A/N Old Ping Hai is the wonderful Beta who proof reads my work. I am very grateful for her encouragement, suggestions and editing prowess. Any errors remaining in this story are obviously my own.
Disclaimer Sherlock and most of the other characters belong to ACD, the BBC or Mofftiss.
Translations from Gaelic to English
A chroí means my heart
Fionn mac Cumhaill is roughly pronounced Finn McCool, just in case you wanted to know.
madadh allaidh means wolf
(This mini-lesson on Gaelic is based on Internet translators—my apologies for any errors.)
Chapter 8
At first, Sherlock only heard the wind whipping through the trees, punctuated by not-so-distant thunder. John huffed as he tugged at Sherlock's hand, heading toward the meadows across the road from Mummy and Father's house. Judging from the way his head turned back and forth, it was patently clear that the leprechaun was uncertain which way to go.
Sherlock pulled hard, bringing the leprechaun to a sudden stop.
"Charging off blindly won't find your werewolf," said Sherlock. "Just give me a moment, maybe I can find a clue or trail."
John jerked a nod as he shifted from foot to foot, eager to be on his way. At least the leprechaun had stopped tugging like a hound on the scent. And more importantly, he wasn't glowing, which meant that he wasn't using his magic, although the detective feared that John's self-restraint wouldn't last for long. In Sherlock's opinion, the leprechaun was his own worst enemy tonight, with his persistent use of magic even as it drained him
Sherlock listened in vain for sounds of the hunters or howls from the wolf.
"We have to go," urged the leprechaun, pulling the watch cap off of his head. Mummy would be displeased.
"We'll go when I can determine the correct direction," said Sherlock.
"But we have to hur…"
"Shut up!" growled the detective. "I'm trying to listen."
John took a breath as if ready to answer, then he pursed his lips to keep silent.
The younger man listened intently. He peered toward the woods, half-hoping that his so-called Fairy Sight would somehow reveal in which direction the hunt had gone.
Shaking his head in frustration, Sherlock closed his eyes and listened again. He just knew the wolf must have headed into the woods. Her earlier howls had seemed to issue from the woods. But before he and John headed off on a wild goose chase, the detective wanted at least some clue…
There! He heard…
Sherlock heard a voice; no, it was two voices, coming from the woods, of course. "Did you hear that?" he asked John.
"No," said John, cocking his head to listen. "What did you…"
"Sh!" whispered Sherlock still concentrating. He couldn't quite hear their conversation. "Two voices. Over that way."
"I don't hear anything," said John softly. It was still too loud for Sherlock.
"Shh!" hissed the consulting detective directly into the shorter man's ear. "I definitely hear someone. I'm sure it's some of the hunters. Come on, John."
He led his leprechaun towards the east, which would take them over a small stream and in to the densest part of the woods. Perhaps the wolf had tried to hide its scent in the water, and Sherlock had always assumed that the beast would have headed for the cover of the trees.
That was assuming that werewolves used logic…or were even capable of higher thinking.
Which was a question for later, because a louder, deeper baritone called out, as Finn ordered his men 'to the right, an' be quick aboot it.'
"I think I heard Fionn," whispered John.
"Yes, obviously!" hissed Sherlock, picking his way through wet, knee-high grass and weeds. "Now be quiet, if we can hear them, then they can hear us."
"I don't think so, Sherlock. I think your hearing is better than theirs. I think that maybe your Faerie Sight has enhanced your hearing."
"John, I won't begin to list the fallacies in your reasoning, but you are…"
Sherlock's whispered diatribe was cut off by a piercing howl off to the left.
"Oh, Hecate! I knew it. She's hurt!" cried John, who tried haring off, stopped by his lover's vice-like grip on his wrist. "Sherlock, let go! I have to help her!"
"We will help it. Together. But it's foolish to go off half-cocked; we must use caution," said Sherlock under his breath.
"That's not what you said when we were chasing the blow dart-using dwarf," whispered John.
"That was different. And I believe he preferred not to be called a dwarf," hissed Sherlock, leading John toward the voices, which he assumed would lead them toward the wolf.
