Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles isn’t sure things are entirely legit when he accepts the interview, so he has Scott on standby to call the NYPD if Stiles doesn’t text him at fifteen minute intervals. Stiles announces this as the door opens in front of him, then cringes. Because if this is legit, then, well. He’s just offended them. And if it isn’t, he’s just given away the ace up his sleeve.

There are two people in the doorway, watching him in the wake of his announcement. The woman sighs and elbows the man standing next to her. “See, I told you it was shady-sounding,” she says plainly.

The man, on the other hand, looks approving of Stiles’ precautions, which is confirmed when he says, “Very nice, Mr. Stilinski. I always appreciate a finely honed sense of self-preservation.”

It takes everything Stiles has not to laugh. No one’s ever accused him of even having a sense of self-preservation before, much less a finely honed one. Scott is going to cry with laughter when Stiles tells him about this.

The woman—Joan Watson, “Call me Joan”, as she introduces herself—invites him in. The man—Sherlock Holmes, and Stiles would comment on the name if he didn’t go by Stiles for a damn good reason—offers him tea. Stiles accepts, even though he doesn’t like tea, because it seems like good manners.

Joan goes off to prepare the tea, and Stiles is left waiting with Mr. Holmes in what, in another house, would be a living room, but in this one seems to be a catchall place for, well, all sorts of everything. He wanders around, looking at the books, glancing at the locks hanging from grating against a walls, eying the numerous televisions and monitors blaring ten different programs at once.

He doesn’t realize Mr. Holmes is speaking to him right away, doesn’t notice until he pops in front of Stiles with a pleased smile on his face. “You take remarkable notice of your surroundings, Mr. Stilinski. An admirable trait. Might I suggest you work on the ability to simultaneously listen and observe? It will serve you better, I think. Ah, tea. Thank you, Watson!”

The tea tastes different enough from the Tetley teabags Stiles has drank in the past that he figures it has to be fancy and/or expensive, and probably the loose kind that you, like, steep. He feels a little out of his comfort zone, but forgets about it when Mr. Holmes asks the first official question of the interview.

"Tell me, Mr. Stilinski—"

"You can call me Stiles."

Joan smiles warmly, but Holmes seems momentarily displeased, maybe by the informality, before his cheerful grin reasserts itself.

"Stiles, then." He gets this intent look on his face. "Tell me, what did you notice when you were so distracted looking around the room?"

Stiles may not be known for his sense of self-preservation, or even his tact, but he’s got a good gut for people. He has a feeling that Mr. Holmes wants to know what stood out, rather than receive a detailed inventory. He takes a sip of his tea, considers both Joan and Mr. Holmes, and then sets his cup aside.

"There are a couple of locks over there that haven’t been released yet, and a few that are fake. I’m not sure why you’ve got fake padlocks, but you do. Those handcuffs are standard police issue.” He skims his eyes across the room again. “Your folklore and mythology books are, like, totally crap selections. There’s a crack in that window, honey dripping somewhere out of sight, and a tortoise under that table.”

Joan blinks at Stiles, then looks under the table. “That’s Clyde.”

Mr. Holmes seems even more pleased than earlier. “How is it a college sophomore knows so much about locks and handcuffs?”

"My father is the county Sheriff, back home. I learned a lot from him."

Mr. Holmes shares a look with Joan and beams at Stiles. “And the critiques of my library?”

"Not your whole library. Just that one section. I’m majoring in the subject. There are better specific sources, and way better compendiums out there. I’ll give you a list, if you want."

Joan frowns curiously. “How did you know about the honey?”

Stiles shrugs. “I can hear a dripping sound. It’s slow and thick, and since it smells like honey…it sort of made sense.” He pauses. “Why is there honey dripping in another room?”

Mr. Holmes waves that away. “You’re hired, Stiles,” he says, and gets to his feet in a rush of energy. “Sort out the details with Ms. Watson. I’ve just had a breakthrough on a case.”

Stiles stares after the man for a moment, then looks at Joan, “What just happened? What even is this job about?”

Joan sighs, long-suffering but amused. “Text your friend, and then I’ll go over everything with you.”

Chapter Text

New York is densely populated, and Stiles learned a long time ago that there is a proportionate relativity between human and werewolf populations in a given area. Lydia quantified it to approximately 700 to 1, which means there are…a lot of werewolves in New York City.

Stiles announced himself at a neutral establishment when he moved here to go to NYU, named himself a member of both the Hale and McCall Packs in Beacon Hills, as well as an apprentice to Deaton and Morrell. Stiles isn’t sure which part of his allegiance made the wolf who was taking down his information flinch back and go wide-eyed, but it doesn’t matter. He’s been mostly left alone since he came here and that’s all that matters.

At least, that’s all that matters to him. The Packs have different concerns and working for Sherlock is one of them. For only the third time in six years, Scott and Derek actually agree on something and come at him as a united front. Scott is mostly concerned about Stiles’ safety, and Derek about their secret, but it still brings a tear to Stiles’ eyes. He manged to defuse them both by pointing out Joan’s continued, well, life, and Stiles’ years of hiding werewolves from his father the Sheriff.

The thing that Stiles will never mention to either Scott or Derek is that they have very valid points. It only takes three months in for both of Stiles’ worlds to collide.

It starts with their current case taking them to a werewolf club. Stiles got a call from Sherlock to meet him at Vulpine, and he gets himself ready with a slew of curses and races halfway across town, hoping he’ll beat the other man there.

No such luck. When Stiles arrives, Sherlock is at the door, trying to convince the bouncer to let him in. Stiles skids to a halt next to him, out of breath and wild-eyed. “Heeeey there, Tamisha.”

Tamisha stares at him. “The hell?”

Stiles gives her a somewhat manic grin. “Yeah, so, I got this job with a consulting detective? He works cases for the NYPD.” Stiles waves a hand around. “Sherlock, Tamisha. Tamisha, Sherlock.”

Tamisha folds her arms and gives Stiles a look that encompasses all the fucks she is not giving. “And you think I’m gonna let you in knowing that, why?”

She was talking to Stiles, but Sherlock answers. “We’re here under the auspices of the NYPD to investigate the death of a person who had a receipt for this club in his or her pocket. I rather think your boss would prefer not to have actual NYPD representatives on your doorstep.”

Tamisha doesn’t stop trying to burn Stiles’ eyeballs with the heat of her gaze.

"Because I’m asking," Stiles answers her.

She narrows her eyes, makes a ‘wait’ gesture, and steps backwards over the threshold of the entrance. Behind Sherlock’s back, Stiles makes a frantic motion for her to turn her face away as she talks into her headset. He’s not sure if the guy can read lips, but better safe than sorry.

He awkwardly runs his hand through his hair when Sherlock abruptly turns towards him. “What?”

Sherlock stares intently at him. “I wasn’t expecting you to have any familiarity with establishments such as these.”

Stiles smiles to offset his wince. “Freshman hazing,” he says.

Sherlock does not believe him. Not even a little. Stiles knows this even though Sherlock “ahs” and nods as though he does. Shit shit shit.

Tamisha comes back out and waves them in. Sherlock goes through first. Tamisha throws out an arm to bar Stiles, then looks pointedly to Sherlock with a questioning look on her face. Stiles shakes his head. Tamisha nods, then lowers her arm. Stiles sees her talking into her headset again just before he catches up with Sherlock.

The main area of the club is considered a public area, even though this is a private club. The werewolves—and damn near all of the hundred plus people in here are werewolves—are all human looking and will remain so. They’ll only drop the human guise on the other side of the red velvet rope that leads deeper into the club. There are private rooms back there, as well as themed rooms, and communal areas with seating and wait service.

They move through the seating area, skirting a flogging demonstration occurring on the stage—human recipients only, per club rules—to go to the bar. If Stiles were hoping to curb Sherlock’s suspicion, those hopes are dashed all to hell when almost a quarter of the people in the club nod a greeting to Stiles.

Things get worse at the bar, where the bartender grins widely at Stiles and manages to bare his neck subtly under the pretense of turning to reach for a glass.

It’s not subtle enough. Sherlock definitely notices. Son of a bitch.

"Hi, Kel," Stiles sighs. With the acknowledgment, Kel finally looks directly at Stiles and Sherlock.

"Stiles." He sets a vodka and cranberry in front of Stiles. "Drinks are on the house. David’s on his way out."

"Of course he is." Stiles smiles weakly and downs his drink in one go.

"I’ll have a tonic water, please," Sherlock says.

*

"Mr. Stilinski."

Stiles looks up from his second drink—a Coke—and clears his throat. David Erly own Vulpine and is the Alpha of the midtown west pack. He’s also creepy on Peter Hale levels.

"Mr. Erly," Stiles says. He gets to his feet and nods curtly. David watches him steadily, seemingly with the patience of saints. Stiles twitches and fidgets and jerks, but forces himself not to look away. It would be harder if he didn’t have a bunch of years experience of (attempting to) stare down Derek and Peter. Seriously, David is dominant as all get it, but he doesn’t terrify Stiles nearly as much as people with the surname Hale do. So, yeah, eventually David grins ruefully and shakes his head.

Stiles exhales and feels dizzy from lack of oxygen, because he was apparently holding his breath during that exchange without realizing it. Something to work on.

"David, this is Sherlock Holmes. He’s working on a case for the NYPD."

David turns to Sherlock and eyes him warily for a moment before his gaze narrows and a sharp smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He gestures to the side, and a woman sidles up to them. She takes in Sherlock with one quick glance and snaps her fingers. Sherlock sits up at attention, focus pinned on the woman.

Not thirty seconds later, Sherlock is following the woman off to a curtained booth to the left, and Stiles is left with David.

"Would you join me behind the rope?"

Stiles sighs. “Sure.”

*

Three hours later, Stiles and Sherlock meet up at the front door. Sherlock is escorted by the woman from earlier, who swats him on the ass as she leaves and tells him to be good.

A red-faced Stiles has been accompanied by David, who provided, for a price, the information Sherlock came here for, and a raven-haired sub named Rebecca. Stiles agreed to six weekly “training sessions” in exchange for the information.

By way of a goodbye, David says, “Tell your…Derek I said ‘you’re welcome’.”

Stiles’ blush gets impossibly deeper, and the situation in his pants impossibly harder.

Sherlock blinks in surprise and says, “Oh.”

Rebecca presses against Stiles, eyes averted and neck bared. Stiles sets his jaw and then places a hand on the nape of her neck and squeezes. “I’ll see you next week, Becca.”

She sways into Stiles’ side and smiles happily. “Yes.”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open. “Oh.”

Stiles really wants the Earth to open up and swallow him right about now. To forestall Sherlock’s questions, he holds out the paper on which he jotted notes about their victim. “Got some information.”

"Still waters," Sherlock says, eyeing Stiles in a new light.

If only he knew.

Chapter Text

Stiles’ official title is Personal Assistant. Unofficially, Sherlock calls him an Apprentice Apprentice Detective. It doesn’t matter how often Stile explains that he’s majoring in mythology and folklore and has no intention of going into the detective business. Sherlock just looks at Stiles like all his protests are lip service.

It makes sense, when Stiles thinks about it. With Sherlock and Joan, Stiles is playing at being a version of himself that ceased existing when he was sixteen. He’s acting the role of the young adult version of the child that thought his Dad was a superhero; the high school freshman who couldn’t wait to find himself in college. The real Stiles isn’t someone Sherlock has seen, so it’s forgivable that he’s actually wrong about Stiles. So very very wrong.

"Your tattoos are very interesting," Sherlock says one morning. According to Joan, who was grumpy and glowery when Stiles arrived at seven, Sherlock’s been staring at the files for their latest case for the last nine hours.

