The ringing phones were following him.

That was the most insane feeling he'd ever had, and sadly, it was the only logical thing he could come up with. No matter where he walked, what street he was on - the phones all around him were ringing. The moment he passed one by - or someone else reached for it - the phone would stop ringing, only for another one to start up in its place.

PTSD be damned - London's telephones were stalking him.

He tried again to hail a taxi, only to be passed over for the fifth time. You'd think a man with a cane would garner some sort of sympathy, but people just watched him limp along, whilst the phones kept up their trilling.

He sighed, standing near a red phone box, when it started.0

He stopped, turning to glare at it. It was just a phone box, but it was ringing - and had only started ringing as he'd approached.

Finally, the decision was made, and he stepped in, closing the door behind him automatically. The thing reeked of too many people, and he have to take several deep breaths through his mouth before he grabbed the receiver and pressed it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"There is a camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

John frowned. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"

"The camera, Dr. Watson."

John looked out the window. "Yes, I see it."

"Watch."

John watched - and the camera seemed to wave at him, the turn away.

Staring at a mad man threatening to change him into a werewolf as he was strapped naked to a chair in a foreign land was less threatening than this moment.

John watched as every camera that had been pointed towards him moved, facing away from him.

Between Sherlock, a dead werewolf, and this, it was turning out to be one of the most interesting, and frankly terrifying, nights he'd ever had.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson. I would make some type of threat, but, I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

John heard the other end of the line click, and he slid the phone back into the cradle, watching the sleek black car that pulled up to the curb.

Oh good. He was being abducted. In front of countless witnesses. Because he answered a public phone.

So much for nothing ever happening to him. This would be one to tell Ella, if he survived.

The door to the car opened, and he slid in next to a rather lovely woman who was punching away at a Blackberry. She was also a werewolf. John's eyes widened as he took in the sight of her.

"Uh… hello."

She glanced at him with a bored smile. "Hi."

Right. Not the chatty type, then. Well, he'd had worse odds, and besides, she was like him. He wouldn't even have to keep that huge part of him secret. He could really do this.

"What's your name then?"

She didn't look at him this time. "Uh… Anthea."

He frowned. That was obviously a lie. Terrific. "Is that your real name?"

She looked at him like he was a favourite uncle who was just beginning to go a bit senile. "No."

He nodded. "I'm John."

"I know." She was staring at her phone again. Well, that was probably his three strikes for now - time to move on.

"Any point in asking… where I'm going?"

She looked at him again, and he felt as though he was a particularly amusing animal in a zoo. "None at all." She looked away, smirking. "John."

"Right." Splendid. Sherlock ran off and forgot him, he was threatened by a faceless man who could control the CCTV cameras all over London no doubt, and now he was riding off to who knew where with a woman who wouldn't tell him her name.

At least he wasn't sat in his bedsit feeling pitiful.

When the car finally stopped, it was in a parking garage on the outskirts of some dreadful looking neighbourhood. John swallowed around his rising pulse.

Just before he got out, the self-proclaimed Anthea looked at him again. "You'll be fine."

He stared at her, one foot already out of the car. "I… thank you."

She nodded, and once again her attention was on the phone. John took a deep breath, then levered himself out of the car.

There was a very well dressed man leaning on an umbrella about thirty feet ahead of him. There was also a chair. Lovely.

The man smiled at him, pointing at the chair in front of him with his umbrella. "Have a seat, John."

Everyone knew his name. He should start charging them for use of it, if they weren't going to let him use theirs in return. Well, he still had his snark.

"I've got a phone." He smiled, lips tight together. "It's a nice trick, and all, but… you could just phone me. On my phone."

The man smiled. "When one is avoiding the detection of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete - hence this place."

John was close enough now, and he could smell it - this man was also a werewolf. He'd spent weeks back in London and not run across a single one - now they seemed to be everywhere he turned.

"The leg must be hurting you."

"I don't want to sit down."

The man licked his lips, and absolute dominance washed over John, weighing heavy on him. He struggled against it, legs nearly buckling. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and did everything he could to focus on the pressure coming at him. Slowly, it began to recede, until finally he could stand up straight again. He met the man's gaze, lips curling in a defiant smirk.

The man looked… delighted. "Good. Very good, John. So the rumour was true…"

John didn't stop to try and figure out what he meant. He just wanted to get out of there, get back to Baker Street and see Sherlock and maybe - just maybe - have a moment of quiet that didn't involve other wolves, or dead bodies, or anything but a hot cuppa and his feet up on an ottoman.

