Despite his unease, John followed Sherlock deeper into the woods—or forest, he was most certain now it was a forest. Which didn't make too much sense, but nothing now was making too much sense. If the mad detective were right, and everyone around him right now was…not exactly human, then there must be a logical (or an illogical) explanation for an expanding woods.

Sergeant Donovan was stopped up ahead, a torch pointed towards the path in front of him and Sherlock. John's own senses were heightened in the moonlight—hearing was sharper, smell was broader, eyesight was crisper (and the surroundings were brighter, as if it were early dusk). Sherlock was easily keeping a steady, brisk pace through the undergrowth, so clearly he could see and hear well, too, otherwise he'd be tripping over roots and rocks and branches.

He says he's not a wolf, John thought, trying to stay close, but his senses are keener than a human's. What else has magnified senses? At the moment, he couldn't think of anything, though he did run through the generic fairytale cast. Not a werewolf, probably not a vampire…well, he could be. Tall, pale, eerie eyes. But his eyes were less red and gold of fables and more blue-green of nature. He was at home in the woods.

"Do try to keep up," his companion said with a bedeviling smile. He stood on a boulder overlooking a clearing.

"I have a cane, you know," he snapped, remembering the damn thing.

Sherlock shrugged and leaped down, coat fluttering like the wings of a great raptor. John watched as he landed with ease and grace, not even breaking step. "Coming?"

John rolled his eyes. Really, best pick of flatmate.

The clearing was man-made…fine, not man-made, but it was far from natural. Rocks lined the circular shape, in the middle of which stood a well. It looked wide from where John stood on the edge of the clearing, at least a good four or five feet in diameter. The sides were built of stone and crumbling. The winch was old and rusted, the bucket, missing. Around the well was a smaller, neat circle of mushrooms, all growing together, their caps glowing greenish in the moonlight.

"Why are they growing in a circle?"

"It's a fairy ring, a naturally occurring circle of mushrooms, though usually not this perfectly symmetrical."

"Does it mean anything else?" called Lestrade, pacing around the formation.

"A fungus, mycelium." he answered calmly. "Does it mean anything else to us? No."

"You're sure?"

"Please assure me, Detective Inspector, that you did not call me out all this way because you believed a fairy ring had a significant meaning in your case?"

"I thought maybe—"

"It could mean the involvement of fairies?" He laughed. "The Fae haven't been in England for hundreds of years. When was the last time, the late eighteenth century?"

"Early eighteenth century, I thought."

"Really? Because you're wrong." Sherlock strode into the open, followed closely by the limping John. "The fall of the Kingdom of France, her royalty burned and beheaded to make room for a growing middle class, destroying and frightening the intricate web of the Fae in Western Europe. Do your research." He stopped at the edge of the mushroom circle and dropped to one knee, studying the glowing caps. "Mycena haematopus," he informed them. "Known colloquially as the bleeding Mycena or the bleeding fairy helmet." His face crinkled in disbelief and he swore low, standing, struggling out words in a whisper. "I'm wrong."

"What was that?"

"I'm wrong!" He broke through the circle and bounded onto the lip of the well, staring down into the hole in the ground. Lanterns had been lowered into the abyss and the shadows on his face made him look like a pale gaunt wisp of a man.

Before John or Lestrade could protest, he dove.

It wasn't a deep well, only thirty or forty feet below the surface. It was damp but not muddy. The smell of mildew clogged his nose, masking the scents of the moist earth and the souring smell of decomposing meat. The string of lanterns cut off at the bottom, casting echoing lights into the tunnels.

Of course there were tunnels.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The end of the lantern train was talking.

A radio was attached to the long string of electricals, Lestrade's voice booming through the cavernous space. "Very clear."

"The body was found down the west tunnel, the one that's lit."

"How did you manage to locate a body down here? Couldn't have just thought 'Today's a good day to pop down a well for a cadaver!'"

"We got an anonymous tip. That, and the dogs."

"By dogs you mean you, right?"

Lestrade snarled. "Just do your job."