Stiles makes an acknowledging noise, sets a cup of tea at Sherlock’s elbow, and drapes the dry cleaning over a chair back, reminding himself to bring it upstairs later. Ms. Hudson’s been in, he can tell, because the bits of torn paper that have been under the desk for several days have been swept away. Stiles is maybe a little bit in love with Ms. Hudson, who managed to help him sort out a system for his growing folklore library in about ten minutes. Also, she’s smoking hot. Also-also, she was able to get him a face-to-face with one of the most elusive fae in the city; not that Ms. Hudson knows that the woman is fae.

"They’re Polish, are they not?"

Stiles startles just a bit, even though he should be used to the random shit Sherlock knows and/or learns. It’s sort of like being faced with a part of himself, the one that gets sucked into Wikipedia spirals and comes up days later with mountains of useless and unneeded knowledge.

"Yeah, they are," Stiles says. He glances down unconsciously, even though most of the tattoos are covered by his shirt. The only ones visible are on his inner wrists: interlocking circles that that form another circle when he presses his wrists together just the right way. Over his heart is a stylized fire flower in the center of a circle. On his back, Stiles has a tattoo of a candle dripping into a small body of water to form of a Pysanky egg. Sherlock got a glimpse of those a few weeks back, when Stiles had to strip off his shirt after an incident in the upstairs bathroom that involved acid. ("Don’t ask," Stiles told Scott and Derek on the phone that night, sighing tiredly.)

There are more, ones that Sherlock hasn’t seen, and which Stiles is going to make sure he never sees.

"Both my parents’ families are Polish, hence the unpronounceable first name. One of my concentrations is Polish folklore." The other is Celtic lore, because the Hales are Celtic in origin, as are werewolves as a whole. Stiles’ magic works best when he draws on the lore of his own heritage, or the lore of the wolves he’s voluntarily connected himself to.

Sherlock doesn’t ask the questions other people normally do: what do they mean, why did he get them, does he think any of it works? He just abruptly gets to his feet and grabs his coat, telling Stiles to have Joan meet him at the station.

*

Of course, nothing is ever forgotten with Sherlock. Stiles has already learned to be most wary when he let’s something go, because it means he’s going to do a shit ton of research and come at you later.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean Stiles is ever actually prepared, because there’s no preparing for Sherlock’s methodology.

Which is why Stiles walks into the Brownstone one day and finds himself staring at a goddamn skrzak in a human glamour. Sherlock is standing off to the side, an innocent look hiding a sly expression, hands clasped behind his back. He rocks forward onto the balls of his feet as he introduces them.

"Hattie runs a lovely bookstore in Brooklyn," Sherlock tells Stiles.

Stiles already knows that. Hattie—or, Henryka—and her bookstore are the reason why Stiles avoids Flatbush like the plague. Imps and Sparks get along about as well as oil and water. Hattie typically avoids Greenwich Village just as carefully.

Sherlock swans off to get some tea, and Hattie smirks. She lets her glamour fall enough for Stiles to see sharp, pointed teeth. They’re not fangs, but they’re supposedly razor sharp. In response, Stiles tugs at the collar of his v-neck t-shirt and flashes the fire flower.

Both of them are scowling at one another when Sherlock returns. “I thought it might be interesting to bring together two of the people in the city who know the most of Slavic, especially Polish, folklore.”

Stiles and Hattie narrow their eyes and back themselves into seats without looking away.

By the time Joan arrives home, there’s tea all over the floor, four broken cups, and Stiles and Hattie are hissing at each other in Polish.

Sherlock beams at her. “They’re debating folklore.”

Joan turns on her heel and heads into the kitchen.

They go back to arguing, and eventually it turns into hair pulling, because Stiles won’t use magic in front of Sherlock, and the wards he embedded in the Brownstone won’t let Hettie use any of hers.

Sherlock watches like it’s a spectator sport, and Joan has to pry them apart.

*

It doesn’t end there.

No, instead it ends with Hettie dead in her store in Flatbush and Stiles filing a false mugging report with the police in Greenwich Village because there’s no other way to explain the bruises.

Stiles is left wondering if Sherlock has a bit of Janus in him, for the way he causes chaos to create order.

Chapter Text

Stiles has three massive papers due in one week, assignments in those and two others classes, and no time to spare. He takes a week off of assisting Joan and Sherlock, with minimal fuss from Joan and a bunch of subtle passive aggressive shit from Sherlock. Fortunately, Stiles is immune to passive aggressive shit. It comes from living a life filled with overtly aggressive life-threatening shit, which makes the small stuff no sweat, really.

His ADHD has calmed down a little over the years. Part of it is probably him getting older, but some of it has to do with his Spark. A side effect of recognizing and using it is that his attention capability and activity levels are slightly closer to the normal range than they used to be. It’s something for which he’s grateful because college professors are less amused and more “give you an F” when you write a paper that’s not even tangentially related to the assigned subject area.

After burning off some energy renewing the wards around his apartment building, Stiles hunkers down and spends four days blasting through the papers. He’s got first drafts done and is giving himself a day’s break before attacking them again with a fresh perspective for final edits, when there’s a knock on his door.

Probably the last person he expects to see on the other side of the threshold is Ms. Hudson. They talk at the brownstone, but they haven’t exchanged phone numbers, much less addresses. Stiles stares at her, slack-jawed, for a moment, while she stands there with eternal patience and an aura of such self-contained confidence that Stiles feels younger and more gauche than ever before.

"Oh, uh, hey," he finally says.

Ms. Hudson’s polite smile becomes a bit warmer, even though it doesn’t really change. “I’m sorry to show up so unexpected, but I was hoping you had some time to talk.” She holds up a bakery box. “I brought lemon bars.”

Stiles blinks at her, at a loss in the face of her perfect Emily Post etiquette. He tries for a few moments to figure out the smoothest way to respond, then gives up with an internal Kanye shrug. “What?” Ms. Hudson gives him an expectant look, and Stiles stumbles back, holding the door to his studio apartment open. “Oh. Right. Come in?”

*

The lemon bars are sinfully good. Ms. Hudson watches indulgently while Stiles devours three of them, before setting aside the one she took a single bit of and saying, “I recently met a new paramour.”

Stiles swallows down the last mouthful of lemon bar and nods. “Are they good enough for you?” he asks, because Ms. Hudson is awesome and she deserves someone just as awesome.

Ms. Hudson’s face is taken over by a besotted smile. “So far, he is.”

"Good. That’s…good." There’s an awkward silence. Stiles isn’t any better at those than he used to be. "Um, yeah, far be it for me to look a delicious lemon bar horse in the mouth, but—why exactly are you here?"

Ms. Hudson’s fingers twitch ever so slightly where they’re settled primly on her knees. “As it turns out, he’s a bit different than my previous paramours. We both thought it worthwhile for me to seek out some guidance from an expert.”

It takes several long drawn out moments for Stiles’ suspicion to kick in. “…what do you mean by different?”

"He’s a werewolf."

*

As it turns out, Ms. Hudson’s new partner is not only a werewolf, he’s an Alpha.

Eliot Marrin is the Alpha in what used to be Hell’s Kitchen. He’s also a renowned playwright with a single genius play in his repertoire. Apparently, since meeting Ms. Hudson just a month ago, Marrin is now halfway through a sophomore endeavor.

Stiles is almost through his third rum and Coke before Ms. Hudson finishes waxing saptastic about Marrin.

The thing is, Stiles can see it. First of all, werewolves can switch their damn species at will, so transitioning from one gender or sex to another isn’t really something that raises eyebrows. Second of all, Ms. Hudson is sort of the perfect partner for an Alpha. Like, seriously. She is confident, capable, competent and a host of other things—not all of them beginning with C—that mean she is the complement to the aggressive and overwrought personalities Alphas tend to have (…if this is maybe a reason why Stiles is insanely jealous of Ms. Hudson, well, then, that’s between him and himself).

Stiles has a So, Werewolves: A Primer binder on his bookshelf, because sometimes when it’s three in the morning and you’re a senior in high school, you get really bitter about all the shit you wish you’d known going into the werewolf business, so you create a handbook because it’s either occupy yourself that way or have a massive panic attack waiting to hear if someone else you know is dead. It’s actually come in handy a few times over the years.

While Ms. Hudson diligently goes through one section after the next in the binder, Stiles pulls a few basic texts for her and sets them on the side table at her elbow. One of them is entirely about pairing up with an Alpha and it cost Stiles a pint of blood and four strands of hair to obtain. So far it’s proved entirely useless to Stiles’ existence (and there goes that jealousy again, damn it).

Stiles passes out after his sixth rum and Coke. Ms. Hudson is still there when he wakes up the next morning, looking fresh as a daisy while Stiles knows his appearance is about similar to five miles of bad road rife with dead flattened animals. Really, if he didn’t love Ms. Hudson so much, he would hate her.

*

They meet up again the following night at a bar in Midtown. It’s not far from the UN and it falls smack dab in middle of the very small radius of neutral territory in Manhattan.

Ms. Hudson is waiting when Stiles arrives bearing a printed list of future reading materials. Stiles tried his best to categorize them not only by content, but also by usefulness based on time interacting with werewolves. (…he maybe used to spend far too much time waiting to hear if someone he knew was dead.)

"Thank you, Stiles."

Stiles quirks his lips, then holds out his arm to her. “Come on. Let’s do this.”

Inside, the bar is filled with its typical random assortment of preternatural beings. This is the establishment at which Stiles declared himself when he moved here for college, and it’s the one place in Manhattan where those who aren’t quite human can go to without worrying about stepping on on someone else’s territory.

Ms. Hudson takes it all in stride, even the Harpy at a center table, and easily lets Stiles guide her to a set of tables on the edge of the room. There are eight people seated at two tables that have been pushed together. At the head is a tall guy with dark red hair and brown eyes—Marrin. Stiles has met him a time or two before, but doesn’t know him all that well. Around him are seven of his highest ranking betas.

Stiles leads Ms. Hudson there and stops at Marrin’s left. “Alpha Marrin, it’s nice to see you again.”

Marrin’s lips quirk. “You as well, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles twists slightly and looks at everyone else at the table. He’s spent a few nights drinking with one of Marrin’s betas, and another one has been in a few of Stiles’ classes at NYU. He waves to both women and then looks back at Marrin. “This is my friend, Ms. Hudson. She just found out about werwolves so I figured this was the best place to come for her to get the lay of the land.”

Marrin looks at Ms. Hudson for the first time, and there’s something helplessly soft in his eyes. Stiles’ heart melts a bit in his chest, and he’s glad he was home when Ms. Hudson came by, glad that he’s here at all to bring her into the supernatural fold in a way that will make being with Marrin acceptable to the community as a whole. (Things are so much less formal and much easier in Beacon Hills when it comes to shit like this, Stiles can’t even imagine Scott and Allison trying to navigate this sort of bull.)

Stiles and Ms. Hudson are separated when they’re asked to join Marrin’s group. Stiles worries about it, but Ms. Hudson shrugs it off and takes the seat to the Alpha’s right, which opened up at the Alpha’s request. Stiles squeezes in halfway down the table, across from his infrequent drinking buddy, Amanda.

Within five minutes, Stiles remembers why he rarely comes to places like this: it’s the questions. People want to know about the crap that’s gone down in Beacon Hills, especially everything involving the Alpha Pack. Stiles puts them off with some vague but amusing diversions and focuses mostly on Amanda, who’s more interested in talking about the latest Dragon Age release than real life. She’s Stiles’ kind of person.

By the end of the night, Marrin and Ms. Hudson have essentially detached themselves from the rest of the group while remaining at the same table: they’ve turned their chairs to face one another and haven’t spoken to anyone else since immediately after Ms. Hudson sat down.

Marrin and Ms. Hudson part with a delicate slide of palm against palm. It would be a meaningless gesture among humans, just a strange version of a handshake, but it’s something weighted among werwolves. The betas at the table all turn to look. Stiles holds his breath, only releasing it when no one objects.

