So I'm back with a brand new AU this time around guys! It's taken be a while to get back into the swing of writing and to get my feet under me again, but this one started writing itself! As I'm sure you've noticed, this AU is a Werewolf Universe, and is more of a genetic mutation strain than a supernatural one, although most stories are bound in fact. So just keep that in mind. Just because it is legend doesn't mean I haven't taken it into consideration when I write my Werewolves.

This one, just like all my writing, is going to be slow going because I'm getting ready to graduate and I'm working and doing a hundred million things all at once. But I'm finally off for break, so I'm hoping to get in some writing while I'm home.

I'm still working on the one-shot sequel to my other fic "Glimpse of Gold" and it will be up hopefully pretty soon. The ending just needs some work and structure put into it. I'm also editing and revising the main story as well, because someone was really kind and came along me to beta. (Since normally I publish without a beta, as I usually write sporadically or randomly.)

Like always, if you see any errors, please let me know so that I can correct them! I do not own anything from Sherlock. This is a work of pure fiction and is intended for entertainment purposes.

Chapter One: Howl

"And this is why I've brought you down here, Sherlock."

Mycroft was pompous and full of himself, always over stepping his bounds and sticking his big nose into things that were none of his business. Putting his fingers into all manner of pies, so to speak, almost always including every venture Sherlock ever had. Especially now that Sherlock had basically out-maneuvered the Government's own Anti-Werewolf Task Force and Research Division, and had started up his own private study outside of the more respectable institutions. Mycroft was infuriating, simply put, but that didn't keep him from being good at what he did, whatever it was that he actually did do. Even Sherlock had to admit that, although it was grudgingly and silent, kept to his inner most thoughts. Their childhood grudge wouldn't keep all of their once-strong brotherly affection at bay, no matter how much Sherlock wished it did.

And Sherlock, for all his fuss and tantrums, still loved his brother in a way that not many outside of the Holmes Family could or would ever be able to really understand. It was for this brotherly connection, a long suffering things, that he'd come down here when he at, at Mycroft's request no less. He often just shrugged the other demands or inquiries off as more of Mycroft's hot air, but sometimes, just sometimes there came one that he couldn't ignore. This was one of those rare cases, and Sherlock -despite the time and place- had obliged.

The room before them both was cast in shadows, the automatic timer on the artificial lighting system in all the rooms dimming to simulate night time for the occupants within. This particular space was darker than any of the others, and from the small flickers of light coming from the floor, Sherlock would hazard to say it was due to several broken bulbs from the safety lights overhead. This room had several other noticeable signs of distress from the occupant, but he shrugged them off. Because this wasn't really a room, per say, or even an enclosed area. It was more of a cage really, a series of cells, where unruly members of Her Majesty's Lycanthropic Division or Lineage were housed for the duration of their loss of control or rehabilitation. It was a treatment facility.

Most of those housed within these walls were voluntarily there for their stay, feeling the need to be removed from society for a while. They would come for miles around to London's finest sanctuary-retreat in order to give themselves needed solitude or isolation, a break from all the close urban structures. It helped promote good mental health in the Werewolf community, along with a sense of safety for both sides of their lives. But not all of the residents in thisparticular facility were here by choice. Some of the others in separate buildings and wings here were serving prison sentences or other legal orderings, since normal prisons or facilities do not always have the means with which to deal with a Werewolf. They were kept far from the general public or the other willing participants in the government funded program, and mostly kept in separate compounds all together. Or according to offense, sentencing, or mental stability.

And then there were compounds hidden throughout all of Great Britain designed specifically for military application or use, housed deep below the other facilities. Out of sight of the public's ever watchful eye, both for the militarized Packs safety and for healthcare or treatment. It was in one of these carefully guarded facilities that Sherlock found himself in now, accompanied by his brother. Though Mycroft hadn't said much about what it was they were both doing here (since Sherlock knew Mycroft oversaw quite a bit, but rarely went out on assignment himself), he had a feeling that it had something to do with the rather reclusive occupant of the cell before them. And judging by the way the cell is empty on both sides of other occupants for quite a few rooms, Sherlock would say that the werewolf inside was not a particularly nice one. Or sane.

"You've brought me to see one of your little Military Pets, Mycroft? These are the military facilities." Sherlock couldn't help the sneer from escaping through his lips, his nostrils flaring as he almost spat the words. "I thought you lot had a handle on these sorts of things? It is what you do, Mycroft."

