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People sometimes described Sherlock as unearthly. Strangers talked about his inhuman gray stare and his unsettling predatory attention.
John just thought that Sherlock was a really strange bloke the first time they met. Maybe it was his lack of self-preservation talking, or maybe his war experience in Afghanistan had warped his natural reactions. More likely, it was the lack of sleep. At that time, he was plagued by nightmares, confusing and ever-changing dreams where he was shot at by unseen enemies, while trying to push the guts of his men back into their stomachs. Sometimes, he was facing down a maddened bright stare above bloodied teeth before being shoved down, being overwhelmed, struggling and fighting with clawing hands against the relentless hold as pain, pain, pain sank into his shoulder, neverending and excruciating.
So he was tired and uninterested during that first meeting.
Then Sherlock had opened his mouth.
It was all, “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, and I occasionally indulge in a howl inside the flat, in both wolf and human form. Would that bother you?” followed by, “I know you’re an army doctor, and you have been invalided home from Afghanistan after you were turned by a vampire, possibly an insurgent, more likely a feral. I know you’ve got an alcoholic brother who’s worried about you and your so-called condition, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, probably because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. Your therapy so far centers around vampirism, but you smell of bagged blood and look healthy enough that you should have no problem with your new dietary requirements, so I don’t foresee that it will be a problem between us. It’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”
The bastard had winked at him after all that.
To compound this conspicuous beginning, they had a complete misunderstanding during their first meal together, which resulted in Sherlock rejecting John’s non-existent advances.
John tried to move on from that awkwardness with a quick, stumbling question, “So you’re not asking me to be your Companion then?”
It was normal for lone werewolves to live with at least one non-werewolf Companion. Sometimes they needed to be shaken out of the tunnel vision a werewolf could fall into, and sometimes it was just simple things like opening a door that couldn’t be navigated by giant wolf paws during the full moon.
But Sherlock denied the very idea in that condescending tone he had mastered so well. “I assure you that I am very much in control of my behaviour, and I am never overruled by my baser instincts. I don’t require a glorified babysitter.”
So that was that. They had been flatmates for more than a year now, and John’s first impression had not changed. Sherlock was a really, really strange bloke.
Over the past few weeks, it seemed like Sherlock was only becoming stranger.
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There was no blood in the fridge. None whatsoever, which was impossible, because just last night, John had stocked ten full bags.
But they did have a lot of tea.
John stared at the ten different types of tea that had appeared in the cupboard overnight. They seemed to go with the ten different types of milk sitting next to the boxes of tea. John hadn’t even known there were ten different types of milk before, and he was the one who usually did the shopping. Really, what was Sherlock up to? It had to mean something that ten bags of blood disappeared, to be replaced by ten boxes of tea and ten cartons of milk.
“John! John, where are you?” shouted Sherlock while thundering up the stairs to 221B, as if summoned by John’s thoughts. “We have to go now.”
Sighing, John turned off the kettle he had started when he got home from his night shift at the A&E. No time for that now.
Despite what he’d said during their first dinner together, Sherlock had acted like John was his Companion from the very start. He expected John to be with him all the time, to be ready to fetch things even when Sherlock wasn’t in wolf form. When other people referred to John as his Companion, he never corrected them. It seemed as if John had laid down ground rules about personal space and consideration just for Sherlock to find wily ways to get around them.
“Didn’t you get my text message? There’s a new case! And Lestrade says there are no clues whatsoever, which is impossible of course, but London’s finest can only do so much,” said Sherlock, words pouring out in a stream of excitement.
John moved from the kitchen to rummage around his desk. “I did get your message, but you didn’t say what time you would be back, so I thought I would have time for tea.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes extravagantly. “Tea, tea, tea, you would think that vampires subsisted on tea, based on the amount you consume daily.”
“And you would think werewolves were aspiring supermodels, based on how little you eat every day.” John moved on to looking through his coat pockets.
“We don’t have time for your fumbling around the place. It can’t be that important,” announced Sherlock, grabbing the coat from John’s hands and manhandling him into the sleeves.
Used to Sherlock’s pushy antics, John just sighed, still casting his eyes around the flat. “But I need my scarf and gloves—”
He hadn’t finished his sentence before he was ushered down the stairs of their flat. “Chop, chop, John! Time’s a-wasting. We have a case!”
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John did in fact need his scarf and gloves. It was early winter, and the air was frigidly cold even in the afternoon. He stuck his hands in his pockets in a futile effort to warm up as they walked away from the cab. His vampirism meant he felt the cold more keenly than most, and he was already starting to shiver even with his coat buttoned all the way to his neck. He looked up, shielding his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. The sunlight was too weak to warm his skin, but at least it wasn’t bright enough to hurt his sensitive eyes. John hunched against the cold air, trying to burrow deeper into his sweater and coat.
They were ten paces from the police car when Sherlock swung around with an irritated frown. “Must you shiver so loudly?”
“Sorry my body’s autonomic responses are so distracting,” snapped John.
He didn’t realise that Sherlock had dropped back behind him until something descended around his head. He jerked in shock, but calmed when he saw that it was only Sherlock’s blue scarf. Sherlock ignored his half-hearted grumbles as he wound the scarf around his neck deftly while standing behind him. When Sherlock was done, John turned around to see him whipping off his gloves as well. John finally jerked out of his surprise and started to protest.
Sherlock huffed, “I’ll need my hands free in a moment anyway, and I feel quite fine like this. The air is only brisk, I really don’t know why you’re reacting in such an extreme manner.”
John grumbled, “Yes, yes, I get it, my vampiric physiology is very inconvenient— I can do that, Sherlock.”
By the time he tried to pull his hands back, Sherlock had already pulled on his warm gloves over John’s stiff fingers and chafed them between his own hands. While Sherlock might seem cold, emotionally, his body gave off heat like he was an overenthusiastic furnace. Sometimes, John wondered about the evolutionary process that resulted in vampires, when there seemed to be so little advantage to being one – near-immortality aside anyway. He usually entertained such thoughts during winter.
They headed into the block of flats, waved in by officers who were quite used to Sherlock and John’s presence at their crime scenes. Constable Potts was standing right outside the lift.
She smiled at them, ushering them into the lift and hitting the button for the fifth floor. “Lestrade asked me to wait for you.”
“Yes, I’m sure we wouldn’t have been able to find the right flat in a six storey building seething with police officers,” said Sherlock.
“He probably didn’t want you to wander around unsupervised,” said John in a mild tone.
Sherlock scoffed at this idea. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”
It amused and pleased John to hear Sherlock acknowledge his restraining influence in such a flippant manner. While true, it was hardly going to make a difference to the police since John wasn’t part of the police force.
“This way,” said Constable Potts, leading them out of the lift once its doors opened.
It was easy to spot their destination with the two constables standing outside an open door in the middle of the corridor.
Sherlock paused at seemingly random intervals to stare at the carpet and the walls. It would be interesting to know what Sherlock was actually looking at, but he rarely shared his methods until he had the opportunity to make a long deduction in the most impressive way possible. John stared at the carpet as well, trying to imagine how the bits of dirt and dust in the carpet would be pertinent to the murder.
Nope. He wasn’t getting anything.
Potts waited patiently for Sherlock each time, casting a smile at John as well. She was a sight friendlier than most of the police who had been exposed to Sherlock. Perhaps she hadn’t had time to get her fur ruffled the wrong way since she was only new to Lestrade’s team. For the time being, John would enjoy a friendly face at a crime scene.
“The freak’s here, Sir,” drawled Sally from the door, as if privy to John’s thoughts. “And he’s brought his pet today.”
Ah, nothing like animosity right from the start of the case.
Sherlock breezed into the flat past her. “Good afternoon, Sally. I see that Anderson is on vacation trying to save his failing marriage, and you’re feeling quite betrayed. The sweet-talkers can be so heartless sometimes.”
He didn’t wait to hear her angry response, and instead made a beeline for the open bedroom. John walked after him while feigning deafness. He would have more sympathy for Sally, except the first time they met, he heard her call Sherlock a diseased mutt when out of Lestrade’s earshot. It was a common insult used on werewolves back in the day when it was still legal to hunt them and mount their heads on walls as trophies. John knew that Sherlock often provoked her, and could be grating to the most patient of saints, but it was difficult to hear such insults without remembering the history of such a phrase. It left a bad first impression.
Lestrade stood by the bed, listening to an officer report their findings from the interview with the neighbours. The man was a stranger, and Sherlock seemed to be ignoring him, but John knew he must be listening in. There was nothing to report in essence. Victim’s next-door neighbours weren’t home yet, which wasn’t unusual since it was in the middle of the day, and most people were at work, and none of the other neighbours had heard or noticed anything unusual.
The smell of drying blood and death lingered like a fading print in the air. John felt his heart beat just a little bit faster at the faint traces of gunpowder, at the hint of violence in the room. But it was mostly a clean, quiet death. The blonde woman lay in the middle of the bed, her eyes closed and her arms folded neatly around her torso. The bloody bullet hole in the middle of her forehead remained as evidence that the most violence executed here was the pull of a trigger.
Sherlock was prowling around the room, sniffing at the bed sheet and bending very close to inspect her hair. Then he peered at her pillow, and dropped to his knees to sniff at the carpet as well. Lestrade was well used to his behaviour, but Potts looked mildly alarmed. Sherlock never shammed at being entirely human when he was out on the trail of a murderer. To him, the case was the only thing that mattered, and if he had to paw through rubbish skips and lick the skin of a corpse, he would do it all.
