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“Who could do such a thing?” Lestrade asked in a gruff voice. “I mean, he’s a child, for Christ sake.”
Sherlock knelt beside the body, eyes scanning up and down the deformed boy. The only reason it hadn’t been passed off for an animal attack was the obvious signs of restraint around the boys wrists and ankles. As badly torn apart the rest of his body appeared, there was enough left to know that it was murder, not accident.
Sherlock took a slow, deep breath; his eyes darting to and fro. John knelt beside him, a pained look in his eyes for just a moment before he blinked and his army doctor demeanor returned. A pair of gloved hands moved swiftly and confidently up and down the boys body, analyzing, determining the killing blow.
“Poor kid,” John breathed and Sherlock turned to him with an unasked question. “He was alive for most of it. It wasn’t until this,” he gestured to a rip along the boys forearm, “that he finally bled out. The chunks are postmortem, almost as if he was shaken and torn at until his life left, then partial ingested.”
“Assumptions should not be made,” Sherlock cut in and John gave a swift nod. “It was a large dog, going by the width and depth of the bites, possibly a Doberman or pit, more likely a wolf-hybrid. Find the location of his death and you’ll find his murderer.”
Lestrade nodded and thanked them for their help. Sherlock and John made their way out of the alley and into the main street. They remained silent as Sherlock hailed a cab and they climbed in. The ride back to Baker Street seemed quieter than normal and John kept casting contemplative looks towards Sherlock.
When they finally arrived home, Sherlock turned to John, brow raised in question. “What?”
“You don’t think it was a dog,” it wasn’t a question, and Sherlock once again mentally cheered John’s increasing deductive ability.
“No, I think it was something dog-like, but not a dog.”
“Sherlock, if you’re implying…” he broke off, taking a deep breath to steady himself, “if you’re implying what I think you are… There haven’t been any sightings for nearly forty years, Sherlock. Nothing to lead anyone to believe they still exist.”
“True as that may be, John, you should know better than anyone that people can be very good at hiding what they don’t want anyone to know.”
John flinched at that. Sherlock was the only person, aside from Harry and Clara, that was aware of what John was. It’s hard enough getting through life in a family that is known to have a history of magic without being the only one born with magical tendencies in nearly seventy-eight years. It had killed his mother at birth, driven his father to the drink, and later, Harry as well. To keep John’s secret was a large responsibility.
“John,” Sherlock breathed out, moving across the room and placing a comforting hand on his flat mates shoulder. “I…”
“It’s fine, Sherlock. I know you didn’t mean it. You just haven’t figured out how to filter that great brain of yours.”
Sherlock huffed a light chuckle and moved back towards the couch. He threw himself down onto it, his limbs spread in disarray. “Tea.”
John shook his head but couldn’t suppress the smile. “Git.”
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“We’ve got another one,” Lestrade’s voice carried through the phone and John let out a disgruntled sound.
“Where?” he paused long enough to write down the address. “We’ll meet you there.”
John made his way across the sitting room and kitchen to Sherlock’s bedroom door. He knocked twice and called out. Sherlock pulled the door open, icy-blue eyes peering out at him curiously.
“There’s another,” John got out before the door was pulled open enough to allow a flurry of a consulting detective out before it was slammed shut just as John was slammed into the wall behind him. Sherlock rushed through the flat, collecting shoes, coat and scarf. He turned to John, brow raised.
“Coming?”
The drive from Baker Street to the dock where the body had been found nearly two hours earlier was taken in silence. Sherlock was on his phone, thumbs moving faster than John had ever seen before. John knew better than to interrupt when Sherlock had that deeply concentrated look about him.
“That makes four,” Sherlock said as the cab pulled away from the curb.
They walked side-by-side to the police line. Sherlock lifted it and allowed John under first. Both men swept the area with their eyes, taking in what members of the Met were currently visible and, in Sherlock’s case, whatever details could be ascertained outside the warehouse.
“Sherlock,” Lestrade called, waving them over to the loading bay. “This one’s a bit younger, or she appears to be.”
“She?” John asked, his face stricken with horror. This was the first girl, the other three were boys, aged between seven and nine years.
Lestrade nodded and guided them into the warehouse. There was a maze of crates and metal containers to maneuver through before they came to a back corner that was lit by construction lights. It took a moment for them to make their way over the cords and around the equipment set up to cordon off and light the area well enough for the investigators to do their job.
“The darkest corner, furthest away from any entrance. How was she found?” Sherlock asked as he squatted beside the body.
“Two of the workers, one man, one woman, were umm…”
“Fornicating?” Sherlock looked up at Lestrade with a raised brow.
“Not quite, but…” Lestrade shrugged. “Anyway, they had come back this way and came across her, tripped over her, actually.”