Mycroft only gave a silent sigh, his shoulders barely moving in an almost weary way before they set again. His brother didn't even bother to respond to him, just stepped forwards on the floor, closer to a rather crudely drawn, florescent orange stripe painted on the floor. He didn't not step on it, or more than a few inches near it, and he seemed to be waiting for Sherlock to do the same. Well, Sherlock wasn't going to observe some stupid safety line, especially not when he'd come all the way down here at arse o'clock in the morning at Mycroft's request. He wouldn't be able to see the wolf from that distance anyways, and if he was going to help -which is what Sherlock could only assume Mycroft wanted from him- then he was going to have to get much closer than that. Without another thought on the matter, Sherlock took two long strides and completely bypassed the line.

No sooner had he done so than the entire atmosphere in the darkened hallway changed, tension building at an almost instant rate, heavy power hanging tangent in the air. Sherlock didn't get long to examine the feeling before something on the other side of the glass was flying at him from out of the darkness, the heavy weight and much larger body striking the shatter-proof plexiglass with so much force that it shook in its setting. Sherlock himself flinched backwards, his nature reacting to that of the much larger, unseen predator despite his best efforts not to, but he quickly tried to regain his composure and bodily control. It would serve him ill to react so poorly in the face of one of Nature's most beautifully crafted genetic mutations. Because it was beautiful. Oh so very, very beautiful. Even in such a reduced state.

Glancing back at his brother was an incredibly bold move, even when the very Feral Werewolf was safely behind the plexiglass, and Sherlock knew it. It showed a type of weakness that Werewolves seemed to pick up on instinctively, the turning of your back on a beast and the baring of your throat to a predator in a mockery display, a signal of insolence or indifference to their status. It infuriated Werewolves. And of course Sherlock knew this, it was his life's work to know this sort of thing. He'd been making larger leaps in the Lycanthropic Field than anyone else in the country, and was quickly becoming a contender for one of the brightest minds in the entire field worldwide. Sherlock had turned his passion for observation and lengthy studies into a tool, and with it had helped to build a base for the quickly blooming Lycanthropic Mutation and those effected by it, despite how it was contracted or displayed.

Mycroft had approved of his brother's choices only after Sherlock had made so much progress in his studies that it was able to be productively used, and had quickly jumped on the previous untapped resource in the name of Her Majesty's Government. It was quickly incorporated seamlessly into everyday life, as well as many other applicable fields, including the military. Instead of treating the outbreak as a contagion or something equally horrifying, the UN had used to quickly gathered research from various sources to their advantage, and thus prevented a eugenics war campaign on Lycanthropy. That had been almost ten years ago now, but since then, society as a whole has adapted to it with surprising ease. Even Sherlock's contemporaries had been surprised with the amount of acceptance that the "disease" had been treated with. And despite the few spatters of intolerance groups or other types of purists located throughout the world, it had gone over with little more than a few minor hitches.

Now, Lycanthropy was treated just like any other sort of everyday occurrence or physical aspect that one was likely to come across in their day to day lives. Despite the fact that most Lycanthropes were almost a completely different species from most Humans, it was rarely treated any differently from the norm. A Fast Evolution, geneticists had called it, but Sherlock knew the ins-and-outs of basic Lycanthropic Biology better than a majority of them. Their basic instincts and behavior were more closely related to wolves if they were born with the mutation naturally already in their system from conception, and exhibited characteristics more strongly during certain parts of the month in relation to the moon's natural cycle. The horror movies and most of pop culture were wrong, of course, they weren't forced to shift at the Full Moon, but they often did because they were more in tune with their surroundings and pack at this point in the lunar cycle. Their senses and basic instincts all go into overdrive during the week leading up to the three-day period of the Full Moon. It is during this three day time frame that an Alpha -and only an Alpha- can bite and change humans via the transmitted virus mutation, in order to induct them into their packs. The humans, according to law, must be completely willing and of knowing consent of all aspects of the change.

If a Werewolf weren't born, but bitten and turned, their DNA would go through a simpler form of initial mutation which would happen rapidly at the beginning before slowing down over the following months before the change was complete. Bitten wolves were usually smaller than born wolves in shifted size, and tended to be very sick and weak during the first year or two of the initial bite. They were kept in seclusion for this period in order to fully recover, learn restraint, control, and to familiarize themselves with their new Pack's life styles. It was a very private time, and when the initial discovery of the Lycanthropy Mutation was made, these were the wolves targeted by scared and outraged humans. It is now spent outside of large metropolitan or urbanized areas, away from large gatherings of humans and other potentially overwhelming stimuli, and is highly privatized within the singular Pack. Sherlock had never witnessed a Turning for himself, but from gathered data and interviews, he knows that there are rarely words to explain just what occurs during that first initial year. A "sight to see" in order to be understood.