“Don’t shed on the evidence, freak,” said Sally from just outside the bedroom, not willing to come in and share the space with Sherlock.
At least her insults had toned down after she found out that John was a vampire. It was a little hard to keep calling Sherlock an inhuman monster while being a little more neutral around John who had been nothing but polite to her. Her reaction was better than Anderson’s, who seemed to just hate all the Unseen.
The Unseen was a word leftover from the olden days, used by those of the supernatural variety, because they weren’t known to the general population at that time. It had stuck around even after their presence became commonplace since it was much more palatable than terms like non-humans, cold-bloods, mutants, unnaturals, and other more ‘imaginative’ descriptions by the fearful.
“Sergeant Donovan,” said Lestrade, a tired rebuke in his tone before he turned to Sherlock. “So, what do you make of it? It’s a strange one, how she seems to have been laid out like that, and the only entrance was locked and latched from the inside. We don’t have a single damn lead on anyone who might have wanted her dead.”
He sounded tired and regretful, eyes examining the dead woman.
Sherlock hummed before replying, “I wouldn’t say no leads.”
“What have you found then?” asked Lestrade, only to be ignored as Sherlock banged open the wardrobe doors.
Not touching anything, Sherlock leaned close into the wardrobe and examined her items of clothing. He then crouched down to peer very closely at the shoes arranged at the bottom of the wardrobe. John followed behind, not bothering to ask questions, but trying to see what Sherlock could be observing.
“What’s he looking for?”
He hadn’t realised that Constable Potts had come to stand beside him to watch Sherlock in his investigative process. Now that she was standing close enough, John thought he could feel that familiar tug of wild blood. It was a tickle on his senses, a murmur in his blood that she would taste of earth and pounding adrenaline if he ever took a sip. She tucked her chin length red hair behind her ear, and cocked her head at him curiously, causing his eyes to dart away so that he would stop staring.
“It’ll take someone much smarter than me to answer that,” said John with a rueful smile.
Sherlock swept past him, finished with the wardrobe. “Very true, John. But as you have been living with me for the past year, you should be familiar enough with my methods to have the best chance out of everyone here to deduce what I’m doing. I expect proof that you have some idea of my approach.”
John groaned. “Does that mean you’re going to quiz me at the end of the day?”
“Perhaps you should start taking notes,” said Sherlock, flashing him a grin.
It would take a mad man to let Sherlock’s insults just roll off him like that, and to preen at such faint praise and light bantering. Christ, John should have himself committed.
“You guys are close, huh?” said Potts with a wistful expression.
“Well, you know, flatmates,” said John, gesturing without much meaning.
She smiled. “Flatmates, or flatmates?”
“What are you— Oh, no, we’re not like that—” John cut himself off when he noticed what Sherlock was doing. “Um, I have to go…”
He hurried over to the open door that led to the bathroom. He could see Sherlock crouched in front of the hamper of dirty laundry, hand hovering above it and head bent low enough to be incriminating.
“No, Sherlock, stop that,” he said, yanking on the collar of his coat.
Sherlock wobbled for a second on his toes, catching his balance against John’s legs before glaring up at him. “Stop using my coat like it’s a leash.”
“Don’t sniff her dirty laundry. And especially don’t sniff that lacy underwear, in front of all these police. Trust me on this,” said John in a low voice.
“Why? Have you experience in sniffing women’s lingerie in front of Scotland Yard?” asked Sherlock in a snide tone as he unfolded his lanky body from its crouch. “I wasn’t going to pick it up. My olfactory senses are strong enough to work from this distance.”
John ignored the deliberate provocation. “Yes, but sometimes your great big brain gets so caught up, you forget what you’re actually doing. Don’t think I have forgotten how I caught you with your nose in my socks last week.”
It had been a very strange sight, coming home to Sherlock sitting cross legged on the floor with his head on John’s bed. His nose had been pressed right up against a pair of socks that John was rather sure he had left in his laundry basket. John had made a joke about quality socks being scentless, and Sherlock had leapt up in the air, looking more like a disgruntled cat than a disturbed wolf.
Sherlock was wearing the same expression of reluctant embarrassment now. “It was an experiment.”
That was his excuse for every eccentric thing he did. Sherlock clearly considered those words to be his ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card, and would be surprised and annoyed if John yelled at him after he used it.
A stifled chuckle caught their attention. John turned to see Potts hovering at the doorway to the bathroom, trying to force down a smile.
Sherlock spoke, his voice cold enough to raise goosebumps. “What have you observed from the room?”
It wasn’t what John had expected him to say. “To be honest, not bloody much.”
“Not surprising, but I wasn’t talking to you,” said Sherlock, taking the two steps needed to loom over Constable Potts. “I was talking to the latest werewolf on the team. You have the same advantages that I do, and you seem very interested. Why don’t you enlighten us with what you have found?”
It surprised John that Potts was standing her ground, meeting Sherlock’s gaze through her pale, russet lashes. She didn’t tilt her head up to look at him, just kept her chin tucked down and neck safely away. But she didn’t step back either. Few people could stand their ground when Sherlock turned his full attention on them, and werewolves found it even harder. The Holmes brothers had made so much of London their territory that it was difficult for other weres to meet them face on in the claimed area.
“Sherlock, come off it. You’re not here to play games,” said Lestrade, the rebuke half-hearted at best.
It was clear that even Lestrade could see Sherlock was going to be a stubborn pillock about this. If Sherlock wasn’t allowed to let loose some steam, it would only build up for an even greater explosion later on.
“Don’t you want your people to pick up some real detecting skills?” said Sherlock, his voice silky and condescending at the same time. “Surely a young wolf like Constable Potts is up for the challenge.”
Christ, that was a deliberate goad to a hot-blooded wolf.
She glared up at him, and said, “There was no sign of forced entry, and the victim didn’t fight back. Based on the entry- and exit-wounds, the shot was at close-range. So clearly the murderer was someone the victim knew and trusted, enough to sleep in their presence and not wake up when they were close by. We should start investigating any close relatives or friends who might have a motive to kill her.”
They stayed locked in an aggressive staring contest, standing far too close together. John could feel a strange – angry tense fightfight – vibe emanating from the two of them, which made no sense since Sherlock hardly knew Constable Potts, and she was far nicer to him so far than Sally or Anderson.
“A textbook conclusion. Very good,” Sherlock said, only continuing when Potts’ lips turned up in satisfaction. “—if you wanted an entirely erroneous deduction, based on superfluous details. Just because you observe no forced entry does not mean that the murderer was someone the victim trusted. I suppose this trusted friend or relative also locked and latched the door from the inside after leaving? You have been on the scene for hours longer than I have, and you still haven’t determined the identity of this woman. How did you even manage to make it out of the academy? If this is the quality the Met are accepting, then I dread to see the state of London in a few more years.”
Sherlock sniffed in derision. “You are ambitious, but you want to stand out for your own perceived qualities, and not for your supernatural characteristics. So you try too hard to blend in, to the point where your edge over humans is almost non-existent, which is probably why you have been assigned to Lestrade: in hopes that he can teach you otherwise. You should realise that you are not intelligent enough for your IQ to make up for dulling your—”
“Sherlock, enough,” said Lestrade in a sharp tone, the inflection a warning that usually preceded being ejected from a crime scene if left unheeded.
His voice broke John from his surprised silence over the sudden verbal laceration.
“Come on, Sherlock,” said John, stepping closer and laying a restraining hand on his elbow.
Sherlock turned his head to glance at John, before glaring at Potts again. “Use your nose, pup.”
His words were spoken at a low volume, in a harsh rumble that came off as a warning instead of an instruction. Potts flushed, either with anger or embarrassment at this treatment. John sent her an apologetic smile as he ushered Sherlock past her, out of the bathroom. Behind them, Lestrade ordered Constable Potts to wait outside, and John heard him mutter something along the lines of ‘you should know better than that.’
Sherlock headed to the bedroom window, and stuck his head out of it. With the self-preservation of a depressed lemming, he gripped the window frame and shoved the upper half of his body out as well. John quickly grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s long coat and for good measure, curled his other arm around Sherlock’s waist. He planted his feet on the ground firmly in case Sherlock tipped out. They were on the highest floor, so even with Sherlock’s tough frame, there would be at least one broken bone.
Usually, Sherlock would complain about John’s over-cautious approach, but this time, he just twisted around as he looked all around outside the window. John thought he heard Sherlock mutter something about a bonsai. Or was that banzai?
“You mad hatter, do you really need to stick half your body out the window?” demanded John, holding on tight.
Sherlock slid back into the room like an eel, and for a breathless moment, they were pressed together, chest to chest. He looked up into Sherlock’s gleaming gray eyes, a clear glint of satisfaction in them, and felt like the air was being sucked straight out of his lungs. Without the worry for his lunatic flatmate’s life, John was now aware of how warm Sherlock was against his own body, and how tightly his arm was curled around that long, trim waist.
“If you wanted a hug, John, you needed only ask for one,” said Sherlock, which was the most absurd thing he had ever said, because he didn’t even like physical contact and would hardly agree to hugs just because…
Except he was hugging John. They were already standing so close that Sherlock needed to only wrap his arms around John’s shoulders and give him a tight, hard squeeze. John was overwhelmed by the feeling of those strong arms curled around him, fingers digging into his back and shoulders. There was the overwhelming scent of earth, moonlight, sharp chemicals, old blood, and SherlockSherlockSherlock.
