the little shadow that runs through the grass (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mesmiranda) wrote2011-02-14 12:05 am
mesmiranda) wrote2011-02-14 12:05 am
Fic: Plus je connais l'homme...
I promised myself I'd get this done first thing, before any other fills on the sherlockbbc_fic meme or otherwise. I feel like this is missing something, but I don't know what... Hopefully someone reading this can tell me. Maybe a sequel will tell?
Plus je connais l'homme...
Mycroft/Lestrade, part of this 'verse. R (trigger warnings: animal abuse, some gruesome imagery), 3,443 words.
[Author's note: Sarah Wrench is (was) real and so is her cage; most likely it was put up to deter graverobbers, but the speculation still goes on.]
So it's been one of those days where he couldn't find his damn wallet after an hour of searching (if Sherlock's nicked it he's going to--oh, how the hell did it get behind the damn radiator) and his car wouldn't start, and the line-up in the coffee shop went all the way around forever and came back, and now Sally has a headache and he's starting to see Sherlock's point of view on Anderson. And then they get the warrant to search the house on Holderness Street.
It's right across from a children's park, which already has Greg's shoulders up about his ears before they've even started--there's even kids running up the tube slides and kicking around sand when they pull up, some of them stop and stare. The door is unsurprisingly bolted, so Anderson gets the honour of kicking it down.
Greg has to stop himself from crumpling up and retching all over Sally's shoes right then and there. He was prepared for a lot of things when Mycroft changed him--fur in very inconvenient places, claws that slid out of his fingers as naturally as snapping them, running on four limbs and thinking with an animal's brain--but the heightened senses. The smells. It's sharp to the point of migraine, it's pain and pressure and riot inside his head, and the air reeks of ammonia and cat urine.
"Gosh, sir, I think this actually might be a meth lab," says Sally, wheezing into her sleeve.
"Ladies first," Greg manages, waving her along with one arm, and Sally glares. They enter all together and Anderson shadows Sally as they head up the stairs; they've got batons and they've got CS spray, but Greg would really approve of a holstered gun right about now.
He takes Dimmock through the living room--littered with newspapers, empty drink cans and coffee cups, crinkled-up crisp bags and fast food wrappers--and a tiny dining nook before entering the kitchen. There are mouldy rotting things in the fridge and something congealed in a pan on the stove.
There's a soft whining from the corner.
Greg kneels down carefully, leaning back on his heels, and looks at the Rottweiler puppy cowering against the basement door. It's got its ears flattened back against its head and its eyes are white, and it's shivering all over. It's limping painfully as it stumbles backwards, it's bone thin, and he can see open sores and wounds along its legs. It can't be more than three months old.
Dimmock sees the look on his boss's face, and briefly feels sorry for the bloke they're about to arrest. Very briefly.
"Dimmock, you mind looking out back in the yard for a moment?" says Greg, his eyes never leaving the puppy. Dimmock nods hastily and unlatches the door, drawing out his baton as he spots the shed through the windows.
Greg sits down cross-legged on the floor, amid the greasy rubbish and filthy tile, and makes soft noises low in his throat, holding out his hand to the puppy. He keeps his voice gentle, remembering what his mum taught him--don't bend over, hold out your hand for them to sniff, pat carefully--and resists the urge to go over and pick him up. Gain his trust. Let him come to you.
Slowly the puppy wobbles forward, hobbling and whimpering with pain; he flinches when Greg touches his head. Greg runs a soothing finger between his ears, scratching behind them, and runs his palm flat down the puppy's back. The puppy doesn't come any closer but he doesn't run away--he stands there and trembles, his ears still pinned back against his skull and his tail tucked between his legs.
He's still shushing the puppy and stroking his fur when there's the sound of thumping upstairs, drunken yelling, a struggle. Greg freezes and the puppy barks with fear, scrambling back towards the corner.
He's just gotten to his feet and headed for the stairs when Sally and Anderson appear at the top, holding a young man in handcuffs--shaved head, skeletal, bloodshot eyes and yellowing teeth. He's garbling out a slurred stream of profanity, slumping down towards the floor and trying to wrench his shoulders free. "There's a three-month-old puppy in the kitchen covered in its own shit," Greg says flatly, "I'm not the asshole here. Get him into the car."
Sally looks like she's going to shove her suspect down the stairs as he leaves. Anderson looks like he's going to spit after him.