The man before him was still smiling. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" John blushed quickly, which made the man in front of him quirk his eyebrows, nostrils flaring slightly. "Oh yes, but I'm not talking about that." John closed his eyes and focused on breathing instead of simply rushing the bastard and punching him until something broke.

"I don't have one. I met him…" John's lips twisted together. Christ, it really had only been a day. "Yesterday."

The man tilted his head as he considered John. "Yes, and since yesterday you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes with him. Might we expect your happy announcement by the end of the week?" He smirked.

John pursed his lips and refused to respond to that. "So what are you, then? Another friend here to warn me off of him?"

"An… interested party."

"Interested? In… Sherlock? Why? I'm assuming you're not friends."

The man looked at him incredulously. "You've met him. How many friends do you think he has?" John had to concede the point. "No, I am closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

John was taken aback. "An enemy?" The idea probably shouldn't be so surprising, but hearing it stated so bluntly had caught him off guard.

The man fiddled with his umbrella. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch enemy." The man glanced up. "He does love to be dramatic…"

Right. "Well thank god you're above all that."

The man smirked again, just as John's phone dinged to signal a text. He frowned at his pocket and pulled the phone out, opening the new message and staring at it.

[Baker Street - come at once, if convenient. -SH]

"I hope I'm not distracting you." The man sounded almost put out - which made John smile a bit to himself.

"Not distracting me at all." John met his eyes again, wondering if his real meaning was coming through. From the look on the man's face, it likely was.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I could be wrong, but-" John licked his lips and refused to break eye contact. "-I think that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"It really couldn't."

He smirked at the screen, then put it away again. When he looked back up, the man in front of him had pulled out a small notebook and was flicking casually through the pages.

"If you do move into-" The man looked distastefully at the words in front of him. "-two-hundred and twenty-one… B… Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a… meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."

A bribe? To move in with Sherlock? "Why?"

The man smiled, looking triumphant - as though John's simple, one word question had meant his compliance. "Because you're not a wealthy man."

And not wealthy men were often willing to take meaningful sums of money. "In exchange for-?"

The man watched him as he spoke. "Information."

John's eyes narrowed. "Well I'm guessing you already know what he is. Can't see what more you'd want to know."

A hint of a smile touched the man's lips before flitting off when he spoke again. "Nothing indiscreet, if that's what you're worried about. Nothing you'd be…" The man gave him a look. "…uncomfortable with."

The accusation hung heavy between them, and John swallowed.

"Just… tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" John didn't try to keep the venom from his question.

The man's expression was dry and flat. "I worry about him. Constantly."

John snorted. "That's nice of you. Werewolf… solidarity, I suppose. Good. That's good."

The man ignored him. "Though I would prefer for carious reasons that my concern go unmentioned." He tipped up his umbrella, examining the tip of it. "We have what you might call a… difficult relationship."

John's phone chimed again, and he grabbed it to read the new message.

[If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH]

"No." John looked up to make sure the man knew he was talking to him, not the phone.

The man made no arguments. "You're very loyal, very quickly."

John shook his head. "No, I'm not. I'm just not… interested." He turned away.

"Not even in learning more about yourself?"

The world around went silent for a moment as John took that in. When he looked back, the man's eyes gleamed.

"And you know all about me?"

The man pulled his notebook out again and held it up. "Trust Issues - it says here."

John stared at the notebook. "What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

This was not happening. "Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done here?" He couldn't take another word of it - whoever this man was, he was dangerous, and devious, and there was no question that he knew entirely too much.

Said man quirked his eyebrow at John. "You tell me."

John steeled his nerves and turned around, walking back towards the car.

"I'd warn you to stay away from him, but your emotions are almost screaming at me that you won't do that. Best tamp them down a bit, before you see him again."

He grimaced. It was bait - of course it was - and he was going to take it anyway. Whether it was to prove he wasn't afraid, or because he was genuinely curious, he wasn't sure. But he was going to reach out and take it.

His leg protested slightly as he quickly turned back. "My what?"

"Your emotions. Quite loud right now, really. It's all I can do not to rush over there myself."

John narrowed his eyes. "Who said I want to rush over there?"

The man smiled. "You did. Or rather, every feeling you're having right now is saying it."

"And how do you know that?" Answers - if he could keep this man talking, he might just get some answers.

"Because you're an Omega, John."

"That still really doesn't mean anything to me."

"So no one has ever told you precisely what kind of wolf you are?"

John stared at him, incredulous. "And just what kind of wolf is that?"

The man smirked. "You're an Omega, John."