Then Sherlock released him and whirled away, striding out of the bedroom, past a gobsmacked Sally and a resigned-looking Lestrade.
John stood there in shock for a minute before realising that this was Sherlock and shocking everyone was probably his intention, the psychotic bastard. Chuckling a little, John walked out of the bedroom and ignored his confused audience.
That moment of confusion was apparently enough for Sherlock to inspect the living room and the balcony. John tried to look around with a Sherlockian eye as well. Beige walls, neat decor, photos of the victim with what looked to be her family. Before he could attempt to deduce anything, Sherlock had planted a hand on John’s back and started moving him towards the door of the flat.
“I can walk myself there,” said John with some irritation.
“Yes, but not fast enough.”
Lestrade stopped them. “Hold on a minute, you can’t just waltz in and out without an explanation. So what have you found?”
Sherlock glared at him with narrowed eyes. “Mycroft has been working in the office late again, and you should be getting enough sleep now that he isn’t humping your leg all night long. Why do you look so tired?”
“What the— You can’t just talk about that—” spluttered Lestrade, his ears turning red as his subordinates were suddenly very intent on looking elsewhere in the room.
“You’ll note that I can. I just did, after all.”
Lestrade took a deep breath. “You’re not distracting me. What did you find?”
Sherlock huffed. “Why should I even tell you? You call me onto the scene, but you don’t give me all the details, and you expect me to solve your case and share everything I know.”
“What are you talking about?”
They were the exact words needed to open the floodgate that was Sherlock Holmes.
“You wouldn’t call me onto a crime scene that seems so banal on the surface if you weren’t desperate. It’s not a serial killer, or a disturbing, messy homicide. This woman is a librarian, likes reading, spends most of her time at home, and helps out at a homeless shelter. Someone comes in here and shoots her while she’s in bed, but there are about seven different ways a person can do that in this flat without leaving a trace. Even someone of your intelligence could come up with a couple of theories. There’s nothing interesting about this murder. It should be a quiet, plodding investigation, and you should be speaking to all of her family and friends, interrogating a tedious number of people, and looking for her new lover because you think he’s the murderer – you are wrong about that of course. But you’re not doing any of that. You called me immediately. So this is important. But why? Because of who she is. She’s important to someone high up, most likely she’s a family member. You’re feeling the pressure from above already, and you want this solved fast. Don’t you think this is important information to share, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
They both faced off, glaring at each other. Throughout all this, John marvelled at Sherlock’s genius and his ability to be an utter git at the same time. He was also intensely aware of the fact that Sherlock’s hand was still resting against his back. The warmth seeped through his coat, and John had to hold himself still under that pleasant pressure.
“Alright, fine. Yes. The victim is Rebecca Davies. She’s the Commissioner’s daughter,” said Lestrade through clenched teeth. “He would be here himself, but— He’s in no shape to get involved.”
Sherlock paused. “Ah. Someone you know and respect. You want to spare them the pain of a long interrogation.”
“What have you found out?” asked Lestrade, voice tired.
“Her murder has nothing to do with her father,” said Sherlock, lips twisting. “But you should start looking for her new lover.”
Lestrade looked annoyed. “I thought you said I would be wrong about him being a suspect?”
“Yes, you’re definitely wrong,” said Sherlock. “He’s the next target.”
With those ominous words delivered, Sherlock urged John out of the flat, leaving a scene of chaos and raised voices behind him.
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Once outside the block of flats, Sherlock crossed the street and stood underneath a traffic light. He stared up for a long moment; John squinted against the afternoon sun, trying to spot what Sherlock was inspecting so closely. He wondered if it had to do with the way the murderer had entered the locked flat with no sign of forced entry.
Then John noticed the CCTV camera turning slowly downwards until it was trained on both of them. Sherlock stared at it for a moment longer, before sweeping away.
John rolled his eyes. Dramatic idiot. He mock saluted the camera and marched after Sherlock.
They hopped into a cab again; Sherlock couldn’t stand public transportation, what with his sensitive nose and ears. The address given to the cabbie was for Choi’s, a popular Chinese place not far from 221B. Surprised, John asked if Sherlock was hungry. Sherlock was never hungry when he had a case. He received a loud, “Busy!” as an answer, and was subsequently ignored when Sherlock received a text message. It was probably from Lestrade, demanding his return with more information. The entire ride passed with rapid fire texting, and John trying to piece together what Sherlock could have noted at the crime scene. He was already deconstructing the case for a blog post, thinking about the state of the flat and the victim.
When the cab stopped at their destination, John hurried out of it so that Sherlock would be stuck with the fare this time. He was also eager to get into Choi’s Eating Delights to grab a bite; the last time he ate was at the start of his shift at the A&E last night.
Before he could go into the dimly lit restaurant, Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and nudged him to the side of the door. “Stay here. I’ll be back in five minutes.”
“What— Sherlock, are we here for the case?” John was rather put out, because he was hungry.
“No, we’re not. Don’t be ridiculous. But I need you to stand out here,” ordered Sherlock, going into Choi’s.
“Get me something to eat!” snapped John, with little hope that his demands would be met.
It took Sherlock less than five minutes, and when he came out, he was holding a big Styrofoam cup and a box that smelt like those delicious fried dumplings Choi’s cook was so good at making. Wafting from the Styrofoam cup was the tempting smell of rich, warm blood, not the watered down crap that came from some of the seedier restaurants that catered to the Unseen, either.
Sherlock handed the cup over, which John took with slow, stunned fingers.
On a case, Sherlock didn’t eat, and normally forgot that other people needed to eat as well. Oh, he would still go to restaurants on occasion, but only to stave off complaints or when he thought John was on the brink of either collapsing or eating Sherlock himself. They would sit in a restaurant, and John would eat while Sherlock bounced thoughts off his captive audience.
It was entirely unheard of for Sherlock to stop by a restaurant with the sole purpose of getting food for John. Just the idea was rather unnerving.
John asked, “Are you alright? What’s going on?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and started to walk towards their flat. “Drink your blood, John.”
“Is this drugged?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Yin Fei would murder me in my sleep if I contaminated her food.”
Choi Yin Fei was the owner, and her son had been rescued from a kidnapper by Sherlock once upon a time. She was a tiny lady who shifted into a much less tiny tiger. While she gave them free meals, she’d also threatened to eat Sherlock if he experimented with her food.
John’s stomach rumbled audibly, and Sherlock sighed the sigh of the eternally tortured. It was enough for John to sip through the hole in the lid of the cup. He felt his second set of canines descend behind his human teeth, and he was careful to keep his lips tucked low so as not to flash his fangs at passers-by.
The warm blood went down his throat like silk, easing the ache that had been starting in his stomach.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Sherlock said snidely, and John just rolled his eyes.
He was already planning to leave half the cup for the flat, where he could dunk the crispy dumplings into the blood. The thought was enough to make him smile.
# # # # # # # # # #
John didn’t have a shift at the A&E that night, so he was prepared to help Sherlock with further investigation if necessary. He didn’t need as many shifts since they paid him more than the usual amount to deal with the occasional Unseen in the hospital. There weren’t many vampires who started life as a doctor and were also capable enough to work in the emergency ward with the Unseen patients, who tended to be more dangerous than a hurt human.
After a few hours texting and thinking on the couch, Sherlock dragged John out for a stakeout in the evening. Most of the time, Sherlock’s homeless network did his stakeouts and information-gathering for him. He only ever went himself if he was sure there would be action to be seen, so John brought his gun along and made sure he had an array of different bullets in his pockets.
It turned out to be a rather unusual stakeout. For one, only Sherlock was keeping an eye out. John was playing bait.
As always, Sherlock had explained it with oh, so reasonable rationalisations. Based on the hair Rebecca’s new lover had left behind at the crime scene and his dirty clothes in her laundry basket, her new boyfriend was fair-headed and not very tall. So obviously Sherlock couldn’t be the one in disguise. There was the usual spiel of, ‘We can’t use a large amount of magic to create an illusion to disguise my looks, because we don’t know what we’re working with, and so many of the Unseen are sensitive to the use of magic. Just because vampires are far less susceptible to magic’s effects and terribly poor at detecting it doesn’t mean you should forget that others are much more alert to the presence of a spell, John.’ Perhaps Sherlock hadn’t used so many words since this was a familiar quarrel between them, but similar lines had been trotted out again. As usual, John had lost that fight.
He really needed to remember to never let Sherlock use logic on him.
John had been forced into a green sweater that looked similar to one the mysterious lover had left behind. Since it wasn’t possible to properly disguise him as someone they hadn’t seen before, Sherlock had painted a small sigil on the wall next to where John was to stand. It was a very mild obfuscation spell, subtle enough that it wasn’t easily detectable from more than a few feet away. With the murderer actively looking for this other man, the spell would play enough tricks on his eyes that he would see only what he wanted to see when he laid eyes on John acting suspiciously. His mind would do the rest to fill in the blanks so that it would look like John was his target ducking away into the shadows of an alleyway.
At least it wasn’t the worst disguise Sherlock had ever foisted on him. He would never talk about the time he had to put on a leather get-up to gain entry into a vampire-fetish club, no matter how much Lestrade tried to coax the story out of him.
He still made a fuss though.
“I hate you. This was not how I planned to spend my night off,” grumbled John.