I'm a bloody werewolf, he keeps repeating to himself as he approaches the puppy again; the puppy growls and bares his teeth, shaking worse than ever, and then goes limp all over when Greg picks it up. This is almost worse than it trying to bite. He wraps the puppy up in his jacket and carries it outside to the squad car, cradling it carefully as it lies very still, and resolves to go to the gym after work to beat up the punching bag.
--
The puppy sits in a box on Greg's desk for the rest of the day, curled up in a ball, ears still flattened and tail tucked in. "Don't touch him," says Greg sharply when Dimmock peeks inside, and the tone of voice sends everyone scurrying off.
He's supposed to text Sherlock about the case file sitting next to the box, but he's not up for sarcasm right now. He does get a text from Mycroft: Dinner tonight at my flat?
The puppy is looking at him when he looks up, with its head between its paws. Come over to mine, I'll cook and we'll watch crap telly, he texts back, then: I need you to talk me out of something stupid.
--
"You're away most of the day," Mycroft says gently.
"I know," Greg says miserably.
"He needs time and attention to get over his trauma."
"I know."
Mycroft is sitting on the couch and Greg is sitting opposite in one of his chairs, watching Mycroft stroking the puppy's back as it lies flat. Greg took him immediately to the vet after work, who sedated him and gave him injections and cleaned him up as best as she could. The puppy slept in the backseat on top of Greg's jacket as he drove, bandaged up and brushed out; Greg thought he caught a brief whisk of the tail, back and forth, as he looked in the rear-view mirror.
It had stayed curled up on the couch where Greg deposited it, burying its nose in the jacket, and shutting its eyes, as Greg threw something together in the oven and showered and ran around trying frantically to straighten up. When Mycroft stepped through the door--sleek, calm, crisp suit freshly ironed and umbrella hooked over one arm--he crossed the room and knelt by the couch in slow, deliberate movements and held out his hand for the puppy to sniff, sitting patiently still, and Greg knew exactly why he loved him.
"What about the Status Dog Unit?" Mycroft scratches behind the puppy's ears; it winks its eyes shut.
"Yeah, that'd be the smartest thing to do," says Greg, hugely and blindingly unenthusiastic, and Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "I know. I know, I know I can't take him. I know this is stupid, I just--"
Mycroft waits; Greg blows out a sigh. "Okay. Okay, I'll head over tomorrow. It's not like I can't visit him or anything, right?"
The dog eventually falls asleep on top of Greg's jacket, curled up tight around itself, and Greg leaves out a bowl of fresh water and scatters newspapers everywhere and watches a while before turning the lights off. Mycroft watches more of Greg than he does of the television, but Greg--staring off into the distance--doesn't really notice.
--
In the morning, he improvises a leash out of a handful of ties and lets the puppy out: they go for a short walk up and down the block. The puppy stops and sniffs everything--garbage, weeds, trees, poles, grass--legs wobbly and splayed out as it noses around, and Greg ends up carrying it all the way back, but the dog's tail is definitely waving back and forth now.
This is the absolute wrong way to do this. This is very, very, very counterproductive.
He eases the puppy back into its box and drives over to the Status Dog Unit office first thing, steeling himself as the dog pokes its muzzle hopefully at him and tries to scramble up the sides. He dodges a couple of kids heading to school, swings the door open awkwardly with one hand, and shuffles his way inside.
And Anthea is sitting there, perched on one of the chairs with her legs folded, tapping away at a shiny new iPhone. When Greg stares at her, his heart suddenly thudding hard, she looks up with a smile.
--
Argos runs with a pack of four. Two he lives with and the other two are halfway across the city, but by night there's no houses and no leashes or cars: they run free.
His masters are human and then they're wolves. The first time the giant came padding into the room--the paws nearly the size of his head, the jaws big enough to snap him cleanly in half--he'd cringed into a corner and shivered and peed everywhere. But the giant nosed at him very gently, and let Argos sniff at him, and then he recognized the smell--the same master who spoiled him all the time with treats and let him sleep in a bed in the corner of his office, the one with the umbrella (he'd tried to kill the umbrella for him but Mycroft didn't need his help, he had it under control. He did manage to kill the sheep squeaky toy, though).
He doesn't understand it, other people don't change into wolves. Anthea doesn't. His old master never did. But he doesn't understand why he was in that house--the one with the bad smells and banging noises and shouting and hitting--and now he's warm, and always fed, and taken outside and brushed. Nobody is throwing things at him, he's not sick or filthy anymore. He's safe and he's happy.