Still, it’s Stiles who escorts Ms. Hudson out of the bar, even if a small declaration has been made. Ms. Hudson is beaming and Stiles is lethargic on account of the two orders of mozzarella sticks he demolished around his single beer.

Just as Stiles is about to hand her into a cab, she says, “You know, the chances of Sherlock remaining in the dark about all of this are practically non-existent.”

Stiles makes a face and admits something he’s only admitted to himself. “I think Joan’s the one who’ll stumble onto it.”

Ms. Hudson grins, because she really likes Joan. “Maybe. But it’ll be Sherlock who figures it out; Joan’s too much of a scientist to go from point a to werewolves.”

Stiles knows all of that, and more; he’s seen his fair share of people stumble onto the supernatural over the years. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

Ms. Hudson gives him a chaste peck on the mouth and slips into the cab.

Stiles is left wondering if all of his and the Packs’ plans are going to be much use when confronted with Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

He’s got a feeling that he’ll be finding out soon enough.

Chapter Text

Alfredo is waiting for Stiles a few blocks from the Brownstone. Stiles grins a greeting, then exchanges a clasped handshake with the other man. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”

"Pretty well," Alfredo says. “How’s your dad doing?"

Stiles talked to Alfredo, halting and guilt-laden, about his dad’s drinking the second time they met. It marks the only time Stiles has ever openly engaged in dialogue about it. Alfredo gave him some perspective on a few things, and called his ass on the carpet on a few others. Stiles needed both of those things from someone outside of not just the Stilinski family, but the Packs.

It led to some really painful conversations between Stiles and his dad, not to mention some tears, but in the end Stiles felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and Dad was attending AA meetings twice a month.

Stiles exhales easily. “He’s doing really well. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Alfredo nods and clasps his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

It’s not that Dad was an alcoholic. Stiles has gone over that check list on his father’s behalf more than a dozen times over the years. But the propensity is there and once Dad got clued in on the mystical shit in town, that propensity became more worrisome.

Stiles claps his hands together. “So. Sherlock told me to meet up with you for a lesson, but he didn’t say what.”

"Yeah, the lesson." Alfredo shakes his head and huffs out an understated laugh. “We’re going to work on a particular skill set today."

Stiles raises his brows. “Wow, that’s not vague at all, dude.”

"Sherlock calls it ‘commandeering vehicles."

Stiles laughs for a good five minutes.

*

"Forty-six seconds," Alfredo says, disbelieving.

Stiles makes a face. “Not my best time, but in my defense I’m not used to having to jimmy doors.” Usually the werewolves would just bash in a window.

Alfredo shifts sideways in the passenger seat and fixes Stiles with narrowed eyes. “Stilinski, your father is the Sheriff of your tiny little ricecake town.”

"Actually, he’s the County Sheriff.”

"Talk."

Stiles gives Alfredo his most disarming and genuine grin. “I had an internet connection and a lot of free time.”

Alfredo just stares at him. You can’t con a con, Stiles knows. But, at the same time, there’s a bit of professional courtesy that gets extended, where people don’t ask for details about your potentially illegal shenanigans because they don’t want you to ask questions about theirs.

Unfortunately, Alfredo is reformed, and apparently that means the rules don’t apply. “Don’t try and play me, white boy. How in the hell do you know how to do this shit?”

Stiles shrugs and flails and a hand and grimaces all at the same time. “I maybe had a bit of a misspent youth.”

The look Alfredo levels at him is deeply unimpressed. “What I’m hearing is that you need a challenge.”

*

Alfredo takes Stiles on a tour of the City that involves visits to five different makes and models of cars to steal. Stiles’ time on those cars are less impressive than the first one. But, hey, that first one was a Toyota, and Stiles lost count of the number of times he had to hotwire Derek’s soccer mom ride in the midst of shit, because Derek never would give him a spare key.

Still, he performs well enough for Alfredo to regard him with blatant suspicion.

They go for lunch after the last car and Alfredo watches Stiles closely. “You got a record?”

"Nope."

Alfredo arches a brow. “Would you have a record if your father wasn’t Sheriff?”

It takes all of Stiles’ willpower to hold back a wince. Dad found out about werewolves and all the other assorted crap late in Stiles’ senior year, which made things both easier and more difficult. At the very least, he didn’t have to lie through his teeth all the damn time, which was a relief. However, his dad got himself involved, which was not a good thing as far as Stiles was concerned. Before finding out, though, Dad was on the verge of arresting Stiles for any number of things.

"Trust me, my dad didn’t give me special treatment," Stiles says flatly. He pushes away the last of his fries, appetite gone.

Alfredo whistles lowly. “Damn.”

Stiles nods. Yeah, damn.

*

"Sherlock wanted us to meet twice a week for three weeks," Alfredo says as they leave the diner.

"He paying you?"

Alfredo smirks; it’s not smug, more soft and sly, with a bit of fond exasperation thrown in unintentionally. “I indulge him at a price.”

Stiles nods thoughtfully. “There’s something else I could use your help with…”

*

Four nights later, Alfredo gets them into a back room poker game in Alphabet City.

"Are you sure you want to be here?" Alfredo asks.

"Yeah. I mean, Sherlock pays pretty well and all, but NYU is expensive." As are all the books and supplies Stiles has been collecting. And Stiles is really not comfortable parting with any more of his blood or hair—an alternatively accepted currency—because there are too many nefarious things people can do with it.

Alfredo holds Stiles back when he’s about to approach a table. “These guys don’t mess around, Stiles.”

That makes Stiles pause. “Will they follow me out and beat me bloody if I win something?”

Alfredo hesitates. “A couple of them might.”

"Then steer met to a table that doesn’t include those people."

"That’s not what I meant," Alfredo huffs. “I meant that they’re hardcore poker players. You can’t just sit down at a table with them and hold your own just because you’ve played some internet poker."

"Yeah, I figured that when you told me what the buy in is." Stiles claps him on the shoulder. “No worries, I got this."

*

At the end of the night, Stiles splits his take with Alfredo, 70/30.

Alfredo doesn’t even argue. He’s too busy staring at Stiles like he’s something alien. “You coulda taken that whole table five times over.”

Which just confirms what Stiles has thought about Alfredo’s intelligence and observational skills. They’re not on par with Sherlock’s, but no one’s are. Alfredo’s still above average in both regards, though.

"People get pissed when you clean them out," Stiles replies. “It’s better to skim a bit from everyone and bank it so you can live to win some more on another night."

"Oh, right, of course," Alfredo says with so much sarcasm that Stiles thinks he could reach out and touch it.

He suddenly misses Derek so much it hurts.

"How the hell did you hustle some of the best back room players in the city?" Alfredo huffs.

Stiles has spent a lot of time learning to control his autonomous physical reactions through sheer force of will. He also has a lot of experience watching preternaturally fast and strong beings for tells that might lead to his evisceration and eventual death. Compared to that, controlling some subconscious tells, and seeing others,’ is a walk in the park.

Stiles shrugs expansively and Alfredo points stridently at him.

"One day," Alfredo says, “you and me are gonna have a real talk about whatever shit you’ve been in."

Stiles laughs. “Trust me, man, that’s the last thing you want.” He tucks his take into his pocket. “See you Wednesday.”

Chapter Text

The summer before his junior year of college, Stiles goes back to Beacon Hills for a few weeks. It would have been for the entire summer, the way it was the previous year, but Sherlock and Joan offered to keep him on the payroll if he wanted it. It’s a strange trip. Allison is off on an international exchange program in France, Isaac is doing an internship downstate, and Lydia is too busy being an awesome genius to leave school.

Given that Stiles hasn’t been home since last summer, he expects the increased touching from Scott, mostly in the form of bro-hugs and the same platonic cuddling they’ve engaged in since they were six, with some added huffing of breath against Stiles’ skin, because scenting is a legit thing for werewolves. What he doesn’t expect, and is decidedly not used to, is Derek suddenly laying hands on him all the time. In a non-violent and completely unnecessary way.

It doesn’t help that Derek starts their first face-to-face conversation with, “Why did I get a letter from Alpha Erly expressing his disappointment in my lack of a thank you note to him?”

Stiles blushes about fifty shades of red and doesn’t say a word about the six weeks of Dom lessons that Alpha Erly coerced him into in exchange for information on one of Sherlock’s cases. He also pointedly does not mention that Erly, somewhere around the third session, commented on how Stiles was shaping up to be a proper Emissary—and the lewd way he said the word made Stiles feel uncomfortable in the pants—for an Alpha.

"Let’s never speak of this again," is what Stiles does say, and then he shuts up because Derek is suddenly standing so closely to him that their shoulders are brushing.

That sort of sets the pattern for the three weeks in which Stiles is back home, with Derek getting all up in Stiles’ space in new and confusing ways that have Stiles’ long-standing crush on Derek tweaking out all over the place. Damn it.

By the time Dad drives Stiles down to Sacramento to catch his flight back to New York, Stiles and his awkward erections are glad for the escape from Derek and his…everything.

*

Stiles’ apartment, with its window unit air conditioner, is a reprieve to the massive heat wave Stiles comes back to. Not for the first time, Stiles is beyond glad that he took Derek up on his offer to pay for off-campus housing. Because, seriously, it’s heinously hot and muggy out there, and most of the NYU dorms don’t have A/C.

Stiles has been home for two days and is starfished on his bed in his boxers when Ms. Hudson calls. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Stiles, but Eliot asked me to contact you for your assistance.”

Before Stiles came to New York City—and periodically over the almost-three years since he’s been here—Derek, Deaton and Morell have all drilled protocols into Stiles’ head. He doesn’t even think before he asks, “In what capacity?”

Ms. Hudson pauses. There’s a rustling noise and murmured voices, and Stiles realizes he’s on speakerphone.

"As Emissary between the supernatural and mundane community," Ms. Hudson eventually says.

That right there is enough to grab Stiles’ attention. There are a few different types of Emissaries in the supernatural world. Deaton is pretty much an adviser, working closely with a particular group. Lydia, as a banshee, is technically considered one, even if there’s no stringent requirement for her loyalty and connection. And despite Alpha Erly’s general creepiness about things, Stiles is actually an Emissary in training. By nature, he’s not as specifically focused as Deaton, nor as ephemeral in nature as Lydia. He’s meant to be a go-between, someone who exists outside of the supernatural while being a part of it; who is as intrinsically linked with the mundane as the supernatural.

So far, Stiles hasn’t been called upon as an Emissary in New York City. Well, not really. He’s had to act as go-between for his Packs and various NYC entities a couple of times, but those were mostly formalities. This is something else, this is something truer to Stiles’ nature, his calling.

Before Stiles can respond, Ms. Hudson continues. “There’s a situation that wasn’t caught in time, and they need your assistance in your role as Sherlock’s assistant.”

Stiles bolts into a sitting position. In all the ways things are different between Beacon Hills and New York City, what’s always stood out to Stiles the most are the ways in which the NYC supernatural scene takes measures to protect itself. There’s an actual Council whose sole purpose is to make sure there are fingers in enough pots, at varying levels, to prevent discovery of all the beings that exist outside of humanity.

One of the major reasons Stiles hasn’t been too concerned with one of Sherlock’s cases having supernatural origins is that those cases are usually caught early enough that a complicated game of misdirection can be played. They tend have very open-and-shut “conclusions” that don’t require in depth investigation.

"Let me call you back," Stiles tells Ms. Hudson.

It takes an hour to set up a conference call between Stiles, Scott, Derek and Deaton. Morell—Stiles can’t call her Marin, mostly because he really truly hates her and only deals with her because it’s a necessary part of his training—is currently incommunicado. Probably off doing the kind of shit that makes Stiles hate her, but as long as its not with one of his Packs he can ignore it.

