleased. Proud, even. It made John feel proud too. "I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world - I invented the job."

John was fairly certain that wasn't true - after all, police everywhere consulted with all types of people. Surely one or two had also been detectives of some kind… "What does that mean?"

"It means when the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." The words were out before John thought about them.

Oh. That was not a friendly look. John refused to cringe as Sherlock's eyes widened but somehow managed to feel like pinpoints boring into him. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised-"

"Yes, how did you know?" John hadn't meant to cut him off, but this had been bothering him since yesterday, and he just had to know.

"I didn't know, I saw." John frowned, and Sherlock pressed on, sounding only mildly put out about it all. "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your conversation as you entered the room-" John thought back, remembering mentioning something to Mike about how things were a bit different. "-said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic."

Just like Ella was constantly telling him. It didn't sound any prettier coming from Sherlock. But that last bit - partly psychosomatic. Perhaps he knew even more than he was saying now. And wasn't that just a comforting thought. John forced himself not to rub the heel of his palm into his leg as Sherlock kept going, mouth moving faster than most people could think.

"That suggests the original injury was traumatic - intensely traumatic, in fact. Likely the injury was what lead you to your current state." John did cringe now - only slightly - and nodded. There was no mistaking current state to mean anything other than him being a werewolf. It was for his own benefit really, because Sherlock wasn't focused on him as he continued. "Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq."

It… it was so damn simple, really, all spelled out like that. Things John didn't ever think about that gave him away - his hair cut, his stance and posture, the tan lines. Things John always saw, always remembered, always did. Things he'd never known anyone noticed.

But Sherlock noticed. Sherlock noticed so much.

"You said I had a therapist."

"With a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist."

John wanted to punch him, now. The thought was currently fighting with the urge to kiss Sherlock, to shut him up with lips instead of a fist, and John had a moment to realise this would likely be a normal set of feelings whenever he was around Sherlock.

It was something, at least.

"Then there's your brother."

"What?" John still had no idea where Sherlock had gotten the idea that he had a brother.

"Your phone-" Sherlock held out his hand, and John grudgingly placed his phone into Sherlock's grasp for the second time. Sherlock flipped it about as he spoke. "-it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this - it's a gift, then. Scratches - not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner." John tamped down the fleeting feeling of happiness at the fact that Sherlock already thought so highly of him, and the embarrassment that he was nearly right about it being his only luxury - apart form his laptop, that is. "The next bit's easy, you know it already."

Sherlock turned the phone over in his hand, flashing the back of it at John.

"The engraving."

Harry. Oh, well… that explained the brother thought.

"Harry Watson - clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch."

Sherlock paused, and John took a deep breath, astounded. Not one of his friends knew about Harry and Clara splitting up. Not yet. Not even his parents were entirely aware of it - Harry wanted to keep things under wraps for now, claiming that she had still bee dithering on whether or not to be done completely with the whole thing - until last week, that was. But the way Sherlock talked, it was as though he'd been a fly on the wall for everything.

"You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help?" John flushed a bit, hating this, hating Sherlock, hating the way his life was being read like a primary school book. "That says you've got problems with him." Ha. "Maybe he doesn't like who and what you've become, maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How could… you possibly know… about the drinking?" John was fighting to keep himself composed. He may not be terribly close to Harry, but she was still his sister, and family was still something he considered important.

Sherlock smirked. "Shot in the dark - good one though." Sherlock tilted the phone again, and John saw. "Power connection - tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

The phone was slapped back into John's hand, and John stared at it for a moment, bewildered. "I was right?" He shoved the phone back into his pocket, not ready for whatever might becoming next but unable to stop himself from asking. "Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock looked back at the door on his left, voice and words saying he was pleased with himself and yet, body language almost screaming that he was vulnerable, scared, unable to look at John - who couldn't fathom any reason the brilliant git shouldn't be holding his head high and smirking.

"That… was amazing." John sat there, unable to look at anything but his hands or the seat-back in front of him.

"You think so?"

Surprise, and… a lack of confidence. John licked his lips, trying to figure out how his three simple words had brought on such a marked difference in Sherlock.

"Of course. It was extraordinary, it was quite…" He swallowed. "…extraordinary."

Sherlock looked away at the passing buildings. His eyes, reflected in the glass of the window, were sad and lost when John snick a glance at him. He felt a pain lance through his

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" John couldn't imagine anyone not being impressed by all of that.