Mycroft constantly gives him good things to eat ("How deeply unexpected," snipes Sherlock, and Greg rolls his eyes alongside Mycroft--but secretly tries to balance out Argos's diet behind Mycroft's back) and walks him at lunchtime, up and down Whitehall with all the suits and pigeons and red buses rumbling by. Greg takes him out after dinner and wrestles him, laughing as Argos barks at the top of his lungs, giving him belly rubs and tossing sticks and tennis balls for him; he changes too, into a smaller wolf--silvery gray, lean and wiry, with big brown eyes.
The first time he saw the other two was during the night, when he was trailing along behind Mycroft and Greg and they were headed down a back alleyway; Argos was doing his best to keep up, short stubby legs trotting as his tail wagged frantically, and then he froze as two silhouettes appeared at the end of the lane. One big black wolf--bigger than Greg, not as big as Mycroft--and one small tawny-gray wolf, walking easily by his shoulder.
The big black wolf smelled like Mycroft--a sibling, a littermate--and looked at him coolly, tail unmoving. When Argos jumped at him he pinned him down flat with two paws: not hurting, not snarling, but very firm. Later he nudged Argos away from the road with his snout, out of the path of a car, and Argos thinks he likes him. He's too quiet and still and distant, and he can be terrifying--he can make Argos shiver with a single look or growl. But he never harms Argos or bullies him around.
The small tawny-grey wolf is warm and kind, always waits for him to catch up, pulls him out of danger and licks at his wounds. He doesn't mind playing with Argos, tackling and snapping at him, and lets Argos lick his face and sit on his lap when he's human. Argos always rushes straight over to him, nearly bowling himself head over heels, his entire backside wriggling with glee.
He's the last in a group of five, the littlest, the runt. But he's filling out and growing stronger, he can keep up with the rest when they run. He can make them proud.
--
In the middle of the night Greg wakes up to hear a soft whining and scratching at the bedroom door.
Bollocks, he forgot. He carefully loosens Mycroft's arm from his waist and slides out of bed, only about ten percent awake, shuffling to the door and holding it open. Argos slips inside and immediately finds his bed, turning around in circles before settling in with a yawn.
"See you again at three a.m.," Greg mumbles, wincing blearily, and stumbles back to bed. Argos is already asleep as he climbs in beside Mycroft, who promptly replaces the arm around his waist and draws him closer with a sleepy sigh.
Mycroft lets the dog out at three, and when he wakes up again it's raining and Mycroft's mouth is touching his shoulder, hand steady against the rise and fall of his ribs. He turns over and ducks his head down for a proper kiss, morning breath and all.
--
Argos and John are together tonight, they're racing down side streets and back ways, staying out of sight--follow John, don't be spotted, stay quiet, go faster. John knows the way and he's tearing ahead--he's not limping now, his leg isn't crooked. It's serious. They have to move now.
They round one corner, then two, past a bench and down a dirt path, smells of garbage and sewage and rain, wet grass, gravel, leaves, wind--fresh earth. Stone. Many stones. Stones all lined up properly, there are flowers, there's a broken beer bottle, it's cold.
John moves quietly now, slipping between the headstones, keeping his head close to the ground and sniffing furiously. They're getting close but there's no movement in the section with the Carfaxes, no smell, no sound. It's deserted. They don't have time for this--where are they?
He circles around the headstones once, twice, hackles raised as he snuffles along the grass for a sign--freshly turned earth, new grass laid down, any trace of metal. Then Argos whines low in his throat, ears pinned back, and he lifts his head.
("This is the gravesite of Sarah Wrench," Sherlock said, passing him the book and pointing to the page--they were both huddled over his desk, the lamp turned on and books stacked high. John finished his sip of coffee and took it: it was a picture of a grave with a headstone and what looked like a half-buried iron cage, surrounding the coffin and sticking up from the grass. It was grotesque. "The cage is called a mortsafe--they were usually installed to protect coffins from robbers, but there's evidence to suggest that they thought she was a witch and would rise again after death."
"Was she?" John raised his eyebrows, not looking up from the book.
"If they thought she was, I don't think it would have mattered, her being fifteen years old," Sherlock said grimly, straightening up. "But I've seen a cage like this put into place once before, just after I left university...")
There's movement by the far end, close to the eastern gate.