He detached the radio and clicked it off, slipping it securely into a pocket of his coat. It was late September, and the autumn chill was already slithering under his clothes, biting his skin. The tunnel here was colder still, with a draft seeping in from the west.

Of course it was from the west. Whatever killed the newest victim was waiting downwind. It could already smell him—there went any chance at an ambush. He surveyed his surroundings—there were at least two exits, one above him at the well's entrance, and one to the west tunnel where the cool wind blew in the scent of turning grass and the hardness of wood. No telling what was east, and he wasn't inclined to inspect it now. Being a loner had its downsides.

He flicked the radio on. "See if you can find another entrance to the west, there's a draft."

"What's it smell like?"

"Maple and decaying flesh."

"I'll send a group."

"There's a possible predator down the east side."

"Did he just say predator?" asked John's voice. He was standing near Lestrade, but was not loud enough to be right next to the man. His hearing was good.

Lestrade came through. "What do you mean, predator?"

"Big, possibly feral, malicious, could be anything from dog-sized to car-sized, I won't know until I see the body. Is it undisturbed?"

"Forensics is down there."

Sherlock swore. "I am not dealing with Anderson."

"Not my problem right now, considering I'm up here." He could hear the shrug in his voice. "I can send Sally down—"

"Sgt. Donovan won't work with me either, you know she detests me."

"One or the other, Sherlock."

"Neither."

"Fine, have it—wait, your friend here wants to come."

Sherlock frowned in the darkness. "How does he plan on getting down?"

"Hell if I know, it's a forty-foot drop down."

"How did forensics get down?"

"Ladders, which they've taken with them."

"Reckon John can jump?"

"You've seen his leg, I doubt he could do it."

"Ropes?"

"Yes, fine, we can try with ropes."

It took upwards of ten minutes, but John was lowered down into the spacious well with two thick ropes. Sherlock, having grown impatient long ago, was identifying and dating rocks as accurately as possible in the glumly lit passage. He had gone through half the wall by the time John was standing beside him.

"Where to now?" he asked, leaning on his cane.

"West side to forensics, hopefully they'll have a better idea."

Sherlock's pace was a touch too brisk for John to keep up, what with his limp and cane and all. Sherlock was beginning to regret complaining about a lack of assistant. Well, he complained until they got to Anderson and his team.

"I see they've let you out of your hovel," the man sneered as Sherlock passed.

"I see they're letting you touch the equipment again. Promise it won't get stuck in the middle of the wall again?"

Anderson made a low growl and stepped out of Sherlock's way.

It was another child, a shifter of some sort this time, caught in the middle of a change. A tail trailed behind the body, ears fuzzy and oddly shaped. Errant patches of fur clutched to the pale skin. They were in a varying of colors. Oranges, blacks, whites, and browns, all stained with red. Long gashes ran through the forearms; they had been raised in defense against a big—no, huge—predator. There were disfiguring rips across the side of the face turned to him, the ear nearly torn off, mouth split revealing a clutter of different-species teeth, legs contorted to unholy angles. Lestrade would need to work a miracle to identify this body.

Sherlock turned to the team. "Why is he convinced these two are related?"

One of the smaller analysts, Bao, answered him. "They smell the same. It's a distinct musk mixed with sage, gunpowder tea, agarwood, and jasmine."

Sherlock frowned, his nose crinkling. "Those things aren't found together."

"Exactly, which is why Lestrade believes them to be linked."

He nodded, looking over to his companion. John's face was stoic, but he watched as the man's eyes darted from injury to injury, trying to piece together the attack. He held his head in his hand in concentration, nibbling on the knuckle of his index figure. An old habit from university, he suspected, maybe even earlier.

"What can you tell me about it?" Sherlock asked, prompting John's mind.

"Animal, large, bigger than a dog—"

"How much bigger?"

"Maybe a wolf?"

"Nope."

"…Horse-sized? That doesn't make sense."

"Close. More like a sedan."

His mind buffered, processing the sheer magnitude of the creature. "Nothing that big with claws exists."

"In the human world, you mean. In ours, that is a common size."