"He was a dwarf. He was a dwarf from the hidden mines under the Cairngorms," whispered John. "I wanted to ask him why he'd left his clan but that lovely detective with the sharp tongue wouldn't let me."
"Donovan."
"Yes! Donovan. She seems to be a good detective, but she doesn't like me," said John.
"Because she doesn't like me," explained Sherlock.
"She got angry when I told her she was lovely. Also, she told me to take up fishing," John remarked.
"What?" asked Sherlock, who had somehow lost the thread of this conversation (not an unusual occurrence when dealing with the leprechaun). "No, never mind. Stop talking, I'm trying to listen."
John nodded and held his finger over his lips, signifying his intent to keep silent. The detective shook his head in fond exasperation and continued leading their stealthy approach.
He soon picked up the wolf's heavy panting and her half-stifled whining. Sherlock changed course leading slightly away from the hunters and moving towards the injured wolf.
The beast growled, low and deep. He didn't need to understand 'werewolf' to recognize this as a warning for everyone to keep away, and Sherlock slowed, rethinking John's plan to play Nightingale to an injured beast. Just how dangerous were werewolves, he wondered, especially wounded werewolves?
However, John tried to plow ahead while towing his bigger lover awkwardly behind him.
In spite of the distance, Sherlock heard Richard's velvet-soft whisper saying, "There—over there. Can you see her? Shoot her!"
Fearing that they would be mistaken for the enemy—by either the wolf or the hunters—Sherlock slowed their progress to a crawl.
"Shoot it!" reiterated the vampire.
"Don' be given' me orders." muttered Finn, his voice cutting loudly through the tense darkness. "I know how to hunt."
"Sherlock! I just heard Fionn again;" murmured John, pointing toward the posse. "We have to be careful. He doesn't sound very happy and he's known for having a bit of a temper."
Sherlock nodded, realized that John probably hadn't seen him nodding, then squeezed the leprechaun's small, sturdy hand to acknowledge his comment.
The man and sprite soon waded through a small stream. The water ran cold and brisk after all the rain. Sherlock's feet were now cold and wet and…
"Where? Where is it?" whispered someone. It sounded close by and Sherlock looked into the shadows. He'd thought that they had bypassed the posse.
"Are you all blind and deaf?" hissed Richard. "It's hiding under the fallen oak."
The wolf growled, and its rumbling bled into a roll of thunder.
"I can't hear it or see it," protested this unknown hunter.
Richard loudly tsk'ed in response.
Sherlock silently agreed with the vampire, clearly the hunters were deaf. The detective could now effortlessly hear the wolf's ragged breathing, and the animal's periodic whines of pain easily carried over the tumult of the storm.
Even John seemed to hear the wolf now, because he tried muscling past Sherlock, while muttering that he should start carrying his medical kit.
"John—wait," Sherlock breathed into the shorter man's ear. "It's too dangerous to blunder around in the dark. We could be shot by accident."
"She's going to be shot on purpose if I don't…"
"I don't see it either," complained some woman. "We don't all have your uncanny senses, blood-sucker."
John tensed, turning toward the female hunter and instinctively crouching down just a little.
"Speak fer yourself, lassie. I don' need a vamp's dead eyes to see tha' foul beast," said Fionn. "I see her jus' fine."
Sherlock and his companion both started when the Hunter's voice sounded just in front of them, which meant that the detective had inadvertently stumbled directly into the posse.
Sherlock quietly called out a warning, so that the hunters wouldn't shoot them. Someone, perhaps the woman, gave them the all clear.
The detective tightened his grasp on his leprechaun and moved forward, passing uncomfortably through some very inconvenient thorn bushes. They were on the verge of a rather large clearing, and right in the midst of several hunters, including Fionn and Richard. The other vampires were nowhere to be seen.
The tall hunter, backlit by a lightning-filled sky, barely tilted his head in acknowledgement of Sherlock and John's arrival, his gaze intent on the shadows across the weedy meadow.
