Chapter 1

A sixteen year old Sherlock sat in the back of his older brother's car, blood drying and clinging to his pale wet skin and sopping wet clothing. The erratic flashing of police lights flashed outside in the gloomy night. Mycroft, his twenty three year old brother, stood outside the car trying to reconcile with the police. On the woody ground outside the car, under a small sheet of tarp, lay the mutilated body of a man named Mark Moriarty. Mark Moriarty was notorious for being one of the biggest drug lords in London. He managed his own drug cartel and had been rather an elusive catch. No one in Scotland Yard had ever been able to track his whereabouts until tonight that is when Sherlock called in the murder. In Sherlock's defense, Mark had been trying to kill him, so it shouldn't really be frowned upon as murder. Mark was a Mauvais Dentes after all. Killing was a part of their blood, but no one would ever believe him if he told them that.

Mycroft was running his hand through his hair in exasperation, trying one last time to convince the police that Sherlock's albeit brutal actions were only in self defense. Mycroft, once he had arrived on the scene, was practically bursting with fury. Seeing Sherlock with a bloodied knife in hand, standing next to the corpse of Mark the drug lord, he was even angrier. He had offered to watch his sixteen year old brother as a favor to his parent's and he couldn't believe that during that small course of time that Sherlock had become affiliated with a drug cartel. Sherlock knew that his brother was mad at him because of that and dreaded having to try to convince him that he was doped up on some sort of drug.

Soon another car drove onto the scene. It crunched over the twigs and other brush that had fallen down with the rain as if the brittle bones of the murdered itself were calling out for someone to save them even now. Sherlock watched as the car came to a stop and a sixteen year old boy stumbled out of the back of the car. The sixteen year old boy was the son of the murdered man. His name was James Moriarty. James had buzzed brown hair on the top of his head and a look of sorrow dwelling in his brown eyes. He looked towards the rain spattered tarp as his lip began to quiver. Seeing the tell-tale sign of a break down that Sherlock could see he was trying to keep away, the boy bit his lip and walked toward the tarp. He soon knelt beside it and reached out a shaking hand to pull the tarp back slightly. As soon as he did, he saw reality as clear as day and couldn't keep the emotions from taking control of him. His shoulders started to heave as he started to cry. By this point, a member of the Yard was making his way towards the small boy and placed his hand gently on his shoulder.

"Come on, young man. You need to get away from the crime scene..."

James immediately shrugged off the grasp and turned to him with an angry flash in his eyes.

"Leave me alone! That man was my father!"

The detective inspector gave him a small sympathetic smile as his mother came over to stand beside him. His mother walked over with slow dainty steps, trying to avoid the muddiest patches of the woods so as not to stain her snow white shoes. She was holding a pair of white gloves in her hand and was wringing them as one does a sopping rag. Her face was all done up with makeup that was now running a bit from the rain and not from actual tears. For a woman who had just become a widow, she didn't seem to be in mourning. His mother bent down to try to pull her son toward her and get him out of the Yard's way.

"Come on, Jimmy. We can't get in these men's way..."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

His brown eyes seemed to have turned into burning coals as he swept the crime scene again. Sherlock watched as he turned his head from side to side as if he was looking for someone to accuse for the death of his father. Suddenly, his eyes landed on Mycroft and as James gave him a small lop-sided sneer, Sherlock grew rigid with horror. That was when Sherlock realized that the boy had turned his head a fraction of a meter more to the right to see him covered in blood in the backseat. James sprung to his feet, marching over to Mycroft before the detective inspector or his mother could stop him.

"Why is he covered in blood?" demanded James pointing an accusing finger at the car as he walked over to Mycroft.

Mycroft turned to look at James as he approached, letting out a soft sigh through his nose. He was exhausted from the evening's events. He didn't really feel like trying to console a hormonal teenager aside from the one in his back seat at the moment and he had to console him because he was his younger brother.

"Are you going to answer me?!" asked James as anger caused his cheeks to flush red. "Why is he covered in blood?"

"Because he was defending his life," repeated Mycroft for what he felt was the hundredth time

"Defending his life? Are you saying he killed my father?!"

Sherlock could hear James' yelling grow in volume from his position inside the car. He felt a sick feeling start to form in his stomach then and really wished that they hadn't confiscated his knife as part of the crime scene. For some reason, he felt the need to be armed in case he had to protect himself. As he stared at the scene, he saw James woge and then turn back to his original human form. It was quick and something that only he could see, but a woge just the same. He gulped. He thought he had gotten rid of all the Mauvais Dentes in the area, but he was apparently wrong. There was at least one still left.

James turned to look at the car, edging closer to it as the detective inspectors tried to hold him back.