When he tells them about the request for his services, Scott immediately starts in with worried protests, Derek remains silent in a very loaded manner, and Deaton just “hms” in contemplation.

"We knew you’d be called upon sooner or later," Deaton says. "It’s what you’ve been training for. Take the meeting, but give yourself enough time to go over your study materials."

Stiles stares at the ceiling and prays for patience. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got for me?”

"That’s all you need," Deaton says serenely.

*

Stiles is woken in the middle of the night by the door.

It’s Derek.

Stiles gapes at him. “What.”

Derek arches a brow and pushes past Stiles into the apartment.

"No, seriously," Stiles says twenty minutes later, once he’s woken up a bit more. Derek is unpacking his overnight bag into Stiles’ dresser and prowling into the bathroom to leave his toiletries on the sink. "Why are you here? I mean, I know it’s because of the Council’s request, but I can do this."

Derek stops by the sofa, in profile to Stiles. He turns his head and the expression on his face is one that, to Stiles’ immense displeasure, reminds him of Derek’s relationship with Ms. Blake: open, vulnerable and soft. “I know you can,” Derek says quietly. He swallows, looks down and his back curves into a sinuous arc. “That doesn’t mean you have to do it on your own.”

Stiles blinks and sees echoes of Rebecca—the sub Erly had him train with—superimposed over Derek. It’s in the arch of his spine, the bend of his neck, the cant of his head. It makes Stiles move without thinking. Makes him go to Derek and wrap his hand around the back of Derek’s neck and squeeze, until Derek is leaning most of his weight against Stiles’ palm.

Oh, Stiles thinks, when Derek sighs and settles.

"Okay," is what Stiles says, and he’s sure to inject approval and praise in his tone. He tightens his grip and touches his forehead to Derek’s temple. "Thank you, Derek."

Derek shudders and closes his eyes.

*

The meeting is held in neutral territory, at the bar by the UN. Ms. Hudson is waiting for Stiles and Derek inside and then leads them into a spacious back room.

There’s not a little surprise at Derek’s presence, but Stiles puts a halt to the objections easily enough. “I’m allowed a trusted companion, for protection and counsel.”

Stiles can feel Derek shift behind him, where he’s standing at Stiles’ back like a sentry, like something feral whose teeth and claws are in Stiles’ control.

"I’m here as Stiles’ Second. Nothing else."

The Council settles and provides the details of the case that slipped through their nets. It falls in Gregson’s jurisdiction, though it hasn’t been assigned to him. Yet.

"If we get Gregson to work it, and call in Sherlock, can you sweep this under the carpet?" one of the Council members asks.

Stiles freezes. He’s not unintelligent; he’s actually far above average, okay, and used to dealing with people who are light years ahead of him—Lydia. Sherlock, though, is something else. He’s intuitive in a methodical way that should be contradictory. Then there’s Joan, whose intelligence is on par with Lydia’s, just in a different specialty, and whose intelligence is on par with Sherlock’s, but with a different strength.

Stiles doesn’t see how he can be a match for either of them, much less both. Doesn’t know how he can even try to subvert the investigation.

He’s about to back out of the room while rambling awkwardly when Derek steps up behind him, leans into him and tucks his fingers in the back waistband of Stiles’ jeans.

Stiles breathes, takes the strength Derek is offering, and says, “I can do it.”

*

The first hurdle Stiles has to overcome is the crime scene itself. It would be impossible, except Stiles has a lot of experience diverting law enforcement from impossible truths. All he has to do is say, “Huh, I think I read about something like this in one of my psych classes…” to get Gregson and Bell on the track he wants them on.

Sherlock is a bit harder because he picks up on the subtle nuances that don’t mesh with a killer who gets off on ravaging their victim like this, and Stiles can’t fall back on the old “animal attack” standby in this city. He ducks into the bathroom at the Brownstone and panics at Derek over the phone, until Derek says, “Calm down and think it through. You know this.”

Stiles does know this. He knows this not from seeing his father fall in line with Occam’s Razor, but from helping his father create the razor. He takes a deep breath, hears Derek mimic him over the line with a small sigh, and straightens his spine. “All right. Yeah.”

By the time Stiles leaves for the day, Sherlock is convinced the killer is someone who identifies a bit too much with a wild animal of some sort, mostly likely in a sexual manner. Stiles feels sort of terrible about that, in a weird way, but when he gets back to his apartment Derek is sprawled out on his bed, sleeping comfortably, and Scott is calling him to see how things are going, and Stiles knows it’s worth it.

*

The next hurdle is the body. Joan isn’t licensed any longer, so the NYPD never send her in to examine corpses, just lets her review reports. Sherlock, though, trusts Joan more than he does coroners, and Stiles anticipated he would once again sneak her into the morgue to examine the body herself.

"These marks aren’t consistent with the prosthesis you were thinking about," Joan tells Sherlock.

Stiles is on the other side of the room, as far from the body with its gaping chest as he can get. It’s sort of ironic that he’s still not been inured to blood and guts, what with all he’s been through. He turns away, the sight of the rib cage spread open like some horrible parody of angel or butterfly wings turning his stomach.

"How can you tell?" Stiles asks.

"Metal would make a smoother slice in the tissue," Joan says. Stiles hears some kind of squelching noise and tries to breathe well enough that the dancing dots in his vision recede. "This is more consistent with teeth, I think."

"We may have to alter our hypothesis," Sherlock muses.

Stiles forces himself to swallow back his dinner and say, “There aren’t prostheses made from actual teeth? Or, like, bone that’s shaped like teeth?”, which Sherlock gloms onto in an instant.

Stiles throws up when he gets home and is only glad that he didn’t pass out in the morgue.

*

The final hurdle Stiles needs to overcome is planting the evidence that will implicate the person the Council has set up as the patsy. This was a bone of contention at the Council meeting, a point on which Stiles wouldn’t compromise: they wanted to grab some random human with a history of mental illness and set them up to take the fall. Stiles refused to help if they did it that way.

In the end, it was Alpha Erly, who represented the NYC werewolves on the Council, who came up an alternative. He suggested using a werefeline of some sort who would be willing, for the greater good, to give up one of their lives in a dramatic showdown with police.

Stiles was all about that plan, and then Erly brought out Rebecca.

The thing is, Stiles is terrible at compartmentalization when it matters. Jackson might be the Kanima? Kill ‘im. Lydia might be the Kanima? Whoa, whoa, let’s not jump to killing.

It turns out that dominating someone during six intensive weeks of training tends to result in a sense of attachment. Go figure.

Stiles raised a stink, by which he means that he Sparked so hard that his tattoos flared to life and the lights flickered menacingly. Meanwhile, Rebecca preened at his regard while Derek exuded such resigned and disappointed hurt behind him that he almost choked on it.

It was only when Rebecca told Stiles she had a full complement of lives and had volunteered to sacrifice one, that Stiles stood down. Personal agency is something he puts a lot of stock in, considering he is a human (mostly) embroiled with the supernatural and whose friends had tried, once or twice and out of well-meaning love, to get him to distance himself from it.

(Later, he sat on the edge of his bed with his legs splayed and beckoned Derek to him. Derek came to him with flattering eagerness, dropped to his knees without being asked, and tilted his head back with little urging. Stiles bit at the front of Derek’s throat, declared a connection with the Hale Pack that was just as strong with his one with the McCall Pack. That was stronger than the one Stiles fostered between himself and Rebecca.)

In the end, this turns out to be the easiest of the hurdles. All he needs to do is slip a piece a torn corner of paper from his gloved hand to the corner of a closet, then let Sherlock notice it and put the pieces together.

Sherlock knows about Stiles’ connection to Rebecca, thanks to the case that took them both to Erly’s club early on in Stiles’ time with Sherlock and Joan. It strikes a chord with Sherlock on account of his history with with M—Moriarity—and adds verisimilitude to Stiles’ reaction when Rebecca is shot “dead” in front of him.

*

Stiles would have been there when Rebecca was unzipped from the body bag at a safe location, except Derek is still in town and has refused to let the mark at his neck heal fully and the only place Stiles should be is with him.

*

The Council requests his presence again, this time to offer their gratitude.

"The Council will owe me one," Stiles says in response.

The Speaker of the Council narrows her eyes. “As an Emissary—”

"I never declared myself an Emissary of this territory," Stiles interrupts. At his shoulder, Derek tilts his head back, displays the now-bruised skin of his throat. Stiles rolls his eyes. "I agreed to help you, but it wasn’t because I was obligated."

By the time Stiles and Derek leave the meeting, Stiles has tallied favors from five separate groups of supernatural beings in the City.

*

Sherlock is waiting at Stiles’ door when he and Derek return home. Stiles’ steps falter briefly, which both Derek and Sherlock notice.

"Didn’t we talk about boundaries?" Stiles says to Sherlock as he unlocks the door.

"Is this your…Derek?” Sherlock asks.

It takes a moment for Stiles to recognize the phrasing, the meaningful pause, and the emphasis on Derek’s name, as a mimicry of Erly that night at his club when Sherlock and Stiles visited for information.

Stiles pretends he doesn’t notice. He waves between the two men, says, “Derek, Sherlock. Sherlock, Derek.”

Sherlock’s eyes don’t miss the bruise on Derek’s throat, the bed that’s obviously been occupied by more than one person (though it’s been a chaste sharing), or the many occult texts on Stiles’ bookshelves that can’t all be explained away by Stiles’ area of study.

"I just wanted to see if you were all right after the events of this afternoon," Sherlock says brightly.

It’s a disingenuous tone, the kind that Sherlock takes with suspects. Unfortunately, it reminds Stiles of the dozens of bullets that tore into Rebecca’s flesh, that stole one of her nine lives and brought her that much closer to death.

Stiles already threw up at the scene, but his stomach roils again, brings a wave of bile up his esophagus that he can only force down because of Derek’s protective presence in front of him.

"I’m not even a little all right," Stiles says honestly. Sherlock’s face goes from smugly intrigued to painfully understanding and remorseful in an instant.

"No, of course you aren’t," Sherlock says after a too long pause. "You wouldn’t be, no."

Stiles would feel guilty at evoking the memory of Irene/M/Moriarty, except that it’s useful for him to have Sherlock distracted and diverted. He’s not sure how to get Sherlock to leave, however. Fortunately, Derek’s never waited for conveniently polite moments to clear a room.

"Stiles will see you on Monday," Derek says, and moves forward in such a way that Sherlock is forced to retreat towards and through the doorway.

Sherlock swallows and it’s so dry that Stiles can hear the click of his throat. “Yes, all right. Take all the time you need, Stiles.”

Derek turns his head and Stiles is caught by his searching and penetrative gaze. Derek doesn’t look away as he says, “In that case, Stiles will be back to work with you at the end of the summer.”

"Yes, that seems fair," Sherlock says just as Derek swings the door shut in his face.

*

Derek jerks forward and presses his lips to Stiles’. “Come back home for the summer.”

Stiles blinks, rearranges everything he thought to be true with things he always hoped for, and nods. “Okay,” he says, and draws Derek in for a decidedly less-than-chaste kiss.

Chapter Text

Stiles comes back to New York City with a bounce in his step, a renewed vigor, and a chafed dick and sore ass. To compliment all of that, he has a string hickeys across the tops of both shoulders. It’s a bit much but Derek has an oral fixation like whoah, and Stiles’ shoulders tend to always be within sucking distance.

"You clearly enjoyed your summer with your…Derek,” Sherlock says when Stiles reports for duty. “Your walk suggests—”

"Yeah, recent orgasms," Stiles says. "And just so you know, I will continue to ignore every single ‘your…Derek' reference you make.”

