Of werewolves and vampire's

Untitled Part 2

Sherlock Holmes was quite busy figuring out a murder, and Molly kept interrupting him in her attempts to flirt with him. It was a distraction he didn't want. While she could be quite useful at times, right now, she was a disturbance.

"Listen," Molly spoke nervously, "I was wondering- or maybe later- when you're finished..."

"Are you wearing lipstick?" Sherlock asked, even though he could clearly see it. "you weren't wearing it before." It was clearly an attempt to get him to notice her more.

Molly blushed. "I, um, I refreshed it a bit."

"Sorry, you were saying?" He replied, going back to the papers he was shifting through. He needed to stop her flirting but not chase her away entirely.

"I was wondering if you would like to have coffee." Molly asked, trying to bat her eyelashes.

"All right." He watched out of the corner of his eye as she perked up. "Two sugars, please. I'll be up stairs." he walked away. Allowing her to think he misunderstood her question. He heard her soft reply.

"Okay."

Sherlock headed up the stairs to the lab; he needed to check something, unfortunately he didn't have his phone with him, but there were plenty of other people milling about. He took a seat and began to peer into the microscope. He heard faint footsteps, one a familiar heavy tread of Mike Stanford and another with a slight limp. They were headed this way, just in time too. Sherlock needed a phone.

"A bit different than in my time." Hmm, a doctor most likely most likely, a prospective flatmate or client.

Mike chuckled a bit. "You have no idea."

They entered the room he was currently occupying. Sherlock glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. He was short, probably about five feet seven inches. He was sturdy looking. His clothes hung off him in way that suggested weight loss on top of it being ill-fitting and second-hand. The stranger had sandy hair and dark blue eyes, with a bronze rim around them. His haircut and stance suggested military, and his familiarity of Bart's suggested doctor. The way he carried his shoulder suggested he had been shot there. He had a bit of a wild look to him and the light scent of fur, suggesting he was a shifter. Since he was looking for a flatshare, Sherlock ruled out pack animals. He didn't have cat-like eyes, so he ruled them out.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock questioned.

"Can't you just use the landline?" Mike replied, gesturing towards the one nearby.

"I prefer to text."

"No, sorry, must have left it at my desk."

"Here, use mine." The other man walked forward, his phone held in his outstretched hand.

"Thanks." Sherlock took the phone, his fingertips brushing lightly against the other man's skin.

"This is John Watson, an old friend of mine." Mike announced, trying to smother a grin.

John had clearly been a surgeon, not just a doctor or medic. His hands were tan but not above the wrist. There had been tiny microscopic nicks and cuts on his fingers. He could smell John better now. Sherlock could smell musk, mint, tea, and gunpowder. Perhaps a coyote shifter. It fits with the hair color and the fact he had been in a desert. Which desert remains to be seen.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

The man frowned, his brows knitted close together. "Sorry?"

"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated himself as he used the phone to send Lestrade a text. The phone was a gift of sorts from John's brother.

John looked over at Mike who looked quite smug. "Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you..."

Molly entered the room. John took a glance at her, Sherlock watched the man's hackles rise and his nostrils flail just a bit. He must have had bad experiences with a witch at some point. She brought over his cup of coffee.

"What happened to the lipstick?" Sherlock asked.

Molly looked down, embarrassed. "It wasn't working for me."

"Hmm, I thought it was an improvement. Your mouth is too small now." He turned away from her. "How do you feel about the violin?"

John watched Molly until she left before turning his attention back to where it belonged. "I'm sorry what? "

"The violin. Sometime I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I dont talk for days on end. I keep my blood in the crisper drawer. Would any of that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Sherlock watched John cock his head slightly to the left. "Who said anything about flatmates? But, I suppose I should tell you my faults as well. How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf. "I have my eye on a flat and between the both of us, we should be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening at 7 PM. I have to go. I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Sherlock started to head out the door when John grabbed his wrist. Firm but gentle.

"So that's it? I don't even know your name or where we're meeting? I barely know anything about you."

"I know you're a military doctor, invalid home from Afghanistan." John visibley winced at the mention of that fact. "I know you have a brother that's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help. Possibly because of the drinking, but more likely because he left his wife. The name's Sherlock Holmes the address is 221b Baker Street. Must dash." Sherlock winked, watching John's face flush slightly, the hand grasping Sherlock's wrist let go. The taller man quickly turned away so as to not see the anger and or fear flash in the man's eyes. He quickly strode off.