Of course, of course they picked a different grave--John lowers his ears and bares his teeth and lunges. He's running as fast as he can, flat to the ground as his breath rasps in his lungs, and if they're using a cage they may very well know about silver bullets and silver knives--
Argos gallops after him, barking, and the men freeze with shovels in hand. John howls and rears up on both legs to grab the shovel between his teeth and toss, claws raking, hind legs kicking, man and wolf fighting together through a glare of blood-red. Argos is in the background, growling, snapping at the other man and backing him up against the headstone; the man swings his shovel at him wildly.
John tackles him to the ground in a swift pounce, slicing open his cheek and chest, and snaps his jaws two millimetres from his throat. He's a soldier. He shot a man to save Sherlock's life. And they do not have the time for this.
The shovels are crusted with wet dirt, and there's a pile of earth nearby. Argos is sniffing at it and whimpering, cowering away; John looks over, from his perch on top of the man's trembling body, and sees a neatly-tied brown leather shoe poking out. The previous remains.
The cage is in place--they've dug up the coffin and widened the space to make room, and settled the thing into place. It's barely visible in the darkness, an ugly twisted thing of dull iron. Two minutes later and they'd have lowered the coffin into place inside, locked the cage shut, started the work of reburying. John scrambles off the man and makes for the coffin, his limbs already tensing up with the shift--the shrink, the tightening--of wolf into human.
The next instant he's sprawled on the ground, whacked on the head with a shovel from behind. It takes a lot more than a single blow to stun a werewolf, and John Watson is not ordinary, and he's already scrambling back to his feet for the lunge. Another blow comes with the shovel, straight between the eyes, and he yowls at the sudden stab of pain.
And then the man is doubling over and dropping the shovel, shouting with a contorted face: Argos has his teeth deep in the man's leg, refusing to let go.
John barks insistently at Argos over the noise, a clear command, and Argos--eventually--unlocks his jaws and shuffles backwards. The man collapses to the ground, falling forward onto his hands and knees and crumpling up. When John looks back at Argos, the dog wags its tail briefly and lowers its head in submission.
John shifts form, feeling the familiar ache in his bones and muscles--like exercising too much, or a bad flu--and gets to his feet, still panting for air. He checks the lid of the coffin and then lifts: Frances Carfax is lying there, tied up with wrists and ankles bound, shuddering and sobbing through the gag.
--
Sherlock and Greg have collared the Peterses; John has called an ambulance for Frances and notified her family. Now he's back in their flat and standing under the shower, letting the water slide over him and waiting for the shivering to stop.
Buried in a box of silver, Molly's voice in his head, skin burning to the bone--
No. He scrubs at his face and pushes his hair back, finds his footing again. Breathing is a natural action. Just let it happen. Just inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale, inhale...
When he climbs out of the shower, his skin is flushed red from the steam. He lays a hand against his shoulder, just above the bullet scar: it's warm and damp and smooth, completely healed. Normal as it'll ever be.
John is still fingering the edge of his collarbone, underneath his jumper, as he enters the sitting room. Sherlock is sitting in his chair and Greg has the sofa next to Mycroft, and Argos sits at their feet. "--chemical treatment, to look like an older mortsafe from the nineteenth century," Sherlock is saying, "so it wouldn't stand out. This isn't the Peterses, someone else planned this."
"Someone like Moriarty," says Greg flatly. "Dear Jim."
"I staked him," Sherlock insists, shaking his head. He looks like he could use an hour or two with his violin. "He's gone."
"The number of people in the world who know about witches--" Mycroft begins soberly.
Sherlock makes a gesture of frustration. "We need that warrant. We need to search their house, their papers, their computers--I can't theorize, I need data..."
John sits down nearby, folding himself up, and Argos trots over to him. When John helps him up he rests his head in John's lap, tail wagging gently as John strokes him. His fur is soft and clean now, and John can't feel his ribs anymore; his eyes are big and brown and trusting.
"Good boy," John says softly, and smiles.
Plus je connais l'homme...
Mycroft/Lestrade, part of this 'verse. R (trigger warnings: animal abuse, some gruesome imagery), 3,443 words.
[Author's note: Sarah Wrench is (was) real and so is her cage; most likely it was put up to deter graverobbers, but the speculation still goes on.]
So it's been one of those days where he couldn't find his damn wallet after an hour of searching (if Sherlock's nicked it he's going to--oh, how the hell did it get behind the damn radiator) and his car wouldn't start, and the line-up in the coffee shop went all the way around forever and came back, and now Sally has a headache and he's starting to see Sherlock's point of view on Anderson. And then they get the warrant to search the house on Holderness Street.