Sherlock gave a tight-lipped smile. "Piss off."

Ah. John grinned. Well, that had been his second choice, really.

They were quiet a moment, and Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat. Well, might as well ask the big question, Watson. Who knows when you'll have another opportunity like this.

"So, uh…" Of course the real question was, how did one bring this sort of thing up? Well, nothing else but to go big or go home, and John didn't fancy ducking out of a moving cab at the moment. "I… are you…" He groaned, frustrated, and closed his eyes as his mind flooded with the thoughts he'd been trying to tamp down, which were not helpful at all in him being more articulate. His head fell back and he shuddered as he lost himself in it all, the wanting and desire and burning need-

A sudden pressure on his forearm made him open his eyes, head whipping back to Sherlock, who looked almost pained as he stared straight ahead and spoke so low that John was sure the driver couldn't hear him. "You… you must stop…"

John felt it, then. His emotions were hanging about them like a fog, a dense and heady perfume threatening to choke the life from them. The grip on his arm tightened, becoming almost painful. "John…" Sherlock's voice was strained, eyes squeezed tight shut now, and he was shaking slightly.

John took a deep breath, and thought about anything else. The feeling began to fade - slowly, but it was fading.

"Good. That's good, John. Like that."

"Oh, God." John leaned forward, hand going to his forehead. "I don't… I didn't mean to-"

"I know." The hand on his arm loosened a bit, then squeezed once and was gone, as though it had never existed.

"What did-"

"Later."

"But… you too?" He had to know - he just had to, he didn't care how much later they talked about it all as long as he knew that one answer now.

Sherlock's eyes darted towards him, and John saw it - the same desperation he was feeling in Sherlock's presence. "Yes." The tone was clipped, unsettled.

It was something John could sympathise with.

"Oh… OK, so, we'll talk about this. Later. But we're both-"

"Yes."

John nodded, realising it would be bad to push Sherlock any farther, and the cab pulled up to a stop. Sherlock thrust some money at the driver, then hurried out, holding the door open for John.

"Did I get anything wrong?"

John closed the cab door, and walked along beside him. "Harry and I… don't get on. Never have." Sherlock nodded once, and John kept on. "Clara and Harry split up-" He thought a moment. "-three months ago? They're getting a divorce. And Harry… is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. Didn't expect to be right about everything."

John kept his face completely neutral. "Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped, and John took a few more steps, the grin on his face irrepressible now. That would show him.

"Harry's your sister."

John looked around in front of him, pretending to be bored with the revelation. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"Sister! Always something."

"No, seriously. What am I doing here?" John was still resisting the impulse to grin. Sherlock might be brilliant and a keen observer, but that didn't mean that even he was unaffected by typical gender norms, at least sometimes.

Ahead, John could see the police cars swarmed in front of a ramshackle row house, barriers and lights telling the world to stay out. The area was going through a lot of renovations - it had to have been a lovely neighbourhood once, but time and disuse had gotten the better of many home fronts. John could smell the people that had come and gone. He grabbed Sherlock's arm before they got any closer.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I know." Sherlock glanced over at him, nostrils flared slightly. "You'd better be ready for this."

John took a deep breath through his mouth, let it out, and inhaled slowly through his nose. Right. Stiff upper lip, soldier. You're going back into battle.

He stared ahead, dropped his hand, and nodded one time. Sherlock straightened his shoulders, and they walked forward.

"Hello, freak."

John stopped short, feeling the hackles he didn't really have right now rising all the same. A woman stood in front of them, just on the other side of the white police tape. She was smirking and snide as she stared at Sherlock. John nearly growled, but Sherlock brushed her off.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Why?"

Sherlock looked back at her as though he wasn't sure why she would be asking that. "I was invited."

"Why." Her voice was harder now, but she was still smiling in a way that suggested that absolutely none of this was funny at all. John felt an irrational need to step between them, to step into her space and force her back, to protect.

"Think he wants me to take a look." Sherlock sounded comically shocked by the idea. John looked away for a moment and pursed his lips, trying not to laugh.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally." John looked up as Sherlock ducked under the tape, nose working and not bothering to hide it. He looked at Sally interestedly. "Even know you didn't make it home last night."