The detective easily saw the wolf now, hiding beneath a fallen tree—just as Richard had said. The wolf was big. Much bigger than any dog that Sherlock had ever seen, almost as big as Fionn. The creature leaned to one side. It seemed that John had been right all along; the wolf had sustained an injury and was favoring one side.
John stared at Fionn and then at Sherlock. He followed their gazes and shook his head. Then he began to glow softly, giving off a faint, rosy-gold aura.
"John, no!" whispered Sherlock sharply. "No magic…"
"I have to, Sherlock. She's hurt," hissed John.
"Shut it! Both of ye!" grunted the giant as he pulled back his enormous bow, which was longer than Sherlock was tall.
"No," said John. He growled, sounding almost like a wolf himself, and then shouted, "Run, friend! Run! Run for your life!"
John crashed into Fionn, nudging the hulking hunter just enough to spoil his aim. An arrow flew off into the trees as the Hunter cursed in mixed English and Gaelic.
Still crouching, the wolf whimpered and awkwardly backed further into the concealing brush.
"Damn ye', Johnny fer a leetle fool!" cursed the Hunter again.
John spun around, and the detective was forced to release John's arm or risk breaking it.
The instant he was free, the leprechaun darted toward the growling wolf and then disappeared, but his voice rang out sounding more like a screech than a tenor, "Nooo! No, don't hurt her!"
The creature's warning rumbles changed into fierce snarls.
Sherlock charged after his invisible lover, only to be pulled backwards by a grip of iron.
"Stay back," hissed Richard. Sherlock tried to fight free but was no match against the strength of the blood-sucker.
"Get outta the way, Johnny!" Fionn bellowed, as the sky repeated his warning in booming rolls of thunder.
"John! Don't! Stop, you fool!" Sherlock, Finn and even Richard shouted—to no avail.
It was too late; the black beast leapt forward, easily bringing down the leprechaun as soon as he appeared, still surrounded by a faint golden aura.
The idiot was trying to heal the wolf even as she mauled him…or was John protecting himself with magic? Sherlock couldn't tell and he needed to be there—right there with John, and the damned blood-sucker wouldn't release his grip, no matter how Sherlock struggled and cursed.
"Damn leprechauns fer stubborn, bloody-minded sprites!" snarled Fionn. "D'ye have a clear shot? Anyone?" thundered Finn.
John's cries were nearly lost beneath the beast's snarling; surely the werewolf was tearing him apart. Sherlock struggled frantically, but couldn't break free from the horribly strong vampire.
"Just shoot it! John's already a dead man," snarled Richard, sounding bestial himself.
The vampire raised a hand to point at the wolf and Sherlock finally escaped the blood-sucker, racing towards his fallen lover and most likely towards his own death.
""Ye god's," snapped the Hunter. "That boy's as daft as the wee fairy."
"Come back here, Holmes!" shouted Richard, stopping Sherlock only a yard from the ravening beast.
"I'm not a bloody fairy!" yelled John, and Sherlock's panic began to recede. "And I'm not… bloody dying either. She's just trying…to pro..protect me. Although she's a bit heavy."
The wolf snarled again.
"I didn't say you were fat!" exclaimed John. "Look, she wants you all to just stay back." Then, in what Sherlock deemed an unreasonably rash move, the leprechaun yelled into the wolves slavering jaws, "Will you just stop it! I can't think…what with you growling in my ear. Besides, you're too heavy…and I could wish that you'd stop drooling on me, and…"
"John!"
"Sherlock, stay back, you're frightening her. She's hurt and frightened."
"I'm frightening her?" demanded the incredulous detective.
The wolf snarled.
"Yes, you are," said John. Sherlock was uncertain if the leprechaun was talking to him or the wolf. "Don't argue with me. You are frightened, of course you are. It's perfectly understandable."
The wolf snarled again, even as the small blond pet the thick fur under her ears.
"I am trying to help you, you…impossible, great lummox," said John. "If only you'd…stop crushing me."
"Get off him," Sherlock yelled at the wolf, feeling foolish to be talking to an animal.
The beast turned its yellow eyes towards him. It curled its lips and began a long, drawn-out growl of warning.
