Fic: Say That Again, But In English This Time (1/2)
Title: Say That Again, But In English This Time
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes BBC
Community: Written for Sherlock Reversebang
Word Count: ~16,000
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Ratings: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, sex
Summary: Lestrade was calling about a new murder, Sherlock was acting strange even for a consulting detective-werewolf, and John was missing blood from the fridge. Just another day in John’s life. (Alternate Universe where Sherlock is a werewolf, and John is a vampire. Everything else is exactly the same.)
Notes:
1. My many thanks go to astro_frog5 who did a wonderfully thorough beta job and provided keen insights from a reader's perspective. My gratitude also goes todavid_of_oz who went above and beyond Britpicking this fic. I really don’t know where this fic would be without the two of them! <3 Any mistakes you might find are my own - the longer I have this fic in my hands without posting, the harder I find it to resist further tinkering! - and I would appreciate if you would point them out so that I can correct them. :)
2. buhhhfaluffalo is the artist who drew the gorgeous werewolf artworks! Drop her a line at her LJ to share your love!
3. A&E stands for Accident and Emergency, a hospital department in the UK.
# # # # # # # # # #
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.
# # # # # # # # # #
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!”
# # # # # # # # # #
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.
# # # # # # # # # #
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.
# # # # # # # # # #Link to Part 2
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes BBC
Community: Written for Sherlock Reversebang
Word Count: ~16,000
Pairings: Sherlock/John
Ratings: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, sex
Summary: Lestrade was calling about a new murder, Sherlock was acting strange even for a consulting detective-werewolf, and John was missing blood from the fridge. Just another day in John’s life. (Alternate Universe where Sherlock is a werewolf, and John is a vampire. Everything else is exactly the same.)
Notes:
1. My many thanks go to astro_frog5 who did a wonderfully thorough beta job and provided keen insights from a reader's perspective. My gratitude also goes todavid_of_oz who went above and beyond Britpicking this fic. I really don’t know where this fic would be without the two of them! <3 Any mistakes you might find are my own - the longer I have this fic in my hands without posting, the harder I find it to resist further tinkering! - and I would appreciate if you would point them out so that I can correct them. :)
2. buhhhfaluffalo is the artist who drew the gorgeous werewolf artworks! Drop her a line at her LJ to share your love!
3. A&E stands for Accident and Emergency, a hospital department in the UK.
# # # # # # # # # #
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.
# # # # # # # # # #
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!”
# # # # # # # # # #
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.
# # # # # # # # # #
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.
# # # # # # # # # #Link to Part 2