John made a disgusted noise, but otherwise remained silent. He pulled on some gloves and knelt to begin his examination. “Same as before, torn and ripped at until this one,” he pointed at a tear in her shoulder that pierced her carotid, “killed her, then chunks taken from her.”
“Still think it couldn’t be?” Sherlock looked to John.
“Couldn’t be what?” Lestrade asked, coming to stand by them as they both raised themselves to their full heights.
“No, Sherlock. I can’t say that I do. I’m with you on this,” John nodded, a determined look coming to his face. “We have to find it before this gets out of hand.”
“What?” Lestrade asked, looking between the two men. “What the devil are you two on about?”
“Lycanthrope,” Sherlock said as if an afterthought.
The entire scene went quiet, aside from the hum of machinery around them. John and Sherlock ignored the eyes trained on them as they made their way back to the entrance, a bumbling Lestrade following them as quick as he could as he attempted to get his thoughts in order. Sherlock stopped just outside the warehouse and turned back to face Lestrade.
“Are you certain?”
Sherlock raised a brow. “When have you ever known me to speculate?”
Lestrade nodded and turned back to the warehouse. “We have to catch this guy.”
“Who said it was a man?” Sherlock asked.
John and Lestrade turned to stare at Sherlock with wide eyes. “Female?” John breathed out just as Lestrade squeaked (though he’d never admit to it) “A woman?”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, then proceeded to explain how he knew. “Female lycanthropes give off a certain scent when in heat. This female is in heat. She’s attempting to draw out a mate, leaving kills where they would easily be accessible to possible male lycanthropes in the area. The chunks taken from their bodies were done by her, but if you’ll notice, they are in areas that would be considered the least favorable cuts, leaving the ‘choice cuts’, as it were, to any male suitors.”
“Sherlock?” John questioned, attempting to detail what he couldn’t voice in his eyes.
Sherlock looked at John for a moment, contemplated lieing to him, then decided against it. He knew John’s secret, after all. “Yes, John.”
John’s eyes widened a fraction before he covered their mini-conversation with another question. “Can you tell if there have been any males about the bodies?”
Sherlock let his lips quirk up slightly, “No, there haven’t been any males near the bodies.” What was left unsaid was ‘aside from me’.
“How can you tell?” Lestrade butt in, “I mean, I know you ‘observe’ much better than the rest of us, but…”
“What?” Sherlock and John asked.
“How can you scent what I can’t?” Donovan asked from behind.
Sherlock and John whirled around, eyes wide with realization. “You?” they breathed, simultaneously.
Donovan nodded and Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, me. And I know about you two, as well. I’m surprised the freak didn’t scent me the first time we met. I suppose that stupid crap Madam La Belle charges an arm and a leg for actually works.”
Lestrade nodded, “I can put in on the unit charge sheet then.” It was quiet for a moment before Lestrade’s brain finally caught up with everything Donovan had said. “Know what about these two?”
Sherlock looked at John, then Donovan, then Lestrade. “Dinner?”
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When Lestrade and Donovan arrived, nearly five hours later, Mrs. Hudson let them in just as John was finishing his ‘whatever I find that’s edible’ stir fry. They each grabbed a plate and brought their food into the sitting room, John dropping a plate into Sherlock’s lap with a pointed look. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but picked up his fork and sniffed at what had either been a piece of zucchini or, possibly, pepper, before John had gotten hold of it.
“Now, someone want to explain what’s going on?” Lestrade asked before putting a bite in his mouth. He stopped mid-chew and stared down at his plate for a moment before looking up at John. “What’s in this, exactly?”
John shrugged, “Vegetables, some spam, and soy sauce. Afraid we didn’t really have much else.”
Donovan eyed her plate questioningly.
“It’s acceptable,” Sherlock spoke up and Donovan shrugged before taking a bite and nodding her head in agreement.
“Well?” Lestrade asked, taking another bite.
“He’s were,” Donovan said around bite of spam and celery.
Lestrade stared at Sherlock a moment before shaking his head in defeat. “That would have been nice to know from the beginning, Sherlock. You know I have to inform the chief.”
Sherlock shook his head. “You’ll do no such thing, just as you won’t let anyone in on John’s secret should he allow you in at all. Donovan’s knowledge of it is beyond our control.”
All eyes fell to John who shifted uncomfortably for a moment before setting his shoulders and raising his left hand. A moment later, a cup of tea appeared from seemingly nowhere. “Tea?” he asked as though nothing had just happened.
“Just sugar,” Sherlock noted and a moment later a cup appeared on the table near his chair.
“Splash of milk,” Donovan requested and smiled at him when a cup appeared near her.
John turned to Lestrade, the hint of fear in his eyes invisible to the only human, but clear as day to the two werewolves present. “Greg?”
Lestrade stared with mouth agape and eyes wide in wonder for a moment longer before shaking his head. “Beer.” John huffed a laugh and a mug filled to the brim appeared in front of Lestrade who proceeded to pick it up and take a long drink. “So, I thought wizardry had died out,” Lestrade spoke after downing just over half the pint.
