He dreams of the Rocky Mountains.

America. Land of the free.

That was true once. Or at least the words were. Land. Free.

Free, his first run as a lone wolf, miles and miles. Endless country. Beautiful. Wind and snow and heat and earth. So far away from the cold steel and stifling smog.

There's the smell of pine, aspens, moose. In the desert he meets his smaller cousin, the coyote. Coy, leaping, bounding just beyond his reach with grinning faces that showed tooth and fang. They indulge his whims, running and playing, but are too wise to join in his calls. His brother wolves keep their distance, as they did in the old country. But his wild brothers did it out of respect and deference, acknowledgement. So he let them be. Let them live.

He tastes new things and old things. He runs far and wide and deep. There are men when he wants talk. There are bear when wants a challenge. There is blood when he simply wants it.

John woke up with his spine curled more than the shape of his ribs could properly fit to. He groaned, concentrating on the sensation of stretching without actually moving and trying to banish the feel and scents of brisk mountain air. It was painful, but a familiar pain.

He rolled out of bed, stretching the last kinks out of his somewhat ill-fitting joints and slunk over to the full length mirror that inhabited the corner of his bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had said it came with the flat. It was old too. Mahogany and always inconveniently gathering dust within it's thousands of grooves and curves. John didn't mind. He cleaned it as often as it needed, every other morning or so when he stood in front of it, noticing the greying hair and lines of age uncommon in a man with his condition. In general, he was not a vain man. But he was a man and it was important that he saw proof of it.

Today was not encouraging.

He looked into the mirror and a wolf stared back.

It was still his face, but his normally blue eyes had taken on a startling shade of gold.

"That was a long time ago, wolf. We cannot go back. It is not the same place. Now there are campers and hikers and roads for caravans. There will be no more mountains for us," he growled quietly. His voice was firm, but his tone was sad and the wolf knew it.

It showed him, in a flash that was more scents and sound than shapes or color, the side of cement wall, the only defense against an enemy that insisted on embedding it with bullets anyways. A few dozen got through, sending sharp grey flecks all over the man he was sewing together. He could barely smell him underneath the blood. He could hear the heartbeat slowing, the soldier's breath waning. It was dark, but John had no trouble seeing. No trouble when a man whose scent didn't belong to any of his snuck up behind him. A shout went out, a bark of orders and warning. By that time, the insurgent had already been shot. He tucked his gun away and took a long draft of air into his lungs, savoring the smell of the warrior's death.

John pulled out of the memory with a snarl and hardened his will, pitting his millennia of experience against the wild spirit that lurked within him and had walked the earth long before he or his ancestors. He blocked the wolf from his conscious self, banishing it to the darker corners of his brain. The wolf protested, but ultimately settled within the places it already held in John's mind. His darker aspects: rage, and his instinctual drives, his thirsts. Wolf held them and John held wolf.

Barely.

The mirror showed him his eyes were still an exotic hazel, blue infused with bright veins of topaz. When he tried to turn away, he felt his leg give out, nearly crumpling under him, like a dead limb except for the shock of pain that went through it. He gritted his teeth, hands clenched over his thigh, forcibly holding it in place.

One half of a whole, someone from long ago whispered to him.

As if in sympathetic resonance, horrid screeching sounds filtered up from the sitting room. The terrible clamor of notes and tortured strings should have been degraded by the flight of stairs, floor, and closed door, but John could hear it perfectly clear in all its discordant glory.

His leg settled, taking his weight again even if he had to shuffle somewhat and he had no illusions as to the reasons.

Sherlock, not John, was the one who let the wolf hunt again.

It took some time for him to calm down. Sherlock's violin helped, allowing him to find his balance again, despite the minor torture to his sensitive ears. The modern world was good like that, full of conveniences and frankly mindless diversions, such as turning on the telly and putting the kettle on and the multitude of doors that people insisted on putting between each other and thus, kept his normally abominably noisy flatmate in his room and not in the sitting room until John's eyes had resettled to their usual shade of unremarkable, human blue. He kept to routine, looking out the window, watching cars pass and wearing soft, warm, comfortable clothes to remind him where he was and what he supposed to be like. Normal. Ordinary. Unnoticed.

Sherlock also tended to contribute greatly in this role. Next to the whirling, sociopathic, intellectual death trap that was the world's only consulting detective, no one suspected a wolf in literal sheep's clothing standing right next to him. John had a thing for wool. So sue him.

Unfortunately, certain aspects of living with Sherlock were less useful and a lot less charming as they were absolutely, bloody difficult.