"For the love…of God!" exclaimed the trapped sprite. "Put your gun away, Sherlock!"
The detective looked at the gun in his hand with some surprise. He didn't recall having drawn the weapon.
"No! Shoot the bitch!" demanded Richard.
The wolf roared and snapped at the vampire. She slowly began crawl to toward the vampire as growls rumbled from deep within her chest.
"No, no, no!" yelled John clinging to the wolf's fur as she dragged herself and the leprechaun toward the vampire. "Stop it, madadh allaidh. Everyone stop. Please!"
Sherlock hesitated.
"Achhh, do as the lad says," said Fionn.
"But…" protested Sherlock and Richard.
"Use yer heads," scoffed the Hunter, yanking the vampire aside and easily freeing the detective from his clawed grip. "If she wanted him dead, he'd a been dead already." The huge man crouched down, resting his hands on his knees to glare at the sprite peeking out from under the wolf. "You're brave; Ah'll give ye that, Johnny m'lad, but Ah'm not happy with you. This in't the first time you innerupted one o'my hunts, an it's doing you no good in any case. The curse is upon us now, whether ye will or no." The Hunter nodded towards the Grim Reaper and his two blood-sucking acolytes. "Best you stop playin' around with the beastie an' make up yer mind now, 'cause it's time. It's time to decide 'tween me and dying, an' Ah'm getting' tired o' waitin' on ye."
Fionn rose, sliding his arrow into a quiver that hadn't been there earlier. The leader of the Hunt also made sure to keep himself between the slavering beast and Richard who was steadily swearing under his breath.
"John," gasped Sherlock, dropping next to the leprechaun and his canine captor. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah…of course, I am," gasped John, who was pale as Death and covered in blood.
"You're bleeding!"
"Her blood, not mine," said John. "I'm fine. Good, really good. Great…She's just a bit…heavy…not that she's fat, of course."
The wolf still snarled a bit at the pale sprite.
"You healed her, didn't you?" Sherlock accused.
"Just a little!" cried John. "Well, yes. I had to. It was a mortal wound. I had to…"
"You had to drain yourself until you die?" yelled Sherlock, reaching for his lover and nearly getting his hands bit off by the beast.
"Better not, lad,' suggested a bearded warrior who wore a strange blend of modern battle fatigues combined with plate metal chest armor straight out of the middle ages. "Werewolves are very protective of what's theirs."
"Tha' lad don' belong to her," growled Fionn. "I've claimed the leprechaun…"
"Wrong! John belongs to me," snapped Sherlock, gripping his gun. "Not to you, not any of you, and certainly not to some bloody hound."
Predictably, the wolf snarled and snapped her jaws. John immediately began tugging at her thick ruff of fur to keep the wolf from biting his Sherlock.
"Yeah. Right…as if insulting her's…gonna help!" said John, as sarcastically as possible given that he was buried under two hundred pounds of bristling canine. "Look, I'm sure she'll…let me up…if you'd all just back off. Especially the vampire. He should…back very far away…like…back to the house maybe?"
"And if I don't want to go?" snarled Richard. "What then? What, are you…?"
"Shut up, RIchard. Johnny is goin' to be under m'protection soon, an' Ah don' take well to havin' what's mine threatened," thundered Fionn, sweeping his massive arm around to block the vampire's advance. "Now, Johnny, Ah can see that ye've got the situation weel in hand, so what d'ye suggest we do next?"
John, who was fairly crushed under the large wolf, managed to turn his head to glare fiercely but impotently at the Hunter.
"John, I am reluctant to agree, but he has a point. I believe the wolf has you trapped..." Now John glared at his detective. "Frankly, this doesn't seem to be a tenable situation," said Sherlock.
The wolf looked the detective in the eye and growled.
"I think…she said that she doesn't appreciate your flowery language…or your sarcasm," said John, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of the she-wolf. He tried and failed to take a deep breath, ending up coughing instead. "Or…she doesn't like…your aftershave, which doesn't make sense. I love your aftershave…"
"John," said Sherlock softly, so as to not include any of the hunters. "What precisely is the point if all this? Your new pet is crushing you to death..."