He was just about to lift the tape for John when Sally suddenly turned, a hand out and stammering. "Uh-uh-uh, who's this?"

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sally turned to stare at Sherlock as though he'd suddenly sprouted another head. Sherlock kept searing at her as he spoke. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan." Sherlock gave her an unfriendly smile. "Old friend."

"A colleague?" Sally did seem amused now. "And how do you get a colleague?" She turned quickly to John. "What, did he follow you home?"

John turned away from her, focused on Sherlock. He didn't think he could just continue to stand by while someone threw insults about. "Would it be better if I just waited-"

"No." Sherlock yanked the tape up quickly and turned his back. Ah. There's that dominant attitude. John was beginning to wonder where it'd gone. He stepped under the tape carefully.

Sally made a quick sound, then decided against it and shook her head, speaking into a radio as she lead them towards the house. "Freak's here. Bringin' him in."

And there was that word, levelled at Sherlock like a damn gun. Sherlock seemed to be paying it no mind as he looked about, taking in everything, but it burned at John's mind. Sherlock was definitely strange, and John had only just met him, but such outright rudeness from a police officer was not what he'd ever expected to encounter.

They were at the sidewalk when Sherlock stopped, and a man in blue jumpsuit stepped in front of him. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated, are we clear on that?" Looked like today was a day for meeting all of Sherlock's old friends. Brilliant.

"Quite clear." Sherlock finally looked at Anderson. "And is your wife away for long?"

Anderson refused to be impressed. "Oh don't pretend you've worked that out, somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

Sherlock sounded amused as he answered. "It's for men!"

Anderson looked very much like Sherlock had just proclaimed the street to be hard. "Well of course it's for men, I'm wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

John bit his lip and watched them both - the horror dawning on their faces. It wasn't enough to fight against the freak comments, but it was good enough for now.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporised, may I go in?"

Anderson seemed to jump into damage control mode. "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything." Sherlock swept past him, lingering momentarily in front of Sally. "I'm sure Sally came 'round for a nice little, 'chat,' and just… happened to stay over." Sherlock paused at the door and turned back, eyes on Sally. "And I assumed scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

John couldn't help it - he looked at her knees as he walked by. He saw it. He knew. No wonder they seemed to hate him so much. Freak was probably one of the nicer names they had for him.

Just inside there was a table with equipment - more jumpsuits, those ridiculous booties to put over your shoes, gloves and even some goggles.

"You need to put this on." Sherlock thrust a jumpsuit at John, who began unfolding it.

"Who's this?"

John looked up to see the same man that had come to the flat - DI Lestrade. Before he could say anything, Sherlock answered. "He's with me."

John went back to the task of attempting to put the blasted thing on over his clothes.

"Yeah, but who is he?"

Sherlock's glare was deadly. "I said, he's with me."

John had just pulled the jumpsuit up to his waist, ready to step in if needed, but Lestrade backed off his questioning with a simple shrug. John looked over to Sherlock, who was snapping on rubber gloves, and doing absolutely nothing else. "Aren't you going to put one on?" John gestured at the suits.

Sherlock looked at him as if this was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, and looked back at Lestrade. "So where are we?"

"Upstairs."

John grimaced, zipped up the suit, and slipped on the booties. Kids. He was sure Lestrade had meant teenagers, but still. Jesus. Kids shouldn't see things like this.

The stairs were winding and cramped, and each brush of another jumpsuit-ed body made him want to recoil and run. He kept focused on Sherlock, kept breathing in and out slowly, ignoring the conversation between the two men in front of him.

The scent they'd noticed outside was growing increasingly - nauseatingly - stronger.

Finally, there they were, in a medium sized room with lights in the corners - and a dead female werewolf laid out in front of them.

John stared. A werewolf. Another one. He hadn't been wrong. He'd wanted to be wrong. He'd never in his life wanted to be more wrong. But there was no mistaking the scent of her. It spoke of a pack, of connections and understandings and of something very basic that he'd only just begun to really understand. He briefly wondered about the pack here in London, but as he'd not met the Alpha, he didn't know if he was welcome in it. Yet another item on the list of things he'd need to find out. His list of discussion topics for Sherlock was growing by the minute.

Sherlock stood further in the room, one hand out as though he could simply let it hover over her and learn all her secrets. Maybe he could. John was done deciding that things weren't supposed to happen a certain way. From now, his motto was that anything was possible.