“Obviously not,” Sherlock quipped before turning back to his plate. “Less salt next time, John.”
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“Body number six, female, ten years of age, Madeline Zingolt. Parents have been notified and are waiting at the hospital for her body to be brought to the morgue.”
Sherlock stared at the identity bracelet that was partially imbedded in the young girls wrist. The grooves in the metal where teeth had clamped down on it provided little more detail than any of the other markings, but at least they were starting with a name this time rather than having a sketch artist remake her face for news reports in order to find her family.
Sherlock breathed through his nose, taking in the scents of the scene and cataloguing what was required before dumping the rest from his mind. He tossed aside the scent of Lestrade and his team, the smells natural to an empty lot in South Harrow, all scents of drug deals, drug dealers, and drug buyers. He separated the relevant scents from Johns scent, tucking the latter away in a corner of his mind palace as he always did. John had several different scents and Sherlock had catalogued and picked apart each one, to include the unmarred scent of his arousal, the scent that proves he’s untouched.
Once all scents had been separated and catalogued, Sherlock’s eyes opened wide at a scent that hadn’t been present at the other scenes. He looked up at Donovan who caught the scent just as she entered the area and stared back with wide eyes.
“Where were you?” Sherlock asked, though it wasn’t in an accusatory manner.
“At the morgue, seeing to the previous bodies release to the family. I came straight here afterward.”
“What?” John asked loudly, looking between the two. His question caught the attention of Lestrade who turned from Anderson and strode over to them quickly.
“A male,” Donovan noted and Sherlock nodded his agreement. “There’s been a male here, aside from the freak.”
“It’s distinctive, definitely something that could be separated from others of his kind, unlike a female in which all smell alike. Pine, a hint of raw fish, likely a dock worker, possibly a delivery driver as there’s a touch of diesel mixed in.”
“Sandalwood,” Donovan added and Sherlock nodded, “and a hint of lime.”
“That’s about it,” Sherlock concluded.
It was strange, seeing Sherlock and Donovan work together without snipping at each other. Lestrades hand flew across his notebook, jotting down every detail the two provided as they carried on walking through the scene, each stopping in random places to point out a scent or piece of evidence that hadn’t been noticed by the humans present. It was the most they’d gotten at any of the scenes and they couldn’t afford to loose this chance. They had to find this woman before the mating, they couldn’t allow another child to loose his or her life, and with feeding after the mating, it was likely there would be more than one that did.
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“John,” Sherlock shouted as John bolted into house. “Stop.”
Sherlock rushed in after him, stopping in his tracks as he took in the male were, eyes reddened with wild aggression, stooped low in a protective stance over his newly mated female. The body of a young boy, no more than four years, lay nearby, his neck ripped out and left leg currently being gnawed on by the female were. The male shifted its stance, moving to where it could keep both John and Sherlock in its sights.
“John, you idiot,” Sherlock hissed. “The one time I want to wait for Lestrade, you decide to rush in. The boy was lost before we got here, there was no way you’d have been able to save him. I told you to disregard the scream, John. Why can’t you listen to me?”
John let out a snort, turning his head just enough that he could see Sherlock from the corner of his eye but still keep the other male were in his line of sight. “You’re one to talk, Sherlock.”
Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms, drawing out a warning growl from the male in front of them. The male shifted, pushing back just enough that a human wouldn’t realize it, but Sherlock’s keen senses locked in on it. I a flash he’d shifted to his were form and plowed into the side of the other male, knocking it off course a nose-width from John.
The fight was brutal, the two weres biting and clawing at each other. Sherlock was distracted from the fight, John focusing so thoroughly on it he nearly forgot about the female. His attention was drawn back to her when she let out a feral growl and hunched back, body protecting their kill. John turned to her, bringing his arms up slightly in front of himself. He did his best to never use his magic, but sometimes it couldn’t be helped.
The female lunged, Sherlock let out a yip of fear, the male let out a garbled whine as Sherlock’s teeth sank into his neck and he twisted, John mumbled under his breath and everything happened so fast that not even Sherlock was sure what had ended it all.
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Later, John explained to Sherlock over dinner that he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d said, just that he kept thinking over and over that he wouldn’t let anything happen to Sherlock; that he’d protect him. It was a good thing they had gotten take-away and brought it back to Baker Street with them. Probably not such a good thing that the trays had been opened and placed on the coffee table between them as they ate. The result of John confessing this tidbit of information was Sherlock shoving the table away from them and pulling John into an aggressive kiss. The table and food were thrown across the room, sauce, meat and vegetables scattered across the carpet in its wake.
“Mate,” Sherlock breathed against John’s lips.
“Yes,” John replied, opening his eyes to look into Sherlocks. “God, yes, Sherlock.”