“Yes, I’m sure watching Who Do You Think You Are on telly would be the height of titillation in comparison,” muttered Sherlock, adjusting the scarf around John’s face.
“Compared to playing bait to a crazed murderer, it would be.”
“This prejudice of yours against murderers is most unbecoming,” said Sherlock with the most exaggerated tone of disappointment he could manage.
John spluttered, and shook off Sherlock’s fussing hands. “You’ll clean out the fridge. I want the frozen ears, the hand in the box, and the beetles gone. They have been in the fridge for two weeks, and it’s obvious you’re not going to do anything with them.”
“Doing this will help us catch a killer, and you want to bargain for it?”
“Yes.”
“You’re learning. Alright. But I want to keep the beetles.”
“The beetles go too.”
“But—”
“Gone.”
Sherlock huffed. “Fine.”
Time had taught John to drive a hard bargain with Sherlock. He negotiated whenever he could, because he knew that Sherlock didn’t actually need him to do everything he asked for during a case. It was either just easier, or he was having a private joke at John’s expense.
At least he didn’t have to carry a whip for this. Or wear lace-up leather boots. The memory was enough to give him mental shudders.
“How do you even know that the killer is here?” asked John.
They were waiting in the seediest part of town, lurking outside one of those pubs where almost anything went. The nastier Unseen could often be found in places like this.
“Come now, do you really think I spent my afternoon fruitlessly?” asked Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. “I cast out a line earlier, and my network tells me that there is a very dangerous man prowling around London’s dank underbelly, looking for places that make a good hideout and a sorcerer to make him a tracking spell. Trisha said he smelled of blood.”
Only Sherlock could complete his legwork and locate a murderer while lying flat on the couch all day.
“Your network reported that he was here?”
“Arrived an hour ago. He should be leaving soon. If he reacts when he catches sight of you, then we know we have the killer. The coincidence would be too great otherwise.”
John sighed. “Right, I’ll just get into position and wait then.”
“Remember, duck out of sight immediately. And be careful, keep your gun ready,” said Sherlock, eyes tracking over John to catch anything else he might have missed.
“What, are you worried? You’re the one who wants me to play bait,” grumbled John.
“I’m sure you’ll be safe. I’ll only be a few seconds away if he decides to act,” said Sherlock while neatly sidestepping the first question.
John replied with a huff, “I feel so much safer already.”
He moved to the front of the alleyway facing the pub they were watching. They had chosen this shadowed alley that lay between a restaurant and a Laundromat, and he was now forced to suffer through the strange scent combination of spoiling food refuse and sharp detergent wafting through the air. It must have been a killer on Sherlock’s senses. He didn’t know exactly where Sherlock was hiding; he’d only been told that he would be watching from close by.
Drunken people walked in and out of the pub, humans and the Unseen moving side-by-side as they were united by alcohol and unsavoury intentions.
Waiting in the shadows, John could feel his breathing slow down and his blood settle into a quiet thrum. The steadiest calm seeped through his body, his instincts filtering through a myriad variety of sounds and smells around him as he waited in that peaceful quiet right before mad danger.
He couldn’t say how long it was before the phone in his pocket vibrated twice. It was the signal from Sherlock that their target was leaving the bar, probably based on whatever signal his informant had just given him. John stepped just a little further into the shadow, until only a glimpse of his shoulders and hair would be visible in the light from the restaurant’s white fluorescent sign.
A tall man stepped out from the pub, head turning to look around the street even as he was coming out. The moment he turned in John’s direction, John ducked further into the alleyway, as if trying to avoid detection.
Suddenly, the man was running across the street towards the alleyway at a shocking speed. Definitely not human, thought John as he pulled out his gun. Not human, but still not as fast as a vampire.
He didn’t want to shoot a man when he wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he was being threatened, but his sharp eyes could see that the man was reaching into his coat for something. With lightning-fast reflexes, John aimed for center mass and pulled the trigger.
The man threw out his hand, and the bullet curved around him, deflecting against a wall harmlessly.
John’s eyes widened. Damnit. He was human, but one who had magic of some sort.
Grinning madly, the man twisted that outstretched hand and shouted, “Anchor!”
John felt his limbs turn heavy, arresting him in place, while his gun was pulled out of his grip with another jerk of the man’s hand even though he was still several feet away. John fought against the sudden heavy gravity that was threatening to pull his knees out from beneath him, his muscles straining as he gasped from the expended energy.
Fucking magic.
The attacker – brown haired, too dark to see his eye colour, muscular – slowed down and pulled out his own gun. He was close enough to see through the weakly spelled sigil, so this must be the part where he delivered tedious threats for information on his target.
Before he could open his mouth, something huge dropped on top of him. Sherlock. There was savage snarling as the two meter long wolf pinned the man to the ground, and John almost expected to see arterial spray from the sudden, violent movement. In a shocking show of strength, the stranger threw Sherlock off him. The man leapt to his feet and turned his gun on Sherlock instead, firing twice.
John bared his teeth, feeling his extra canines descend, as he surged against the immobilising spell with additional strength. He closed his eyes and pushed, shoving with his full vampiric strength like he was trying to move against invisible chains.
He concentrated on the growling that echoed in the alley and pushed.
The spell slipped past him, like a sudden breath of fresh air pouring over his skin. The sudden lightness gave John the momentum to launch himself at their attacker, timing it perfectly for when he was distracted by Sherlock dodging to the side with a loud growl. John came at him from behind, grabbing the gun hand and wrenching hard enough to hear bone snap. He dropped the gun with a strangled cry. Before the man could react, John yanked his head to the side by the hair and sank his teeth into the man’s neck. The man screamed in pain and shock, but John ignored it to suck hard and swallow down mouthfuls of the sharp blood that poured out from the sliced flesh. It tasted heavy with metal, but lacked the sparks and fiery scent of a sorcerer. The attacker must be equipped with magic artifacts of some sort, but it didn’t matter anyway. Blood was too closely tied to magic, and drinking mouthfuls should slow him down and lessen his ability to work it.
The man twisted in his hold, and John felt a sudden, gut-wrenching stab of pain in his thigh.
Releasing the stranger with a choked cry, John stumbled back. He reached down and yanked out the stake embedded in his leg, before throwing it aside. It was made of hawthorn – John could tell from the searing burn in his thigh and his singed fingertips. The man must have kept it on his belt. Fuck, John felt his leg weaken, but he kept on his feet.
The man whipped around to face him, a hand coming up to launch a spell at him again, shouting the same word as before. But John was ready this time. He braced himself, sinking deep into the quiet of his slow-beating heart, the memory of swift Afghan winds and flashing teeth, thinking only hold, hold, hold, you can’t touch me. The spell slipped past him and dissipated. He bared his bloody teeth at the man, about to launch at him. The attacker threw up both hands, one at an odd angle, and started a spell – only to throw himself to the side to escape Sherlock’s snapping jaws.
John shifted to keep on the attacker’s other side, forcing him to split his attention between the two of them. He harassed the injured man with a few fake lunges, baring his bloody teeth even as Sherlock’s savage growling filled the little alley. John could sense the man weakening from his injuries and tensing from the dual attack. Telegraphing his intentions, John swiped at the other man with a quick jerk. The attacker threw his hand up towards John, only to be immediately barrelled to the ground by Sherlock’s hulking form. Huge paws pinned him to the ground as the wolf’s massive head ripped down towards the man’s neck.
“Sherlock!” shouted John sharply.
It took a second for John to see that Sherlock’s large teeth were gripping the man’s exposed neck, but he hadn’t bitten down. Gray eyes glared down at his victim as Sherlock growled in a dangerous, echoing rumble. The man’s eyes looked a little wild, which was unsurprising since he had a wolf’s bone-breaking jaw surrounding his fragile neck. John walked around him and pulled off the strength-amplifier and spellcasting cuffs from around the man’s wrists, keeping an eye to be sure that he didn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve. He inspected Sherlock’s bleeding foreleg from the earlier gunshot, but it wasn’t serious. Only one bullet had managed to hit him, and it was only a graze.
Sherlock kept up his displeased growl, and from what John could see, his teeth were breaking skin a little. The little pinpricks of blood added to the sluggish wound from John’s own bite.
“I’ll just call Lestrade then,” said John, shaking his head.
He stood by waiting for the police, and to ensure Sherlock didn’t accidentally kill their murderer.
# # # # # # # # # #
They were only able to treat the bullet graze on Sherlock’s foreleg while he waited for John to drain two packs of blood in the back of the ambulance. His ears were laid back against his sleek head, but other than that, Sherlock attempted a stoic front.
Usually, Sherlock would insist John be the one to treat him, but this time he acquiesced to the touch of the paramedic. He refused to get in the ambulance and be taken to the hospital, but this was as good as it got with Sherlock. He laid his massive head right next to where John was sitting, and watched from the corner of his eyes as they cleaned out his wound with saline. John touched his nose to get his attention – an attempt to distract him from the paramedics – and Sherlock started mouthing at his hand in return. It should be disturbing, having a wolf that could swallow his hand whole gnawing at his fingers. But Sherlock never broke skin when doing this, and John had the full attention of those curious eyes, as if the taste and feel of his hand was riveting.
In the quiet of his own head, John imagined that this was the wolf version of holding hands and playing with his fingers. It was an embarrassing and ridiculous thought better suited to a fourteen year old, but a little silliness in his own head wasn’t harmful to anyone. As long as no mindreaders were around, John had nothing to be embarrassed about. Absolutely. Right. Nothing at all.
