Chapter Seven: I Am The Wolf, I Am The Man

Greg and Sally move in, bringing with them a sense of home that Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever really felt before. They took up space, sure, but they contributed, they argued sometimes (easy to hear from even up here), but they also cooked, did laundry, made sure he was resting. And for the next few days, things are good. Well, as good as they're likely to get with the two Betas living in the same building as he and Mrs. Hudson and the surveillance that Sherlock knows his brother Mycroft put in only hours before he himself moved in. But it's not a bad way to live, which is more than enough to surprise Sherlock.

He'd expected them to constantly be breathing down his neck, bearing down on him from all sides, looking over his shoulder, watching him. But they don't. They mostly just stick to their own little shared apartment space downstairs, even keeping relatively quiet when they know he's trying to work. Mrs. Hudson was over the moon, and had gone into full on Pack Mother Mode. She started making all sorts of baked goods for them to eat or much on, and pops by with tea or coffee or a thousand other things every few hours, and Sherlock's beginning to think she's trying to passively get him to eat more. She and Sally, who has also tried her hand at baking with Mrs. Hudson.

It's working. He's gained three pounds since moving in with the older woman, and when the Werewolves came, it only seemed to encourage her more. He knew he was destined to gain more the longer he lingered with Mycroft's job.

Perhaps that's why he'd agreed to them having a small New Years get-together. The three of them had almost demanded, each separately, and then once more in a group. They wouldn't have to go out into public, to a pub, Sally had reminded him while he'd grumbled and fought the decision tooth and nail. He wouldn't be subjected to every stupid, drunken person in the greater area of London if they stayed in together, was Lestrade's argument. If they just had a small get together here, Mrs. Hudson would have a chance to cook a big family meal again. The entire attempt to get him to relent was almost as much work as he expected any New Year's celebrations would be.

Reluctantly, he'd agreed, and then wandered back upstairs to continue with his independent experiments while they all celebrated down on the landing. He'd run out of news on their Alpha the day before and had fallen back onto his own research in the mean time. It kept him occupied, at least, and away from the rest of the building occupants more often than not. Kept him away while they plotted. He knew they were plotting, he just knew it.

Come New Year's Eve, their promised small, little, quiet get together had turned into something else entirely. And by something else entirely, Sherlock meant that there were more people in his flat at Baker Street then there should have been. There were at least fifteen people here, most of which Sherlock did not know, and with the exception of Mrs. Hudson, he didn't immediately recognize anyone.

Upon closer inspection, he spied Lestrade at one side of the room, chatting with a small group of men that were all laughing at something he'd said. A joke no doubt, even though Lestrade's jokes were terrible. And Sally was at the other side, a few people who looked to have come straight from The Met in a loose half-circle around her. They were quietly chatting, but everyone of them were in uniform or work clothing, and Sherlock suspected they were old colleagues on their way to work. Werewolves, no doubt, or at least friendlies they'd known for at least two years. Maybe three, given the familiar way Lestrade was smacking a few of the blokes on the back as they caroused and moved towards Sally and her own group.

"Quite the party, Sherlock."

"Mycroft." Sherlock nodded tightly, looking just past his shoulder to where his brother was lingering int he doorway, customary umbrella tucked at the crook of one arm. "What brings you here? You detest social functions so."

"Hardly, Sherlock. Just those that I'm forced into attending. I was invited by Mrs. Hudson, and while I hardly know any of your contemporaries, I did wish to come. It isn't often I get to see you, especially not at holidays." Mycroft nodded when Mrs, Hudson walked by briskly, shoving a festive plastic cup filled with something into his hands. Sherlock watched him as he swirled the cup and gave it a faintly distasteful look. "How... festive a party this is."

Sherlock fought to hold in a smirk.

"I don't know any of them, with the exception of Lestrade, Donovan, and Mrs, Hudson." He continued after he'd regained control over himself. "I doubt I'll stay long, but it would hurt Mrs. Hudson had I not come down at all. And she would have most certainly come up after me had I not made an appearance."