John took a long breath in through his nose. "So you're saying… I'm, what? The least dominant wolf-"

"Oh no, quite the opposite, I assure you." The man stepped around John, circling him like he was a new car to be test driven. Hell, maybe that was all he thought of John. "You are something far more than that." John ground his teeth - that was what McMath had said, and it was still not more helpful than it had been before. "You are also a very rare, very sought after wolf."

The man stepped back into John's line of sight, and John suppressed a shudder. "Well, good for me then. Everyone wants me. Why?"

The man was standing far too close now, peering into John's eyes intently. "Tell me, have you noticed anything interesting when you're around other wolves? Anything that seems to be caused by you?"

John rankled at the accusation, until he remembered - the cab ride with Sherlock. He'd… he'd been thinking about him, and…

He stumbled away, bumping into the front of the car he'd been very courteously abducted in, his cane clattering to the ground and hands braced on the warm hood. "You mean I'm… I control people… other wolves."

The man walked over to him leisurely, as though they were out for a stroll on a bright summer's day. "An imprecise description, but apt enough for the moment." He stooped and carefully plucked John's cane from the ground, holding it out to him. John looked up at him.

"Thank you." He took the cane gently.

The man nodded once in acknowledgement. "I know this is a shock." He spoke softly as John straightened up, easing his weight back onto his good leg. "What you are actually doing is projecting your emotions onto others."

John swallowed thickly, his free hand rubbing at his eyes. "So I'm… making other people feel what I feel? Is that it?" He looked up at the man in front of him. "I'm taking away their free will, and replacing it with my own issues…"

"I can assure you it's far more complex than all of that. And while it may sound cruel, John, believe me - there will be a time, I am certain, when it will save you. And possibly save Sherlock as well."

John looked away again. There was something about this man - meeting his eyes was easy when John was angry. But when the man was being kind, it was unbearable.

"And you want that, do you? All part of your concern, I bet."

The man smirked again. "You'll understand, in time."

The man turned away then, twirling his umbrella as he walked away. The click-clack of heels behind him echoed through the area.

"I'm to take you home."

John heard his phone again as he turned to see the woman from the car, looking at him inquiringly. He smiled when he read the message.

[Could be dangerous. -SH]

"Where to, then?"

He looked up. "Baker Street." He glanced back, but the man was gone. "2-2-1… B." He turned back to see Anthea smirking at him. He sighed. "I… need to stop off somewhere else, first."

"Of course."

She slid into the car, and he followed.

The ride to his bedsit was quiet, Anthea typing away on her Blackberry as he stared out the window, When they pulled up in front of the building, he barely recognised it.

"I'll only be a moment."

Anthea nodded without looking up.

The room was even more cramped than he'd remembered. He took a moment to think about the fact that he would likely not be sleeping here again, and smiled.

His gun was still in the drawer. He checked it - unloaded, no round in the chamber. Safety on, magazine full and ready for use. He slapped it in, pausing when he saw a small, clear plastic box glinting in the low light. He picked it up and stared at the silver bullet inside, remembering. Then he put it back in the drawer, shoved the gun in the waistband of his trousers at his back, and set off out again.

The car was still idling when he stepped back out, and the door opened just as he reached for it.

A minute after the car had started moving, Anthea spoke.

"You really are, then?"

John looked at her. "Really am what?"

She bit her lower lip. "An Omega."

He shrugged. "Seems so. Your boss is pretty certain about it."

She snickered. "He should be."

John cocked his head. "And why's that?"

She looked back at her phone. "Sorry. Can't say."

John sighed, frustrated. "Of course not. That might make my life easier."

"You'll know soon enough."

"Well that's comforting. Soon enough I'll know an awful lot of things, it seems."

They were nearly at Baker Street when Anthea talked to him again.

"Place your thumb here, please." She held out her phone, pointing at the screen.

John frowned. "What? Why?"

"Records."

He rolled his eyes, but complied. "Keeping tabs on wolves in London? Thought that was what the Alpha did."

Anthea shrugged. "Can't be too careful, can you? Now, you may want to close your eyes, and hold your breath."

"What, why-"

John had just enough time to see her reach up and push a button - he quickly closed his eyes. A mist settled over him, tickling his nose. He sneezed twice.

"That's why you hold your breath."

He opened his eyes, glancing out the window at the front door to 221B. He looked back at Anthea. "What was that?" She shook her head, and he glared at the seat-back in front of him. "Right. Soon enough." He opened the door. "Soon enough I'm going to just stop asking." He closed it a little more forcefully than he'd intended, and the car pulled away. He stepped up to the 221B, and opened the door.