It's right across from a children's park, which already has Greg's shoulders up about his ears before they've even started--there's even kids running up the tube slides and kicking around sand when they pull up, some of them stop and stare. The door is unsurprisingly bolted, so Anderson gets the honour of kicking it down.
Greg has to stop himself from crumpling up and retching all over Sally's shoes right then and there. He was prepared for a lot of things when Mycroft changed him--fur in very inconvenient places, claws that slid out of his fingers as naturally as snapping them, running on four limbs and thinking with an animal's brain--but the heightened senses. The smells. It's sharp to the point of migraine, it's pain and pressure and riot inside his head, and the air reeks of ammonia and cat urine.
"Gosh, sir, I think this actually might be a meth lab," says Sally, wheezing into her sleeve.
"Ladies first," Greg manages, waving her along with one arm, and Sally glares. They enter all together and Anderson shadows Sally as they head up the stairs; they've got batons and they've got CS spray, but Greg would really approve of a holstered gun right about now.
He takes Dimmock through the living room--littered with newspapers, empty drink cans and coffee cups, crinkled-up crisp bags and fast food wrappers--and a tiny dining nook before entering the kitchen. There are mouldy rotting things in the fridge and something congealed in a pan on the stove.
There's a soft whining from the corner.
Greg kneels down carefully, leaning back on his heels, and looks at the Rottweiler puppy cowering against the basement door. It's got its ears flattened back against its head and its eyes are white, and it's shivering all over. It's limping painfully as it stumbles backwards, it's bone thin, and he can see open sores and wounds along its legs. It can't be more than three months old.
Dimmock sees the look on his boss's face, and briefly feels sorry for the bloke they're about to arrest. Very briefly.
"Dimmock, you mind looking out back in the yard for a moment?" says Greg, his eyes never leaving the puppy. Dimmock nods hastily and unlatches the door, drawing out his baton as he spots the shed through the windows.
Greg sits down cross-legged on the floor, amid the greasy rubbish and filthy tile, and makes soft noises low in his throat, holding out his hand to the puppy. He keeps his voice gentle, remembering what his mum taught him--don't bend over, hold out your hand for them to sniff, pat carefully--and resists the urge to go over and pick him up. Gain his trust. Let him come to you.
Slowly the puppy wobbles forward, hobbling and whimpering with pain; he flinches when Greg touches his head. Greg runs a soothing finger between his ears, scratching behind them, and runs his palm flat down the puppy's back. The puppy doesn't come any closer but he doesn't run away--he stands there and trembles, his ears still pinned back against his skull and his tail tucked between his legs.
He's still shushing the puppy and stroking his fur when there's the sound of thumping upstairs, drunken yelling, a struggle. Greg freezes and the puppy barks with fear, scrambling back towards the corner.
He's just gotten to his feet and headed for the stairs when Sally and Anderson appear at the top, holding a young man in handcuffs--shaved head, skeletal, bloodshot eyes and yellowing teeth. He's garbling out a slurred stream of profanity, slumping down towards the floor and trying to wrench his shoulders free. "There's a three-month-old puppy in the kitchen covered in its own shit," Greg says flatly, "I'm not the asshole here. Get him into the car."
Sally looks like she's going to shove her suspect down the stairs as he leaves. Anderson looks like he's going to spit after him.
I'm a bloody werewolf, he keeps repeating to himself as he approaches the puppy again; the puppy growls and bares his teeth, shaking worse than ever, and then goes limp all over when Greg picks it up. This is almost worse than it trying to bite. He wraps the puppy up in his jacket and carries it outside to the squad car, cradling it carefully as it lies very still, and resolves to go to the gym after work to beat up the punching bag.
--
The puppy sits in a box on Greg's desk for the rest of the day, curled up in a ball, ears still flattened and tail tucked in. "Don't touch him," says Greg sharply when Dimmock peeks inside, and the tone of voice sends everyone scurrying off.
He's supposed to text Sherlock about the case file sitting next to the box, but he's not up for sarcasm right now. He does get a text from Mycroft: Dinner tonight at my flat?
The puppy is looking at him when he looks up, with its head between its paws. Come over to mine, I'll cook and we'll watch crap telly, he texts back, then: I need you to talk me out of something stupid.
--
"You're away most of the day," Mycroft says gently.
"I know," Greg says miserably.
"He needs time and attention to get over his trauma."
"I know."
Mycroft is sitting on the couch and Greg is sitting opposite in one of his chairs, watching Mycroft stroking the puppy's back as it lies flat. Greg took him immediately to the vet after work, who sedated him and gave him injections and cleaned him up as best as she could. The puppy slept in the backseat on top of Greg's jacket as he drove, bandaged up and brushed out; Greg thought he caught a brief whisk of the tail, back and forth, as he looked in the rear-view mirror.