They stare at each other for a moment before Joan comes through and gives Stiles a hug hello. They’ve only just started catching up when Sherlock rocks on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back, collar button straining at his neck.

"Right, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, we have a case. Watson. Stiles. Come along."

*

Junior year of college is rough on Stiles. He’s in advanced level classes, which require more energy and effort than previous levels, plus he’s working for Sherlock, and has also officially been put on retainer by the City’s supernatural council.

The weeks pass in a blur of activity from three different and equally intense areas, and Thanksgiving sneaks up on him. Stiles never goes back home for Thanksgiving because it’s more economical to use his money to travel for Christmas break. Last year, Stiles spent the holiday with Sherlock and Joan. This year, though, he gets visitors.

Allison, Lydia and Erica show up on his doorstep on Tuesday. Stiles gapes at them with complete incomprehension until they lose patience with his slack-jawed staring and push their way in.

"No," Stiles says helplessly as they invade his small space. It’s reminiscent to Derek’s visit at the beginning of summer, but completely different.

"Jackson randomly showed up in Beacon Hills yesterday," Allison tells him quietly an hour later.

Lydia is looking through Stiles’ collection of take-out menus and Erica is wandering around in a post-shower towel (“Airplanes smell, Stiles.”) and poking through his cabinets, closets and drawers.

Stiles waves his arms at Allison. “That doesn’t explain anything.”

Allison huffs out a breath. “She needed to get away and I came with her.”

That…makes sense, what with the two of them being best friends and all. It doesn’t explain Erica. Allison and she still don’t like one another. Also, Erica still dislikes Lydia while Lydia is pointedly disinterested in Erica.

Allison shrugs and ducks her head. “Erica was already planning on coming out to surprise you. We kind of hijacked her plans.”

Stiles isn’t entirely surprised by the news about Erica. She and Stiles have become legitimate friends over the years. Interestingly enough, it happened after high school, through emails and texts at first. While Scott, Allison and even Isaac have visited him in NYC, Erica hasn’t until now. It was only a matter of time before she came to see him, but he wasn’t expecting the Thanksgiving after they had an entire summer together in Beacon Hills to be it.

The three of them sort of take over Stiles’ apartment, relegating him to the really uncomfortable futon while keeping the queen-sized bed for themselves. Not that Stiles gets much sleep that first night. He’s woken at three in the morning by Erica throwing a paperback book at him.

"Kill and death if I can’t get sleep," she snarls at him. It’s only partially nonsensical in that he knows she means she’ll get really angry if her sleep continues to be interrupted, but has no idea what has woken her to begin with or why it necessitates waking him.

It takes Stiles a minute to realize that Allison is at the door, staring suspiciously at Sherlock and Joan. Stiles presses his pillow to his face for a moment, then drops it.

Stiles stumbles to the door, passing Allison on the way, and dodging Lydia, who apparently took the opportunity to get up to pee.

Joan gives him a small smile. “Sorry, we were so close by it made sense to stop by rather than just call.”

Sherlock smirks. “Does your…Derek know about your bedfull of attractive skimpily-clad females?”

Behind him, Stiles hears Erica growl. In front of him, Sherlock’s face creases with wariness and he shifts backwards. Stiles turns and sees Allison, Lydia and Erica sitting upright in the bed and glaring promises of death at Sherlock. Well, okay, Erica is the only one outright glaring. Allison has that narrow-eyed “danger to your person is imminent” look, and Lydia has one brow arched and is shooting a freeze ray at Sherlock via her eyes. But, whatever, it’s all the same thing.

"I question your sense of self-preservation sometimes," Stiles sighs at Sherlock, then shuts the door in his and Joan’s faces to get dressed.

*

The latest case they’ve been called in on is complicated and filled with a number of inherent misdirections that send them down completely wrong paths. Stiles forgets about Thanksgiving, even though he has three guests in his too-small apartment. It sneaks up him, Sherlock and Joan equally, until they walk into the brownstone at seven in the evening on Thursday and smell the food.

"It’s us," Erica calls out.

Sherlock’s mouth gets pinched and he strides quickly through the brownstone to the kitchen.

"Oh my god," Joan says at the same time Stiles says, "Fuck my life."

"—type of boundary-less behavior is acceptable in the charming little hamlet from which you originate, but here we seek out permission before invading someone’s home to prepare a dinner for a holiday which the owner of said home does not celebrate."

"Charming hamlet," Erica repeats, eyes wide with incredulous amusement. She looks at Allison. "Charming hamlet.”

Allison nods, her lips pressed tight in a way that means she’s holding back laughter. “I know.”

Lydia just huffs and eyes the food laden table in front of her critically. The table, Stiles knows for a fact, was not in the brownstone earlier.

Sherlock’s face is getting strained and red. “Did you not hear—”

Joan and Stiles exchange a look. Sherlock’s been on edge from lack of sleep and frustration for the last few days and they’ve been taking turns dealing with it. Joan throws a pointed glance at the ladies, pretty much expressing her opinion that his friends are his fault. She’s right, too.

Stiles steps directly in front of Sherlock, drawing his attention from the ladies. “They know we did a small Thanksgiving thing last year, even though you’re very British. They also know you two let me camp out here when I’m sick so that I’m not alone and have a medical professional nearby, and that you once verbally smacked down a prof who was trying to screw me over.”

Sherlock frowns. “What does—”

"We were trying to do something nice for you, asshole," Erica says. She waves at the table. "There’s even weird British food here."

"You’re welcome," Lydia says with a big fake smile.

Sherlock’s eyes dart from one woman to the next, then to everything on the table. “Ah. I see. That’s remarkably thoughtful, though I believe you could have found a way to achieve this same goal without violating the sanctity of my home.”

Allison, Lydia and Erica all swing their eyes to Stiles because Sherlock’s tone and word choice are easy signs to read. Stiles nods tiredly.

"You’re right," Allison says. "We’re very sorry about that."

Sherlock is still staring at the table. Stiles gestures at Joan, who steps up beside Sherlock and touches his arm. “Come on, let’s change and wash up before eating.”

She ushers Sherlock from the room, looking at the ladies to smile and say, “It is very thoughtful, thank you.”

*

Dinner starts off a bit tense, with everyone sitting around the table awkwardly until Joan says, “Stiles talks about you all so often, but we haven’t been introduced.”

"We don’t need introductions, Watson," Sherlock says. "Take a moment and I’m sure you’ll be perfectly capable of deducing all three of their identities from what we know of them from Stiles."

"I’m trying to be polite," Joan says through a fixed smile.

"Try being an Apprentice Consulting Detective instead." Sherlock reaches for a platter filled with roast. "Consider it a training exercise."

Everyone starts grabbing for food, and in between Joan correctly names Allison, Lydia and Erica.

"Excellent, though Allison should not have been a process of elimination," Sherlock tells her. "The calluses on her hands are distinctive to archers, Watson."

Things settle after that, with Allison and Joan talking about clothing, because Allison seems to dig Joan’s style aesthetic. It’s not Lydia’s same style, but she appreciates the high-end quality. Erica listens but has little to add around the conversation, so Stiles engages her with talk of some of the comics they’re both still reading in trades.

Sherlock pipes in with interesting facts as they go and Stiles tends to bound with him down warrens of interconnected information, which leave his friends rolling their eyes and snorting into their food.

There’s a rough moment about halfway through dinner when Sherlock looks at Erica suddenly and says, “When did you grow out of your seizures?”

Erica immediately fixes Stiles with a look of such betrayed anger that his breath gets caught in his throat. “I didn’t,” he says quickly. “I would never.”

"Oh, no, Stiles didn’t tell me about your epilepsy. I simply noticed your food selections." He points with his fork at her plate. "You’ve eschewed the roast altogether, and have limited your turkey consumption to lean portions. You’ve also chosen vegetables with high carbohydrate counts, skipped the gravy, and had an extra serving of the three bean salad." He shoves a forkful of yorkshire pudding into his mouth, and chews enthusiastically. "You are essentially avoiding all food that would be found in a ketogenic eating plan, and obtaining disproportionate pleasure from your selections. This leads me to believe you were at one point in time on a ketogenic diet and are now, quite happily, not."

Eric looks at Stiles again. “That’s infuriating. How do you deal with it all the time?”

Stiles shrugs.

"Of course, that wasn’t my only clue," Sherlock continues. "There is also your wardrobe—"

"We should go shopping tomorrow," Lydia interrupts shamelessly. "Black Friday in New York City? It’d be a crime not to."

Dinner is pretty uneventful after that, and ends with everyone staying at the brownstone to better facilitate Black Friday shopping. Stiles tries to crash out on the couch in the living room, but Erica bullies him upstairs in a manner that suggests it’s a Pack thing, so he ends up on the floor of the spare bedroom he uses when he stays over, with the girls crammed into the bed.

*

Despite the generational gap between Joan and the other women, they seem to have quite the fun time shopping together, which Stiles knows because he and Sherlock are browbeat into joining them for the sole purpose of carrying their bags.

The only thing that makes it bearable is that, between Joan and Lydia, they aren’t at major department stores but smaller boutiques.

Stiles is mostly zoning out and waiting for it to end (and loaded down with about ten bags), but every time Joan interacts with Erica, he notices. It’s painfully obvious that Erica isn’t friends with Allison or Lydia, which would have left her at Stiles’ side if Joan weren’t taking an interest in her. Stiles is totally going to do something nice for Joan in the near future. Something exceptionally nice, even, because Erica ends the day with two pieces of clothing in softer fabrics that go with her current style while hinting at a future one that will suit her as she is now.

Stiles sends Derek a photo of Joan smiling at Erica, and Erica ducking her head with a bashful yet genuine half-smile, right before he realizes something important about their current case which ends the shopping day early.

Fortunately, it leads to the solution of the case, which means Stiles gets to spend the rest of the weekend doing touristy things with his friends.

*

Stiles convinces Erica to extend her stay to make up for her visit being crashed by Allison and Lydia. Derek, after getting the pic Stiles sent, agrees to pay the change-in-ticket fees for her. He also wires her some cash.

Erica spends a lot of time with Joan over the additional few days and starts standing just as tall as she started to after the bite, but with less aggression and more confidence. Stiles is going to make Derek send her out here as often as possible because it’s sort of amazing.

Sherlock watches both women just as closely as Stiles does, though probably for different reasons. He hasn’t tread carefully around Erica since dinner, but he has treated her far nicer than he usually does strangers.

Stiles and Erica have lunch at the brownstone right before they need to leave for the airport.

"Watch out for my Batman," Erica tells Sherlock. "We want him back in one piece."

"Of course," Sherlock says immediately. Then, he lifts his chin and adopts what Stiles has come to learn is his honestly earnest expression. "I upset you, the other night at dinner. I wanted to assure you that wasn’t my intent. I thought you might be happy about your recovery and would want to discuss it."

Erica is starting to look a bit fragile about the eye area. Stiles opens his mouth but Joan shakes her head at him.

"I can only surmise that the subject of your previous condition is a sensitive one, perhaps on account of how cruel children can be," Sherlock goes on, and now Erica’s entire face is vulnerable and slack in ways Stiles hasn’t seen for a long time. Sherlock catches the expression and deduces the meaning, and nods knowingly. "Allow me to assure you, Ms. Reyes, that the issue was them, and not yourself. None of them could ever aspire to even a fraction of the remarkableness with which you are so strongly imbued."

There’s a moment of dead silence, and then Sherlock spins on his heel. “Right. Must look after the bees.”

"…so that’s how you put up with it," Erica says to Stiles in a small voice.

Stiles takes her hand in his and squeezes tightly. “Yeah.”

Joan smiles warmly at Erica reaches out for a hug, which Erica not only allows but returns and lingers on. All the nice things for Joan, Stiles promises himself.