Sherlock was lying prone on the sofa, left hand tight in a fist pointing at the ceiling, right hand clamped over the bend of his elbow.

The image made John feel sick.

"What are you doing?" God, was he an addict? No, that… no, John would have smelled it, he knew he would have, he-

"Nicotine patch." Sherlock moved his hand, and John caught a glimpse of flesh-coloured somethings stuck to his arm. "Helps me think." Sherlock put his palms together as though in prayer, fingertips just touching his chin. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." He closed his eyes.

John moved towards the windows. "Good news for breathing."

Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing. Breathing's boring."

John looked out at the street below. "Those things will kill you, anyways."

Sherlock chuckled. "I'd like to see them try."

John glanced back at him. "So… what, you're impervious to cancer now?"

"Obviously."

Oh. Well, that… that did make a sort of sense, really. His leg and shoulder had healed much, much faster and better than they would have had he been a human. "Oh, well… good, then."

Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned. "What's wrong?"

John was at the other window now, looking out. "Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?" Sherlock sounded quite surprised, inhaling deeply and frowning.

"…an enemy…"

"Oh. Which one?" Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

John's jaw worked several times before he finally responded. "Your arch enemy… according to him-do people have arch enemies?"

Sherlock gave him a very serious look. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John paused. This could be very awkward. "…yes."

"Did you take it?"

"…no."

Sherlock turned back to staring at the ceiling above the couch. "Pity, we could have split the fee." He arched a brow at John. "Think it through next time."

John smiled. "Who was he, then?"

Sherlock stood suddenly, stalking towards him. He stepped in close and inhaled, moving his face side to side. "Interesting."

"What is?"

"Well normally anyone you met would have left a scent. But the only thing I smell is… you." Sherlock opened his eyes and met John's gaze.

"I'm never going to be used to this."

"What?"

"Smelling things. On other people. Or just in general."

Sherlock grinned and retreated to the couch, flopping back down and resuming his position.

John waited. And waited. "So…"

"So?"

John licked his lips. "Who was he? Your enemy…"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem now - on my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text-"

"A text?"

"Yes, the number-"

John stepped away from the window. "What's wrong with your phone?"

"Don't want to use it - always a chance it'll be recognised, it's on the website-"

"Mrs. Hudson's got a phone-"

"Yes, but she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear me-"

"You brought me here… to send a text."

"Yes, the-"

"I was the other side of London!"

"There was no hurry!" Sherlock looked at John as though confused about why he was upset by this. John glared. Sherlock swallowed. "John." His voice was a bit strained.

Ah, right - he was… projecting. He ground out a breath and spun away, stalking towards the desk. Behind him Sherlock gasped as the pressure of John's frustration subsided.

There was a little yellow sticky note stuck to a large stack of papers, a mobile number scribbled hastily on it. John plucked it from the chaos and stared at it, pulling out his phone and typing in the numbers.

"This message exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come."

John dutifully punched in the message, fingers fumbling occasionally over the buttons.

"Are you doing it?"

He glared in Sherlock's direction. "Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah-hang on!" It was a wonder his little… ability… hadn't already accidentally killed Sherlock. John had a feeling he was either going to be able to control himself like no one else before a month was up, or he'd end up locked away in some government lab after tearing through the streets in all his wolfy-glory. He took a deep breath as he finished the text and hit send.

There was a flourish of movement from the couch then, as Sherlock quickly strode towards the desk, his eyes on something. He hefted a brightly coloured suitcase up and grabbed a small chair, spinning it so that he could place the case on it in front of his armchair. John frowned.

"Wait… that's…" John took a deep whiff - yep, that was definitely the dead woman's case. John stared at Sherlock. "That's her case."

"Of course it's her case." Sherlock interlaced his fingers, staring at the messy contents. John waited. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn't kill her."

"Never said you did."

"Why not? Perfectly logical assumption."

John sat down in the squashy chair he'd decided would most assuredly be his once he moved in. "Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

He'd expected the smile - maybe even a little bit of laughter. What he hadn't expected was what Sherlock said.

"Now and then, yes."

Oh good. Not only was this man - his potential mate - completely off his nut, he was sometimes suspected of murder. Charming.

"Where did you find this?"

"You tell me." Sherlock stared into John's eyes. A challenge - lovely. John took another deep breath in through his mouth, closed his eyes, and began sniffing.

"Dumpster?"

"Do better than that."

John growled, but thought about it. "It… you both smell a bit like that house, but not exactly like it, so… somewhere nearby… same neighbourhood?" He opened his eyes to see Sherlock grinning broadly.