Mycroft hummed, tilting his head in what Sherlock knew was understanding, eyes trailing over the room. "Well it seems that one of them knows you, or knows of you, Sherlock. Look, see, there in the corner, behind the man standing next to your Beta. At the window in the corner by your desk." Sherlock looked to where his brother indicated. "Sandy hair, short, standing at an angle with his back to the wall and his right side tucked in at the glass. I'm not familiar with him."

"I wonder if he's one of Donovan or Lestrade's colleagues? Perhaps Mrs. Hudson, a previous tenant, no doubt."

Sherlock watched him carefully, how he was standing, how he was holding himself. He had no party favors or food, no cup to hold, and his clothing looked odd and mismatched, a large, lumpy jumper pulled over off-colored pants. The man's shoes were scuffed up at the toes, as if they were too big for him, or he hadn't owned them long enough to get used to them yet. He wore no jewelry or distinctive markings that would stand him out from anyone around him, but it was his averageness that made him stand out so much here. And he wasn't human, judging by the familiar sniffing gesture he kept making every few minutes, head tilted just a faction upwards to the air around him. None of the other guests seemed to give him any attention, and he probably would have gone on unnoticed had Mycroft not pointed him out.

"That's strange, I wasn't aware that he was even here before. He must have come in after me, as he wasn't here when I arrived, but I never noticed anyone coming in behind me until you." Sherlock said calmly, eyes locked on the man. Something was very, very off about him. "Do you know him, Mycroft?"

"No, but I feel as if I should."

"The feeling is mutual. We should ask Mrs. Hudson, perhaps she knows him, because it is obvious by the way Lestrade and Donovan ignore him that they either don't realize he's there -unlikely- or they don't know him either." Something was nagging at Sherlock, something about the way he was standing, something about the hair color and his body language. "I feel as if I should know who he is."

Shockingly blue eyes found his suddenly, the man's face suddenly swiveled in his direction, as if he's heard them speaking about it. Which could have been possible, if he was indeed a Werewolf. Keen hearing, bright eye color, a small line trailing from just under one of his eyes up and over the bridge of his nose, into his hairline at the other side. It was hard to see from here even, just barely discolored, but there.

Mycroft must have come to the same conclusion as he did, because in that moment both of them froze in unison. Sherlock could feel his own heartbeat ratcheting up, his pulse jumping, heart thumping beneath his rib cage. He'd almost bet that Mycroft's had done the same, and with the way quite a few of the other wolves in the room turned to look at them, they had noticed too. Sally and Greg had made their way towards the two brothers, both of their faces mirrored looks of confusion and mild alarm.

"What's wrong?" Sally asked, voice even and level. "Suddenly both your hearts went jackhammering away. What's happened?"

"Do you know the fellow standing over in front of the window there, Ms. Donovan?" Mycroft's voice was as even and calm as his face portrayed, and Sherlock might have believed that he wasn't as nervous about this development as he himself was, if not for the wolves mentioning their heat rates. "The blonde one, in the oversized jumper."

Sally turned and looked at the man in question, face scrunched up slightly and nostrils flaring as she took a deep breath in. Lestrade had, by then, turned and was doing the same thing, his eyes narrowing slightly as he did so.

"He's not got a sent..." Lestrade said it first, but Sally's look of confusion was only confirmation of the fact. "And I don't know him."

"But only Alphas can cover their scents like that, for safety and stealth purposes. We don't even know any Alphas to invite-"

As soon as Sally's voice cut off, the unknown man in the jumper turned fierce, blazing crimson eyes on their small group, fanged mouth open in a display. Every wolf in the room turned towards him suddenly, drawn in by the flare of power, their own eyes blazing pinpoints of color. Sherlock could see Lestrade and Donovan's eyes do the same, and most of the guests began to kneel. It was then that Sherlock realized that the Alpha -John Watson- had shown up at his home, probably followed him, or his brother, or the Betas, or even Mrs. Hudson, and had been lead into a party full of unclaimed wolves. Lower-ranking, unclaimed wolves, ripe for the Pack Bond.

"Mycroft, get them out of here!" Sherlock shouted, leaping forwards as he shoved a crouching pair of Sally and Lestrade out of the way, hoping to break of their eye contact with Watson. "And get your men up here immediately!"

"Already made the call, Sherlock." His brother was efficient, at least that could be said. Sherlock grimaced. "They'll be with us in a moment."

