A/N I am grateful to acknowledge that this chapter was beta'd by Old Ping Hai. All remaining errors are my own.

Disclaimer I own no rights to Sherlock, but I wish that I did.

Chapter 7

"Was that a banshee?" thundered Fionn, standing up and wrapping his hand around the hilt of his mighty sword.

"Don't be absurd," said Sherlock. "It's just Cousin Cecily."

He pointed toward the window, where the tall, thin woman stood rigid with terror, pressing her fisted hands over her gaping mouth.

As if to prove the detective right, Cousin Cecily screamed again, pointing at the window. As Fionn, Richard, and Mummy rushed toward the window. Cecily stepped aside and switched tactics, choosing to scream almost continuously.

In vain, her mother, Prudence, ordered Cecily to 'stop making such an infernal racket'. Prudence had several decades of nursing experience under her ample belt, and she finally combatted her daughter's hysteria by slapping the younger woman across her cheek, while repeating her demand for a coherent explanation.

Sherlock admired Prudence's brutal but effective practicality; plus he'd wanted to slap Cecily since they were children.

"I…I…there…there w-was…" stuttered Cecily.

Prudence frowned and shook her head, which set her steel-wool curls to bouncing despite the heavy application of hair shellac. "Well, spit it out girl," she said, while Fionn, Richard and Mummy murmured and pointed at the storm-tossed darkness. "Tell me; what did you see?"

"There...there was...a monster," wailed Cecily.

Fionn looked up with gleaming eyes and a hard grin, which did not bode well for any monsters.

"What sort of monster?" asked Richard skeptically.

Good question, thought Sherlock. After all, the house already sported several monsters—namely three vampires, a seven-foot, semi-immortal Hunter, a rogue leprechaun, a possibly disgraced Angel of Death and an unknown (to Sherlock) number of half-blood Faeries.

An unearthly howl sliced through the grim silence like an assassin's blade; Sherlock assumed that this eliminated most of the monsters that he was currently aware of.

"It was..." said Cecily anticlimactically, "it was...a hound! A giant, black hound!"

"Sounded like a wolf to me," said Richard, licking his lips hungrily.

"No, wolves are extinct in Britain," said Mummy.

"Perhaps it is..." suggested Jacinth

"...a Grimm?" finished Adrien with relish. The twins looked speculatively at John, who had tilted his head to listen to the monster's cry.

"It's prob'ly a bloody Hell Hound!" said Fionn, checking the placement of various knives that had appeared simultaneously with the Hunter's deadly smile.

"Nope, that's a werewolf," said John, although no one aside from Sherlock was listening to him. "Her accent almost seems familiar, but I don't ...know..." His voice trailed off as he worried his lip

A werewolf? Sherlock could stand it no longer, and he deserted his self-appointed leprechaun-guard duty to peer out into the night. He didn't want to miss the opportunity to see another monster with his own eyes.

"It's not one of my Hounds," said Death, arguing with the Hunter. "More likely, it's one of your spectral hounds, Fionn mac Cumhaill!"

"Don't y'think Ah'd know m'own fuckin' hounds, y'dim Reaper?" demanded Fionn, looking around for appreciative laughter and, sadly, finding none.

"And I suppose I'd know the call of a Hell Hound," spat Mortimer, standing with his hands on his hips, which emphasized his lithe build and broad chest to good effect.

"Oh stop yer posturing," sneered the massive Hunter. "Yon wee laddie is'na interested in yer meager bones."

The Reaper and Hunter actually began to circle one another, but before the two rivals could come to blows, another howl rent the night.

"Oh God!" shrieked Cecily. "He's come for me!"

"Not bloody likely," Fionn muttered to himself. "Ah think even a Hell Hound would ha' better taste than tha'."

"Well really," huffed Prudence, insulted on her daughter's behalf.

"Really. E'en if it is a Grimm, it won' be after the likes o' her," said Fionn carelessly.