"Excellent, John. Knew you could figure it out."

"Figure what out?"

Sherlock pointed at the case. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake."

"And you, what - checked all the bins you could find?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

John rubbed at his face. "It's a wonder you don't smell stronger of it, then."

Sherlock frowned. "I only had to go tearing through the one - relatively easy, really, Jennifer Wilson's scent is particularly easy to identify, even under the stench of the refuse."

John shook his head. "And you got all that because you knew the case would be pink?"

"Well it had to be pink, obviously."

John rolled his eyes - a trick he was sure he'd be doing a lot of in the future. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

John opened his mouth, but was cut off.

"Oh don't be like that, practically everyone is."

John held his breath for a moment, focusing on the suitcase.

"They've all been werewolves, haven't they? That's what connects them."

Sherlock looked back at John. "Tell me what you know about the fey."

John was startled at the subject change. "The… well, I… I don't know much-"

"But you know about them."

"Of course, everyone knows about them - they're… public, or…"

"They announced themselves to the general public, you mean."

John nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, that."

"And what was the reaction of the general public?"

John thought back - it had been so long since the fey had come out, so to speak, that he didn't really remember much about it. "There was…outrage. And… shock, mostly."

Sherlock nodded. "More."

John's brow furrowed. "Hate… groups…" He stared at Sherlock in horror. "You think this is a hate crime?"

Sherlock swallowed. "The fey came clean about themselves, but some of them did so under duress - not all of them wanted to reveal themselves, and not all of them did, really."

John nodded. "Right. There's… they have… camps, or-"

"I believe in America they call them reservations."

"Right… so, I mean… they all live on those, don't they?"

Sherlock grimaced. "They're supposed to, though I don't know that all of them do."

John nodded. "OK. And… what does that have to do with four dead werewolves?"

Sherlock licked his lips. "There's been talk of the wolves doing the same thing."

The room felt abruptly colder. The oxygen seemed to have vanished. John's vision went a bit fuzzy, and while he could hear Sherlock's voice, he couldn't really understand anything the man was saying. His world had narrowed down to one simple idea: he was going to be outed as a werewolf, and there was likely nothing he could do about it.

"John!"

He snapped back to the flat, to Sherlock and a pink case and three nicotine patches shining in the dull light around them. Sherlock's eyes were darting over his face, skipping around madly. When he seemed satisfied, he nodded.

They were quiet for several minutes. Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"No one will force you to do something you're not ready for."

John closed his eyes. "So we have a choice."

Sherlock made a non-committal noise. "For the moment, yes."

"The moment?" John cracked his eyes open. "How long will that moment be?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Couldn't say - not enough data. But, I suspect that the time is rapidly coming when our kind will be known to more than a handful of people, and from then it's only a matter of time before governments step in and demand to know everyone who's… different."

John swallowed. "Alright. So, back to…" He sighed. "Back to Jennifer Wilson-"

"Killed because she stood on the side of coming out, most likely."

"How do you know this? She wouldn't be part of your pack, being from Cardiff…"

"No, of course not." Sherlock fluttered his hand dismissively. "But - despite what you might be thinking right now - it's a small enough community that we tend to know of each other. There was a… summit, I suppose you'd call it. About six months back."

John tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. "And I'd wager this meeting was about whether or not the wolves should be publicly acknowledged."

"Indeed."

John looked back at Sherlock. "Were you there?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "It was a waste of my time."

"But you saw them there? The victims?"

Sherlock nodded. "Sir Jeffrey was rather vocal about his support of the whole thing. Jennifer Wilson was a bit quieter, but definitely in favour."

John thought back to the other victims. "What about Beth… Davenport."

Sherlock frowned. "She was against the idea - almost as vocal about her side as Sir Jeffrey was." Sherlock pursed his lips. "I can guarantee, our final victim was against the idea. Two supporting, two opposing…"

"What… would that mean?"

Sherlock grinned. "Not sure. Too many variables right now, not enough facts." He gestured back to the case. "Now - tell me what's missing."

John huffed - the subject changes were growing tiresome now. "From her case? How could I?"

Sherlock gave him a patient look - it was surprising, really, considering this was the same man who'd been pushing his buttons since he arrived back at the flat. "Her mobile phone."

John frowned, peering at the disarray a bit closer.

"No phone on the body, no phone in the case." Sherlock clasped his hands together, looking almost giddy at the prospect of a missing mobile. "We know she had one - that's her number there, you just texted it, now-"

"Wait, I-what?" John stared at Sherlock like he'd never actually seen him before. "Hang on - maybe she left it at home?"

