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Greg Lestrade

"Not my division."

0 · 1,138 views · located in London

a character in “Superwholock: Games of the Moon”, as played by The(Doctor)Horrible

Description

Greg Lestrade

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Gender: Male

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Species: Human (infected with werewolfism)

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Show originated from: Sherlock

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Physical description: Greg is in his late forties with grey hair, silver around the temples in a professional cut. He has quiet brown eyes and a stern expression along with a nearly ever present shadow of stubble. Standing at around 1.8 meters and 83 kg, Greg is pretty average in the stature department, though he carries himself with pride and authority. He is always dressed professionally, though with a bit of a carefree flair.

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Personality: Lestrade is a gentleman, professional and polite. He spent years on the force and had already been a quieter person in his younger years. When treated with respect he will return it just as easily, but whenever provoked, even slightly, he tends to become sarcastic (tends to happen with Sherlock, though he respects the detective). He minds his own business and takes care of his own. Loyal, brave, with a strong moral compass, Lestrade's motive in life is to keep his city and his friends safe.

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History: Greg grew up with his Mum and Dad in London until the time he was around 17. His dad was murdered on his way home from work, hit and run, but no one could ever tell who had done it, nor would they inform the grieving widow and son why they couldn't see his body. In reality it had been torn apart. To this day Greg still doesn't know. His mum passed away a long time ago, and after high school Lestrade went into criminal justice for his dad's memory. He wanted to catch bad guys and help the people of the world out. Since then he's progressed through the ranks until he reached Detective Inspector. In his personal life he was married once, but his wife is now estranged. He has no children nor another love interest.

Four years or so ago (around a year after he had met Sherlock) Lestrade was diagnosed with terminal cancer, untreatable. He was given a year or two to live. However, days afterwards there was an incident. One he never talks about. A body had washed up on the Thames in the morning before the sun came up on a full moon and he had been called in, though the operator said he was wanted to go alone for the privacy of the victim. It was an odd request, but he agreed. When he arrived at the scene the body was gone, but the area it had been dragged off into was apparent from the rut in the ground. Two kids were following it mindlessly, just bored kids being kids. Greg called them away from it, but when they turned to face him something happens that to this day he can't explain. A huge wolf bounded from the shadows beneath the walk and charged at them. It was vicious and uncontrollable, eyes gleaming and teeth bared. It must've been at least two meters tall at the shoulders and had a lean sort of muscular grace about it. Without thinking the D.I. threw himself between the kids and the wolf and unloaded his firearm into it. The bullets had no effect. The kids got away in time, but he took gruesome injuries on his left side, gashes made by the thing's maw alone. His upper leg and the bottom of his torso were shredded along with his upper arm around the shoulder.

Barely alive, he was found by a pedestrian and an ambulance was called. He called the Yard and told them that he had some family issues, to put Donovan in charge. Months of therapy, both psychological and physical, passed before he could return to the real world with a severe limp and little use in his arm. He was determined to keep his issues secret, however, and trained himself so that even Sherlock was unaware as to his physical weaknesses. At the same time he researched the wolf and was devastated to find that these bodies tended to show up on full moons alone. One thing led to another and he shifted on the next moon. After that he returned to the force, disappearing on "family business" for a couple days every month (a concrete cellar he had found in an alley, abandoned). While fighting all the other stressors in his life he had been fighting the wolf inside, determined not to let himself harm one of the people in this city he had sworn to protect.

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Equipment: Wallet, Identification from Scotland Yard (though he tends to keep losing the cards), gun, a car, phone

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Allies: Sherlock Holmes- Greg found Sherlock when he was a druggie with no hope at a future or friends to help him. He was brilliant, though socially unsound, and Lestrade decided to take a risk and give him a chance. Ever since then Holmes has been his go to man for cases he needed help with. He's also good friends with a 9 pineapple (I'm the mod, can't be tamed :P)

John Watson- When John came to a crime scene with Sherlock one day, the serial suicides, there was a bit of tension as to Sherlock bringing a "friend/comrade." Regardless, he let the two work, again, he pitied the veteran with a limp. The next night, after the case was wrapped up, he realized what John was doing to help Sherlock though neither of them probably realized it. They've become good friends since then.

Mycroft Holmes- Lestrade helps Mycroft to keep an eye on his little brother and often gets his jobs from the man. He's neutral towards the elder Holmes, but realizes he's a higher authority and treats him with respect.

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Enemies: Most of the criminals in London, perhaps his estranged wife, and other nasties that try to mess with his town. One in particular is a man named Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind extraordinaire. He had killed at least 13 people in a bombing and disappeared without a trace, no doubt he was going to try to strike again soon. One of his greatest enemies, however, he has since found and neutralized, but no one ever knew about them... a story for another day.