"Sherlock, we agreed body parts would be kept in the fridge," he called, eyeing the severed arm outstretched on the table, reaching forlornly for his plate of eggs and toast.

"Now why, would I ever agree to that?" Sherlock muttered over by the coffee table.

Because I might forget myself and eat it.

John took a bite of runny egg to calm the niggling feeling of want in his gut. "Because it rots and eventually smells."

It smelt like morgue, a construction site, hand rolled cigarettes, and mushrooms. Not a particularly appetizing combination, but John wasn't exactly picky after the morning he'd had.

"I'm testing whether or not certain fungus spores affect rate of decomp," Sherlock replied, bow still in hand and flicking various papers this way and that, presumably searching for something rather than just furthering the general state of untidiness.

At least that explained the mushroom smell. You would think that the suggestion of poisonous fungi would deter any appetite, but John decided to fry himself a few slices of bacon anyway.

"A deviation from habit today. What prompted this startling change, I wonder?" Sherlock said with mock curiosity, abruptly appearing just behind John's shoulder.

"I'm hungry," John snapped, another part of him echoing a similar sentiment, while the rest was simply annoyed.

Sherlock made a sort of noncommittal noise that most polite people would have voiced as, 'Sorry' or 'Okay', but great big bloody Sherlock Holmes couldn't be bothered to pronounce.

The taller man stood there for another forty seconds, breathing, thinking, and more impressively, staying completely still. It was that ability that always had John suspect that Sherlock was something more than vanilla mortal and kept him a little on edge when he stood so close. Fae would be the obvious guess. Some sort of glamour could explain the way Sherlock moved, like a shadow passing over and across solid surfaces. If it wasn't for John's nose, he would probably just assume Sherlock could materialize anywhere he pleased. But it was also John's nose that told him Sherlock couldn't be fae. Fae always smelled of the original elements: wind, fire, earth, and sea, excepting the few who could handle metal. Sherlock smelt like wood smoke and the sticky residue left behind from his patches and something that was subtle, like apples, but potent, like mint.

Finally done with whatever world-ending problem that could be solved within the space of four inhales and exhales, Sherlock's eyes darted from John to the kettle as if they deserved the same amount of attention. "Make me some, will you? Three, not two. With toast."

John, still touchy from his early morning crisis and Sherlock's disregard for his personal space, did not react well to the authoritative tone. He would not take orders. He was not a dog. He was not to be trifled with. He would demand respect or demand blood.

The urge to challenge had nearly won when John really looked at Sherlock, who was once again lost in thought, his eyes flitting from side to side as if in an intense, waking REM cycle. It helped to remind John that Sherlock was an idiot. True, John probably couldn't even fathom the depths of the detective's mind, but he was still an idiot. Sherlock ordered John around the way a baby bosses its parents. This wasn't some ritualized aggression routine in a fight for dominance. Sherlock was just being Sherlock and deep within, the wolf settled. If a dominant wolf wasn't fighting, it was protecting and that meant feeding the semi-emaciated, adult pup in his kitchen.

"Toast and tea," John insisted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, breaking their gaze, but not dropping it. "Fine. Tea, toast, and a slab of fried pig to go. We have something urgent to discuss with Lestrade."

"What, a case?"

"No, that he's a complete idiot."

John liked Lestrade. He was the kind of solid, upstanding bloke that would make a good wolf, which afforded the Detective Inspector John's respect as well as his pity when dealing with Sherlock.

"The man had a heart attack, Sherlock." Perhaps Lestrade was having a bad day too because instead of mildly entertaining whatever Sherlock had to say while reading the newspaper or filling out paperwork, he was simultaneously messaging his temples and rubbing at his eyes.

Sherlock sniffed. "In the middle of the night, while taking a casual stroll in the snow, hardly. Especially when he sets up his illegitimate son to inherit the estate and the majority of the fortune."

"Situations worthy of soap operas do not always imply foul play. The county coroner, the MET's medical examiner, and the Badland family have all agreed that Sir Norman Badland died of natural causes."

"I'm not disputing the cause of death. I am disputing the reason behind it and its significance to the violent murder of four tourists only a week after Sir Norman's death with an additional two bodies found this morning."

"How could you possibly know about that?"