Sherlock shook his head. "She has a string of lovers, and she's careful - she didn't leave it at home."

John stared at his phone, which was perched next to him on the arm of his chair. "So… why did I send that text?"

Sherlock was trying to look innocent. "Well, the real question is: where is her phone now?"

As if the whole thing was scripted, John's phone rang.

Number unknown.

John stared at it, then back at Sherlock. "She could have lost it."

The phone rang again.

"Yes, or…"

John stared at the screen as the phone trilled out another ring. "The... murderer…" John gulped as he held his phone. "You think the murderer has her phone." He glanced angrily at Sherlock. "Did I just text a murderer?"

The phone stopped ringing. Sherlock looked at it triumphantly. "Someone just found that phone, they'd ignore a text like yours. But the murderer… would panic!" He flipped the case closed and hopped up, grabbing his coat and scarf.

John let out a slow breath. "We should talk to the police."

"Four wolves are dead - there isn't time to talk to the police. Besides, the more humans involved, the more likely things will get complicated. No no, we need to handle this ourselves, before the Alpha takes over and muddles it all." Sherlock turned back to John. "Well?"

John gaped. "Well what?"

Sherlock was winding his scarf about his neck. "Well, you could just sit there and… watch telly."

"You want me to come with you?"

Sherlock gave him a half shrug. "I think better when I talk aloud - the skull just attracts attention."

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull."

Sherlock smirked. "Relax, you're doing fine." He glanced at the mantel. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson's taken it again." John glanced up - sure enough, the skull was missing from it's earlier place.

Sherlock was muttering now as he straightened his scarf. "Of course I'll have to retaliate. Think she'd notice if I took her shoes? Might even try chewing one up, see how she likes that-"

"She'd turn you into something horrible."

Sherlock smirked. "Probably."

John shook his head.

"Problem?"

"Sergeant Donovan."

Sherlock huffed. "What about her?"

John leaned forward. "She said… you get off on this."

John got a raised eyebrow in return. "And I said dangerous, and here you are."

There was a whirl of expensive wool, and Sherlock was gone.

"Dammit."

John levered himself up, and followed.


"Where are we going?"

Sherlock had been easy to find and catch up to, though John was suspecting he'd waited a few moments after disappearing out the door of the flat. He'd smirked as John had stepped up next to him on the sidewalk. John had rather stridently resisted the urge to punch him directly on the nose.

"Northumberland street - it's a five minute walk from here."

Ah. "You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

Sherlock beamed. "No, I think he's brilliant enough to go there. I love the brilliant ones - always so desperate to get caught."

John glanced sidelong at Sherlock. "And why is that?"

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight." Sherlock clapped his hands together. "That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience."

"I'm seeing that."

Sherlock gave him a flat look, and John looked innocent in return. Sherlock turned around, taking in the sights around them.

"This is his hunting ground. This, the heart of the city." Sherlock looked up, down, everywhere. "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes things. Taken from busy streets, but no one saw them go…"

Sherlock looked at John. "Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

John threw up a hand. "I don't know - vampires?"

Sherlock smiled. "True, but that's not what we're looking for."

"There's… there's vamp-"

"Of course there are." Sherlock glanced at the street. "So. Who passes unseen in a crowd?"

John shook his head and filed away vampires for future discussions. "Dunno - who?"

Sherlock looked slightly mystified. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

"What?"

John didn't have time to keep wondering - Sherlock pushed open the door to a cosy little restaurant by the name of Angelo's. The server greeted them and motioned to a table, which Sherlock actually thanked him for - by name. John was about to comment when they were suddenly joined by a large man with a greying ponytail, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Sherlock, always good to see you." The man shook Sherlock's hand. Sherlock smiled warmly.

John was beginning to suspect he'd fallen asleep in the arm chair at the flat and was just dreaming all of this.

"Anything you want on the menu - free - for you, and your date."

John's head shot up. "I'm not his date." He glanced at Sherlock, hoping for some help.

"This is Angelo." Angelo promptly reached out to shake John's hand. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade that at the time a particularly vicious triple homicide, Angelo was in a completely different part of town, housebreaking."

"He cleared my name." Angelo looked affectionately at Sherlock, who was now looking very anxiously out the window.

"I cleared it a bit."

John took in a deep breath and nodded slowly, his gaze travelling back to Angelo, who was looking at him curiously. A look came over him, and he grinned.

"Oh, you must be a bit like Sherlock there."

John stared wide-eyed at him. "I'm… I'm like him how?"