The huge man stretched and flexed his muscles while keeping a close eye on the leprechaun, who, disappointingly for the Hunter, kept his gaze locked on his curly-haired detective.

"And you accuse me of posturing for John's benefit," sneered Mortimer. "Has it not occurred to you that John Watson might prefer brain and not brawn?'"

"In a word, no," said Fionn, pulling out his massive long sword and testing his swing; he barely missed beheading two lamps and a guest. Nevertheless, it was a manly display, which was appreciated by several of the Holmes relatives. Unfortunately, this display was again missed by the leprechaun, who padded over to look out the window with Sherlock.

"You know, Sherlock," said John as he pensively worried at his own lip, "I couldn't understand everything she said, but that was definitely a werewolf, and she's on the hunt, so I think we should get away from the window. Mummy, you should stay back, too."

Mummy nodded and drew the curtains.

"Oh God!" cried Cecily. "A werewolf? Are you sure? A werewolf is hunting me?"

"No, I'm pretty sure she isn't hunting you," said John, as a crease of confusion formed between his brows.

"I suppose she's hunting you, John?" demanded Sherlock, "No, wait. Of course she is. Everyone wants you."

Overwehlming concern for John derailed the detective's interest in seeing the so-called monster, and he quickly wrapped his arms around his leprechaun, pulling the shorter man into the relative safety of the center of the room.

"Though to be honest, it's a bit hard to say who or what she's hunting," confessed John.

"Whom," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"Whom—whom she is hunting," corrected the World's Only Consulting Detective

"Oh. Right. Whom. Well, I'm not all that fluent in wolf, and on top of that, and she has that strange accent. It's almost familiar, but...Well, anyway, it's possible that I might have heard her call my name—maybe."

"I knew we should have left this madhouse when we had the chance," muttered Sherlock, squeezing his leprechaun until the blond could hardly breathe.

"Look...I could be wrong," gasped the blond, fighting to breathe in spite of his lover's suffocating embrace. "I did mention that I wasn't fluent in wolf. I'm not sure if she said 'come to me, Goldilocks' or 'give me the gold'. Wolf can be a little hard to understand."

"Oh. My. God." said the young detective, tightening his grip.

"Um…Sherlock. That hurts…and I can't…breathe," hissed John.

"Breathing is dull," said Sherlock, loosening his hold a bit nonetheless.

John drew in a breath, then added, "It's not dull to me."

Then the leprechaun began to giggle.

Sherlock smiled down at his leprechaun, who shuddered with poorly suppressed laughter. A giggling John was irresistible to Sherlock; so he grabbed the sprite's face in both hands and bent down to kiss him soundly.

For his part, John rose up on his toes. He parted his lips, sendiing his tongue into the fray.

"No, no! Stop that!" demanded Avaril.

"Sherlock! Boys!" said Mummy. "This is no time for such carrying on!"

The amorous duo ignored her, although Sherlock did sneak a glance to the side, hoping that his supernatural rivals were getting an eyeful.

"Oh, bollocks," said Mummy, sitting heavily into a chair and taking a swig of wine straight from the bottle.

"They ought to get a room," suggested someone.

"Boys will be boys," said Father, who seemed to approve.

"It's unnatural," said Beatrice, who was a bigoted idiot.

"Oh, no," Father assured her. "It's quite natural. And about time too. I was beginning to worry about our Sherlock." He took the bottle from Mummy, swallowed some of Mycroft's very expensive wine, and then imitated the youngsters by planting a wet one on Mummy's mouth.

"Oh, how sweet," said Leonora, surreptitiously taking pictures of each of the couples with her phone.

"I'm going to kill him!" hissed Avaril softly.

"Weeel, Ah can see Johnny needs a few moments afore he'll be ready for more o' m'courtship,' said Fionn. "In t'meantime, Ah might as well hunt me some wolf. Ah can alwus use the pelt back home. Anyone else interested?"

"I wouldn't miss a werewolf hunt for all the world," said Richard, grinning with fully extended fangs.