It had stayed curled up on the couch where Greg deposited it, burying its nose in the jacket, and shutting its eyes, as Greg threw something together in the oven and showered and ran around trying frantically to straighten up. When Mycroft stepped through the door--sleek, calm, crisp suit freshly ironed and umbrella hooked over one arm--he crossed the room and knelt by the couch in slow, deliberate movements and held out his hand for the puppy to sniff, sitting patiently still, and Greg knew exactly why he loved him.
"What about the Status Dog Unit?" Mycroft scratches behind the puppy's ears; it winks its eyes shut.
"Yeah, that'd be the smartest thing to do," says Greg, hugely and blindingly unenthusiastic, and Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "I know. I know, I know I can't take him. I know this is stupid, I just--"
Mycroft waits; Greg blows out a sigh. "Okay. Okay, I'll head over tomorrow. It's not like I can't visit him or anything, right?"
The dog eventually falls asleep on top of Greg's jacket, curled up tight around itself, and Greg leaves out a bowl of fresh water and scatters newspapers everywhere and watches a while before turning the lights off. Mycroft watches more of Greg than he does of the television, but Greg--staring off into the distance--doesn't really notice.
--
In the morning, he improvises a leash out of a handful of ties and lets the puppy out: they go for a short walk up and down the block. The puppy stops and sniffs everything--garbage, weeds, trees, poles, grass--legs wobbly and splayed out as it noses around, and Greg ends up carrying it all the way back, but the dog's tail is definitely waving back and forth now.
This is the absolute wrong way to do this. This is very, very, very counterproductive.
He eases the puppy back into its box and drives over to the Status Dog Unit office first thing, steeling himself as the dog pokes its muzzle hopefully at him and tries to scramble up the sides. He dodges a couple of kids heading to school, swings the door open awkwardly with one hand, and shuffles his way inside.
And Anthea is sitting there, perched on one of the chairs with her legs folded, tapping away at a shiny new iPhone. When Greg stares at her, his heart suddenly thudding hard, she looks up with a smile.
--
Argos runs with a pack of four. Two he lives with and the other two are halfway across the city, but by night there's no houses and no leashes or cars: they run free.
His masters are human and then they're wolves. The first time the giant came padding into the room--the paws nearly the size of his head, the jaws big enough to snap him cleanly in half--he'd cringed into a corner and shivered and peed everywhere. But the giant nosed at him very gently, and let Argos sniff at him, and then he recognized the smell--the same master who spoiled him all the time with treats and let him sleep in a bed in the corner of his office, the one with the umbrella (he'd tried to kill the umbrella for him but Mycroft didn't need his help, he had it under control. He did manage to kill the sheep squeaky toy, though).
He doesn't understand it, other people don't change into wolves. Anthea doesn't. His old master never did. But he doesn't understand why he was in that house--the one with the bad smells and banging noises and shouting and hitting--and now he's warm, and always fed, and taken outside and brushed. Nobody is throwing things at him, he's not sick or filthy anymore. He's safe and he's happy.
Mycroft constantly gives him good things to eat ("How deeply unexpected," snipes Sherlock, and Greg rolls his eyes alongside Mycroft--but secretly tries to balance out Argos's diet behind Mycroft's back) and walks him at lunchtime, up and down Whitehall with all the suits and pigeons and red buses rumbling by. Greg takes him out after dinner and wrestles him, laughing as Argos barks at the top of his lungs, giving him belly rubs and tossing sticks and tennis balls for him; he changes too, into a smaller wolf--silvery gray, lean and wiry, with big brown eyes.
The first time he saw the other two was during the night, when he was trailing along behind Mycroft and Greg and they were headed down a back alleyway; Argos was doing his best to keep up, short stubby legs trotting as his tail wagged frantically, and then he froze as two silhouettes appeared at the end of the lane. One big black wolf--bigger than Greg, not as big as Mycroft--and one small tawny-gray wolf, walking easily by his shoulder.
The big black wolf smelled like Mycroft--a sibling, a littermate--and looked at him coolly, tail unmoving. When Argos jumped at him he pinned him down flat with two paws: not hurting, not snarling, but very firm. Later he nudged Argos away from the road with his snout, out of the path of a car, and Argos thinks he likes him. He's too quiet and still and distant, and he can be terrifying--he can make Argos shiver with a single look or growl. But he never harms Argos or bullies him around.