"I hate you!" screamed James at the glass, spit flying forth from his sneering lips. "You killed my father! He did nothing wrong! You're a murderer!"

"James!" shouted his mother then, looking appalled. "Get control of yourself. Your father had violent tendencies at times..."

"Don't you dare try to defend this man!" shouted James. "If you do, you're a traitor!"

Eventually the detective inspectors were able to bring the boy away from the car, but this wasn't without struggles. Sherlock watched in horror; one hand gripping the handle of the car in case he had to go outside and protect the detective inspectors and his brother from the Mauvais Dente. He was worried that with all the anger James was currently releasing that he might woge completely and start attacking. At least one detective inspector didn't escape the matter unscathed and came away with a cut on his arm once he had gotten James towards the car. One of them turned to his mother and said, "Get the boy out of here."

The last thing that Sherlock heard from James before he was pushed back into the interior of his own vehicle was, "I will make you pay for what you have done to my father! Mark my words!"

James' mother climbed back into the car too and they were soon retreating from the crime scene. Everyone seemed frozen in time for a minute as they tried to let what had just happen soak in. Finally though, the "spell" wore off and the detective inspectors asked Mycroft a few more questions before dismissing him. By the time Mycroft finally got back into the car after the detective inspectors had dismissed him, he looked completely spent. He wiped a weary hand over his face and tried to keep himself together. He moved his eyes to glance in the rear view mirror and looked at Sherlock in utter disbelief.

"I can't believe you did drugs on me. You said you weren't going to..."

"I didn't, Myc...Honest I didn't."

"Then why on this bloody earth were you out here tonight, Sherlock?! You snuck out of my flat and came out to the middle of no where to meet a drug lord that you just ended up killing!"

"It's not like that, Myc..." said Sherlock as he turned his bright blue eyes to lock with Mycroft's in the mirror. "I didn't come out here on my own free will...he kidnapped me."

Mycroft let out a small sigh of disbelief. He didn't believe a word that he said.

"Sherlock, how could you have been kidnapped from my flat? I was just next door to you. I would have heard if someone had entered the flat and abducted you."

"I was outside the flat when he kidnapped me. I wasn't in the flat. I went downstairs to go to the cafe to get a cup of coffee..."

"At three in the morning?" asked Mycroft; the angry edge still holding on to his voice.

"I didn't want to start up the coffee pot and wake you. He abducted me when I was walking there."

"But why, Sherlock? Did you not pay up on a drug deal?"

"Mycroft, I'm sixteen years old. Do you really think that Mark would have been so stupid as to sell drugs to a minor?"

"I am not going to have this conversation with you anymore..."

"He took me out here and tried to kill me because he knew that I knew what he was."

"And what was that, Sherlock? A corrupt business man? Every one knows that."

"No, he's a beast...He kind of looks like a saber toothed tiger..."

"Sherlock, silence. I don't want to hear anymore. This is a conversation for Mum and Dad to deal with when they come back to collect you," stated Mycroft.

"But Myc, he really is a beast..."

"Silence, Sherlock. I think I've heard enough of your atrocious tales tonight."

Mycroft started up his car, muttering to himself as he drove them away from the crime scene.

"You watch out for your brother for one night and this is the thanks you get...Mum and Dad won't ever let me live this down..."

Sherlock humphed and slumped back against the backseat, looking at the landscape that was moving past the window. A mixture of midnight blues and blacks presented itself to his watchful eyes, hiding more creatures within the night; creatures that only he could see. He sighed. Maybe this was how it would always be for him as the only Grimm in his family. Maybe he would always be assumed to be taking drugs to hallucinate over these beasts, but he knew the truth and he was never planning to lose sight of that.

Sherlock stood in front of the microscope, gripping the knobs on the side of it as his mind flashed back to that memory. He realized that that event had occurred twenty one years ago, but it didn't mean that events like that still didn't occur in the present. That night had been the first occurrence of many. He had been lucky enough to get charged with self defense that night and let off with a warning. However, he wasn't lucky enough to stop seeing these beasts; these monsters. He felt so alone too. When he had found out he was a Grimm when he was only sixteen, he had also discovered the brutal truth that no one in his family knew what a Grimm was and that none of them could sympathize with the monsters he was claiming to see.

Mycroft kept blowing Sherlock off whenever he tried to mention the things he saw. Mycroft was convinced that Sherlock was doing drugs ever since he found Sherlock in the forest with the dead drug lord. Mycroft never let go of that conviction either, no matter how many times Sherlock tried to sway him. His mother and father didn't believe him either. They just thought he was bored and making up "imaginary creatures" to keep himself entertained. His whole family viewed him as the boy who cried wolf. They just didn't realize that all the times he tried to talk to them, he actually was.