How had he not known that that was their missing Alpha? He'd seen pictures of him in the files, Mycroft had too. So then why hadn't they realized?

"Alpha Influence, Sherlock. No one saw him come in, no one saw him standing there, no one saw him until he was ready. Only very powerful, very controlled Alphas can do it. Sherlock, we need to leave." Mycroft's voice had dropped several octaves, but his eyes were still meeting Watson's over his brother's shoulder, one hand lightly on his shoulder. "Something is not right here. We need to leave."

"We can't just leave them here, Mycroft!" Sherlock whispered back furiously. "I won't leave them here at risk! If he influences them, if he controls them, your men could shoot them. Could kill them."

Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, his hand tightening briefly on Sherlock's shoulder, before all the background noise, all the growling, in the room suddenly stopped. All the wolves were still fixated on where Watson was standing, but they had stopped filling the room with sound. It was eerie.

"I'm not here to hurt them, or to manipulate them..." Watson's voice sounded unused, raspy, almost broken off in places. "I'm here because I have a case for you, Mr. Holmes. Or should I call you Dr. Holmes? You've certainly earned the title. I've read your work."

"How did you find it, Captain Watson?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual. "Or should I call you Dr. Watson? Or perhaps Alpha Watson?"

The Alpha laughed, the sound harsh and cracking and very, very deep. Too deep for his compact form, Sherlock thought, made for one that was much larger than he currently was.

"You can just call me John, if you'd like. I found your work rather fascinating, very impressive really, since you're human. Fantastic." John's grin was more wolf than man, but it wasn't a mad smile, or a vicious one. It was just a wolf's smile. "And like I said, I have a case for you."

"And that would be, Alpha Watson?" Watson glared, eyes narrowing as he said the title and not the name he'd implied. "Excuse me, John. What would you like me to do for you?"

"I want you and your-" John sniffs, nose turned up as he does so, fangs bared slightly. "You brother here, to look for my Pack. They're... They're missing, Mr. Holmes, and I'd rather like them back."

Sherlock hesitated. Surely he had to know that they were dead, killed and lost to the deserts of Afghanistan? He had to know, what with the Pack Bond being broken, silent, desolate. He had to know.

"John, I need to inform you that you were the only survivor of your Pack. You're the only one that came back from Afghanistan. I cannot find your Pack for you."

"No!" John roared, facial features shifting as he did, the bones in his face cracking as his jaw elongated enough for his fangs to fit comfortably. Fur had started to spread out and around the side of his face, down his jaw, across his forehead. "No, they are still alive! I can feel it..."

"No, no John. They're not." Sherlock said gently, hands reached out in a placating manner. "They're gone."

This time, John's roar was very, very far from human.

And he was shifting... In the middle of his flat.

"Run! Run!" He shouted, whirling and grabbing for Mycroft and Donovan, who along with Lestrade, had snapped out of their daze. The other wolves were still standing stock still around the shifting Alpha. "Get out of here!"

They crashed down the stairs in unison, the sound of Sally and Greg attempting to shift mid-run, bones breaking and reforming as they feet pounded the wood of the apartment staircase beneath their feet. Sherlock and Mycroft were racing down in front of them, trying to get out, and by the time they'd reached the ground level landing, two large wolves -one an overall greying silver, the other a semi-dark brown with frosted tips at the ears- were right behind them.

Upon getting outside and into the cordoned off street, the two wolves rounded on the flat doorway, fur bristling and hackles raised as they growled deep in their throats. The few seconds it too Alpha Watson to reach the street behind them was filled with harsh silence, quickly filled with the loud sound of thundering paws, the splintering of wood, and the grating of sharp claws scraping against surfaces nor made to withstand the full power of a transformed Alpha Werewolf. John bust through the front door with enough power to take the door off its hinges and bust out the small window atop its frame, the wood showering the two much smaller wolves still crouched and growling in front of the Speedy's Cafe. The Alpha was just as huge and hulking as Sherlock remembered, the tanned fur tipped dark, the thin scar turned into a jagged mess that crossed his face suddenly just bellow his eyes. His eyes were the deep crimson they had been up in his flat, and before that, in the laboratory.

But they didn't appear to be crazy... or even a little bit unstable.

What in the world was going on here?