They didn’t sew up the wound, because it was relatively shallow, and werewolf healing meant it would be gone the next day. Cleaning the wound was a quick job, and Sherlock soon ducked to the side of the ambulance and shifted. Naked and putting on the clothes that Lestrade – who was entirely too used to this process – held out for him, he was already explaining what had happened in a torrent of condescending words. John finished his first pack of blood as Sherlock sat back down next to him on the back of the ambulance, this time with trousers on. He was immediately set upon by the paramedics and had his wound deftly wrapped up before he could complain too much.
“So let me get this straight. A trained killer murdered Rebecca Davies because his lover was having an affair with her?” asked Lestrade, hands on his hips as he glared down at Sherlock. “This sounds more like a thriller movie plot than our case.”
John could feel Lestrade’s patience fraying after such a long day. He quickly turned to Sherlock and tried to piece it all together. “Okay, Rebecca was having sex with her neighbour, but he was in a relationship with someone else. His partner, the one who just attacked us, was the one who killed her in revenge. But how did you figure out that Rebecca had something going on with her neighbour?”
Sherlock fidgeted with the bandage around his arm the moment the paramedic stepped away, stopping only when John pulled his hand down.
He snorted in derision. “Who else could she be seeing? The carpet outside her neighbour’s flat bears imprints of a woman’s size six and a half shoes, with a square-oval shape heel one inch across in size. A perfect match to her favoured black pumps in her wardrobe, proving that she visits her neighbour’s flat frequently.”
“What if she was just a really friendly neighbour?” asked Lestrade, probably just to be stubborn.
“I wasn’t done yet,” snapped Sherlock. “Rebecca’s clothes were all sensible, boring, except she had bought new lingerie, sexier and more expensive than she would usually wear. All signs that she had someone new in her life, one she had started having sex with, based on his dirty clothes in her laundry basket. There were two strands of short, coarse hair, light-coloured, trapped under the neighbour’s door; the same type of hair on Rebecca’s bed and on the man’s clothes left behind. So of late, she regularly visited her neighbour, and his hair and clothes can be found in her flat. It could be an amazing coincidence, and she could just be really friendly. Maybe they’re just BFFs who like to plait each other’s hair in bed, and she’s so fond of him that she does his laundry.”
The sarcasm dripping from his voice clearly summed up his thoughts on that.
John tried to follow this razor-sharp reasoning, thinking back to how Sherlock had been examining the carpet in the corridors and the contents of her wardrobe while he and the police just waited with restrained patience. The EMT poured another preheated bag of blood into his empty mug, and he smiled his thanks at her.
John was still too busy drinking, so Lestrade was the one who broke into this litany of deductions. “Right. So how did you know that the murderer was a trained killer? And how did he get into her flat anyway?”
Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. “The way she was killed and the state of the flat, it was too clean, even though the murder was up-close and personal. This was revenge executed by a man who was used to cold-blooded executions. He used the skills of his day job for a personal matter, and it showed. And his point of entry was obvious enough. He used the window.”
“The window? They were on the fifth floor, and there was nothing for him to climb.”
Sherlock shot Lestrade a disparaging look. “I know it’s difficult, but use your little mind for actual reasoning, instead of just storing footie scores.”
“Sherlock,” John murmured.
“Oh, drink your blood, John,” grumbled Sherlock as he pulled on his shirt and buttoned it while he talked. “Of course he went in through the window! As your werewolf in training wheels said, there were no signs of forced entry. Even trained killers will find it hard to pick a lock and lift a chain latch from the other side of the door without leaving any signs, and then lock and latch the door again after leaving the flat. The only entrance to the flat that was unlocked was the window. People think they’re up on the fifth floor, so it’s safe to leave the window unlatched. They lock their flat and balcony door, and leave their bedroom window open, because people are idiots. All he needed was steel nerves and agility, which is practically a job requirement for him. The neighbour’s balcony was close enough to Rachel’s window that all the murderer had to do was climb onto the balcony’s concrete wall and step over to the window’s ledge. Then he slipped in through her open window. No magic or special tools required.”
John suddenly had a flash of insight. “This was how you knew that it was the neighbour’s lover taking revenge. Because his entry was through the neighbour’s flat.”
Sherlock smiled at him with pride. “Very good. That was one of the reasons that had led to my deduction. The murderer couldn’t be the neighbour, her new lover, because there was no reason why he had to come through the window when he could just knock on the door. The neighbour was also a careless man, based on how much evidence he left behind at the place of the affair, so it was unlikely that he was trained in anything to do with stealth. On the neighbour’s balcony, there was a flowering bonsai that clearly indicated the presence of a second occupant, and led me to suspect this mysterious other person.”
“How could a plant clearly indicate anything?” demanded Lestrade, throwing his hands up in the air.
Sherlock gestured just as sharply, gray eyes wide with dramatic disbelief. “How is it not obvious to you? Did you look at its shape! The water stain!”
“How about you walk us through it?” asked John, before Lestrade could strangle him.
Even though Sherlock huffed in irritation, John knew he loved showing off his deductions. “The age of the bonsai and the water stains around the pot on the balcony; obviously the plant isn’t new. A flowering bonsai, but the leaves and branches have been left to grow out of its previously pruned shape. So two people staying in the flat: One who was the real caretaker of the plant and has been away recently, while the other occupant watered the plant in this first person’s absence, but isn’t skilled enough to do much more than that.”
Sherlock’s hands moved as he spoke with relish, “But examination of the carpet in the corridor revealed only signs of Rebecca and the neighbour lingering outside that flat. So this mysterious occupant is very light-footed and prone to leaving no tracks behind. They also travel for weeks at a time considering the condition of the bonsai. All these signs and the circumstance of the murder pointed to the neighbour’s lover being a dangerous person who likely committed the crime upon coming home from a long stint away to find his lover cheating on him.”
There was a brief moment of shocked silence.
“That’s brilliant,” said John.
“It would be a lot easier if the janitor in the building did not wear such heavy cologne that it wiped out the smell of anything important in the hall outside the flats,” said Sherlock with some disgruntlement.
“But you managed anyway,” said John, unable to hold back from expressing admiration when Sherlock was wearing that little pleased smile.
Lestrade tried to bring them back on track. “So he came into the bedroom through the window, and used magic to keep her asleep.”
“She was awake,” Sherlock said, eyes remote as if imagining the scene again.
“How do you know that?” asked Lestrade, lips tightening with anger.
“I could smell faint traces of salt on her face. Tears had seeped out from the corners of her eyes as she lay there, but not enough to leave tear tracks. The position of her body was stiff, unnatural for someone who was sleeping. He had immobilised her, turned her onto her back, and probably questioned her. He likely used the same spell that he used on John when he tried to keep him from moving,” said Sherlock, voice flat.
“Christ,” Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. “He wanted her to be awake when he killed her.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t deserve that. I only met her once, at a Christmas party. She was nice. And young,” said Lestrade, rubbing his forehead. “Much too young.”
John got up and squeezed Lestrade’s shoulder. He received a tired but grateful glance in return.
“The bullet at the crime scene should match our attacker’s gun, since these professionals tend to gain an attachment to their work tools. You can get all the minor details once you find his lover. The neighbour hasn’t been back to the flat since the murder, so he must have suspected that he was being hunted. He’s probably gone into hiding with friends, people he isn’t very close to so that he can’t easily be found. But it shouldn’t be too hard for you. The man can’t be that bright if he cheated on a trained killer.”
“That was frighteningly close to a compliment,” said Lestrade. “So this trained killer of ours, will I be able to link him with other murders?”
Sherlock shrugged. “That’s not my area. Or yours.”
That reply resulted in raised eyebrows from Lestrade. “Something to do with murders that is not your area. I didn’t think I would ever hear— Wait. Damnit, not my area or yours. This is more Mycroft’s area, isn’t it?”
“You’re getting better at this,” said Sherlock, before adding with a smirk, “Marginally.”
“Well, at least the source is close to home,” said John.
“That’s not encouraging, not when it’s Mycroft. Damnit, we probably have a crazy secret agent on our hands then.” Lestrade looked like he was going to have permanent frown lines, and the lack of denial from Sherlock had Lestrade spluttering with horror.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and steered him away from the ambulance and the drained mugs of blood. “My condolences, Lestrade. Now, we should get going.”
“I don’t need to be directed on where to walk, Sherlock,” grumbled John.
“It’s faster this way.”
“It’s not, you controlling maniac.”
“You used that endearment just last week. You need to work on your creativity, John.”
# # # # # # # # # #
John was still limping when they got back to 221B. His thigh had been wrapped up, and the wound had probably closed a little, but injuries made by hawthorn were notoriously slow to heal. The lore didn’t always get it right, but staking by hawthorn had been one of those that were on the mark. Vampires were allergic to hawthorn, and introducing it into their body was painful and dangerous. The ambulance paramedics had cleaned out the wound as best as they could, but only more blood and time could do the rest.
John had been resting in his armchair for a few minutes when Sherlock shocked him by placing a cup of tea in his hands.
“What is wrong with you?” asked John, holding his tea in shock. “What’s in this?”
“Tea, a splash of milk, a pinch of sugar,” said Sherlock.
Just the way John liked it.
“You never make me tea.”
Sherlock flopped down on the couch. “You like to have tea after a case, but you aren’t comfortable standing for long with that injury. Don’t expect tea to be a regular occurrence from me.”