"Right. Well, beastly, not necessarily wild. Cause of death could be excess bleeding, head trauma, poison, fracturing of the spinal column—I can't tell from here."

"How very obvious, John." Sherlock pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a box (being carried by another analyst) and snapped them on. Time to get to work.

The body was damp. The poor girl's eyes had been frozen open, white and glassy. Either she was blind to begin with or something about the attack had caused a chemical blindness, which seemed more likely based on the splattered pattern on the pupils and skin around the eyes. The clothes were almost torn to shreds in places, where the edges were stained with blood. They were old, dirty, and reeked of mildew. Kept prisoner, maybe? Or a cave dweller? The body displayed the attributes of a rabbit, a dog, and a muskrat—multiple species at the same time, characteristic of stress and panic. The attack was sudden, but she had known it was coming based on the state of her nails—bitten through and ragged, ripped skin along the fingers, upper arms scratched red in anxiety. She had died brutally, and painfully.

"She was familiar with the beast," he announced, moving her long red hair away from her neck. It was bloody as well, with a black substance oozing at the vertebrae prominens, the seventh cervical vertebrae. The bone itself protruded from her torn flesh, yellowing and bloody.

He flicked his tongue over his sharpening teeth, coaxing them back into duller instruments.

"What makes you say that?" John was hovering at his elbow now.

"She was a skinwalker—a type of shape-shifter, perfectly capable of defending herself, yet there's no sign of flesh or skin under her nails—which are chewed and stumped due to a nervous habit. She feared the beast enough to become almost paralyzed when it appeared. Almost, you ask? Yes, almost because she did get her hands up to defend herself, it just didn't cut it. The gashes in her forearms are proof enough that she had some range of motion in her state of mind. Those are claw marks are deep, four across, and caused at an arc of motion. Large, probably a feline species, as canines aren't known for using paws. The bite goes through the nape of the neck and pierces the windpipe—definitely a cat now, as dogs usually tear out the jugular of mid-sized prey. It didn't need the element of surprise, toyed with its target, which accounts for the other lacerations and broken bones. Black liquid on the neck, a poisonous bite to kill the prey if the neck doesn't snap or the trachea is undamaged. If that poison is in the other three bodies, we have a serial killer on our hands."

Sherlock concluded his visual tour of the body, folding his hands. John was staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide. He cocked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"That was brilliant."

He blinked. "Was it?"

"Brilliant," John muttered again, "just brilliant."

He nodded once and looked around at the team. Some had paid attention (and had equally astonished faces), others had gone about their jobs, unimpressed. "Whom do I trust here…Bao!" he called again to the short girl.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Ask Lestrade how close his team is to finding the second entrance. It should be sloping—will be easier to remove the body. Also prevents you from going back towards where the beast is lying in wait—"

"It's still here?"

"It is likely to still be here; this seems to be its hideout. Best move fast."

She swallowed nervously and pulled out her radio, frantic to call her boss.

"Do you really still believe that?" John asked as they wandered further away from the crime scene.

"Of course; the only way it could exit is behind us, or above from the well if it were to be so daring, but there were no claw marks or gashes on the stone lining, so I assume that is not how it left, if it did leave. That, and I can smell the musk. It's unbearably strong nearer the well."

John shivered. "I don't care to run into it."

"Five minutes, he says!" called Bao from the other end of the crime scene.

"Thank you!"

"What are we going to do now?" John asked, looking around. "Go out with them?"

"No, Lestrade won't be there and I need to talk to him immediately—at the sharpness of that drop, the path back will take a half hour."

"Impatient," John huffed.

"No, determined."

His companion screwed up his eyes and sighed, trying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides.

They were more than halfway back when he heard the growl. It was deep, rumbling. It shook in his chest, resonating in his ribs. John's face dropped and Sherlock's ears prickled, trying to locate the direction. Blood rushed to his brain, heightening his senses. He stood tall, tense, ready to lash out.

John was torn between his military training and human instincts. Unlike Sherlock, he wasn't in control of himself yet, and therefore was practically weaponless. If he fought, he'd be torn to shreds.