The small tawny-grey wolf is warm and kind, always waits for him to catch up, pulls him out of danger and licks at his wounds. He doesn't mind playing with Argos, tackling and snapping at him, and lets Argos lick his face and sit on his lap when he's human. Argos always rushes straight over to him, nearly bowling himself head over heels, his entire backside wriggling with glee.
He's the last in a group of five, the littlest, the runt. But he's filling out and growing stronger, he can keep up with the rest when they run. He can make them proud.
--
In the middle of the night Greg wakes up to hear a soft whining and scratching at the bedroom door.
Bollocks, he forgot. He carefully loosens Mycroft's arm from his waist and slides out of bed, only about ten percent awake, shuffling to the door and holding it open. Argos slips inside and immediately finds his bed, turning around in circles before settling in with a yawn.
"See you again at three a.m.," Greg mumbles, wincing blearily, and stumbles back to bed. Argos is already asleep as he climbs in beside Mycroft, who promptly replaces the arm around his waist and draws him closer with a sleepy sigh.
Mycroft lets the dog out at three, and when he wakes up again it's raining and Mycroft's mouth is touching his shoulder, hand steady against the rise and fall of his ribs. He turns over and ducks his head down for a proper kiss, morning breath and all.
--
Argos and John are together tonight, they're racing down side streets and back ways, staying out of sight--follow John, don't be spotted, stay quiet, go faster. John knows the way and he's tearing ahead--he's not limping now, his leg isn't crooked. It's serious. They have to move now.
They round one corner, then two, past a bench and down a dirt path, smells of garbage and sewage and rain, wet grass, gravel, leaves, wind--fresh earth. Stone. Many stones. Stones all lined up properly, there are flowers, there's a broken beer bottle, it's cold.
John moves quietly now, slipping between the headstones, keeping his head close to the ground and sniffing furiously. They're getting close but there's no movement in the section with the Carfaxes, no smell, no sound. It's deserted. They don't have time for this--where are they?
He circles around the headstones once, twice, hackles raised as he snuffles along the grass for a sign--freshly turned earth, new grass laid down, any trace of metal. Then Argos whines low in his throat, ears pinned back, and he lifts his head.
("This is the gravesite of Sarah Wrench," Sherlock said, passing him the book and pointing to the page--they were both huddled over his desk, the lamp turned on and books stacked high. John finished his sip of coffee and took it: it was a picture of a grave with a headstone and what looked like a half-buried iron cage, surrounding the coffin and sticking up from the grass. It was grotesque. "The cage is called a mortsafe--they were usually installed to protect coffins from robbers, but there's evidence to suggest that they thought she was a witch and would rise again after death."
"Was she?" John raised his eyebrows, not looking up from the book.
"If they thought she was, I don't think it would have mattered, her being fifteen years old," Sherlock said grimly, straightening up. "But I've seen a cage like this put into place once before, just after I left university...")
There's movement by the far end, close to the eastern gate.
Of course, of course they picked a different grave--John lowers his ears and bares his teeth and lunges. He's running as fast as he can, flat to the ground as his breath rasps in his lungs, and if they're using a cage they may very well know about silver bullets and silver knives--
Argos gallops after him, barking, and the men freeze with shovels in hand. John howls and rears up on both legs to grab the shovel between his teeth and toss, claws raking, hind legs kicking, man and wolf fighting together through a glare of blood-red. Argos is in the background, growling, snapping at the other man and backing him up against the headstone; the man swings his shovel at him wildly.
John tackles him to the ground in a swift pounce, slicing open his cheek and chest, and snaps his jaws two millimetres from his throat. He's a soldier. He shot a man to save Sherlock's life. And they do not have the time for this.
The shovels are crusted with wet dirt, and there's a pile of earth nearby. Argos is sniffing at it and whimpering, cowering away; John looks over, from his perch on top of the man's trembling body, and sees a neatly-tied brown leather shoe poking out. The previous remains.
The cage is in place--they've dug up the coffin and widened the space to make room, and settled the thing into place. It's barely visible in the darkness, an ugly twisted thing of dull iron. Two minutes later and they'd have lowered the coffin into place inside, locked the cage shut, started the work of reburying. John scrambles off the man and makes for the coffin, his limbs already tensing up with the shift--the shrink, the tightening--of wolf into human.