John wasn’t sure he could survive Sherlock making tea regularly. He sipped it hesitantly, and found it to be perfect. When he couldn’t detect anything strange in the tea, he drank it with relish. Ah, the warmth hit just the spot.
He lowered the cup to the table just in time to see Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” asked John in resignation, ready for some ridiculous explanation which Sherlock would make it sound perfectly reasonable.
“Removing my shirt.”
“Yes. Thank you. Why?”
Sherlock sighed. “I have an arm injury.”
John took a deep breath to stay calm. “I noticed. They bandaged you at the scene, I was there.”
“And you are in need of blood. There are no blood packs in the flat,” pointed out Sherlock.
“I did notice that too. What happened to my supplies? I bought a week’s worth just last night,” said John, trying to ignore Sherlock’s quick fingers, and the way he shrugged off his shirt in a fluid roll of his shoulders.
He had a lot of experience ignoring it when Sherlock stripped in the middle of the living room. It was either that or wear a permanent blush, which just wasn’t on for a vampire. Living with a werewolf who regularly shifted meant a lot of nudity.
“Please, try to focus on the topic at hand. You need blood to heal, and there is none. I have a convenient wound that is still bleeding, and will bleed more so once I remove this bandage,” said Sherlock with an eye roll, like John was slow and stupid for needing this to be spelled out.
John leaned back sharply. “What the hell, Sherlock? I’m not going to drink from your wound.”
“You can bite into it if it’s not bleeding enough. However, silver bullet wounds never heal very fast, so there should be an adequate amount of blood—”
“That is not why I’m objecting. I can’t just drink from you! Keep that bandage on, damnit.”
Sherlock paused while undoing the bandage. “I’m still bleeding. What’s the point of wasting blood that is only going to be soaked up by this bandage? It’s not like the bandage needs it more than you do.”
“What are— For one, don’t compare me to a bandage,” said John, face scrunched up at the absurdity of the situation. “And secondly, drinking someone else’s blood is a— It’s not that simple. Either it’s against their will and you’re likely going for the kill, or it’s— It’s intimate.”
“We live together, how much more intimate can we get,” said Sherlock in an irritated tone.
“We’re flatmates. Flatmates does not equal exchanging blood,” John struggled to explain.
Sherlock glared at him. “You don’t trust me.”
The barest hint of hurt could be heard through his tone, and seen in the way his lips tipped down, just the slightest bit.
John crossed his arms. “I trusted you with my life earlier.”
Sherlock’s hands dropped to his belt buckle, and he started undoing it. Oh no, this was much more familiar to John.
“You don’t trust me enough to drink my blood,” snapped Sherlock, shoving his trousers down along with his underpants.
He chucked them with no small amount of fury behind the couch. John was still sitting, so it was difficult to not get a look of Sherlock’s hanging cock and balls, just swinging in the open. Then Sherlock turned his back to John.
“Licking your bloody wound has nothing to do with trust!” cried out John. “Sherlock, don’t, please—”
It was too late. Sherlock’s back was rippling, and an inhuman ripple ran under his skin. John had only a second to see Sherlock’s pale, but extremely pert arse before his whole body shook and stretched. Sherlock always turned his back to John before he changed. Actually, he most often left the room to strip and change. Nudity only ever occurred in the living room if Sherlock was in a huff about something, then he would shed his clothes willy-nilly and shift wherever he was in the flat.
John sighed as he watched the pale body bulged in odd places, heard the disturbing cracks and rustles of bones growing, breaking, rejoining. Sherlock fell to all fours as fur shot out of his skin, and he started snarling at a hair-raising pitch. In seconds, the change was over, and in Sherlock’s lanky human place, there was a huge wolf that would stand a head taller than his human form. At this stage, John was used to seeing the change, enough so that none of it disturbed him anymore.
Sherlock shook his body, like a dog would after being doused in water. Then he threw himself onto the couch and curled up into a giant, pouting ball of bristling fur, fangs and claws. He pointedly held his back to John and the rest of the room. He was such a huge wolf that he barely fit on the couch even when all his limbs were tucked tightly together, his tail squashed beneath his hind legs in what must be an awkward and uncomfortable position.
It wouldn’t do to pay attention to Sherlock when he was like this, so John finished the rest of his tea and tried to read the newspaper. But his eyes were continuously drawn towards the unhappy, furry wolf sulking on the couch.
The first days after Sherlock had solved a case were usually good ones, where the flat was filled with a buoyant mood, and there were no wolves sulking or howling around the place. This wasn’t the end to the day that John had anticipated, and the disappointment sat heavily in him. He sighed and put down the paper. Getting up, he limped over to the couch, making sure to make a lot of noise for his own safety. He bent down and pulled Sherlock’s tail out from under his legs, arranging it in a more comfortable curl on the couch. Sherlock huffed and pulled his tail away, digging his snout further into the cushions. John sighed, frustrated and bewildered in equal parts.
There was almost no room on the couch, so John had to perch right on the very edge with his back pressed tightly against Sherlock’s furry one. There was no response from Sherlock at all. So, it would be like that then.
John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s back, combing the thick, coarse fur down. On better days when they were both on the same page, John would sometimes push Sherlock’s fur in the wrong direction so that it would stand up in spikes and probably feel rather uncomfortable. He would receive a startled, betrayed look from Sherlock, and a wrestling match between werewolf and vampire would commence. It usually ended with John being pinned – because there were few things John could do that didn’t result in bodily harm when trying to overpower a large wolf – and having to suffer through demeaning snuffling and wolf-breath. Sometimes, as punishment, Sherlock would take a nap on him. It wasn’t that bad a punishment, really; Sherlock was so very warm.
But there would be no roughhousing tonight, not when Sherlock was sulking.
John stroked several times along his back, before moving to the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock hated to be touched by anyone, in wolf or human form, but John seemed to be the exception. Even then, it had taken months before John got over his initial shyness and felt able to touch Sherlock in wolf form. He scratched behind those big, rounded ears, before moving to the scruff around his neck. At first, Sherlock shoved his snout into the couch, trying to hold on to his pout; but a few more hard scratches between the ears and along the side of his face, and Sherlock’s dismissive posture was soon turning into a stretch for John to scratch the more pleasurable spots. Slowly but surely, he turned his head to let John rub under his snout, body relaxing reflexively into the touch.
With more strategic patting and scratching, the tight ball of unhappiness became a stretched out and relaxed Sherlock-wolf. It didn’t work every time, but John was always quietly pleased with himself when he could coax Sherlock out of his sulks. Those pale eyes were closed in pleasure and his ears rested in a relaxed position. John was very tempted to scratch the spot just above Sherlock’s tail, that made his hind legs thump against his will and resulted in a familiar, embarrassed growl, but he didn’t want to break the tentative peace.
His wayward impulses didn’t break the quiet moment, but the knock on the front door did. He continued stroking Sherlock’s back as he listened to Mrs. Hudson opening the door and the creaking stairs signalled the presence of a visitor.
He recognised the footsteps right away. Sherlock probably did as well, but he didn’t move from his position, so John didn’t bother either.
Mycroft let himself into the flat, wearing a three piece suit and his completely artificial benign smile. “Hello, John. Giving Sherlock a rubdown, I see.”
John refused to be embarrassed. “Well observed, Mycroft.”
A wolfy huff of amusement emitted from the couch.
Mycroft sighed, sitting himself in John’s armchair instead. “My brother can be such a bad influence on you.”
“It’s a two way street,” said John with a shrug.
“I’m not sure about that,” murmured Mycroft. “Sherlock, I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.”
Sherlock remained blissfully quiet under John’s hand.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Then he raised his eyebrows and made a show of breathing in deeply.
“John, you do smell interesting today.”
Suddenly, Sherlock was moving, forcing John to move out of his way. Sherlock leapt out of the couch with a growl, shifting even as he moved. His whole body shivered, his fur sinking back into his skin as bulging muscles and elongated bones shrank and snapped back. His teeth were still bared as he shook back into his naked, human form. He didn’t look embarrassed to be standing naked before his brother, only reaching over casually to pick up the blue dressing gown draped over the back of the couch. He pulled it on with no rush and wrapped it around his lean body with a dramatic flick of his wrists before tying the robe closed. John settled back onto the couch after this display.
“I didn’t think you were coming at all since I didn’t get any response to my messages,” snapped Sherlock, settling himself onto the couch again.
“I was a little caught up with the mess in which you were only peripherally involved,” explained Mycroft.
“I caught your murderer for you,” said Sherlock, sounding a little outraged.
Mycroft shrugged. “It was your case, so you would have caught him regardless of his connections.”
“Why didn’t you set your own people on him?”
“You might not know Jacob Hall, the murderer in this case, but he is known to several important people. Hall’s handler is now in a position of power. He took some convincing that Hall had gone rogue,” sighed Mycroft. “People can be so sentimental.”
John rolled his eyes. “Which you’re not, of course.”
“Of course.”
Sherlock leaned forward, his tone contemptuous as he said, “You wanted to leave the arrest of Hall to Scotland Yard. There would be no fall out if the police worked out who the murderer was without interference. You would seem impartial, and maintain a front that you haven’t been pulling strings on this case.”
Mycroft inclined his head. “The daughter of the Commissioner killed by a rogue secret service agent, who is in turn sponsored by someone rather high up in the chain of command. If I had interfered at that point, we wouldn’t have the tidy ending that we do right now.”