"No, wait," protested John, gently pulling away from his partner. "You can't hunt her down for no reason."

"It's a werewolf; that's reason enough for me," snarled Richard.

"But she hasn't done anything…" cried John in dismay. 'You…you don't even know if she is a werewolf. I only said that I thought she was..."

"Don't be stupid, John. You were quite right; of course it's a wolf. I would have recognized the call at once if I hadn't been distracted," said Richard, his dark eyes drifting toward the staircase. Sherlock shuddered at the implication that Mycroft was distracting instead of disgusting.

"Fionn, we can't just go out there and kill her!" said John, bravely standing up to the Hunter.

"Be reasonable, y'daft leetle sprite," said Fionn, chucking John under his chin. "Whether it's a wolf or a hound, it's here for you. D'ye wanna die t'night? 'Course not. Now, we'll take of yon beastie, and you'll stay in here, safe' an' sound. Weeel, it's as safe as possible under the circumstances." Fionn glanced darkly at the guests before glaring at Mortimer. "Well, Johnny, you jus' stay in here an' try not to get yr'self killed or seduced until Ahm done. When tha' hound's been dealt with, Ah'll coom back an' we'll finish makin' our plans for you t'come with me."

"No, we won't," said the darkly scowling leprechaun. "and no, I won't stay in here and…"

"Yes, John. You will wait in here like Fionn suggests," said Mortimer with a smirk.

"Shut yer gob, ye death-mongerin' scarecrow," said Fionn. "Ah don' need help from the likes o' you to manage m' consorts. An' ye better not be messin' around with him while Ahm gone. Now, Ahm assumin' you nightstalkers'll all wanna join the hunt? Right! We're off! Ah'll call t'others, when we get outside..." His loud voice dwindled into a distant rumble as marched outside.

Jacinth and Adrien followed eagerly, chattering in French and exposing their own fangs as the smiled hungrily.

"There's more? What others? Who is Fionn calling?" asked Sherlock.

"He's going to call in some of the Fianna—with his horn. He had a band of about ten to twelve hunters when I saw them earlier. I suppose they're flying about…somewhere, "said John waving his hand around distractedly. The leprechaun's forehead was thoroughly furrowed, indicating deep thought or, more likely, plotting his escape into danger.

Sherlock easily deduced that John had no intention of waiting in the house 'safe and sound' and took a firm grip of the sprite's arm—just in case he tried to sneak off unseen.

"It's a bit foolhardy to be rushing off to hunt an unknown enemy in the dark," said Mycroft, who'd finally put in an appearance.

Sherlock chose to ignore the love bites on his sibling and the small double-puncture wounds on Mycroft's neck, not to mention his generally rumpled appearance, because sex and Mycroft simply did not compute. However, he felt comfortable commenting on his brother's very casual trousers and a simple button down shirt.

"Run out of suits, Mycroft?" quipped Sherlock.

"Do grow up, Sherlock," sniped Mycroft, who had blocked the door to prevent Richard's departure. "And, as for you going out there, Richard…"

"Now my dear one…" began the vampire.

Sherlock made a fake retching sound, which changed into a wheezy cough when the leprechaun's elbow connected with his ribs.

"We really do need to track down that wolf," continued Richard.

"No we don't!" interrupted John. "And you shouldn't be planning on hurting her until we know what she wants." Sadly for the blond sprite, the vampire and his minor British government official only had eyes and ears for each other.

"But you don't have any weapons," Mycroft protested to his paramour as he caressed the taller man's arm.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Richard, grinning wide enough to reveal his fangs. "I have to go, Mycroft. It's important to cull out rogue wolves, as you well know," said Richard, placing a hand on Mycroft's jaw. "Just wait here; it won't take long."

"Yes, Richard, whatever you say," said Mycroft demurely.

"Oh, my God," said Sherlock, disgusted with his brother's romance.