The next instant he's sprawled on the ground, whacked on the head with a shovel from behind. It takes a lot more than a single blow to stun a werewolf, and John Watson is not ordinary, and he's already scrambling back to his feet for the lunge. Another blow comes with the shovel, straight between the eyes, and he yowls at the sudden stab of pain.
And then the man is doubling over and dropping the shovel, shouting with a contorted face: Argos has his teeth deep in the man's leg, refusing to let go.
John barks insistently at Argos over the noise, a clear command, and Argos--eventually--unlocks his jaws and shuffles backwards. The man collapses to the ground, falling forward onto his hands and knees and crumpling up. When John looks back at Argos, the dog wags its tail briefly and lowers its head in submission.
John shifts form, feeling the familiar ache in his bones and muscles--like exercising too much, or a bad flu--and gets to his feet, still panting for air. He checks the lid of the coffin and then lifts: Frances Carfax is lying there, tied up with wrists and ankles bound, shuddering and sobbing through the gag.
--
Sherlock and Greg have collared the Peterses; John has called an ambulance for Frances and notified her family. Now he's back in their flat and standing under the shower, letting the water slide over him and waiting for the shivering to stop.
Buried in a box of silver, Molly's voice in his head, skin burning to the bone--
No. He scrubs at his face and pushes his hair back, finds his footing again. Breathing is a natural action. Just let it happen. Just inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale, inhale...
When he climbs out of the shower, his skin is flushed red from the steam. He lays a hand against his shoulder, just above the bullet scar: it's warm and damp and smooth, completely healed. Normal as it'll ever be.
John is still fingering the edge of his collarbone, underneath his jumper, as he enters the sitting room. Sherlock is sitting in his chair and Greg has the sofa next to Mycroft, and Argos sits at their feet. "--chemical treatment, to look like an older mortsafe from the nineteenth century," Sherlock is saying, "so it wouldn't stand out. This isn't the Peterses, someone else planned this."
"Someone like Moriarty," says Greg flatly. "Dear Jim."
"I staked him," Sherlock insists, shaking his head. He looks like he could use an hour or two with his violin. "He's gone."
"The number of people in the world who know about witches--" Mycroft begins soberly.
Sherlock makes a gesture of frustration. "We need that warrant. We need to search their house, their papers, their computers--I can't theorize, I need data..."
John sits down nearby, folding himself up, and Argos trots over to him. When John helps him up he rests his head in John's lap, tail wagging gently as John strokes him. His fur is soft and clean now, and John can't feel his ribs anymore; his eyes are big and brown and trusting.
"Good boy," John says softly, and smiles.
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But seriously, does it work? I keep feeling like something's missing, but I can't put my finger on it...
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i don't necessarily think it feels like something's missing, it just feels very different in tone to 'homo homini lupus', although not entirely. i think it's the segments that are from argos' point of view, because it's less pronounced in the lestrade and john bits. (BY THE WAY: YOUR LESTRADE? I LOVE HIM. BE MINE FOREVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR, LESTRADE.) i had to go back and read hhl again, just now, for comparison's sake; really, okay, yes, maybe you're onto something here. this does feel like a snippet of something larger, whilst hhl stands up very well on its own, even though you know it's just a part of a larger universe. i just don't know how you'd go about fixing it, but i'd be glad to listen to you if you want to gab about it!
from a more critical standpoint, the pov is sort of inconsistent in the section with john and argos rescuing frances? SORRY, THIS IS NOT MEANT TO BE PICKY OR ANYTHING. this is good! the writing is good and argos is ADORABLE HOLY CRAP. i love this au and think it's great fun to read ANYTHING AT ALL set in it.
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I really do feel like the story's not done--it needs a second part or a sequel. I'm not sure where the plot would go, though. Needs more thought. *hmm*
I went back and checked the POV, you're right: I need to fix that. Thanks for pointing that out! ♥ ♥
I'm so very glad you're enjoying it. This universe is totally nuts and off the wall, I'm just glad it's working :)
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(Anonymous) 2011-06-02 12:53 am (UTC)(link)I love this 'verse, Greg is perfect with Argos and the image of the five of them running around into the night is perfect.
I hope you'd want to visit this 'verse many more times :D
he crossed the room and knelt by the couch in slow, deliberate movements and held out his hand for the puppy to sniff, sitting patiently still, and Greg knew exactly why he loved him.
♥♥♥
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(Anonymous) 2011-06-27 12:31 am (UTC)(link)no subject
I really loved both fics!!
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(Anonymous) 2013-02-01 07:41 am (UTC)(link)