"Remember what I said about those letters of recommendation," Joan tells Erica. She brushes Erica’s hair away from her face and kisses her forehead. "Now, go on, before you miss your plane."

*

Three weeks later, Derek tells Stiles that Erica’s enrolling in an Occupational Therapy Assistant program at the local community college, and that both Joan and Sherlock wrote letters for her.

Chapter Text

Somewhere around Ms. Hudson and Alpha Marrin’s ten month anniversary, he decides to make an official Declaration of Intent before his pack.

"Congratulations," Stiles says when she calls to tell him. His jealousy at her snagging an Alpha is sort of moot now so there’s nothing at all insincere or bitter about the sentiment. "Is it going to be a big event, or one of those intimate things?"

Declarations are about similar in werewolf society to human engagement parties. Stiles has been to one since coming to New York, and it was a bare bones affair with just two of the Alpha’s most trusted Packmates in attendance. He’s heard, though, that Declarations are sometimes majorly serious business.

"We’re limiting it to Pack only," Ms. Hudson tells Stiles. "With a few exceptions."

The Marrin Pack has about fifty members, so it’s not like the intimate ceremony Stiles attended.

"I’m sure it’s going to be amazing."

Ms. Hudson laughs, light and beautiful. “Thank you, Stiles. I was wondering, though…”

Stiles can’t help but tense up in wary suspicion. “Yeah?”

"Would you be willing to officiate the ceremony?"

As an official Emissary to Derek’s Pack, as well as a Spark on retainer for the NYC Council, Stiles could absolutely officiate. “Oh, wow. Um, I’m—wow. Why me?”

Ms. Hudson sighs. “Most of my friends won’t be able to attend, because they’re not part of this world. And not only do I consider you a friend, but you helped facilitate my and Eliot’s relationship. It would mean a lot to me if you were the one to oversee the Declaration.”

Stiles doesn’t even have to think about it. “Yes. Absolutely. Count me in.”

*

A week later, Stiles walks into a tense atmosphere in the Brownstone. Sherlock is sitting on the floor, surrounded by files from their latest case. Given the tense line of his back, and the way Joan is flipping through a folder with more ferocity than is really warranted, Stiles guesses something is up.

"I compiled the information on stab wounds you wanted," Stiles says warily.

Sherlock ignores him, and Joan just points to a stack of folder files that are about to tipple over. Stiles deposits his folder of findings on the top and then steps back carefully.

"Okay, I’m just going to—"

"Sherlock’s father is sending someone to check in with him to see how he’s doing," Joan says. It’s surprising, because Joan tends to defer to Sherlock about whatever has gotten him riled up.

"More precisely," Sherlock bites out, "my father has sent a lackey to spy on me and report back on however I am lacking in my father’s expectations. If the report is not favorable, my father will cancel our lease for the Brownstone."

Joan pivots in her chair and glares at Sherlock. “He cares and he wants to make sure you’re still doing well.”

Sherlock snaps a file closed and opens another on top of it. “No, my father is looking for an excuse to boot me from this, his least maintained property, and cut me off.”

"He gave you a large amount of money without question. I highly doubt he’s trying to fabricate a reason to view you as unstable."

"On the contrary, Watson, that’s exactly what he’s trying to do."

Stiles looks between Sherlock and Joan, who are now glaring at one another, and then takes a step back. “I’m going to, uh, make some tea. Something…calming.”

*

Stiles claims school conflicts to remove himself from the tension of the Holmes-Watson household as much as possible over the next week and a half. It’s not entirely a lie. Ms. Hudson requires Stiles’ presence at consultations to determine her and Eliot’s Declaration statements, as well as at rehearsals and rehearsal dinners. It might not be school, but it’s a commitment that Stiles needs to be available for. Sherlock’s weird radar for dishonesty and dissembling doesn’t even glitch, much less ping, thank fuck.

Then Stiles gets some more crap on his plate when Alpha Marrin and Ms. Hudson pull him aside after the rehearsal dinner.

"Alpha Erly called us regarding a wolf visiting his territory," Marrin says.

Stiles rubs his forehead and sighs. “Not to be rude or anything, but is it too much to ask for werewolves to just get to the point without the—” Here Stiles waggles his fingers at his side in a jazz hands formation. “—dramatic reveal?”

Ms. Hudson is smiling so hard it seems like her dimples are straining against her skin, and Alpha Marrin is laughing at Stiles with his eyes.

"Alpha Erly wants you to go by his club because you have a connection to the werewolf," Marrin says. "That’s all he told us."

"Fucking werewolves," Stiles mutters.

*

The thing is, Stiles isn’t really sure who Erly wants to get his advice on. The werewolves Stiles are intimately—for varying values of “intimate”—familiar with are all accounted for. There are a few from other Packs in NYC that he knows but it’s not a large pool. He essentially walks into Erly’s club, Vulpine, half-convinced this is some trick of Erly’s just to get him back on site. Stiles’ Dom tendencies had always been present, and Erly capitalized on that a while back by bartering information for Stiles training with a sub.

It was embarrassing at the time, but given Stiles’ role as an Emissary in general, and Derek’s Emissary in particular, it has definitely come in handy. And, okay, Stiles is strong enough to admit—even outside of his status as Emissary, Domming is something that works for him.

Anyway, the point is, Stiles is half-convinced this is some ploy of Alpha Erly’s to get him back into the BDSM themed club he owns.

Turns out, not so much. Like, Stiles is sure that the meeting place is definitely deliberate. But there’s also a valid connection between Stiles and the werewolf.

"Jackson?" Stiles says when he’s shown into Erly’s private office.

Jackson looks just as flummoxed and pissed off as Stiles feels. “Testicle One? Seriously?”

"Go fuck yourself, asshole," Stiles snaps.

It’s nothing at all like a grand reunion, much to Erly’s amusement.

"So you obviously know one another," Erly says. Jackson and Stiles turn identical baleful looks on Erly, who just smiles in response. "Mr. Stilinski, Jackson here is on a brief business trip. In your opinion, should my Pack sponsor him?"

Sponsoring means giving succor to and claiming temporary responsibility for. Most supernatural beings need it when entering New York City, though Stiles was exempt for a number of reasons that had to do with what he was. Jackson, as a werewolf, can’t be made exempt. Without a sponsor he won’t be allowed in the city.

Almost everything in Stiles wants to say no, wants to make Erly deny Jackson a short-term covenant so that he has to go back to wherever the fuck home is nowadays. But that’s his terrible high school history with Jackson talking, so he forces himself to recognize that they are a bunch of years away from Jackson bullying him in high school, from Jackson being used as a tool of vengeance.

All Stiles can do is be honest with Erly.

"I haven’t known Jackson as a werewolf," Stiles says. "So I can’t really give a recommendation one way or another, Alpha Erly."

Erly studies Stiles with a piercing gaze, which Stiles meets calmly and truthfully. Eventually, Erly nods. “Thank you, Mr. Stilinski.” Erly turns that same gaze on Jackson, who meets it with a puffed out chest and a defensive gaze. “Given that I haven’t heard anything troubling about you since you joined your current Pack, I’ll agree to sponsor you, Jackson.”

Jackson preens at Erly, then scowls at Stiles, and maybe it is still just like high school.

*

Erly leads them into the main room of the club, then leaves them to take a walk beyond the velvet rope, where all the really fun stuff happens. It’s a supernaturals only night, which leaves Stiles as one of the few humans in the club.

Stiles and Jackson exist in a state of petulant and stubborn silence until Jackson cracks when the fifth person comes over to greet Stiles.

"What the hell, Stilinski? Are you everyone’s bitch or something?"

The man greeting Stiles, a werecat from Rebecca’s Glaring, rears back and hisses at Jackson. Like, a full out snarly wet hiss that’s less ridiculous and more alarming than one might imagine.

Stiles throws out an arm in front of the guy. “Mark, right?” The guy—Mark—nods. “I appreciate the support, but this asshole is actually a guest of Alpha Erly’s. Okay?”

Mark looks away from where he’s sneering at Jackson—who is sneering right back, though with some confusion—and meets Stiles’ eyes. “That doesn’t mean he can be a dick.”

Stiles nods. “I know, but trust me when I say I can handle him.”

"Make sure you do," Mark says as he turns away. "Someone else might not react as nicely as I did."

Stiles rounds on Jackson as soon as Mark has left their immediate vicinity. He’s not stupid enough to think they have even a semblance of privacy, not in a club populated mostly by werecreatures, but maybe that’s for the best.

"Rule number one to not getting your ass beat by everyone in this place: don’t be a demeaning shitface about any part of the culture."

Jackson being Jackson rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Like I care about anyone’s sex life. And it’s not surprising that you probably show your throat to everyone in here.”

That…is actually a really fucking insulting thing to say when one is a werewolf, so Stiles is incredibly unsurprised when there’s a blur of motion that comes at Jackson from the side and takes him down.

It’s Mark the werecat. Stiles folds his arms and watches the brawl unfold in front of him. When the bouncers don’t break it up, he frowns. Then Erly steps up next to him, arms also folded.

"He’s got an attitude, doesn’t he?"

Stiles shrugs. “It’s a thing of his.”

"It’s not his only thing," Erly says meaningfully.

"You mean the thing where he’s the subbiest sub to probably never have actually subbed?" Stiles says. "Not a new piece of information for me." Well. Not really. Not now that he has words and experience. It’s kind of glaringly obvious, in fact.

"I’m thinking that situation might resolve itself during his time here." Erly’s voice is as smooth as silk. When Stiles pivots slightly to get a better look at him, Erly’s expression is predatory and hungry. Huh. Erly smiles slyly when he catches Stiles’ eye briefly. "There doesn’t seem to be much love lost between the two of you."

"We went to high school together and we weren’t friends. I haven’t seen him in about five years. So, no, no love lost. That doesn’t mean I won’t look out for him, though."

That makes Erly turn sharply in Stiles’ direction. “I don’t like what you’re implying.”

"I don’t give a shit what you like." Stiles narrows his eyes. "Now, break up that—” Stiles gestures at where Mark has Jackson pinned and is trying to remove his kidneys with clawed hands. “—right the fuck now or I’ll handle it in a way that undermines the hell out of you.”

A quick flicker of Erly’s hand has the bouncers darting in to separate the two werecreatures. There’s a lot of blood, most of it Jackson’s, which makes Stiles frown. Stiles knows that Rebecca’s former Glaring is made up of bitten, not born. None of them have been werecats for longer than two years.

"Jackson’s Pack in Europe has a very cushy existence," Erly says. He sounds very disgusted by it, but his voice becomes saccharinely innocent between one breath and the next. "Maybe some time here will toughen him up."

"Aren’t you the one who sat me down for a two hour lecture on being safe, sane and consensual?"

Erly arches a brow and then grins, eyes bright. “I did.” His gaze flickers to Jackson, who is twisting out of a bouncer’s grip and stripping off the shredded remains of his suit jacket. Stiles is surprised to catch a glimpse, fast and quickly hidden, of something genuine and interested in Erly’s expression. Huh.

"Derek bit him, you know," Stiles says, making sure his tone is bland.

Erly gives Stiles his full and intense attention, similar to the look he pinned Stiles with when Stiles came here with Sherlock. Back then, Stiles held his own, barely and with difficulty. It’s easier now, knowing that he’s been recognized by the city’s supernatural Council, that he’s an active Emissary. Or maybe the difference is that Stiles owns and has honed the Dom in himself, even if he doesn’t live the lifestyle or even practice it beyond making Derek howl during sex sometimes.

Either way, Erly nods in respectful acknowledgment. “Are you requesting that I leave him be?”

Stiles lets his silence fall heavy between them for long moments before saying, “I’m requesting that you practice what you preach.”

Erly looks at Stiles like he’s trying to read Stiles’ soul. Eventually he nods. “Understood.”