Sherlock reached into his coat pocket. "Lestrade, do you have any more rope?"

"Why, Timmy? Has Lassie gotten stuck down a well?"

"Lassie and Timmy are currently in danger of being torn to bits by your serial killer, who happens to be a shifter."

"This is not the right time to bag him?"

"This is not the right time to bag him."

"…I'll get the rope."

Sherlock returned the radio and listened for footfalls, breathing, growling—anything that would give him a sense of direction. Nothing came. Nothing came and then—

A white flash behind them, a loud, aggressive snarl, the scratching of claws against rock.

They ran.

Sherlock and John bolted down the tunnel, running as fast as Olympians. Everything in Sherlock's brain had shut down, clouded only with the command faster. Run faster, move your legs faster, breathe faster. Faster, faster, faster. Run until you hit a wall, until you collapse, until you trip. Just run.

He was so blinded by primal instinct he nearly collided face-first into the cavern wall below the well shaft. John stopped before him, staring up.

"Jump," Sherlock said hoarsely.

John stood still, panic across his face. "I can't."

"JUMP!"

With a grimace, the doctor crouched and leapt, wolf claws gripping the rocky sides of the well. He clutched on desperately. "What now?"

"Climb or wait for Lestrade."

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine. I need to see it."

"What?!"

"I need to see the beast!"

An exasperated whine fell from John's mouth as Sherlock disappeared from sight, heading back in the direction of the creature. It was still near, but it wasn't showing itself. A scare tactic? No, a predatory tactic. This monster was an ambush hunter, quick and efficient. It was used to teasing its prey: the girl was proof enough.

"Here kitty, kitty," Sherlock called, ears straining for the slightest sound.

A claw scraped on a rock behind him and he whipped around. Thick streaks of color darted into the shadows, a monstrous head lolling on an even bigger body. It wasn't the size as a sedan—it was a full-sized SUV, its paws at least three times the size of his head. Its jaws hung open, powerful enough to crush steel beams. Salvia pooled under its tongue and a single scar cut down the side of its face.

It roared.

It roared and Sherlock hurdled down the passage. He could take it, he could totally take that monster, but this wasn't the time and this certainly wasn't the place. Unguarded and unprepared, that thing could tear him to bits, and he wasn't keen about losing another hand.

He lept into the cavity of the well, securing himself the same way John had, only he was going to make an effort to get away from the bottom, for that thing could effortlessly rip a limb off at this distance.

It took more time to get up than it did to get down. Sherlock pulled himself to sit on the lip of the stone well, heart rate still accelerated and breathing still erratic. Lestrade was hovering over him starting the moment he caught his breath, somewhat shocked and unsure of what questions to ask.

"Did you see it?"

"It's a great big awful cat, not much else to it. Bigger than a car, scarring, didn't seem to talk. Skinwalker of some sort, not very friendly. Everything that could be interpreted by the body."

"It didn't get you?"

"No, it didn't get me, do I look scratched?" Sherlock shook bits of dust from his hair. "Since I don't know exactly what I'm dealing with, I'm not positive there's motive. It could be blind killings."

"They keep getting dumped in public places, 'cept this one."

"Then I guess there must be something." Sherlock stood up, shaking out his arms. "It seems I have some sleuthing to do, since you will no doubt muck up all over the place, detective." He gave Lestrade a curt smile and rushed off back to the mouth of the forest, leaving John far behind.

The woods were dark and ruthless, lit only by the fairy lamps hung on a select number of trees. The foliage crept, pulling at John's pant legs, tearing at his jacket, twisting his vision. The canopy was in a permanent twilight, the lower levels in a shaded darkness, with the moon absent in the sky. It was eerie, the mists rising above the leaf layer, the hum of…of something that shouldn't be here, something John hadn't heard before, but knew. Knew like he knew his own muscles, a deeply rooted knowledge, akin to an instinct. The voice of the forest, a chord played under the melody, constant and sustained.

