Well, this is my second Sherlock fic and I hope it goes a lot better than my other one... It was supposed to be a oneshot but I figured that I would make a multi-chapter fic instead. I'm not even a half done and there is a lot to explain and I am looking forward to writing the rest of it...

This is actually a cross-over of Fullmetal Alchemist and Sherlock but you don't have to understand FMA at all, everything (well, the important bits, anyway) will eventually be explained. Hopefully this won't fail...

Disclaimer: Don't own anything.

Warning: Nil at this moment

See ya in the next chapter maybe?

Keep Me Please
#1. Found Me

Tears pooled over light blue irises as they gazed at the dirty grey ceiling, it was over, he was laid on his back, he couldn't win this time, bony wrists shackled to the floor, he lost, scars marred his body, it was over and he lost, ribs could be seen, could be counted, he couldn't return home this time, another warm lupine body was chained beside him in similar condition, this was it, energy hummed in the air, I'm sorry, tears spilled over as the electric blue light glowed, Goodbye John, the light turned blinding, and the blood curdling screams started.

He was hoping for it. He was dreading it. The call came.

"We've found him."

He sounded defeated; his usually confident voice was reduced to a tired murmur. He sounded so different.

"We need you to come to the site, John. A car will be waiting for you outside."

And now he was standing outside an old, apparently abandoned building somewhere far from London. It was absolute chaos, people were yelling, others with white robes were cuffed and shoved into vans, an ambulance was on standby with multiple people with the bright orange shock blanket clinging on their trembling shoulders.

Someone cleared their throat and he spun around, meeting the gaze of Mycroft Holmes. The man looked different, his skin was pale and his eyes were devoid of emotion, with dark circles around them and he appeared to have lost a fair bit of weight.

"What's happened? Where's Sherlock?"

Mycroft beckoned him to follow, his knuckles bleached white from clutching his umbrella too tightly, and he walked towards the open doors. John frowned; worry gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

Where was Sherlock? Mycroft said that he had found the man, so where was he?

"Mycroft? Where is he?"

His stride doesn't falter, "You must be wondering why my people are arresting the ones in white robes. They are part of a cult that believes in a dead art, the art of Alchemy."

They walked pass many closed doors and through many halls; John could hear people and animals behind them. How was this important? What was the connection between this alchemy and Sherlock?

"They decided to experiment. They first focused on trying to get it to work and when they succeeded they decided to concentrate on the organic branch of alchemy. They started combining two or more organisms to form one product; a chimera. It worked, however the end results were horrendous.

"Then an idea got into one of their crazed minds and they started experimenting with people. A human-animal hybrid; the intelligence of man but the weapons and killer instinct of an animal."

Horror settled inside his very core. No. No. No! That should have been impossible! How? How could they have done this and not have been caught for so long?

"They tried experimenting on themselves first but realised that they couldn't lose so many of their followers and took to abducting people off the streets. And if they had died – the ones in the very beginning died very quickly – they were dumped in alleys and rubbish dumps.

"I believe Sherlock was investigating this case. The people who went missing and then they'd turn up dead some time later with animal features warping their decaying, cold bodies."

Yes, Sherlock had been on a case when he had disappeared.

"Why was Sherlock taken?"

Mycroft looked over his shoulder, staring at the doctor before he opened a door and stepped through it. Cages lined the walls, most were empty, and others weren't. Decaying bodies were strewn on the floor; the smell was foul, absolutely horrible. John followed Mycroft, a sleeve pressed against his mouth and nose.

"They started to pick targets with most potential to survive the transformation. Sherlock happened to be getting a little bit too close for comfort and he was an ideal subject."

Another door and they walked down a flight of stairs, the lighting was far too bright to be considered comfortable and John noticed a group of men leaning against the wall further down, their faces slightly green. Mycroft ignored them and walked into the room, John right behind him.

There was a lot of growling and hissing. Mutant animals thrashed against the bars of their confining cage, their teeth snapping at metal and claws slashing against the concrete floor. Some were moaning and crying out, laying completely still, their sides heaving, clearly in pain.

"They got to Sherlock and inevitably he too was subjected to their experimenting. I called you here because he may recognise you."

John halted, feeling sick to the bone, "Why not you?"

Mycroft looked at him, mask in place but John knew the man was upset. "I've tried. It didn't work."

John scowled, his insides twisting. What if Sherlock didn't recognise him? He shoved his hands deep in his pockets. What would happen then?

"Come along, Dr Watson. He is right this way," Mycroft said, turning left.

More cages, more men pale and ill, more growling, more dead mutated bodies, more moans of pain… And finally they reached the one cage that held his changed roommate.

Mycroft remained silent and John stared.

Pale blue eyes stared at them, it snarled at them, its teeth sharp and lethal, scars littered the thin body, its claws were attached to a cross between paw and human hands and feet, sandy brown dominated its furry body however along the spine, tail and especially on the neck and upper half of its head was a mass of stringy dark brown hair.

"How…? How do you know it's him? For all you know it could be someone else."

Please. Please not Sherlock.

"It is him. The files confirmed it."

This was completely illogical! How could a cult of insane people manage to revive a dead art?

The chimera – Sherlock – stood his ground, growling with his teeth bared and fur bristling, eyes fixed on them.

John moved closer to the cage and crouched down, elbows braced against his knees as he stared at him. Sherlock backed away, ears pressed against his skull; his growl rumbled loudly, mouth pulled into a snarl.

"Sherlock? It's John."

John stared into blue eyes and hoped – prayed – that Sherlock would remember him, would recognise him.

Sherlock's growling trailed off, pale eyes wide and ears still pressed back. He ran his long tongue against his teeth, his paws shifting uncertainly.

"Hey," John continued softly, taking the change in Sherlock as progress, "it's alright, Sherlock. I'll take you back to Baker Street and we'll see Mrs Hudson and she'll make tea and fuss like always."

Sherlock's head lowered, eyes peering at John, his shoulders hunching. He whined, tail tucked in between his legs. He looked so small and fragile… That wasn't right…

Mycroft shifted behind him, "Keep talking to him, Dr Watson."

Sherlock whined again and his maw opened and, "…John…?"

Both men stilled. The voice… That voice was warped – heavily so – but it was definitely Sherlock's.

Sherlock looked at him pleadingly, blue eyes searching. John and Mycroft shared a glance and John shuffled forward, hand outstretched but not touching the cage.

"Yeah," he licked his dry lips, "I'm here."

Sherlock studied him with wary eyes. He stepped away from the bars, his head shaking.

"No…" he moaned, looking devastated, "am sorry… I very sorry… Make John sad… Make John worry… Sorry …"

Tbc?