Stiles walks out of Vulpine with Jackson five minutes later.

"Are you seriously an Emissary?” Jackson asks. He seems conflicted, like he wants to scoff as equally much as he wants to give Stiles a swirly. Not that he ever actually succeeded at doing the latter.

Stiles nods. “Yeah.”

If Stiles looks closely, he can see Jackson’s perspective of him rearranging before his very eyes. “Huh.”

*

Of course, none of this means that Stiles is prepared to walk into the Brownstone the next afternoon—following an appointment to approve floral arrangements with Ms. Hudson—and see Jackson standing in the living room.

"The hell?"

Jackson looks like he just sucked a lemon. “Really?”

Sherlock, whose expression is reminiscent of someone who has recently smelled something repugnant, glares at Stiles. “How is it that you’re familiar with my father’s lackey?”

Stiles stares, open-mouthed, between Jackson and Sherlock. “Oh, shit.”

Halfway through the day, when Jackson is watching Sherlock obsessively stare into space and think, and Stiles is finalizing a compilation of research on common poisons used in murders, Jackson turns to Stiles.

"Is Lydia—"

"No. Non. Uh uh. No.”

Jackson retreats into sullen silence. He’s moving with a noticeably awkward gait.

Stiles eventually breaks the silence to ask. “Uh, so, Erly—”

"Shut your face, Stilinski."

Stiles nods. “Good talk.”

He calls Lydia on his way home to let her know that Jackson has shown his face again for the first time since Sophomore year of high school.

"Like I care."

Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose and makes room for someone on the seat next to him on the subway. “Lydia—”

“Like I care,” she damn near hisses.

Stiles bangs his head against the plexiglass window. His call to Derek doesn’t go much better.

"I wish I was sucking your dick, " is how Derek answers the call.

A blush blossoms across Stiles’ entire face. “Um, I’m on the train? And Jackson is in town?”

There’s five beats of silence. “Fuck.”

*

Three days later, Jackson and Stiles spend almost ten hours together in the Brownstone.

Stiles has no classes and is putting in his hours for the paycheck that Sherlock oh so generously provides, courtesy of his trust fund.

Sherlock and Joan are arguing about the latest case, each of them having different opinions about who the perpetrator is. Stiles comes and goes from the living room throughout the day, in between maintaining the Brownstone (it’s fallen on him since Ms. Hudson gave her notice seven months ago) and reading a dozen monographs on blood spatter.

Jackson, meanwhile, spends the day sitting in an arm chair, laptop perched on his knees, watching Sherlock and typing. It’s eerie and weird, but Stiles seems to be the only one who feels that way; Sherlock and Joan apparently got used to it the first day.

"Don’t forget I’m off tomorrow," Stiles says before he leaves. Ms. Hudson’s Declaration ceremony is the following day.

Joan isn’t a complete social misfit the way Sherlock sometimes is, so she looks up from her laptop, blinks, and then smiles. “Enjoy your event.”

*

Jackson is there.

Of course he is. Why the hell wouldn’t he be at Ms. Hudson and Alpha Marrin’s Declaration ceremony?

Stiles hides an aggrieved sigh behind a smile when Alpha Erly approaches. Jackson is standing just behind him and to his right. It’s a telling position, but Stiles doesn’t comment on it. He simply greets Erly and then sends an acknowledging nod in Jackson’s direction. Erly shakes Stiles’ hand, meets his eyes; Jackson lowers his gaze and looks away.

The ceremony is lovely, with the light shining through the atrium of Tavern on the Green and bringing with it warmth and cheer. Ms. Hudson is wearing a moon silver sheened dress that hugs her curves and makes her skin practically glow. Stiles falls in adoration with her all over again, but that’s nothing compared to the emotion shining from Alpha Marrin’s eyes when she paces him to where Stiles is standing.

Stiles stands at the head of the room and officiates the ceremony, asking Ms. Hudson and Alpha Marrin if they are ready to prepare to join together as leaders of a Pack, as partners in life. They recite the ceremonious responses with a depth of emotion that almost takes his breath away. When Stiles touches his fingers to their clasped hands and officially recognizes the Declaration with a burst of binding magic, there’s a thunderous round of applause from the members of the Marrin Pack. Stiles himself is grinning widely enough that it hurts his cheeks, but he can’t stop.

After the ceremony, when everyone is mingling and music is playing, Stiles ends up near Jackson.

"I’ve heard some things since I got to New York."

Stiles raises a brow. “About what?”

Jackson shifts uncomfortably and juts out his chin. “About Beacon Hills. You guys have a reputation. A ‘don’t fuck with us’ kind of one.”

"Oh." Stiles nods. "Yeah, high school got even worse after you left. It’s kind of calm now, though. I mean, there’s two pretty strong Packs in the territory."

"I’m thinking about going back," Jackson says in a rush of words Stiles only just deciphers.

It makes Stiles jerk around and stare at Jackson in disbelief. “What? You left. No one’s heard from you since you disappeared the week after you transformed from a creature of vengeance into a fluffy wolf. And you want to come back?!”

Jackson clenches his jaw. “Yeah.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Lydia’s in a long-term committed relationship.”

Jackson glares at him. “That’s not—the London Pack. They took me in, and I’ve worked with them, but it doesn’t feel right.” When Stiles just stares at him, Jackson tenses in a way that Stiles isn’t used to associating with him: awkward and vulnerable. “You’re the Emissary. You can talk to them, make them…you know.”

A part of Stiles wants to smirk and tell Jackson to go fuck himself. It’s the part of him that remembers Jackson bullying him in high school and which is smug about having the ability to bar Jackson from returning. The rest of him, though, is caught up on that moment in the warehouse, on the way Jackson’s shoulders were bowed in the following days under the weight of what he’d been made to do as the Kanima.

They’ve all been broken and destroyed at least once over the years, have done objectively unforgivable things, and while Jackson has never actually been part of either Pack, Derek did bite him.

"I’ll talk to them about it," Stiles says, to Jackson’s obvious relief. "But you have to do something for me."

*

"Good news," Sherlock says when Stiles reports to work the following Monday. "My father renewed the lease and also provided funds with which to make some necessary upgrades to the building."

Stiles offers Sherlock a load of dry-cleaning and holds out a bag of Thai take-out in Joan’s direction. “Awesome,” he says, grinning brightly.

Chapter Text

Melissa is the one who calls. Stiles is glad it’s her and not a deputy, or some random hospital staffer.

"Your dad’s been shot, honey," she says.

Stiles drops Sherlock’s dry cleaning and then sits down, hard, on the floor. Joan and Sherlock are staring now, concerned. Stiles ignores them. “How bad?” he asks.

"Moderately serious." She breaks it all down, the wound and the surgery, and this is why it had to be her: Stiles trusts her to give it all to him, honestly and without platitudes. "It was a close call, but he’s going to be fine," she finishes with, and Stiles also trusts that is the truth and not some well-meaning pablum.

Stiles closes his eyes. “Okay. I need—Derek. I—”

"He’s right here."

There are muffled sounds and then Derek is on the line. “Stiles.”

Stiles leans forward and feels faint. “What happened?”

"We don’t know. He didn’t respond to his radio, they tracked his vehicle and found him on the side of the road next to it." Before Stiles can ask, Derek says, "I checked out the scene. Nothing stood out that would mean it’s tied to us."

"Okay," Stiles says again. "I don’t…I can’t stay here when—"

"Melissa is going to call your college," Derek says. "I’m going to call the Council and then book you a flight."

Stiles isn’t prone to panic attacks anymore, even in relation to his dad, but he feels on the verge of one right now. “Derek.”

"I know. It’s going to be fine. Come home."

*

Stiles shouldn’t be surprised when Sherlock and Joan approach him at the gate just before his—well, apparently, their—flight boards. He shouldn’t be because this is the short of crap Sherlock likes to pull, but he is because he didn’t think even Sherlock would push his way into something so clearly upsetting and personal.

Stiles gets to his feet, hands clenched to keep his magic from seeping out of him, and rounds on them like something righteous. Sherlock freezes. Just goes immediately still mid-step, one foot lifted, the other with only the ball of his foot touching the floor. Joan slows to a halt, her expression shifting from compassion to confusion.

Stiles focuses on Sherlock. “Are you serious with this?”

Sherlock is still frozen, something in his face hinting that he maybe wants to lower his head, fall to his knees. Usually, Stiles is careful with how he comes at Sherlock for exactly this reason. Now, though, Stiles is so furious that he’s almost tempted to do it. To put Sherlock on his knees in front of the entire gate just to press home why showing up here was the worst possible choice to make.

Joan looks between the two of them and then her eyes widen in understanding. “Stiles, I was the one who wanted to come. Sherlock just joined me.”

When Stiles turns to her, she almost takes a half-step back, but she doesn’t. Stiles is unsurprised and once again wholly impressed by her.

"I thought you might want another friend on hand, especially since so many of the others are off at school. I’m even willing to talk to the surgeon and doctors for you."

Stiles stares her down, hard, and she doesn’t even flinch the smallest bit. He looks back to Sherlock, still frozen but not wavering in his stance, and then exhales. The tension is sucked out of the air and back into Stiles, where he grinds it to dust and lets it scatter on the air.

Sherlock finishes his long-halted step awkwardly. He shakes himself once and regains his typical composure. “I thought to offer my assistance to your father’s department on his case.”

Exhausted between one breath and the next, Stiles nods. “Fine. Okay. Whatever.”

*

The entirety of both Packs are at the airport when Stiles makes his way to the pick up area, Sherlock and Joan trailing behind him.

Joan falters when she recognizes the ladies, and realizes the dudes around them are the rest of Stiles’ friends. “I thought they were all out of town?”

Stiles can’t help but smile, despite that his dad has been shot, has had surgery, and is in the damn ICU. “Yeah, they were.” He continues walking, right into Derek’s arms. His hand around the nape of Derek’s neck is grounding, comforting. As is the slide of Derek’s nose along the side of his neck.

"Melissa is off duty and sitting with him," Derek says.

Stiles holds him tighter. He’s aware of Erica’s excited sounds, knows it’s because of Joan, but he stands there with his eyes closed, gripping Derek tightly and with Derek’s face buried in his neck. Under his hands, Derek is strong but pliant; ready and just waiting for a word from Stiles. All of a sudden Stiles no longer has to work to contain his magic. It sinks back into his soul, hidden but primed, the way it usually is.

Derek sighs, low and wet, and leans more of his weight on Stiles. Stiles can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips, or the way he tips his face down to nuzzle the crown of Derek’s head.

There’s a lifestyle to what Stiles and Derek sometimes play around with, one that Stiles couldn’t, and doesn’t want to, maintain for a day, much less 24/7. But neither of them can really ever get away from the truth of what they are to one another, how they are together. It shines in moments like this, when Derek’s pliancy is what soothes Stiles. Shines other times too, when Stiles’ hard hands are what calms Derek.

"Dude!" Scott shouts from somewhere off to the side. "Get over here!"

Stiles pulls back with a squeeze to Derek’s nape and goes over to greet the rest of his friends.

*

Erica, Joan and Sherlock are in the backseat of Derek’s car. It’s a tight fit, but Sherlock takes the leg Erica throws over one of his, for the sake of space, with alacrity. He’s less pleasant about the conversation the women have across his body, which makes Stiles and Derek exchange amused looks.

"You should drop us off at the Sheriff’s station," Sherlock says. "We can find our way to a hotel from there."

Stiles shakes his head. “No way. You can crash at the house. Have one of the Deputies drop you off. Here, take my key. My room and the guest room on the second floor are yours.”

"Where will you sleep?" Joan asks.

Stiles shrugs. “My dad’s room, until he gets home. Then the couch.”

"No, we can’t put you out."