They stood there, him, Sherlock, and Lestrade. They stood there quietly, just breathing and letting Sherlock look. John opened his mouth, trying to escape the scent just for a moment. The taste of death - bitter and wrong and horrid - greeted him instead.

"Shut up."

John started a bit, glancing up. Sherlock was glaring at Lestrade.

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking. It's annoying."

Lestrade looked at John, who gave him a blank look in return. It wasn't like he knew anymore about this than anyone else.

Sherlock set to work, touching here and there, pulling things out of her pockets, slipping off her ring and replacing it. It looked so simple that it was hard to imagine he learnt anything at all, but when he stood up he looked pleased.

"Got anything?"

Sherlock smiled to himself, pulling off his gloves and reaching for his phone. "Not much."

Well, that would be debatable, wouldn't it?

"She's German." John turned back to the door and saw Anderson leaning against the frame, looking at the woman. He pointed to her left hand. "Rache. German for, 'revenge.' She could be trying-"

"Yes, thank you for your input." The door slammed in his face, courtesy of one Sherlock Holmes, who was tapping away at things on his phone with one hand as he walked back towards the woman in the centre of the room.

"She's German?" Lestrade looked skeptical.

"Of course not. She is from out of town though, intending to stay in London one night, before returning home to Cardiff." Sherlock stowed his phone and turned back to them. "So far, so obvious."

John felt as though he'd missed almost all of a conversation, and was now being asked to discuss it with someone else. "Sorry, obvious?"

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade looked and sounded just as lost, so at John wasn't alone. He took some minor comfort in that.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

John had never in his life felt so put on the spot. "Of… the message?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "Of the body - you're a medical man."

Lestrade spoke up again. "Well no, we have a whole team right outside-"

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking' every rule letting' you in here."

"Yes, because you need me." Sherlock looked incredibly smug as he said this to Lestrade, and John wondered if this had been a point of contention between them before.

Lestrade swallowed. "Yes I do." He looked at the woman on the floor. "God help me."

"Doctor Watson."

John was suddenly torn. On the one hand, he was a civilian now, and barging into crime scenes might be Sherlock's idea of a job, but John wasn't sure he'd be allowed the same option. And on the other hand, every fibber of his being was screaming at him to do exactly what Sherlock had just said - and he wasn't sure whether it was all his wolf's doing or not. He hesitated, looking back at Lestrade for something.

"Oh do as he says, help yourself." Lestrade knew he'd been beaten, and he John suspected the only reason he'd put up a fight at all was so that, should there be any problems, he could say honestly that he'd voiced his concerns.

"Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple minutes!"

The door closed behind them. John frowned as Sherlock regarded the body. "Well?"

"What am I doing here?"

Sherlock looked at him, almost shocked. "Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, but this is more fun."

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

Sherlock paused, as though considering John's words. "Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

The urge to punch him was rising again, and John shifted, pulling his bad leg underneath him entirely as he crouched down and focused on the body in front of him. He sniffed at her, trying to figure out what might have done this.

Then he caught it.

"Sherlock."

He sat up and motioned. Sherlock glanced at the door - they were still alone - then leaned in and took a deep whiff. He pulled back and exhaled, then leaned forward and repeated the process. When he sat back up, he was grinning.

"Excellent, John."

John smiled back. Lestrade came in then, looking at them expectantly.

"Find anything, Doctor?" Sherlock regarded him with a cool, professional stare. John looked back down at the woman between them.

"Can't smell any alcohol on her."

"You know what it was - you've read the papers."

John glanced back at her, then up at Sherlock again. Of course he knew she was one of the suicides - they'd discussed it only an hour ago, in the cab ride. As he watched, Sherlock's eyes widened just a bit. So, not what he was after then. But something to say, to throw Lestrade off of what they'd just smelled on her. "She's one of the suicides?" He stared at Sherlock still, brain working faster than it had needed to in some time.

And then he caught it. It wasn't just that she was one of the suicides - it was that the suicides were all werewolves. He looked away for a moment, dizziness and confusing settling in as he processed this. When his gaze came back up, Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly, then stood.

John knew. And Sherlock knew that he knew.

Someone was murdering werewolves.

"Sherlock, two minutes, I said, and I'll need anything you got." John looked over at Lestrade, who was leaning along the wall now, looking desperate for something that might help him explain this.

"Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes - I'm guessing something in the media going by the, frankly, alarming shade of pink." Sherlock was moving again, pacing about the room like an animal. John could sympathise. "Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London one night, it's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

Christ, where was he getting all of this? John watched Lestrade floundering, and wished he had a life ring too.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten year, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married-"

"Oh for God's sake, if you're just making' this up-"

"Her wedding ring!" Sherlock moved back to point at her hand. "Ten years old, at least. The rest of her jewelry's regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring - state of her marriage, right there. Inside is shinier than the outside - so it's regularly removed. Only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work, look at her hands - she doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a sting of them, simple."

John felt his breath catch. "It's brilliant." Sherlock stared at him. He glanced at Lestrade, then at nothing. "Sorry."

"Cardiff?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade now. "It's obvious, isn't it?"

And now John felt like a primary school student who'd been caught without his homework, and asked to tell the class about it. "It's… not obvious to me…"

Sherlock looked surprised by that. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He stared Lestrade down. "Her coat - still damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours; no rain anywhere in London during that time. Underneath her coat collar is damp, too - she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused. Strong winds - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat's still hasn't dried. So." Sherlock pulled out his phone, and John wondered how long it had taken him to learn how to talk so quickly without needing to take a breath - it was like he simply never stopped, never slowed down, once he'd started. "Where has there been heavy rains and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He held his phone out to Lestrade. "Cardiff." He turned the phone to John without looking at him, then slipped it back into his coat pocket.

"Fantastic!"

Sherlock whirled, stepping closer as though he were about to share a secret. "Do you know you do that out loud?"

Oh, that. John was embarrassing him. "Sorry, I'll shut up." He tried to look properly chastened.

"No, it's…" Sherlock allowed himself a small smile. "Fine."

John looked at him from the corner of his eye, and smiled back.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?"

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock was spinning around, as though he could conjure it simply by asking about it often enough. "She must have had a phone or an organiser - find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing Rachel?"

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German, of course she was writing Rachel! No other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you know she had a suitcase?"

"Back of her right leg, tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not found on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?"

Sherlock was beginning to sound very bored with his explanations, and John could sense the agitation bubbling just under his surface, threatening to break free. He wondered if he should make Lestrade leave, close the door, something, anything, if it would help Sherlock's irritation.

"There wasn't a case."

John froze. Sherlock froze. What?

Sherlock's head swivelled slowly, until he was glaring at Lestrade as though he might have been joking about that. "Say that again."

Lestrade shrugged, arms crossed over his chest. "There wasn't a case - there was never any suitcase."

Sherlock was up, shoving between them. The contact made John close his eyes against the onslaught of desires.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there's no case!" Lestrade strolled out of the room, and John followed, staring over the banister to see Sherlock rushing down the steps as he spoke.

"They take the poison themselves - chew, swallow the pills themselves! There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them!"

"Right, yeah, thanks. And..?" Well, at least Lestrade wasn't taking Sherlock's jibes personally now. John thought there might be hope for himself, if he could learn that skill. It would likely come in very handy.

"It's murder. All of them. I don't know how." He paused, looking amazed at his good fortune to have stumbled across this knowledge. "They're killings, serial killings." He clapped his hands excitedly. "We've got ourselves a serial killer, love those, there's always something to look forward to."

Lestrade, however, looked properly worried, and he didn't even know it was a dead werewolf - that would have right properly terrified him, John was sure of it. "Why are you saying that?"

"Her case! Come on, where is her case, did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case." Sherlock had made it down another floor already, and John was beginning to wonder if he should start after him now, just to save himself the trouble of trying to hurry later. "So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John had done that before, for various medical conferences, before he'd enlisted and been shipped out. He thought back and wondered how he'd tolerate a hotel now, with it's high traffic and too many scents.

Sherlock shook his head at the suggestion, however. "No, she never got to the hotel - look at her hair! She colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes, she'd never have left any hotel with her hair looking like - oh…" He jumped back, hands in the air, looking like a child on Christmas morning. "OH!"

"Sherlock?"

"What is it, what?" Lestrade was leaning far over the banister now, trying to keep Sherlock in his line of sight.

"Serial killers, always hard, have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock was talking to himself as he kept moving, making Lestrade shout down to him.

"We can't just wait!"