Sherlock recoiled as jaws snapped an inch from his face.
"She doesn't...like being called...a pet," gasped the squashed leprechaun. "Or a hound for that matter."
"Clearly," said Holmes ignoring guffaws and snickering from the assembled company, most of who were still hidden in the shadows.
"Now look here, madadh allaidh, " John said to the wolf. "I really...don't understand you very well…but I bloody-well know…that you...can understand me. I'm trying...to keep you safe but if you crush me...to death..."
"Then I'll cheerfully skin it alive," said Richard suavely. "I've always wanted a wolf-skin hood."
This angered both the wolf and the leprechaun.
It was Sherlock's turn to growl. "Stay away from John's… his…from his wolf friend. What is the problem between you two anyway?"
The she-wolf snarled at the vampire, who snarled back.
"Wolves and...vampires," gasped John, "...don't get...get..."
"We don't get along," said the stark naked, beautiful red-head crouching atop Sherlock's leprechaun—Sherlock's bisexual leprechaun. A leprechaun who had a string of female lovers reaching back two centuries and who, even now, grinned up at the lovely nude straddling his hips.
Sherlock instantly hated her, from her rather large feet to her tattooed torso to her glittering eyes.
"Fantastic. You really are a werewolf and can change shape at will," snapped Sherlock, "Now get off my boyfriend."
The lanky detective tried to pull the woman off of his lover, but she was much stronger than she looked.
"Oh, you certainly are a possessive alpha," the red-headed beauty said to Sherlock, while keeping a sharp eye on the others.
"Look, luv," said John with an ingratiating smile. "Maybe you could let me up now?"
"Oh no, luv. I need you to keep you close. You're my shield against that lot," she said, nodding towards Fionn and the vampire.
"Okay…well…no offense, truly," panted John, "but you're rather… heavy, and I can't be much of a shield while you're sitting on me."
John squeaked as the werewolf effortlessly shifted both herself and the leprechaun until the leprechaun sat nestled in her lap.
"I demand that you release John at once!' insisted Sherlock, who didn't want John in anyone's lap—aside from his own.
The leprechaun sighed and dropped his head back, grateful for the ability to breathe easily once again. However, Sherlock was focused on his partner's head resting on the woman's soft breasts. The consulting detective despised the wolf-woman. Why couldn't she at least wear some clothes? Why didn't John free himself using his wily leprechaun magic? Why did she have to be so beautiful?
"I haven't thanked you, John Watson, for healing me," she said, her voice was husky, probably from growling all the time, thought the consulting detective.
"It was my pleasure," replied John gallantly, much more gallantly than the situation demanded, thought Sherlock.
"Dammit, John!" snapped Sherlock. "You nearly killed yourself using magic tonight. You shouldn't have healed anyone, let alone a werewolf."
"Actually, Sherlock, healing a werewolf is easier than healing a human—once you convince them not to bite you." said John, while the wolf in question pet his short, blond hair. "You see, werewolves heal rapidly on their own. I just gave her natural ability to recover a little nudge. I wouldn't have had to help, but she was so weak from blood loss…"
"Enough with canine biology," hissed Richard. "How can you trust that dog? Ask her why she's here? Ask her what her intentions…"
"Ask her yourself," said John.
"I don't converse with mutts." The haughty vampire wrapped his cloak around himself and stuck his nose in the air.
"Urgggggh!" growled the wolf, "You leeches are all the same—arrogant pricks, thinking you're better than everyone else."
"Don't talk to me, bitch," said Richard. "John, ask her what she's doing here"
John opened his mouth but the woman answered Richard directly.
"I'm following orders, you stuck up, bloodless, cold-hearted…"
"What orders?" interrupted John, hoping to stop the fight.
"My mistress sent me..." began the werewolf.
"Mistress? You mean your owner?" interrupted Sherlock.
The woman snarled, sounding very wolf-like despite her outward appearance. At the same time, Fionn gasped in shock and Richard guffawed like a lowborn commoner.
"Sher-lock," hissed John, nodding his head for emphasis. "She doesn't have an owner. No werewolf would ever have an owner. It's very insulting. By mistress, she was of course referring the alpha-female of her pack."