“Politics.” Sherlock spat the word out like it was poison in his mouth. “We had to clean up your mess.”
“On the contrary. You chose to do the clean-up, because you rather thought you would enjoy it.”
John cut in with some confusion, “We had to face down a trained secret service agent! What was there to enjoy?”
“Ah, still so naïve. Sherlock solved the murder within moments of entering the flat. The only reason he stayed on the case was to personally catch a highly trained and deadly agent under the Government’s employ, and prove that the two of you can best such a man. My brother was showing off.” Mycroft spread his hands for dramatic emphasis.
John opened and shut his mouth soundlessly, before turning to glare at Sherlock.
“Oh, don’t be tedious, John. You enjoyed it as much as I did. It had your heart racing, and your adrenaline going,” said Sherlock with a flippant wave of his hand. “And you can’t be displeased that now you know Her Majesty’s best secret agents are no match for the two of us working together.”
Ignoring the ego-stroking, John addressed the important point, “It would have still been nice if you had shared your knowledge that we were going after a dangerous and trained MI5 agent!”
“I knew we were more than his match. Regardless, we have caught the killer, and he’s safely behind bars now,” said Sherlock quickly.
Mycroft sighed. “I do prefer if you refrained from confronting the government’s unstable agents head-on, but I suppose this is the most acceptable outcome we could have hoped for.”
He stood up and straightening his dove gray suit.
“I’ll see myself out, John. You need to rest your leg.”
John settled back onto the arm of the couch, relieved that he could keep off his feet.
At the door, Mycroft looked over his shoulder. “After all, you’re going to need all the rest you can get, given Sherlock’s fledgling claim on you.”
An ominous growl erupted from Sherlock’s chest, sounding unnatural coming from a human body. But Mycroft was already out the door and walking down the stairs at a sedate, yet somehow smug pace.
John didn’t have time to think too much about Mycroft’s departure, because he was too busy staring at Sherlock.
“What—”
“That fat bastard ruins everything,” snarled Sherlock, drawing his feet up onto the couch and tucking his knees under his chin.
He kept his gaze fixed on the recently vacated armchair, refusing to look in John’s direction.
“Sherlock, what does he mean by claiming?” asked John, voice on the edge.
“Oh, stop playing the fool. Do I really have to explain everything to you?” Sherlock sneered.
Tired of this deflection, John slid onto the couch and poked Sherlock in the arm. “That would be more convincing if you could look at me. What are you up to now? Is this another childish way to make sure I’m always helping out with your cases? Or— Or is this—”
In a sudden move, Sherlock twisted around and grabbed John by the shoulders before shoving hard. He had John pinned flat on the couch in less than a second. Of course, John had his hand around Sherlock’s neck in instinctive reaction to the sudden aggressive movement. Sherlock ignored the potential choking, and instead, leaned closer.
“Or what? What do you think this could possibly be about?” snarled Sherlock. “Surely even you can’t be so ignorant that you didn’t notice that you have been accepting my food, wearing my scent, letting me handle you in front of all those people. Are you going to pretend you don’t know you have my attention, that you don’t see what I’m trying to— to start between us?”
His gray eyes were cold and furious, but with him pressed so close, John could also sense something he rarely ever felt from Sherlock – fear.
“I never knew,” John whispered, honestly taken aback. “You were— You were taking my food and hiding my scarf and gloves so that I would accept your things. That’s insane, Sherlock. That’s not how it’s done!”
His voice was half-wonderment, half-incredulity. Of course nothing could be done normally at 221B, not if it could be accomplished through subterfuge and dramatics.
Sherlock’s face contorted in anger at his words, body tensing as he drew back. But John slipped his hand from Sherlock’s neck to his shoulder instead, holding him in place. He knew he really shouldn’t do this, because encouraging Sherlock’s bad behaviour and stroking his ridiculous, werewolf tendencies could only be a bad thing, but John wanted to. John had poor impulse control too.
He leaned up and nudged at Sherlock’s chin with his nose, nuzzling at his cheek. Then he kissed Sherlock, soft and open.
Sherlock made a sharp sound before kissing John back with great fervour. Sherlock’s hands curled around his cheeks, holding him still at the best angles for a deep, explorative kiss. He could hear Sherlock humming with pleasure as he sucked obsessively on John’s lower lip, as if enamoured with that piece of flesh.
When they parted a bare few inches, John stared up at him with heavy eyes. “You could have just said something.”
Sherlock ignored him. “This isn’t just sex, you have to know that. A claiming for a wolf is much more serious. We don’t share very well. We don’t go away.”
“As if as you haven’t been a ridiculous, possessive pillock from day one,” was all John said.
That seemed to be good enough for Sherlock, because he fell into a frenzy that seemed to involve getting as close to John as humanly possible. He kissed him hard and deep, before literally ripping their clothes off. Sherlock’s hardly suffered any damage since his robe was easily removed, but John’s sweater would never be the same again. Hands roamed along all the bared skin as they grappled playfully for leverage. Sherlock started shifting them higher up the couch, being especially pushy with where he wanted John to be. This was no different to their everyday activities, so John let him.
Sherlock mouthed at his nipples, sucked bruising kisses along his neck, palming John’s hard, leaking cock possessively.
“Mine,” murmured Sherlock, as he came back up to kiss John on the mouth again, like he couldn’t help it.
John arched his back, gasping, “No, my cock is definitely still mine.”
Sherlock smirked, stroking along John’s traitorous erection. “It seems happy enough belonging to me.”
“Shut up and jerk me off,” ordered John, hoping the desperation wasn’t coming through in his voice.
“While I fuck you,” rumbled Sherlock. “I’ll do that while I fuck you.”
“Okay, fuck, yes, hurry up,” said John even as he pushed up into Sherlock’s clever hand.
The smell of blood finally penetrated his lust-addled senses, and he realised that without the bandages, Sherlock’s upper arm injury was still seeping a little blood as it healed. John stretched up and kissed around it, before closing his mouth over the slowly knitting wound and sucking. The blood that coated his tongue was delicious, tasted of virile wolf and pounding energy, smoky and different as Sherlock should be.
“Yessss,” Sherlock hissed.
John pulled back, running his tongue over his lips. “You wanted to share your blood. To cement your claim.”
Sherlock frowned. “And you refused.”
“You need to use your words when it comes to the important stuff, you wanker,” said John. “Now, I thought you were going to fuck me?”
Everything moved very fast after that. Sherlock was quick when motivated and was off the couch at top speed. He came back from his room with the lube while John was still lying flat on his back, trying to catch his breath.
John’s head was spinning with how quickly they were moving, how deftly Sherlock opened him up, licking into his mouth as a distraction. His pleasure-soaked senses were clamouring for more, more, more, and he spread his legs with hardly a thought, pushing back against Sherlock’s cock as it began to sink in.
Sweating and grasping at the broad shoulders before him, John arched his back helplessly into the slick, relentless sensation of Sherlock sliding into him. John moaned as he shuddered around this deep penetration, causing Sherlock to shiver and gasp in response. They kissed messily as their hips started to move in a desperate rhythm.
“Sherlock, Sherlock, harder,” John said, almost mindlessly, jerking every time Sherlock moved just right, touching off a spark of pleasure up his spine.
Sherlock held his hips tighter, pounding into him. Then he shifted his grip so that he could pull on John’s arousal as well, fulfilling his earlier promise. John felt impossibly hard, impossibly filled, and squeezed his legs around Sherlock’s waist as he gasped out in soundless, meaningless moans.
Then he was coming, his pleasure cresting and his body seizing as his cock jerked with his orgasm. Sherlock fucked him through his climax, rubbing against the tip of his wet cock and spreading his come everywhere.
John twitched and moaned as Sherlock kept thrusting into him, moving even faster now, causing a sensation overload in John’s sensitive body. Sherlock was curling low over his body, staring straight into John’s eyes while gasping and baring his teeth, fucking into John relentlessly until his own body jerked, hips stuttering. He came inside John, body moving in harsh thrusts as he bent down for an intense kiss. Then Sherlock moved his head so that his neck was closer to John’s mouth.
“Bite me. You have to bite me, now,” said Sherlock.
John had no idea what Sherlock thought vampiric sex and claiming involved, but they could have that talk later. Right now, John was itching to taste Sherlock again. His second set of canines descended. They were longer and thinner than his human set, and sank so sweetly into Sherlock’s bared flesh. He sliced into the smooth skin, stopping before he could go too deep. When he withdrew his fangs and sealed his mouth around the puncture wounds, Sherlock groaned in pleasure, shuddering in his arms.
He could taste more of the strong, delicious blood now, could swirl Sherlock’s essence in his mouth and take it into his body. It made him moan as well, made him want to fuck again and to hold on and never let go. The blood was ecstasy in his mouth, and he pulled away with a shaky gasp. He licked the puncture wounds gently, helping to keep them clean. It would take a day or so before they healed over completely, and the thought of seeing them there again made his slow beating heart skip with excitement.
Running his hands over Sherlock’s sweaty back, John sighed blissfully and squeezed his arms around Sherlock.
And his whole body clenched when he realised that Sherlock hadn’t softened through his orgasm. In fact, Sherlock was as hard as ever.
John opened his eyes and pushed Sherlock back a little. “Are you still—”
“The full moon isn’t far off,” Sherlock said in a deep rumble. “I want to make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
John stared up into Sherlock’s unusual eyes, entranced by the thin silver rims around dark, dilated pupils
“Oh fuck,” gasped John as Sherlock renewed his thrusts.
