The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I only entertain this idea.
Looking for constructive reviews, please.
WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence, mild/harsh language, I am a cruel woman.
Author's Note: This wasn't going to happen, but then it did and I was really helpless to stop it. I know epilogues are supposed to be short, but I don't halfass stories. That is all folks. I do hope you enjoyed it.
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- Breaking the News -

"I have never felt more tired in my entire life," Sherlock whined, slumping down onto his couch and stretching long on it, crossing his ankles as he settled. John surveyed the flat, still covered with loose leaf papers and photos of his victims; though the Polaroid's of Donovan had been removed. "How are you not incredibly tired?" he asked in a very sleepy voice, his arm covering his brilliant blue eyes.

"Because I'm more used to the stretching of my limbs and muscles than you are," John replied. "Sorry about your violin by the way. I couldn't resist."

"It needs new strings anyhow." Sherlock shimmied deeper into the couches comfortable hold. His mobile rang out from his breast pocket and he absentmindedly thumbed the accept button.

"Sherlock!" He shot upright; as if shocked, at the sound of the familial voice on the other end.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cast worried eyes to John; who paled slightly at the name.

"Where are you?" Mycroft demanded heatedly.

"The flat," he admitted when he became lost for words.

"We'll be there momentarily." Mycroft hung up before giving Sherlock a chance to protest.

"We?" He thought about the statement a moment. "Shit, he's bringing Lestrade with him and they're on their way here. I was supposed to have killed you last week." He roughed his hands through his dark curls as he slumped back into the couch. John stared at baffled Sherlock, almost relishing in his frustration.

"Try and break it to them gently," John offered, slowly making his way from the sitting room at the sound of brakes outside the flat.

"You're not helping," Sherlock growled.

"I don't mean to be," he cooed as he slipped down the hall leading to Sherlock's bedroom. "Good luck," John murmured low enough for only Sherlock to hear.

"Gently," he whispered to himself at the sound of feet trudging up the stairs. Sherlock sniffed at the air, taking in their scents for the first time. They were just as John had described, Mycroft literally smelled like chocolate cake and Lestrade smelled like the job.

"Where have you been?" the inspector asked as they burst through the kitchen door, piling over the papers into the sitting room.

"No hello?" Sherlock teased, looking between the two men.

"I agree with Lestrade, where the hell have you been?"

"Dartmoor," he answered flatly, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Don't be funny, Sherlock. We've been ringing you all week with no answer. What...you've put on weight," Mycroft noticed.

"It's all muscle, I weigh two and a quarter now."

"What happened out there?" his brother demanded, determined to get the truth from his little brother.

"I was torturing a man. He was a wealth of knowledge and took the whole ordeal in stride, like a good soldier," Sherlock lied, placing his arm over his eyes, wishing for nothing more than to be asleep. Mycroft knocked his limb away in irritation.

"Will you take this seriously!"

"Sit. Down," Sherlock warned, his voice stern as he fixed his brother with a hard gaze. Mycroft started at the look he received, there was something different about his little brother, but he couldn't place what it was, though he remembering seeing a similar look in the hazel eyes of John Watson. Sherlock slowly sat up, swinging his legs to plant his feet on the floor. Mycroft backed into the desk and leaned against it while Lestrade simply backed away, unknowingly standing between Sherlock and John.

"This is your way of breaking it gently?" John whispered from the hall, making Sherlock loose a tremendous laugh. His brother and the inspector cast worried glances to each other, hearing something inhuman in him.

"How badly do you want the true answer to that question?"

"How about I wing you if we don't get the truth?" Lestrade inquired, pulling his weapon from its holster.

"No, no. I wouldn't do that. That's why he killed Donovan." The statement stopped the inspector in his tracks.

"What?"

"He's an alpha, quite possessive of what is his and she hit me. Bloodied me rather good if you remember."

Lestrade nodded. "That's it?"

"As he told me, 'Nobody insults nor assaults what is mine.' He's claimed me as his," Sherlock explained, eyeing Lestrade's pistol.

"You speak of him like a dog," Mycroft wondered.

A slow smile crept across Sherlock's lips as his eyes dramatically traveled to his brother. "Funny you should say that."

The chambering of a round made the brothers look to the inspector. "Is he still alive?"

"The answer won't comfort you." Lestrade's eyes narrowed hard momentarily.

"What happened out there, Sherlock?" Mycroft tentatively pried.

"I lost control and shit hit the fan. Perhaps you'd like to listen to the narrative, Lestrade, before you go shooting up my flat." His grip tightened on his gun, but the inspector nodded. Sherlock returned it with a curt nod. "As I said, he's a wealth of knowledge, we all saw what happened to his knee, the way he healed, I was immensely curious. So I put him under and I cut him, flaying some of his skin and watching as it grew back. Possibly the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen.

"Then I wondered how a bullet near his heart would effect this regeneration of his. Worst idea I have ever had. He turned into a monster and I panicked," Sherlock paused, remembering the fear he'd felt that night. "We know I'm a city boy at heart, I hadn't learned how to navigate my way through during the day, so when he chased me onto the moor, I sank in the mire, which only caused more panic."

"But it's just quicksand, Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted. "You know your way out easily."

"Have you ever set foot in the Grimpen Mire?" He grinned when his brother shook his head. "It's like nothing else the way it sucks you under. And it doesn't take much to have a hold on you. The mire is like nothing else, supernatural in its own right. It's two very different things to now your way out and get your way out and I couldn't. I was up to my neck, so sure I was going to suffocate out there. And then Jo-he saved me. Sank his teeth into my shoulder and yanked me up from its hold." Sherlock massaged his long fingers into his scarred shoulder.

"First name basis with him are you?" He caught the anger in Lestrade's voice as a bitter note mingling with his natural scent.

"He did save my life."

"You said he sank his teeth into your shoulder, I've seen him, his jaw's not that big."

"Gently," John warned, making Sherlock grin as he undid his shirt buttons to reveal his scar. Mycroft gasped at the grotesque thing. Lestrade simply looked from it to Sherlock's face and back.

"Those are canine teeth," Mycroft murmured.

"I said he became a monster."

"What you're saying is impossible. Creatures like that don't exist."

"I watched him change. I saw the impossible happen before me, willing myself that it was some sort of nightmare, but it wasn't. And the past three nights...I have changed," Sherlock admitted, hoping the message was clear. "By saving my life, he infected me with his curse." Silence hung awkwardly around the room as Sherlock's words sank in.

"What are you saying, exactly?" Lestrade inquired slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. Sherlock cast his eyes to his brother, who was still trying to absorb the words.

"I understand it's hard to accept...," he tried to say but Lestrade interrupted him.

"No. What are you trying to say!"

Sherlock closed his eyes, physically incapable of seeing the look in their eyes as he spoke, "I am a werewolf."

"They don't exist," Lestrade said flatly, his voice distant.

"Yes we do," came John's voice as he leaned; arms crossed and eyes yellow, against the opening to the hallway. All eyes turned to him and the inspector raised his gun. Sherlock launched himself from the couch and was on Lestrade in seconds, the gun barrel bent in his palm. Lestrade gazed in disbelief at his useless weapon, backpedaling away from Sherlock when he had turned to berate him.

"I forgot to mention that I'm also an alpha and quite possessive of what I've claimed." Sherlock turned to his brother who started at his eyes, sliding down the length of the desk; knocking books and paper askew, in an attempt to get away. He had felt them shift and knew from the fear palpitating the room that there was no longer any doubt about what he was saying. "Any other questions?"

~ END ~