"No, no, no. That was priceless. Ask her about her owner again," suggested Richard as he chortled gleefully.
"Hm," mused Sherlock, ignoring the belligerent vampire. "Tell me; are werewolf packs matriarchal or..."
"Sherlock! We can discuss pack politics later," interrupted John, pushing her hand away from his hair, which pleased Sherlock greatly. "Now luv, you haven't told me who your mistress is, or who you are...in fact, I haven't properly introduced myself or..."
"Human manners are tedious," said the wolf.
"Amen to that," muttered Sherlock.
John rolled his eyes before saying, "Well, I'm John..."
"She already knew that," snapped Sherlock.
The werewolf giggled.
"You two sound like an old married couple," she said.
"We're not married," said John, suddenly ducking his head as if ashamed.
It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that John might be embarrassed by his painfully normal, human partner. The detective felt hurt and confusion build painfully in his chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Really? Well, what are you waiting for?" asked the werewolf.
"Sherlock…He, well he…Um, Sherlock isn't ready," said John.
"Me!" exclaimed Sherlock, "I'm not the one who isn't ready."
"You said marriage was stupid," accused the leprechaun.
"Hardly," scoffed Sherlock.
John frowned in concentration, "Actually, what you said was that weddings are a celebration of all that is false and specious and irrational…"*
"I was talking about weddings, not marriage and I was referring to other people's weddings not our wedding, or to be precise, our marriage," clarified the genius.
"Really? Does that mean…"
"It doesna matter now, leprechaun," said Fionn. "You canna bind yourself to this man."
"Yes, I can! I did. I will," protested John.
"Fionn is correct; this is not the time to discuss marriage. We must discover the wolf's purpose here tonight. After all, John Watson is a man with doom hanging over his head, yes?" said Richard gravely, tilting his head towards Mortimer and his two acolytes.
The werewolf bared her fangs at the two new vampires.
"And can it be a coincidence that this werewolf is holding John hostage…" Richard held his hands out like a barrister leading the jury towards a guilty verdict.
The leprechaun sighed, resigned to playing counsel for the defense.
"So, what is your name," asked John.
"You can call me Ruby."
The blond turned to look up at her, saying, "That's not your real name, is it?"
"No," she answered. "You don't need to know my real name and could hardly pronounce it in any case."
"Fair enough. And why are you here, Ruby?" continued John.
"I'm here as an emissary for my mistress, whom you knew as Aeronwen."
"Ohhhh! Oh! Yes, Aeronwen…Hm…I thought the accent was familiar. Hmmm, yes, Aeronwen," John stuttered to a stop and carefully studied the ground.
The detective didn't need any more evidence to know that he had to add Aeronwen to the list of beings who had shagged his leprechaun.
"Yes, Aeronwen," said Ruby. "You'll be glad to know that your pups grew into fine wolves."
"Pups! No one told me anything about pups!"
"Is that why you're here?" interrupted Richard, demonstrating his skill in cross-examination. "Pups? Is this a paternity suit?"
Sherlock grabbed John's convenient elbow to get his undivided attention, jealously demanding "Pups? How many offspring have you left scattered behind you?"
"I didn't know anything about pups…" began John.
One of the hunters stepped out of the shadows, and gently pulled John's elbow free from the jealous brunet. "You can hardly blame John Watson for leaving a few pups in his wake. He is a leprechaun after all, and as everyone knows, they're well-known for their fertility."
"Fertility?" snarled Sherlock jealously.
"I did mention fertility, Sherlock. I mentioned it several times," muttered John, while still looking at the ground.
"Yes, yes, yes. I think we can all concede that leprechauns are infamous for their fertility and willingness to share it with anyone," said Richard.
"Sharing fertility doesn't necessarily mean sharing a bed," said John defensively. "I can share fertility just like sharing luck without even touching a person."
"But you did share this Aeronwen's bed," demanded the consulting detective.
"Technically…yes, but…"
"No! Admit nothing," said Richard. "Now, Ruby, if that's really what you want us to call you..."