He could feel his body responding – he thanked his vampiric constitution – but before he could get hard again, Sherlock pulled out and started stroking himself furiously. John was captivated by the obscene work of art before him, drinking in the sight of Sherlock’s strong shoulders, flexing forearms and hard muscles as Sherlock pulled at his own cock. He ran his hands up those tensed thighs, moving his own legs down so that he could touch the still hard erection Sherlock was sporting, hands grazing against Sherlock’s tightening fingers.
Sherlock gasped, arched, and came all over John.
He milked his orgasm with jerking hands, and moaned as he rubbed against John’s half-hard cock. Long dark lashes parted to show a sliver of intense gray eyes that roamed over John’s debauched and frankly, dirty body. It seemed to please Sherlock, because he smiled, a wide and sincerely happy smile that was beyond rare. He ran his hands over his own come, rubbing it into John’s skin, over his hardening cock and tensed stomach. Then he tipped forward and stretched over John, who was still shivering from his own intense orgasm.
“You’re a possessive bastard,” said John, returning Sherlock’s affectionate nuzzling.
Sherlock was too busy pressing kisses to John’s neck and face to respond; almost rumbling with pleasure. Grinning stupidly at the ceiling, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and squeezed him back tightly.
“You’re more like a cat right now,” said John while tracing idle circles on Sherlock’s smooth skin.
“Don’t be insulting,” murmured Sherlock before licking into his mouth. His hips were starting to move in a more distinctive and rhythmic manner, causing John’s slow-burning arousal to pay a lot more attention.
John pushed up closer, and asked in astonishment, “Are you really hard again?”
“Full moon,” was all Sherlock said as he kissed John into compliance.
Oh boy. John had better stock up on blood the next time the full moon came around.
# # # # # # # # # #
Epilogue
“No. I’m serious, I draw the line at this,” said John, keeping his arms crossed.
“Just this night, for this first change,” said Sherlock as he stepped closer and started herding John towards the wall. “I’ll be distracted otherwise, thinking about the others. I won’t be held responsible for what I do.”
“What happened to how you’re in control and don’t need a babysitter?” asked John.
Sherlock sighed, as if John was being stubborn just to irritate him. “I’m not asking you to be my babysitter. I am in control; and I’ll be in control as I attack every werewolf and Unseen out there who so much as looks at you, if you go out without obvious claims.” He tried a different sort of reasoning. “All werewolves who claim non-werewolves do this. Don’t be illogical about this, John.”
Oh God, he was bringing up logic. There was little hope of winning this debate now.
John glared at him. “You’re not making up these rules just to get me to do what you want, are you?”
“Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
But John was already conceding, turning around and slipping his arms into the coat Sherlock was holding up. He started doing up the buttons as he turned around, ignoring how Sherlock needlessly smoothed down the collar.
Sherlock’s coat, that long, flapping, dramatic garment, looked ridiculous on John’s shorter frame. He wasn’t that much shorter than Sherlock, but those few inches definitely ensured that he looked like a hobo who had picked out a random jacket; it fell past his knees and had sleeves that hid his hands. It didn’t fit too badly around his torso, but this still wasn’t a good look. While the coat looked posh on Sherlock, it looked like an oversized raincoat on John.
“This is so stupid,” said John.
Sherlock was too busy preening in glee at the sight of John wearing something that was covered in his scent to respond. As if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against John’s. He pressed close enough to pin John to the wall, pressing them together from shoulders to knees, and held him in a suffocating embrace for a minute. While he was there, he leaned down and licked John’s cheek before breathing in at the vulnerable junction between his neck and shoulder.
“You smell like me,” he said in a rumble of pleasure.
“I thought that was the point,” said John. “Will you move off me, you handsy dog?”
“No.” Sherlock started chewing on his earlobe instead.
“We promised Mycroft that we would turn up tonight; if we don’t get there in the next fifteen minutes, we’re going to have a troop of men in black invading our flat,” pointed out John.
Sherlock sighed and pulled away. “This is so tedious.”
He grumbled as he stripped out of his clothes. Within a few minutes, John was sharing space with a huge wolf instead. He rolled up his sleeves and reached down to scratch behind Sherlock’s big ears. Sherlock tilted his head up to him, gray eyes heavy with pleasure.
Sherlock padded behind him silently as they made their way down the stairs.
“Hello, boys!” said Mrs. Hudson from her open doorway. “Going out for a run?”
Sherlock huffed even as he nosed forward to sniff her. She scolded, “I know it was obvious, Sherlock. No need for cheek from you, I was just being polite. Now, don’t make too much noise when you get back in please.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow morning, so we shouldn’t be any bother. But we’ll be quiet if we’re in early, Mrs. Hudson,” said John as he opened the front door.
“You’re a dear as always, John. I’ll watch over the place while you’re out. Have fun!” she said, smiling as she waved them off. With Mrs. Hudson’s hob magic in place, there was no doubt that the place would be near impenetrable to outside threats.
John and Sherlock headed out onto the streets and ducked into the first alley they came across. They climbed the fire-escape stairs with ease and stood there for a moment as they contemplated London from the top of a three storey building. Sherlock nudged him in the knee.
John looked down at Sherlock with a grin. “Come on. Let’s run,”
They set off across the rooftops under the glow of the full moon.
# # # # # # # # # #
It was close to midnight when they reached Mycroft’s extravagant compound, and the full moon had been visible in the sky for hours. Contrary to popular belief, werewolves didn’t have to shift during the full moon, but they did feel better for it. Sherlock was one of the few who seemed unaffected while staying in human form during this time of the month; John suspected he was just better at pretending than most.
The gates automatically opened for them, biometric senses long ago keyed in to allow their entry during the full moon. Though this was the first time Sherlock was using his access to his brother’s space.
The moment they were on Mycroft’s grounds, a long, calling howl went up in the air, swiftly echoed by two others. Sherlock ran towards them, and John kept at his heels. He watched as Sherlock leapt on a larger, howling wolf, and a tussle immediately broke out between them.
“Urgh, stupid macho posturing,” grumbled John.
While Sherlock was black and sleek, the other wolf was a dark gray and bulkier in size. John wasn’t too familiar with Mycroft’s wolf form, but he could recognise him from short glimpses in the past when Mycroft had come to stalk Sherlock at 221B during full moons. Sherlock and Mycroft wrestled in a manner that would have seemed very violent to most humans, all bared teeth and harsh bites to flanks, but they didn’t dig their teeth in; it was mostly a show of strength. Sherlock was no longer really part of Mycroft’s pack, despite Mycroft’s attempts to bring him back to the fold, so they rarely met in wolf form without some aggression.
Another smaller, silver wolf growled at them, pushing his nose occasionally into the fray only to leap back away from a batting paw. Lestrade’s wolf form was more familiar to John. He had seen him as a wolf often enough, nosing around a crime scene when there were no humans around. Despite the advantages of having a werewolf on the team, humans tended to get antsy when an oversized wolf romped about in the city during the daytime.
He spotted Anthea lying on her side, a sleek gray wolf who watched the play-fighting with alert, pricked-up ears. He didn’t go near her; in human form, she was neutral towards him, but in her wolf form, she was aggressive to most other Unseens.
Lestrade loped over and sniffed at John curiously. In a blink of the eye, Sherlock flew over, snarling with true ferocity.
“Sherlock!” chastised John.
Mycroft was by Lestrade’s side as well, both of them with bared teeth and aggression displayed by their proudly held heads and tails; but Sherlock had already quieted down at John’s reprimand, snapped out of his possessive state. He growled but lowered his body, calming down when John shoved him lightly in the side.
John said, “The whole point of seeing the pack was to introduce them to our, um, new relationship. How is that going to happen if you don’t let them come near me?”
Sherlock sat down by John’s side and leaned against him, not reacting now when Lestrade came forward again and sniffed them both. John sat down on the ground and let Mycroft and Lestrade sniff him over. He made a face at the cold wet noses in his ears and face, trying not to feel claustrophobic while surrounded by their large, hulking forms. Perhaps Sherlock was attuned to his feelings, because he started herding them away after a minute of this.
They didn’t go far, stopping a few steps away so that Mycroft could sniff and lick Lestrade’s face instead. Sherlock flopped down a little way from John and behaved as if he was above these wolf-like antics, choosing to ignore his play-fighting with Mycroft earlier.
John knew that given time, a couple more wolves would join them at Mycroft’s compound. It was an area that Mycroft had bought and used for the full moon gathering of his pack. There was the occasional pup that Mycroft took into the pack, and a few distant Holmes cousins would join in as well if they were in the country. When they were all here, or when Mycroft was tired of waiting, they would take to the streets of London, running free as they laid claim to their territory.
In a moment, John would go over and let himself be tumbled to the ground by an overenthusiastic Sherlock. Lestrade and Mycroft would probably nose in, only to be pushed away since Sherlock was still possessive at the moment. They would wrestle, pretend-bite, and John would probably have to take Sherlock’s expensive jacket to the dry-cleaner’s tomorrow to get rid of the grass stains and wolf fur. When the other wolves arrived, they would all run as a pack, with John keeping up easily by Sherlock’s side in his great, silly coat.
For now, John just watched the pack mingle and play, smiling as Sherlock watched him in return with contented gray eyes.
THE END
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