That bastard. He just up and left him here! Stranded in this unknown wood. Colleague. Yeah right. Maybe Donovan was right—Sherlock Holmes cared for no one but himself, willing to leave co-workers (for she said he didn't have friends—John could believe that) and family on the curb as he chased down his taxi of thrill and crime. Maybe he wouldn't enjoy this living situation after all.

He stubbed his toes on a rather large rock and swore, stopping to shudder in pain for a second. His phone took the opportunity to right. Hopefully it's that git—

"Turn around to the tree behind you. Do you see it?"

It was a man's voice, unfamiliar and smooth, predatory and, somehow, in those few words, condescending.

"Who's this?"

"Turn around, Dr. Watson."

He shifted slowly, looking up at the old oak. A bird with big, luminescent red eyes cocked its head and followed him. He shivered. "Yeah, I see it."

"Watch."

The owl turned around, no longer facing him.

"There's another one to the right."

Another bird sat there—he recognized it now as an owl, the same species as the other one, with the same big, red, penetrating eyes. It, too, faced away.

"Left."

Another bird, this one closer, making him more uncomfortable.

"And finally center."

This one did not face away. It swooped down from the higher branches, landing gracefully a few feet above John. It was massive, bigger than a small dog, eyes burrowing through his layers of self-defense. It teetered back and forth on its large-taloned feet, head bobbing from side to side like a snake.

"Do I have your attention now, John?" asked the voice lazily, as though bored of the owl tricks.

"How are you doing this?"

"There's a car waiting on the street. Get in, Dr. Waston. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quietly at heel."

The line went dead and he replaced his phone slowly to his pocket, watching the birds nervously. The largest one beat its wings once or twice and disappeared into the trees—traveling silently back to its master, he supposed. One of the other owls, the littlest one, perched on John's shoulder, making him a bit unsteady. The remaining two flew from branch to branch, leading him out of the natural maze.

He was much closer to the road than he remembered, but the path had been so contorted and bizarre that he wasn't going to question anything. A dark, nondescript sedan sat by the curb, engine purring. The windows were tinted and the car was cleaner and more reflective than a mirror. He opened the door.

"John Watson." It was a woman's voice this time, more agile—like a panther—compared to the sluggish drawl of the man's.

"Yes, that's me," he confirmed, sliding into the car. "Any point asking what's going on?"

"No," she said with a smile, switching her attention to her phone. The driver took off fast, jostling John in his seat. They turned off the main roads as soon as the opportunity arose, constantly taking unnecessary turns. It was disorienting.

After what felt like a quiet eternity, the car swung into an abandoned car park. The beams of the structure were crumbling and the asphalt was torn and ruptured. Rolling through the complex, John felt more and more uneasy about the structure and whom he was being taken to. In hindsight, getting in the car had been a reckless move.

They came to a halt. He felt his stomach drop as the woman switched from phone to John and smiled expectantly. She was unsettling, but not in the same way as Sherlock. Something about her eyes made it look like she was always lying. "He's waiting," she said after a moment, gesturing to the door. John broke from his trance and reached for the handle.

The car's headlights lit up a tall figure dressed in black. He was slim, with square shoulders and a hawk's grin. The man John approached gave off the same vibes as Sherlock. He smelled like fine cologne, death, iron, and black licorice—a handful of things that didn't come together well. His shadow gave the impression of a much larger man even though he already towered over John.

"Hello John," he said with a smile, gesturing with his umbrella. "Have a seat."

"I do have a phone, you know. You called it earlier. Why not keep up the conversation and forget all this—clever, I'll give you that."

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discrete, hence this place. You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," he lied.

He laughed. "Yes, the bravery of the soldier. By far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" The (somewhat) inviting tone fell from his voice, eyes growing cold as ice. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one," John said. "I barely know him, met him…yesterday."

"And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving murders. Should we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?"

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock, why? I'm guessing you're friends."

"You've met him. The man doesn't make friends," he said with a sneer. "I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?"

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him you'd probably say his archenemy. He does…love to be dramatic."

John rolled his eyes. "Well thank god you're above all that." His phone beeped—a text.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. – SH

"I hope I am not distracting you from other engagements."

"Not distracting me at all."

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson?"