"I think it's on account of her lovely red hair," said the bearded hunter, who'd defended John by digging the hole deeper.
"Damn her hair!" cried Richard, earning himself a scowl from the werewolf and her admirer. "I insist on an answer. Are you representing this Aeronwen in a paternity suit?"
"Don't be ridiculous," scoffed Ruby. "My mistress never needed the help of a leprechaun to raise her pups; she had here entire pack behind her. Besides, the pups are fully grown wolves now, with pups of their own."
"Grandchildren?" muttered the jealous detective.
"Sherlock, all of this happened over one hundred years ago," explained John. "She was in heat and needed someone that she could trust to…well, to help her. We shared one heat, is all. Just one! And she left me as soon as her heat was over! It wasn't as though I could have followed her, pups or no pups, since I was tethered to the Faerie treasure. No one ever told me about any pups."
"All true," said Ruby. "And Aeronwen remembers you fondly, so when she heard through a grapevine that you were cursed..."
"Rumors?" said Sherlock dismissively.
"Not rumors, grapevines," said Ruby.
"One in the same!" snapped the detective.
"No, Sherlock. Wolves are very attuned to nature, even more than leprechauns. Aeronwen is also a seer. Obviously, she keeps her ear to the ground..." John paused to glare at Richard, his eyebrows clearly indicating that the vampire should keep any politically incorrect quips to himself. "She listens to the green, growing things…"
"You mean plants," corrected Sherlock.
"Yes, all right, plants," agreed John. "She listens to plants and especially to vines, hearing all the news and portents..."
"And rumors," said Richard nonchalantly.
"And," said Ruby. "My mistress was distressed to learn of her former Sub's imminent death..."
"Her sub?" queried Sherlock.
"Never mind," muttered John, squirming uncomfortably.
"Achh, f'Hecate's sake, of course the lad's a Sub," said a woman's voice from deep within the brush.
"Shut it, Boudicca," groused John, scrubbing the back of his neck, evidencing extreme embarrassment.
"Did you have sex with Boudicca too?" demanded Sherlock.
"No!" exclaimed the leprechaun and the female hunter.
"You won't catch me sharing a bed with a leprechaun; I don't want any babes," said the hunter named Boudicca.
"And I wasn't offering," responded John.
Even with his fairy sight, Sherlock could barely make out the woman's silhouette in the gloom, although he could hear her muttering in an undertone about full moons and fertility rites.
"...and," interrupted Ruby, "Aeronwen couldn't come here herself, what with her new consort, so she sent me here with a solution."
"Ach, and is she not lucky to have found a biddable consort," muttered Fionn. "I congratulate her; she's verra luckyto have found one, one who doesna argue and fuss and protest like a broody Vestal virgin."
Sherlock and John both glared at the hunter.
Then the detective said, "You said something about a solution. It's about time someone offered up a reasonable solution," said Sherlock, rubbing his hands with satisfaction. "What exactly is this solution?"
"Aeronwen ordered me to invite John Watson to join our pack, thus turning aside the curse."
"That's the second time you mentioned a curse. What curse?" demanded Sherlock.
"The hell with the curse!" sputtered John, attempting to free himself from Ruby's embrace. "No, No! And hell, no! I am not letting you bite me!"
"Bite you?" exclaimed Sherlock. "Bite him?"
"But then you'd be pack, John Watson," said Ruby speaking slowly as if to a child. "And you would no longer be human. Aeronwen saw that becoming a werewolf will turn aside the curse."
"Absolutely not!" said John angrily. "I'm already less than human and I refuse to leave Sherlock, even to save my life!"
"You don't have to leave your Alpha! That would be crueI," crooned Ruby, petting John's hair again. "I'd be happy to bite your mate too–just as long as he agrees to abide by pack rules and bows to Aeronwen as the pack leader."
"No! No! No! No one is biting Sherlock!" spat the angry leprechaun.
"We accept!" announced Sherlock.
"No we don't!" said John, once more trying to crawl out of Ruby's lap. However, the pale, weakened leprechaun couldn't break free from her arms. "Sherlock, you don't know anything about werewolves..."