"No, we're done waiting, look at her, really look, Houston, we have a mistake! Get onto Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were, find Rachel!"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Of course, yeah, but what mistake?"

Sherlock, who had disappeared, popped back into view rather quickly. "PINK!" And then he was gone again, and John was left staring at Lestrade, who shrugged.

John made his way down the stairs getting jostled constantly by forensics workers and detectives, and he wondered if they'd be so quick to bump into him if they knew, if they had any idea just what he was.

He shimmied out of the jumpsuit and booties, dumping them into one of the collection boxes on the table, and stepped back outside.

The night was cool and crisp and felt marvellous after nearly half an hour cooped up in a decrepit old house with a load of humans, a dead wolf, and a very much alive wolf that made him question everything he'd ever thought he was.

He breathed in, closing his eyes and just letting the tension slip away. When he opened his eyes again, he realised one very important thing.

Sherlock was gone.

John looked around, trying to pick up his scent without having to stoop down and pretend to tie his shoes. He walked back the way he'd come, towards the police tape he'd ducked under before. Despite the openness of the street, there were still an awful lot of people about. His wolf was currently growling and trying to convince him to just run from all of it. He shushed it with the promise of tea and possibly something stronger.

"He's gone."

John turned to see Sally Donovan standing there beside the police car, just as she had been when he'd first seen her. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yeah, he just took off, he does that." She sounded… understanding. John wondered if he wasn't the first Sherlock had brought along.

"Is he coming back?"

Sally shrugged. "Didn't look like it."

"Right…" He looked back, trying to figure out where Sherlock had gone in such a hurry. "Right. Sorry, where am I?"

Sally looked at him. "Brixton."

"Do you know where I could get a cab?" Sally stared at him with faint disapproval, and he looked down. "It's just… my leg." He looked back up, daring her to comment.

She didn't, just stepped towards the police tape. "Try the main road." Sally held the tape up, and John ducked under it, shooting her a shy smile. "You're not his friend." He turned back to her. She smiled at him - it was almost sad, as though she was concerned for him. Concerned that he was throwing in his lot with the wrong person. "So who are you?"

John shook his head. "I'm… nobody." It was true. It had been true for so long now, he wasn't sure it would ever stop being true.

"Well, bit of advice then." John steeled himself. "Stay away from that guy."

He felt his back tense, and he fought to keep a glare off his face. "Why?"

Sally stared again, and John had a fleeting curiosity about what she'd be like as a wolf - dominant, to be sure. She could probably be Alpha, if she wanted. She seemed to be that kind of person - confident, in control, and wanting to take care of others. Police and military were rarely in it for the paycheck, after all. "Do you know why he does this?" She gestured back to the house. "He's not paid or anything."

That surprised John. Sherlock claimed to be a detective, but he didn't do it for the money. So just what did he do to pay his rent?

"He likes it." There was a glint in Sally's eyes. It was decidedly not kind. "He gets off on it. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough." John swallowed, not wanting to hear any more of this. "One day we'll be standing' around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

"Donovan!" A voice from the house - Lestrade. She turned away, giving him a moment to face what she'd said. He felt like she'd slapped him. His wolf was dangerously close to taking over, listening to her talk about Sherlock with such disdain, and he worried at his lips with his teeth. "And why would he do that?"

She turned back to him and smirked. "Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths got bored." She said it as though it was the easiest truth she'd ever known.

"Donovan!"

"Coming!" She started to walk away, but glanced back at John once more. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"

And then John was watching her backside as she went back into the house. He stared after her, unsure how to process everything. He looked around, let his nose work a bit. Sherlock seemed to have gone to the main road. Nothing else to do then. Follow the scent, get a cab. Whichever got him to Sherlock or home fastest would win - he was exhausted at this point. He turned from the house, from the dead werewolf and the cruel taunts of the police, and took a deep breath.

John looked at the road ahead, and began walking.


Uh...

This chapter didn't want to play nice. And it's nearly 10K words long...

So. Mrs. Husdon's the pack witch (practitioner!), and I've got this nifty backstory worked out and I really can't wait to share that with you guys. The problem is, it won't be happening until a later story. BUT. It's there. More on her later, promise.

Hmm. Dead werewolves. That can't be a good sign.

Hope you guys are well. You ROCK. DFTBA, my darlings! Hopefully Chapter 4 won't be quite so taxing.