"You know." Angelo pantomimed sharp teeth and wolf-like ears. "I'll make sure you get a generous portion." He winked.

John's mouth fell slack. "I… alright… thank-you…"

"I'll get a candle for the table - more romantic."

"I'm… I'm not his date…"

Angelo laughed, clapped Sherlock on the back once more, then sauntered off to greet a few more patrons. John turned to Sherlock expectantly.

"He knows."

"Yeah, worked that out myself when he tried to mime being a wolf." John grit his teeth. "But how does he know?"

Sherlock looked at his fingernails. "Not important."

John was about to argue when Angelo returned with the candle he'd promised. "You should ask Sherlock here about the first time I ever saw him. He had his nose to the ground just outside my back door, and his-"

"Yes, thank-you Angelo, I'll…" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, looking rather uncomfortable. "I'll tell him… all about it…" He pointed across the street. "Anything happening?"

Angelo chuckled and gave John a meaningful look, then turned back to Sherlock. "Nothing so far." Sherlock nodded, and Angelo left again. John turned back to Sherlock.

"Nose to the ground?"

"There's an excellent Chicken Parmesan here, I suggest you try it-"

"Were you tracking something?"

"Their house salad dressing is quite good as well, if you-"

"I wonder if he'd tell me the rest-"

"Fine!" Sherlock hissed out a breath and crossed his arms. "I told you I proved that Angelo was housebreaking. How do you think I figured it out?"

"You were tracking a housebreaker? Like a bloodhound?" John was giggling now. "Bet that was a glamorous moment for you."

"Shut up."

They were quiet a moment, before Sherlock spoke again."Angelo didn't have to… see me like that. To know. He just knows things."

John blinked several times. "Just knows things? Isn't that sort of against your entire being to admit about someone?"

Sherlock toyed with his napkin. "About the supernatural side of the world."

John nodded. "Ah. Well, that's… how does he know? Aside from you, I mean…"

"Bit of a sixth sense, if you go in for that sort of thing. It's how he figured you out." Sherlock took a sip of water as the waiter brought John a rather large salad, topped with grilled chicken. "He wasn't thrilled to find me out there, I admit. When I… shifted back, he, ah…" Sherlock chuckled. "He punched me."

"What?" John paused in cutting a rather large slice of tomato and looked up. "Why would he do that?"

"Thought I was demon, at first. Probably didn't help any that I was… unclothed."

John snorted. "Bet that went over real well."

Sherlock laughed quietly. "Quite. He was pulling out a crucifix and uttering prayers when I stepped closer. Think he was actually rather relieved to hear I was just a werewolf."

John snickered. "Not everyday you can say that about someone."

Sherlock grinned, his eyes still fixed on the address across the street.

John ate a few more minutes, enjoying the feeling of real food for a change - he'd been living on takeaway and microwaveable dinners for too long. He sat back, grabbing his glass of water. Time to bring up a different subject.

"People don't have arch-enemies. In real life."

Sherlock frowned, looking over at him. "What?"

"Real people. They don't have arch-enemies. Doesn't happen."

Sherlock immediately looked bored, turning back to the street. "Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

John had to admit, it really did sound dull.

"What do real people have then?" Sherlock stared at John. "In their real lives?"

John picked up his fork again and pushed a piece of chicken around. "Friends. Co-workers. People they know, people they like, people they don't like… boyfriends, girlfriends…"

"Like I said - dull."

"So you don't have a girlfriend then?"

Sherlock stared at John as though he'd gone mad. John blushed.

"No. Not really my area…" Sherlock turned back to the window shaking his head. "As though that wasn't already obvious."

John ducked his head and took a bite. "Right…" He chewed, sneaking a look back at Sherlock. He was gorgeous, though John couldn't really figure out what it was that made him so. There was no particular part of him that screamed handsome, but everything combined created a rather pleasing aesthetic. "So then… have you got a boyfriend?"

Sherlock stiffened in his seat. "John-"

"I don't mean… I meant… not me. Someone else." John looked back down at the table.

Sherlock 's hand on the table tightened, knuckles turning white.

"Which is fine, by the-"

"I know it's fine."

John looked back up and met Sherlock's gaze. He looked almost angry. John licked his lips. "So you've got a boyfriend then-"

"No." Sherlock shook his head slowly. "I've always considered married to my work."

John forced a smile. "Right. Course." Sherlock nodded.

John pushed the food on his plate around a bit more, suddenly not hungry. The meaning couldn't have come through any clearer - whatever this drive between them was, it was going to be ignored. Splendid. Looks like a change in subject is warranted, then. "So how does he get them to take the poison?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned his head without looking away from the street.