"I could be wrong, but I…think that's none of your business."

"It is."

"It really isn't."

"If you do indeed move into," he said quickly, pulling a notebook from his suit jacket, "two twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a…meaningful sum of money on a regular basis on the account that you would provide…information."

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly." The ice in his demeanor melted and he began to once again play with the umbrella. "I would appreciate if this went unmentioned, we have a, ah, difficult relationship, put simply.

If inconvenient, come anyway. – SH

"No."

"I haven't mentioned a figure."

"No."

"You've very loyal, very quickly, Dr. Watson, a bit like a dog, wouldn't you say?"

"Are we done?"

"You tell me."

John turned; ready to get away from this…strange, predatory man.

"I suppose people have already warned you to stay far, far away from him, but I can tell from your left hand that isn't going to happen."

John stopped. Something clicked. "My what?"

"Show me." He approached like a leopard, slinking carefully up to him.

He pulled away as the other man reached for his hand. "Don't."

After given an angled head and a hard look, John produced his hand from his jacket pocket, surrendering to the stranger with the umbrella.

"Remarkable."

He retracted. "What?"

"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?"

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist believes it to be post traumatic stress, but—"

"Who the hell are you? And…how do you know that?"

"Fire her. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it." He smiled, teeth like daggers hidden in a human mouth. "Welcome back."

And like that, the man with the large shadow disappeared. "It's time to pick a side." His voice reverberated in the space.

The clicking of heels caused John's head to spin around, gazing right at the dark-haired woman he now assumed to work for Umbrella Man. She smiled sweetly, her grin lacking daggers. "I'm to take you home."

"This is it?" Molly asked staring at the tube Sherlock had handed her. "This is what's been killing those poor kids?"

"Possibly what's been killing them," he said, pacing on the other side of his flat. He'd called her in—said it was urgent and that he couldn't leave. She said yes, of course—she was on break, might was well; maybe he'd have food.

He looked frustrated and maybe even a little worried. She watched him carefully, trying to pick up on the subtleties of his body language. She knew how much this had begun to eat at him, the deaths of these kids. Something about children getting hurt rubbed him the wrong way—well, it rubbed sane people the wrong way, but it was somehow worse for him, like he was a cat who was soaked and then brushed backwards.

"What if it's not?" she asked as he burrowed through a pile of jumbled items.

"What if what's not?" He stuck his head up, lost in his mind.

"Not what's killing them."

"Well," he began with a sigh. "I saw the killer, I could hunt him down, maybe, or check over the other bodies for any signs—"

"I've done that already. They were all clean. I'll run tests for your mystery substance, but I doubt I'll find anything."

"That would be fantastic of you." He stood, having retrieved whatever it had been he was digging for. "I nicked this from one of Lestrade's cases a few weeks ago. He hasn't noticed it's gone, thought you'd find it interesting." He handed her a plastic bag. Inside was an ornate sailor's knife, old, with a look of well use. It was cut of carbon steel, which was inlaid with bits of darker metal, forging a map-like design. The handle was ivory, burned and cut into a hatched pattern near the top.

It was gorgeous. "Where'd you find it again?"

"Old house along the river in the basement. Used in a double homicide."

"Fascinating."

He laughed.

"What? What's so funny?"

"I find it entertaining you've recently picked up an obsession with knives."

"It's not an obsession!" she argued. "I just think they're pretty. Look at this craftsmanship!"

"Yes, yes, another tool for harming another. Very pretty."

She bit her lip, holding the answer in tighter. She didn't want him to know. "Why…are you giving this to me?" Her confidence had retreated again, as it did whenever she felt he was mocking her.

"One, I thought you'd like it and two, it's to say thank you in advance for assisting with this case—I can already feel it'll be a long and gruesome one."

"Look at you, acting like a genuine person."

He smiled. "It's been known to happen."

There were feet on the stairs and the man from the lab yesterday stepped through the threshold.

"Ah, John, right on time. Molly, meet my new flatmate, John Watson. John, this is Molly Hooper, she works in the morgue."

A/N: I'm back.