"John’s room is on the first floor," Derek says. "We’d be on the couch even if you weren’t there."

Something in Stiles’ chest flutters and warms at the “we” and he reaches out to clasp Derek’s hand in his. Derek’s is sure and firm in his grip, and when Stiles clenches tightly, Derek just takes it and strokes the back of Stiles’ hand with his thumb.

*

They drop Joan and Sherlock off and then go right to the hospital. Melissa meets them at the door to Dad’s room, and Stiles isn’t ashamed of the way he melts into her motherly embrace, the way he clings to her like a kid who still thinks adults can make everything okay again. She brushes a fall of hair away from his forehead when she pulls back, and gives him a small, certain smile. “He’s doing really well, kiddo. We’ll get him into a regular room in the morning, and he can go home the day after tomorrow if he keeps this up.”

In the room, Dad is pale and frail. He looks too old under the fluorescent lights, vulnerable in the hospital gown with tubes and sensors attached to him. Stiles doesn’t even try to hold back his ragged breaths, the tears or the shakes that overtake him. He moves on unsteady feet to his dad’s side, sits on the chair conveniently positioned there, and lowers his head to the bed to sob.

Derek is a steadfast presence behind him, his hand heavy on Stiles’ shoulder.

*

Fifteen hours later, Stiles’ dad has woken up, been moved to a regular room, and fallen into sleep again. Joan has come and gone twice, consulting on the case and talking Stiles through details in a way the actual surgeon hadn’t bothered to do.

Melissa and Derek bully Stiles into going back home. He’s by himself, having convinced Derek to drive Lydia to the airport so she can get back to school.

He can hear Joan and Sherlock arguing as he lets himself in and if he wasn’t so exhausted and emotionally wrecked, he would have backed up out of the house before he even got in. But because he’s not firing on all cylinders, he hears the words “animal attacks” and is blearily trying to process them when he gets into the living room fully.

He comes to a stop, confused. There are Sheriff’s Department files everywhere. There has to be hundreds of them, and it takes another second after realizing that for Stiles to put it together in his head. A shot of adrenalin skates through his system and he curses himself internally.

"Ah, Stiles," Sherlock says, noticing him. "You should have told me about your town sooner. I would have cleared my schedule to tackle this."

"Oh holy god," Stiles breathes. His eyes dart around the room again. The thing is, he recognizes most of these files. The ones from Laura’s murder and the few months after Scott was bitten. The ones from when Jackson was the kanima. The Alpha Pack and Darach. The kitsune. Fuck, Stiles even sees several copies of the FBI files from Agent Asshole McCall’s investigation in there. Everything is here, all spread out under Sherlock and Joan’s terrifying scrutiny.

Stiles panics. He doesn’t consciously decide to do anything, and he doesn’t remember starting, but he suddenly realizes he’s been tearing through the room and frantically gathering up case files and clutching them to his chest. It doesn’t seem like a horrible idea, so he keeps with it, going so far as to tear them out of Sherlock and Joan’s hands.

"You need to go," he says too loudly. There are papers fluttering through the air and settling around him; they draw Joan and Sherlock’s eyes, but don’t keep them the way that Stiles does. He assumes it’s because his eyes are batshit intense and freaked.

"Stiles, are you okay?" Joan asks.

Sherlock, of course, doesn’t ask anything. He just stares at Stiles.

"You need to go."

*

"I can’t believe I let them come here," Stiles says for the tenth time. "What the hell was I thinking?"

Next to him on the sofa, Scott slings an arm across Stiles’ shoulders and draws him in close. “Cut yourself some slack, dude. You were understandably distracted.”

"You’re overreacting," Erica says from the loveseat to the left where she's sitting next to Boyd. "How many law enforcement people have gone through those files? And none of them ever thought werewolves."

Cora, who arrived after the others, much to Stiles’ surprise, nods. “No one thinks werewolves unless they’re Hunters and already knows.”

"I did!" Stiles says, somewhat shrilly. "I got to werewolves pretty damn fast."

Jackson, next to Erica and texting with one hand, waves the other. “Me too.”

"Not as fast as Stiles," Scott says, because he’s awesome and always has Stiles’ back.

Jackson rolls his eyes. “Whatever. The point is, two of us in this room looked at shit and said ‘werewolves’ and we’re not even as smart as that dickhead boss of Stiles’.”

Shit. Damn it. Fuck.

*

When the doorbell rings half an hour before Stiles is meant to leave to pick up his dad, he expects it to be Sherlock on the other side.

It isn’t.

It’s Joan. Stiles relaxes and then tenses up again when he realizes how batshit he was the last time he saw her.

"Um," he says.

"Is it—is it werewolves?" Joan asks. Her eyes are looking as bugfuck as Stiles’ were the last the they met. "Because, those marks. On that case in New York. And then on all the bodies here. And cougars don’t do what the reports claim. I checked. So. Werewolves?"

"Um."

*

The only tea in the house is Tetley, which neither of them appreciate but it’s sort of tradition at this point.

"Werewolves," Joan says again.

"Yup."

"I just. Wow." She inhales sharply and then puts her tea down and turns towards Stiles on the sofa. She grabs his shoulders in a painfully tight grin. "Sherlock can never know.”

*

Joan apparently smoothed things over with Sherlock, so when Stiles sees him again two weeks later—Joan and Sherlock left after he managed to determine a recently paroled burglar was the one who shot Dad and Stiles didn’t see him after the scene in the living room—Sherlock is his usual self.

Stiles has just popped into the brownstone to say hello. He has a shit ton of work to catch up on after missing two weeks of classes, plus an appearance to make before the City’s Supernatural Council.

Joan is getting a monograph Sherlock needs for their latest case, which Stiles is sitting out, and Stiles is pulling on his coat, when Sherlock grins. His eyes are fervently bright and he’s clasping his hands so tightly that the skin is stretched white over his knuckles.

“Werewolves.”

"Motherfuck," Stiles hisses. "It’s supposed to be a secret, damn it."

"Don’t worry, I haven’t told Watson. I don’t think she’d be able to accept such creatures existing."

Which just goes to show how blind Sherlock can be sometimes. But whatever. Stiles has bigger problems, mostly revolving around the pushiest asshole he’s ever met having figured out that werewolves exist. Which—

"How. How did you—"

"—realize that the large majority of your friends are werewolves, and that many of the cases we examined from your town involved other werewolves?"

Stiles wants to hit him for how smug he sounds. This is why Joan is his favorite. “Yes. That.”

"All became clear as I spent time with your friends. Did you know that several of them visited my and Watson’s motel room after you evicted us from your familial home?"

Stiles hates everyone he knows. “No, I did not know that.”

"There were indicators prior to that, starting with your…Derek.” Sherlock looks at Stiles eagerly, but Stiles continues his habit of ignoring when Sherlock refers to Derek like that. “But a pattern began to emerge when we arrived in California. Your friends sniff you quite frequently, did you realize?”

Stiles is done acknowledging Sherlock’s dramatically revealing rhetorical questions. He stares at the other man flatly and curls his lip.

Sherlock smirks. “I also noticed an unprecedented amount of head-cocking in our interactions, usually followed by commentary on something relating to a far off sound, or on my truthfulness. Both of these sets of circumstances led me to believe they had some sort of enhanced senses. I devised a series of—”

This is where Stiles tunes Sherlock out because it’s all self-congratulatory preening and Stiles is not currently getting paid to indulge it. Also, now that he’s not panicking about his dad having been shot, he knows exactly how Sherlock figured it out.

"—must have been on very good behavior during Thanksgiving for me to not have noticed."

"You’ll be killed if anyone knows that you know," Stiles says, rather than commenting on anything Sherlock said.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, as if assessing the truth of Stiles’ statement, but there’s not a syllable of lie in it. The New York City Council has concerns about Sherlock and if he starts shaking the tree there’s nothing Stiles, as an Emissary, or Ms. Hudson, as the mate of a powerful Alpha, can do to protect him.

"Of course I wouldn’t broadcast such knowledge. If my extrapolations of the situation are correct, there is already a system in place to investigate and deal with any problematic activity within New York. London, too, I suspect."

The sound of Joan coming down the stairs signals the end of the conversation. Stiles says, before she’s in hearing range, “This doesn’t get discussed or mentioned again, okay?”

"Of course," Sherlock says just as Joan gets to the bottom of the staircase, the monograph in hand.

*

Stiles gets drunk at Vulpine that night. Ms. Hudson sits with him at a booth and keeps everyone, including creepy Alpha Erly, from even approaching through the force of her status.

"It was bound to happen," Ms. Hudson says. She is serene as hell. Stiles is too drunk to determine if it’s because she’s sober and not him, or if it’s just part of her overall awesomeness. "I’ll mind the situation. You focus your attention on your college and Emissary studies."

"I love you so much," Stiles says. Well, slurs. He’s really drunk. "You are totally on my exception list."

Ms. Hudson smiles and pats his hand. “That’s so flattering. Have some water, sweetheart.”

*

"No, but do you think I should…do anything?" Stiles asks Derek the next day.

It takes Derek a moment to answer because a long-distance relationship such as theirs necessitates a fair bit of Skype sex and even Alpha werewolves need to catch their breath in the aftermath.

"Normally I’d say yes," Derek says, still a bit breathless. "But in this case, leave it to Ms. Hudson."

Even through the skittery Skype feed, and after what was an eleven on a scale of one to ten in the way of Skype sex, Stiles can see Derek’s eyes glaze over at the mention of Ms. Hudson. Stiles doesn’t blame him. She’s on both of their exception lists. Stiles is sure his own eyes are just as glazed because—Ms. Hudson.

Stiles shakes himself. “Okay, well, I’ll see if that’ll work. Sherlock’s kind of, yeah. And Joan. Well.”

*

Stiles spends his first week back at work waiting for everything to go to hell. It…doesn’t. Stiles texts with Derek while paging through a text on cryptography, then makes up some tea while chatting with Scott, and sorts through the dry cleaning while Joan talks to Erica and Sherlock stares moodily at the selections of case files pinned to the wall.

He responds to an e-vite for a Council meeting on their way to interrogate a suspect, and then works with Ms. Hudson for his internship requirement—her knowledge of mythology and her connections gave Stiles a way to meet the requirement that didn’t involve him having to leave Sherlock and Joan’s employ.

There are a few knowing looks thrown his way by Joan and Sherlock, but only when the other isn’t in the general vicinity. Other than that, it’s like it’s always been. Stiles breathes a sigh of relief and is ready to finish out his last few months with them.

*

Saying goodby to Joan and Sherlock is harder than Stiles would have imagined two years ago. Then, they were some strange and possibly shady people who may or may not have lured him to their home for untoward reasons. Following that, they were pretty cool employers. But they became more than that, as time went on, and leaving them now that he’s done with school is just as hard as leaving the Packs has been.

Joan envelopes him in a hug and lets him cling to her. She rubs his back with a strong, capable hand and Stiles wants all the good things in the world for her. Sherlock’s farewell gesture is a hand, offered stiffly and staunchly, because Sherlock is never good when it comes to emotions. Stiles ignores the hand and steps close to huge him.

"Oh, I see, well, yes, if you could stop, I would be grateful. Watson, could you—Watson!"

Stiles laughs against Sherlock’s shoulder and pulls back. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

"Yes, of course. You as well, Stiles."

*

Stiles returns to California, to Beacon Hills, and gets a part time job at the station while he waits for his application for the police academy to be processed. He wasn’t planning on doing this, on being this, but there’s only so much time he could spend with Joan, Sherlock, Bell and Gregson without falling back into the kid who wanted to be just like his dad.

"Are you coming back to bed?" Derek asks from behind him.

Stiles finishes responding to Sherlock’s latest email, a pop quiz about blood splatter, and then shuts his laptop. “Yeah. Let’s go.”