There were answers he still didn't have, and Sherlock's hunt for them hadn't waned over the passing years since beginning his lengthy journey into this previously unknown world. But seeing Mycroft's mystery Werewolf only lead to more questions than he currently had answers, and the results were a quickly dwindling temper followed by a waning set of spiderweb-thin patience.

"This particular wolf is why you're here, Sherlock." Mycroft's posh accent was more grating than gratifying at this point, but still Sherlock turned his head slightly to listen over the slightly-muffled roars and snarls from behind the glass. "I'm asking that you use your skills and Lycanthropic knowledge to aid us in this singular case."

"Who is he and what has he done to end up here? Something gruesome, I'd imagine. Otherwise you wouldn't have him isolated as such all the way down here." Sherlock flashed a quick smirk before turning his full attention back on the being in front of him. It was still raging and clawing for all its worth at the barrier between them, eyes slightly glazed. "He's clearly gone Feral, but surely you know this. Even you would be able to see something that obvious."

"Quite, Sherlock. Our concern is not with what he's done, but with who he is. I'm afraid the AWTF found him wandering around in the expansive sands of Afghanistan. He was severely wounded for a Werewolf, and covered in blood. He'd been using a small cave nearby as a den for quite some time when they found him." Mycroft didn't step any closer to Sherlock, but didn't seem bothered by the fact that Sherlock wasn't looking at him while he was explaining. "There were no tags or other identifying marks left on him, and it seems that somewhere in the desert he lost his sense of self to the wolf. We need to identify him and notify his next of kin of what's happened."

"My god, he's one of our's." He gagged. "How did someone not notice him missing?"

"We're not sure."

Sherlock's breath felt thin and bound in his chest, the rush of knowledge that this was once a member of a Pack deployed to war shooting through him. There were so very few of those who were willing to go and fight, because no wolf in their right mind would abandon their Pack voluntarily to leave the country and go into a danger zone. Whole Packs would have to go. Had gone. And to have a wolf this far gone mentally would only mean the loss of his entire Pack, nothing else would explain the increasingly Feral behavior. This was a wolf with no living emotional ties on the entire planet, all of them cruelly severed and torn apart. An Omega, as they were called within full Packs, a wolf without an anchor or emotional Pack ties. Some of the most dangerous wolves to ever walk the face of the planet had been Omegas, and had to be quickly dealt with to prevent bloody massacres or rampages across a given area. They were dangerousin most situations, although not all. And they were going to have to put this one down, judging on the reaction stepping too close to the cage evoked. He couldn't deal with the loss, the severance of his Pack, and was now classified as a danger to himself and others.

"As I'm sure you know, we cannot act without notifying the family first. We need to figure our who he is or was before we move forward, but none of our technicians can get close enough to get a hair sample for DNA testing." Mycroft's voice didn't change, but Sherlock could see the slight dimming of his eyes at the mention of the dead Pack. "It is likely that his next of kin were in the Pack with him. But surely there is someone out there, another family member, without the mutation or that was not part of the Pack. Someone we can notify."

"If there is, Mycroft, then I will find them." Sherlock said softly, eyes locked on the wolf with a haunted sort of fever. "I'll be back later today with the rest of my materials. I'm going to have to get near him, closer than this. You'll have to supply some of the tools, of course, and some more hands for me to work with."

Mycroft nodded, expecting no less.

"At least four, preferably more. And I'd like at least one of them to have the mutation. It will make dealing with the Omega's increased strength easier and less dangerous for those of us that are not wolves." Sherlock turned and swept off down the hallway, Mycroft's clip stride just behind him, his thoughts and ideas already racing ahead of his physical limitations. "And unfortunately, I know you'll have precautions put in place. Try to hide these as best as you can, new guards at the very least. So that he's less on edge than he already is."

"Of course, Sherlock. I already planned as much." Mycroft stepped around him in order to punch in his security code on the lift, his finger print scanned as quickly as Sherlock could blink. "Your prints and codes are being put into the system as we speak. You'll have access to a team of six, two of which are Lycanthropes. Hopefully, between you and your team, we can gather the necessary DNA and identify this poor man."

"Yes, Mycroft. Hopefully."