"The papers reported missing, but it's well known that the Badland family is fae descendent. What are you hiding? The suspicion of revenge murders, ritual killings perhaps? Why hide anything at all?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed, his momentum building. "Because these 'deaths' have been too gruesome to reveal to a public who still occasionally burn down known homes and locations of Fae, even though they're legal British citizens and under enough regulations that we mind as well have them walk through the streets wearing stars on their chests. And because, of course, if it is fae we have a legitimate problem."

John hid his involuntary smile at the inspector's both startled and extremely frustrated facial expression by taking a sudden interest in Lestrade's filing cabinet.

"Whatever you may think is going on, Sherlock, this is a job for the regional police. The Met is acting as ringleader for special investigations due to the potential fae involvement, but as far as-"

"Wrong! Norman Badland's home may be in Derbyshire, but his business, his seat of power was here in London. Don't tell me some shifty representative from the company hasn't been leaning its considerable influence on the Met to make sure nothing has run afowl."

"Shifty, never," said the women who breezed into the office. "We are a security firm, after all, Mr. Holmes."

John had heard her approach from the hall, so he had already been turned minutely in order to observe her as she entered the room. She was a uncommonly tall woman, six foot and in heels she was practically six foot four, probably one of the few females who could look Sherlock on the eye. She wore a power suit, dark blue pinstripes, and trousers, but her face was softened by the fact she wore her hair down in a cascade of perfectly styled, though natural brunette waves. Her bright, green eyes stood out as much as her bleached white teeth, which, although had started out focused on Lestrade and Sherlock, inevitably shifted to John.

Their eyes locked.

Aware, good. John levelled his gaze at her, non-threatening, but decidedly present. The woman shifted her stance, a minute change in the angle of her hips and shoulders and the placement of her feet, like a fighter at rest. Predator, yes. Her scent was something similar to printer ink, which lurked beneath a muddy layer of expensive men's cologne from all the people she obviously worked with. Alpha, the wolf thought.

John knew to be wary. Beautiful, powerful women were not to be trifled with because many of them rose to their positions by stepping on the men who underestimated them and grinding them to dust with their stilettos. Human, female, business tycoon. She was the cunning fox who would force them into corners and manipulate them into doing what she wanted, standing in as her most likely cat's paw. John could not allow that, could not allow her to think she had that advantage, so he let the wolf surface and held his stare until she was forced to look away.

Alphas instinctively knew the presence of challengers and when they are out of their own territory.

Sherlock, however, was quite oblivious to such things, as he was with many others. Intorductions, for instance.

Sherlock stood up and instead of offering his hand, let his eyes sweep imperiously over the newcomer with unabashed fervor. "Elizabeth Guard, the new managing director of Spectral Hound Security, Sir Norman's niece, twice divorced, and not confident with the police's abilities."

Her eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. "You read my bio."

"On the contrary, I read you. Anniversary earrings that should match your engagement ring, which presumably matches the wedding band, silver. However, you are also wearing a journey pendant in white gold. Two different metals, despite similar appearance, obviously not meant to be worn together. Then what are they usually paired with? The answer: wedding rings, none of which you are wearing, therefore divorced multiple times. As for not trusting the police, although seemingly good sense in anyone else, you personally aren't too keen on the Met handling your family's various scandals as evidenced by the fact you are in Detective Inspector Lestrade's office when he is in no way tied to either the continuing inquiries into your father's death or the suspicious murders that are occurring after the fact, meaning you could only be in here for his ties with me."

She blinked, but recovered quickly, flashing a politician's smile. "Well that's rather refreshing. It's quite a novelty to be told the truth."

Liar, wolf whispered, John's human mind belatedly interpreting the latent smile muscles and the scent of her irritation at being outmaneuvered.

Ms. Guard's focus was now on Sherlock. "Alright, you know what I want Mr. Holmes. Derbyshire is a small community and our family house has been situated there for ages. The people know us there. They know our history and unfortunately, in the way of most small communities, they thrive on lurid rumours. Coupled with my uncle's mysterious death and sudden appearance of his American love child, the locals are convinced a troll is being sent on behalf of the Badland family to kill tourists. You'll have access to the house, the staff, accounting ledgers, whatever you need to get this cleared up immediately."

"You claim that the two events are not linked," Lestrade cut in, looking at Miss Guard for confirmation, which she gave with an impatient nod. "Then why treat them like they are?"

"Because if the town believes it, it might as well be true, ignoring the unusual circumstances concerning the Badlands would just confirm their suspicions of the family's involvement. And if it is true, well," Sherlock rubbed his hands together, "wouldn't that be interesting?"

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock's eyes ticked over to him, distracted. "What?"