"The poison." John speared another piece of chicken. "Silver nitrate - that…" John shook his head. "I can't imagine they'd be able to even hold a pill of it, let alone force themselves to swallow it. So how does he do it?"

Sherlock grinned. "I'll show you the police reports later - he masks it. Found a way to keep us from smelling it."

"That's…"

"Neat."

"I was going to say horrifying, but… sure." John turned to look out the window - there was nothing yet, no change in anything at all in front of them. When he turned back, Sherlock was watching him.

"You won't be one of the victims."

John frowned. "Alright, um… thank you?"

Sherlock kept watching him. "I mean it. I won't allow it."

A flush crept over John's face, and he ducked his head as he smiled. "Well, for what it's worth… I'd do anything I could to keep you from that, too…"

He glanced up to see Sherlock smile before he turned his attention back to the street.

"John, look - over there!"

John's head whipped around, and he twisted in his seat, staring at the spot Sherlock was pointing at. "What am I looking at?"

"The cab - nobody getting in, nobody getting out."

John watched - there was a man in the backseat, looking about. He looked nervous, maybe. His eyes caught John's.

"Why a taxi?" Sherlock was talking to himself - no wonder he got funny looks. "Oh, that's clever! Is it clever? Why's it clever?"

And now he was arguing with himself. Brilliant. "That's him?"

"Don't stare."

John glared at Sherlock. "You're staring!"

Sherlock shrugged, grabbing his coat and standing up. "We can't both stare." And then he was out the door, leaving John to dash after him as quickly as possible.

The cab took off, with Sherlock chasing it, shouting at John often to hurry up and come on and one rather frantic we're losing him! They dashed through side streets, into cramped apartment buildings that smelled of too man humans cooking too many dinners, down fire escapes and across rooftops. The wind was cold and glorious and John hadn't felt so free in weeks, not since he'd left Afghanistan and McMath and the mountains and caves and the ability to run with someone who understood.

But of course Sherlock understood. Running ahead, calling out directions and orders - John felt like he was part of something again.

It felt incredible.

By the time they caught up with the cab, and Sherlock realised they'd been chasing the wrong man, John couldn't contain his energy. They stood a slight distance from the cab, catching their breath.

"Where… where did you get this from?" John reached over and grabbed the ID badge that Sherlock had flashed. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" He looked at Sherlock.

"Yeah, I pick-pocket him when he's annoying." Sherlock looked back towards the cab, and John's gaze followed - it was stopped again, and the passenger was motioning over a police officer. "You can keep that one, I've got plenty back at the flat."

John looked back at the ID in his hands, and started laughing.

"What?"

He looked up at Sherlock. "Nothing, just… Welcome to London."

Sherlock chuckled, gaze going back to the cab again. John saw that the passenger was pointing at them, and the police officer looked ready to head their way.

"Got your breath back?"

John nodded. "Ready when you are."

Sherlock started running, and John followed right behind him.

This, he could definitely get used to.


Oh man, remember when I used to write stories and I was really good about posting them regularly? Yeah, I do too. Those were good times.

So, uh, I'm not dead. Go me! But I have had: hairline fracture in left foot, severely strained tendon or ligament thing in right ankle, and some sort of infection thing that made the doctor look at me curiously whilst commenting on how strange it was that my Strep test came back negative. Then there were antibiotics. And on top of all that, The Consulting 6-year-old is doing super well in her gymnastics, and she's now going 4 days a week, so yeah, busy busy here at Casa de Ricechex.

Also, my laptop's power jack thing kinda... died. So I was doing the whole summon-demon-to-make-a-deal thing for a while, hoping that the blasted thing would just keep working. But now I have a shiny new laptop that is super spiffy - and runs Windows 8, which is a heck of a learning curve. Also, am fixing up old laptop so that it will hopefully be a decent enough spare, should I need it (have already replaced power jack, so that issue is no more, woooo).

But I have been working on these little old stories of mine, rest assured, and hopefully when the holidays are done (JFC could there be a more stressful time of year) I can get back to this whole writing/updating thing like I used to do. I miss it. I miss delving into these plots (ha, ha ha ha ha, oh, that was a good one, I'll have to remember that, claiming I have plots is just too cute) and exploring the characters and all these fun What If scenarios. And I miss you all. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - my readers are the best readers ever. You guys are the best, and I cannot thank you enough for all of your patience and support.

May you all have happy and safe holidays, and may you know that you are cherished and though of fondly. I love you, my darlings. DFTBA.