A loud, long horn call echoed through the house; as the horn wended into silence, the mysterious canine howled its defiance.

"That's the hunt! Starting without me!" said Richard, giving the bureaucrat a quick, loud kiss before flying out the door calling, "I must away, the game is afoot!"

Sherlock glared at the disgusting sight of his enamored sibling. He was further irked by the vampires archaic turn of phrase.

In spite of these distractions, the detective did not miss his leprechaun's none too subtle attempt to free his arm from Sherlock's grip by pretending to want to make tea.

"Don't even think about it, John," said Sherlock, his voice soft but firm.

"No, Sherlock," said John, setting down the tea kettle to earnestly make his case. "I have to go. I can't stand by while they kill an innocent werewolf—too many have been killed already."

"Innocent werewolf?" asked Beatrice, butting in rudely. "Is there such a thing as a innocent werewolf?"

"Yes, there is. Of course, there is!" insisted the leprechaun. "I realize that some are no better than vicious animals, but most are just normal shape-shifters, who just want to be left alone…"

"They want to be left alone—just like anarchists." said Mycroft. "As everyone knows, the Lycanthropes refuse to cooperate with authorities, unlike the Sanguinarians who cooperate fully with human government. The Lycanthropes, on the other hand, refuse to even register properly. Since the packs will not follow the laws of civil society, they are naturally suspect…"

"Well, you can hardly blame them for distrusting government after the pogroms of the last couple of centuries," John fired back, still trying to free his arm from Sherlock's grip.

"Those hunts were only organized after despicable massacres perpetrated by wolves," said Mycroft, smoothing down the front of his button down shirt as though it was one of his bespoke suits.

"Really? And you know this how? Were you there?" demanded John.

"No, actually," said Mycroft raising one of his eloquent eyebrows. "Were you?"

"No, I wasn't present for any of the battles, but I treated the victims of the so-called cleansing campaign," said John. "And I was at the Faerie court when they mediated the last truce."

"You treated victims? Hold on, did you treat victims of wolf attacks?" asked the politically-correct accountant from Epping. "I didn't realize that there was any treatment available."

"Actually, the bites are as treatable as any bad wound. And a good healer can prevent someone from turning into a werewolf, but only if the healing is started early. Isn't that right, John?" asked Father.

"Yes, that's right," agreed the healer. "And of course I did treat some wolf bites. As a healer, I treated victims from both sides of the fighting, but most of my patients were werewolves who survived the genocidal attacks…"

"I should have known that you'd be a wolf sympathizer," said Mycroft scornfully. "Next you'll be confessing that you were a member of the IRA. Perhaps I should begin a review of IRA files spanning the entire last century."

John's scowl became thunderous.

"Mycroft Holmes!" said Mummy. "John is a guest in our house. He saved your life. He is your brother's partner. You will not threaten him…"

"If he has terrorist leanings…"

"Your recent consensual bloodletting and concomitant sexual intercourse have rendered you an idiot," said Sherlock. "John was unable to leave the vicinity of the fairy horde for two hundred years, which makes it extremely unlikely that he could have participated in any terrorist activities."

"Besides, I once served as a Captain and Medical Officer in His Majesty's Infantry," said John. "I would hardly betray British forces regardless of my political leanings."

"Who can say what you'd get up to," sneered Mycroft, "since you admit that you're a wolf sympathizer!"

"And you just had a tryst with a blood sucker," said Sherlock, releasing John's arm to stand toe-to-toe with his sibling.

"Sanguinarians are peaceful people. Their covens have been officially recognized by every major government in the world—for centuries in many cases. Why, they even have a secret seat in the U.N.," asserted the bureaucrat. "The Lycanthropes, on the other hand, refuse to acknowledge any civil authority and…"

"John Watson!" yelled Sherlock, interrupting the bureaucrat. "Just because my back is turned, it doesn't mean I don't know that your hand is on that door knob. If you so much as turn that knob, you will regret it."

Everyone turned to the door, but blinked, seeing no one there.