"Bit not good. Manners, Sherlock. Act human," John reminded his companion. Unerringly hypocritical of him, but there you go. Sherlock Holmes was one of the least successful people at playing human John had ever known. Even Old World vamps could pretend to be sympathetic and not become overly excited with the prospect of linking an already grieving family with a bizarre string of vicious murders. But then, John liked that about Sherlock. So many dark creatures hid behind masks of humanity. Sherlock was just Sherlock.

The detective's lips thinned in annoyance, but he faced Ms. Guard with his best try at polite contempt. "I will need to verify a few things with the police as well as wrap up a couple of cases here in London before I can consider taking your case."

"I leave for Derbyshire tomorrow morning," Ms. Guard said, tightly.

"Then that's when you'll have my answer," Sherlock replied carelessly.

She was on the verge of protest when John stood, suddenly shoulder-to-shoulder with Sherlock, causing her to immediately back off, though she maintained her composure.

She nodded briskly. "Detective Inspector Lestrade should be able to give you my cell number. I hope this little drama will prove interesting to you, Mr. Holmes, and that you'll accompany me tomorrow. Detective." She saluted Lestrade. "Doctor." John received barely a glance before she left.

Most would have thought it as merely dismissive, but the wolf was pleased.

Lestrade surrendered her mobile number and contact information as promised and the two left the station in a rather subdued stupor, John because he was hungry again and Sherlock because he was lost in thought once more.

"Why didn't you just agree to take the case. You're obviously interested," John questioned while on their ride back to Baker Street.

"I'd prefer to do it on my own time and I really do have a couple of things to take care of before traipsing off into the obliviously tourist infested countryside." Sherlock pulled away from the window, his quicksilver gaze now fixed on John. "What do you know of the Fae?"

They smell like magic and they keep many secrets. They are wild still, hiding behind boring people faces, dreaming of days long gone where humans were for fun and food. They are old and hard to kill. But I have, not so long ago.

John shrugged. "About as much as anybody else. The Fae are creatures of Ancient Europe and have varying abilities over the natural elements. It's their glamour though, that sets them apart, undetectable by any human technology." But they can be felt or recognized by scent and there are those with the talent to pierce through glamours with ease. "They are deal makers and gift givers, but all faery gifts come either with a price or a curse. I knew a doctor who was given a fae lantern that could cure any life threatening disease, but didn't realize the gift was tied to him alone. When he lent it to one of his colleagues, the lantern cured the patient's cancer, but five of the newborns in pediatrics spontaneously died."

Sherlock's gloved finger ticked gently against his lips. "Do you think them evil, then?"

John pursed his lips, considering his answer. It was not his place as one sort of monster to point his fingers at another and cry villain. "They are dangerous and deserve respect as well as a certain amount of caution when met with one, but they have lost most of their potency since the industrialization of steel and iron. They're literally outgunned, so there's no reason why we shouldn't coexist under common law."

Except the Sidhe, John thought darkly. They were a law unto themselves.

If Sherlock noticed any discrepancies in his mood, the other man either didn't care or didn't find it relevant to the case, since the detective's next question was whether John had any dealings with the Fae.

He gave another shrug. "Some. Patients who are half or quarter fae and a few chance encounters."

For instance, the Winter Queen knew him by name. A dangerous prospect, considering Mab's character.

John felt a chill permeate his chest and lungs at barely thinking the name and had to force himself to occupy his mind with other things.

"Do you think the Badlands are more than just descendants?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed for a second, accompanied by a tick along his cheek and the raised scent of excitement which John associated with Sherlock's pleasure at him grasping something relevant to the case.

Whatever it was, Sherlock seemed unconcerned about elaborating as he leaned back into his seat. "I suspect I am getting ahead of myself. That's why I want you to go to the Badland Estate and investigate the family. You seem to know enough about the Fae to get along with while I exhaust the suspect list at Spectral Hound Security here in London."

John folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not much of a replacement for you, Sherlock. You can't just send me into the country and expect people to cooperate with a part time clinic doctor."

"Of course they will," Sherlock said, opening the taxi door when they finally came to a stop. "You're my partner."

And with that, Sherlock swept into their flat like his statement hadn't resonated deep within John's bisected soul.

Trust. Bound. Pack, wolf whispered.

Sherlock was just being Sherlock, John adamantly thought back.

However, it didn't stop him from immediately packing for his extended trip to Derbyshire.

A/N: Bit of exposition for you. Bear with me, things shall be made clear, secrets revealed, histories uncovered, and adventures abound!