That's why Sherlock had become withdrawn. Since no one seemed to believe his insane tales, he became a sociopath. He didn't want to be able to sympathize with anyone and he didn't want anyone to be able to sympathize with him. If he was to carry this burden, he didn't want people to get close enough to him only to hurt him more. He was tired of no one believing him. All he wanted was a confidant, but he couldn't find one anywhere.

He let out a soft sigh as he went back to studying the organism that laid on the slide underneath the microscope lens. As he tried to drag himself back out of his head and to what he was observing, he heard the laboratory doors swing open and looked up to see who entered. It was none other than Mike Stamford.

Sherlock remembered Mike quite clearly. They had become friends when he had saved his family's life. Mike and his family were Scharfblicke. In the world of monsters, or Wesens as they were officially called, that only Sherlock seemed to be able to see, they resembled owls. They were fairly harmless in Sherlock's experience. Mike's family was being tortured by a family of Coyotls nearby. These coyote like creatures proved to be a nuisance. To Sherlock, they were like ill bred mosquitos of the violent variety. He was able to eventually deal with the Coyotls and protect Mike and his family. Ever since then, Mike has been Sherlock's friend and has felt indebted to him.

"Hello again, Mike," said Sherlock in a calm voice as he looked up to greet him.

That was when he finally noticed the man that Mike had in tow. Standing behind Mike, leaning on his cane, was a young man of about Sherlock's age. He had blonde hair on the top of his head and blue, inquisitive eyes that seemed to be trying to soak in everything within the room. His face was rugged and looked as if it had seen the face of many wars and had come out on top. Sherlock gave the party a small smirk. Of course Mike would try to pay a debt of gratitude today. He had accidentally let it slip that he needed to find a flat mate before he lost the flat he was staying in and had to move out of London. Since Sherlock was the only Grimm in London, and one that seemed to have the best interests of innocent Wesen at heart, Mike along with some of the other local Wesen, didn't want to see him leave. Apparently this was Mike's attempt to get him to stay. Sherlock sighed. He might as well try to humor Mike's gift and see how it went.

"Sherlock, I'd like you to meet one of my friends, Doctor John Watson," said Mike as his face beamed with pride.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked Sherlock without allowing John a chance to speak. He turned back to the microscope to look at the organism there one last time. This would be the way that Sherlock would test this man and see if he would work well with him or not.

"Excuse me?" asked John sounding quite bewildered.

"Afghanistan or Iraq. You heard me," said Sherlock, keeping a calmness about him.

"Afghanistan. How did you know that?"

Sherlock turned to look back at John then. He knew because he could see the signs of war all over him. He knew because he could tell that he had seen a different kind of monster that the world bred and knew how to handle it. He knew because he looked as if he were ready to face any hardship that came his way. Instead of saying any of these things though, Sherlock merely said, "You are using a cane as support yet you have refused a chair. You are standing at attention like a soldier does. Plus the tan you have suggests time abroad. London is not known for its sunny climate after all."

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief as Mike chuckled. Sherlock looked at Mike out of the corner of his eyes and saw a brief woge. Mike was no doubt worried that Sherlock didn't like John. Well, Mike was wrong.

"Now, you are here about the flat share idea no doubt," said Sherlock.

"Hold on a tick...who said anything about sharing a flat?" asked John as he looked at Mike. "How did he know that?..."

"That one is simple, John. I told Mike that I was going to leave London if I couldn't find someone to share a flat with and here he is less than two hours later with someone that is back from military service."

Sherlock shrugged into his coat then, tying his scarf quickly around his neck. He knew the matter was sealed for now. He knew that John was interested in sharing a flat with him even if his mind hadn't quite processed it yet.

"I don't even know your name or where the flat is," said John as he stared at Sherlock who brushed past him towards the door.

Sherlock moved to open the door, turning back to look at John with a faint smile.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and the address of the flat is 221B Baker Street. I shall see you tomorrow around noon, John."

With that, Sherlock left and let the door swish shut behind him. He knew that it was a risk allowing John to share the flat with him, but it was a risk that he had to be willing to take. London would suffer without the presence of a Grimm to keep order. Maybe after twenty one years of silence over his secret, it was time to finally let someone into the secret. Sherlock decided not to get ahead of himself just yet though. He would have to wait and see if John showed up tomorrow. Tomorrow would give him the answers that he was looking for and he would just have to be patient in the meantime. Tuning out the rest of his thoughts over the flat share, Sherlock walked out to greet the overcast day outside. He soon blended in with the crowd and disappeared in its mid-afternoon rush.