"I don't know what you're on about, Sherlock," said John from the door to the sitting room. He batt his blue eyes to drive home his innocence.

Sherlock Holmes was not convinced by the leprechaun's display, and he strode over to grasp John firmly by the hand.

"As I was saying…" began Mycroft.

"Under the circumstances, I think that we should refrain from discussing politics," said Mummy.

"Mummy is right. We have bigger fish to fry," said father. "Besides, I've always found that it's always best to avoid religion and politics at family gatherings."

"My apologies," said John, with a stiff 18th century bow to Mummy and Father.

"Instead, perhaps we could pass the time discussing the Faerie hoard that John was guarding?" suggested the cousin from Epping as he smoothed hair over his thinning pate.

"Noooo. We will not discuss the treasure," said John. "To begin with, it's cursed."

"Oh! Oh! Maybe that's where the curse that wants to kill you is coming from," suggested Avaril, who'd snuck up to John's to grasp his free elbow.

"Erm, no. That curse was broken," said John, gently extracting his arm from the young woman. "I really don't know which one of them cursed this time ."

"Why? How many people are likely to have cursed you?" demanded the consulting detective.

"Um, a couple," said John evasively. "Or maybe four…or five…But I haven't done anything recently—at least I don't think so."

"Hm," said Sherlock. "We shall have a thorough discussion concerning your enemies, past and present, when this disaster is over."

"We shall also thoroughly investigate your fraternization with Lycanthropes," said Mycroft.

"Oh my God," muttered John. "I treated the wounded and cared for refugees, who were suffering from distemper, anemia and what was known then as bloodletting nerves or just blood-nerves for short. I suspect that the latter was a form of PTSD...which isn't important right now. What I meant to say they weren't terrorists: just pups, elders and some expectant mums. And before you begin the inquisition, the answer is yes. Yes, I have had friends who were wolves; that still doesn't make me an enemy of England."

"Hm," hummed Mycroft doubtfully.

A long, drawn-out howl broke out from the direction of the woods, followed by a few yelps.

"Sherlock!" cried John. "She's been hurt! You have to let me go help her."

"John, it's too dangerous," said Sherlock.

"No," said John, "Look, we don't even know if she's violent, or whether she's after me personally or…"

"Don't be an idiot!" said Sherlock. "She's either here to kill you or to seduce you, just like all your other supernatural friends."

"They're not really my friends, and they haven't tried to kill me."

"As far as we know," said Sherlock.

"And all of them aren't trying to seduce me. Honestly, the vampires aren't even interested in me, except as a snack," complained John.

"To hell with the vampires," said Sherlock. "Going out into the dark right now is the height of foolishness."

The wolf howled again, and even Sherlock could detect desperation in her voice.

"Sherlock Holmes, unhand me now," ordered Captain Watson, late of His Majesty's 5th Regiment of Foot.

Sherlock almost acquiesced to the captain's confident command, but at the last moment realized that John was manipulating him. Sherlock tightened his hold on the leprechaun, glaring down at the shorter man.

"Did you just use magic on me?" demanded Sherlock.

John raised his chin defiantly, saying nothing, but Mummy answered for him. "Don't be silly, Sherlock, he was obviously just using his army voice. I should know, it's not as though your father never tried that on me."

Father tried to imitate John's wide-eyed look of innocence, but Mummy countered with a narrow-eyed glare and a harsh 'harrumph'. Father smiled sheepishly, and then Mummy grinned back at him, before kissing him soundly.

Sherlock groaned. Contemplation of his parents' decades-long romance was nearly as repellent as imagining Mycroft's.

Sherlock shook his head—to clear it of such terrible imagery. Afterwards, he turned his attention back to the leprechaun, who was still trying to tug himself free.

"Stop it, John!" snapped the consulting detective.

"But I have to help her!"

"All right! If you insist; but if you're going, I'm coming with you," snarled Sherlock.