"If it would save your life and keep us together, then I say yes," said Sherlock forcefully. "And I say do it now!"
"Dear God, no!" shouted Mycroft, choosing to poke his big nose back into Sherlock's affairs at the worst possible time.
"No, you can't!" wailed Cousin Avaril, who stood just behind Mycroft, "I can't lose you!"
"Be quiet you silly girl," snapped Sherlock. "And Mycroft stay out of this." Sherlock turned fully towards his lover. "John, I don't understand about the curse..."
"I don't either," said John biting his lip. "The curse binding me to the treasure was broken."
Sherlock grabbed the leprechaun's arm, which was trembling violently. "John, allow me to finish. We don't understand the curse," Sherlock held his hand up to keep the leprechaun silent. "And yet we know that the threat is real—someone is going to die tonight, am I right?"
John nodded.
"Then I suggest we take this unorthodox step and join the wolves. Anything, as long as it keeps us together!"
John finally twisted free of Ruby's embrace, scrambling to an unsteady stand in front of the consulting detective. "You don't know what you're talking about, I can't ask you to change your entire life. It would mean leaving London—perhaps for years."
"You didn't have to ask, John. I volunteered."
"It will hurt," said John. "The bite and the change will hurt—a lot. And you'll be a slave to the moon!"
"And you'll be a monster!" shouted Mycroft, forgetting to be politically correct.
"Watch it, human!" snarled Ruby.
"You watch it, dog," said Richard, "this human is under my protection!"
"Shut up! Everyone shut up," growled Sherlock. "John, all that matters is that we'll be together."
"No, I have laid claim to the leprechaun," said Fionn, his booming voice drowning out the protests of Mycroft, Mortimer's own claims and John's pleas.
However, Sherlock's new, more sensitive hearing picked up another voice, a softer voice coming from his cousin. "No! I won't allow it! This must stop. I will stop it!" snarled Avaril.
The detective stared at his cousin, who had circled away from Mycroft and the others.
The lightning's glare illuminated Avaril, but he barely recognized the younger woman, as her face had twisted into a mask of hatred and fury directed straight at John.
Ohhhh, thought the detective, finally understanding his cousin. Avaril had most definitely not gotten over her obsession with Sherlock. She had only pretended a sudden infatuation for John as a means to eliminate her rival.
The consulting detective was still astonished when Avaril raised a knife, seemingly an old knife, which was dull and stained with rust.
The others, heedless of the threat, were arguing about wolves–all except for Death. The Reaper didn't try to intervene; he didn't even try to warn John. Instead he glided over to Sherlock, eyes glowing red with hunger.
Avaril threw the blade at John's unprotected back. Sherlock lunged, shoving John aside, tumbling the blond back into Ruby's embrace. The blade glanced across the detective's biceps, before falling to the ground.
"Sherlock!" cried John, stumbling back up again, even as the werewolf snarled and tried to hold him back.
"No! No! Not you!" screamed Avaril, rushing toward Sherlock. "No, not you, not you! It's meant for him!" She pointed at John as she shrieked. Death slipped closer to the detective, his gaunt face relaxing into a faint smile.
"Let me see your arm," hissed John, grabbing at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock noted that several hunters had slipped out from the shadows, restraining his now-raving cousin.
"It's not a deep cut, John," said Sherlock, "and it doesn't even hurt, so don't fuss."
"The sacrifice has been made," intoned Mortimer wearing a smirk of triumph.
"No, not Sherlock!" shrieked Avaril. "It was never meant for Sherlock. No...not…no...no, nooo," Avaril slumped into a wailing mess after Boudicca shook her roughly several times.
"No. Wait!" said John, twisting around to confront the Grim Reaper. "What did you say? What the hell do you mean?"
"That wound is fatal," announced Death. "His sacrifice will satisfy the curse."
A/N Thank you for reading this story feel free to leave comments and reviews. (That's my casual way of begging you to share your thoughts about my work.)
*I paraphrased from 'The Sign of Three', using Ariane Devere's awesome transcript.