John opened his mouth, but Mummy's voice filled the room.

"Neither one of you is going out there," said Mummy in a stentorian voice that easily outdid John's captain's voice.

The leprechaun flinched but held his ground a few steps closer to the door.

"I'm sorry, Mummy," said John bravely. "but I have to go. I'm a soldier…"

"A former soldier," corrected his lover.

"Once a soldier, always a soldier," said Captain Watson. "And I'm a doctor and I'm a healer, so I will go to her aid."

"If he goes, I go," said Sherlock appealing to Mummy, who seemed to be the final arbiter.

"No, a chroí, you cannot go. You're not a warrior," said John.

"John is right, Sherly," said Mummy. "You certainly can't go."

John nodded.

"But, it's too dangerous for you too, John," Mummy announced.

"Nooo," said John, shaking his head.

"Mummy? Sherlock? I think you should let the sprite go if he insists. Sherlock, of course, will wait here with us," said Mycroft officiously.

John nodded again and tugged manfully, trying to escape Sherlock's tight grip.

"Goodness, you're all being foolish," said Father mildly. "Of course John has to help that poor wolf; it's only right."

"Fine, but Sherlock remains here," said Mycroft.

"Hush, Mycroft, you don't know what you're talking about," said Father. Mycroft turned pale with shock, because Father never hushed him. "It's plain as day that Sherlock has to accompany John. They are a team. Not to mention that Sherlock is the one with the Sight. Also, Sherlock will be the one with a gun. It's been pre-loaded—with silver bullets of course," Father handed Sherlock an old but well-kept Browning pistol. "I'd give the gun to John, but he has some defenses that you do not. Do try not to shoot anyone by accident, son."

The younger Holmes smiled tightly until his father embarrassed him with the unnecessary warning.

"That's true. You are the one with the Sight," said John, twisting his mouth and nose as he considered his options. "I guess he's right. Let's go!"

"No! Absolutely not," cried Mummy and Mycroft in unison, as both tried to block the door.

"John has to go, Mummy," said Father smiling with sad, tired eyes. "It's the right thing to do. And doing the right thing is the only thing that's going to save him, that and loving our son."

"What is that supposed to mean?" demanded Mycroft, as Mummy began to waver.

Nobody deigned to answer the British government official.

"But…but…Sherlock," stuttered Mummy.

"And Sherlock has to go with John, because they are soul mates. The only way this will ever turn out right is if they keep faith with their hearts. I have seen…"

"Ah, now it comes out," sneered Mycroft. "You're going to claim to have had a vision again. This is a fine time to parade your over-romanticized Faerie mysticism. You'll get my bother killed just like…"

"Shut up, Mycroft!" Mummy almost shouted. "DO NOT speak to your father like that. If he says they have to go, they have to go. Put on your coats and scarves," she added to her younger son and his leprechaun, using a commanding voice which left no room for dissent.

John had already stuffed his arms into his damp coat and was opening the door when Father grabbed hold of his convenient handle-like elbow.

"Mummy wants you to zip up your coat, John Watson," said Father, placing a hat on top of John's head. "And take good care of my son…but what am I saying? Of course you will. We both know that you have no future without him, and remember what I said: keep to the right always and remain loyal to your heart."

"Yes, sir," said John opening the door.

Sherlock broke free from his mother's embrace and tucked the end of his scarf into his coat, while deftly avoiding the ugly hat in his mother's hand.

"Sherlock," called Father, "protect our leprechaun, beware of your blood and…" His words were cut off as Sherlock slammed the door shut.

Keeping his left hand clasped tightly in John's right, the soul mates dashed into the rain, accompanied by the stirring percussion of the thunder and the desolate cries of the harried wolf.

A/N Thank you for reading this story. Feel free to leave comments and reviews (please and thank you).

Note: a chroí means my heart in Gaelic (according to two internet sources—if I am in error, please let me know so that I can fix it.)

Thanks to I'm Nova for her support and for reminding me about banshees.