So begins...

Greg Lestrade's Story

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade
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Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade puffed out a sigh from billowed cheeks and leaned back in his office chair. It protested with a small squeak but was silent afterwards. More bodies. No leads. They had a serial killer on their hands. The press was going to be all over him with questions and ideas itching for a story to make him look like an idiot that shouldn't be on the force. The conference was in a few hours and he'd just gotten a call about another body. Almost gleefully he phoned Donovan and told her to cancel the meeting. She sounded almost as relieved as he felt. It wasn't necessarily a good thing, already the stations would know from the cancellation that there was another body, but it meant he could hold off the questions a bit longer.

Already there had been five bodies in two days and thirteen missing persons all centered around the same area. Along the same lines there had been complaints of nothing but off feelings in the area, people acting like they shouldn't, random ordinary people dropping off the grid if they didn't go completely stone cold missing. The bodies had gashes like, for lack of a better term, claws or teeth would have made... That in particular set Greg on edge. He felt a stirring deep in his chest, one he had dealt with for four years. The past two days had been strenuous for him as well... It was too much to be a coincidence, but he wouldn't accept the fact that another of those... those things were here. As for the other occurences he had no idea and no leads on anything period.

One thing was for sure, he needed help on this one. The D.I. scrubbed his haggard face and the silvery stubble on his chin before turning brown eyes to the mobile on his desk. He needed Sherlock, and come around an hour before twilight he needed to be ready for the last night of his condition.

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John sat in 221B Baker Street updating his blog. The hit counter still needed to be fixed, but quite frankly he had no idea how to do that. Maybe Sherlock would know, but it "wouldn't be worth his time." The veteran huffed out a short laugh at his secret thoughts and continued to type up the case they had just wrapped up. Each different twist was fascinating, everything Sherlock could figure out by someone's cologne, the texture of cardboard, a nick on a cuticle. At the same time, however, he was bone dead stupid when it came to people. Not what they did or had or what had happened, but the way they thought, their emotions. In this case alone he had left two young girls in tears without a second thought. That had been interesting to explain to their parents. By himself. After Sherlock left him without warning. Again.

A jolt of noise caught the veteran by surprise and he mistyped a word. With a murmured curse he fixed the error and then looked at the offender: his phone. The ID said Lestrade. Must've been important. The man accepted the call and held the mobile to his ear. "Watson," he greeted professionally.

"John, this is Lestrade, tell Sherlock we've got a case for 'im," came Greg's gruff voice on the other end of the line. He sounded especially upset... maybe even a bit sick. John was a doctor, he was able to tell these things, but he didn't want to assume.

"Alright, where?" replied Watson.

"Corner of Henderson and Fifth, we're sending a cab for you two now."

"Great, I'll make sure he has his pants this time." With a quick goodbye John hung up and stood stiffly, stretching out his back and legs. He had to go fetch his flatmate now and make sure the man was ready. He was sure at the mention of case he would be.

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: The Doctor
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Once the call had finished Lestrade phoned a cab to take John and Sherlock to the crime scene. Already he had a team getting ready to head out. Donovan was at the head of the pack, as always, to keep civilians out. Anderson would be remaining here so as to keep Sherlock happy. After years of working with the man Greg knew that it was better to have him less annoyed.

The cabbie was given the final address as Greg shoved off of his chair and groaned at a slice of pain down his spine. He only had around an hour left before he had to go to his cellar. Not enough time. Nonetheless he knew he had to go. Sherlock would be there and he wouldn't work without the D.I. present. Greg needed all the information he could possibly get.

A few minutes later the man pulled up in front of the building which held his crime scene. The surrounding street was just so... empty. The whole area was blanketed in a sort of dread that tugged at people, pulled them away, made them afraid of the dark...

Lestrade shook his head and ducked under the tape, suit beginning to feel odd against his skin as his senses began to crispen. The stairs were taken one at a time, very carefully, as his balance began to go a bit off. God, he hated this, the in between stage where his first form readied itself for his... the second form. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and he knew that he wouldn't be looking very sharp.

Once he reached the top of the stairs, however, he heard Donovan talking to a man inside. He caught a glimpse of wild hair, brown pinstripes, and a lanky sort of stance to accent his height even more. "You're a consulting detective? And here I thought Sherlock Holmes was the only one we had to deal with..."

Lestrade walked a bit faster and moved to the front of the man, standing by Donovan. "Sherlock Holmes 's the only one I brought onto this case, so who the hell're you?" Greg was in no mood for games, not today, he didn't have time for it today. "You're trespassing on the grounds of an investigation, I could have you arrested and I will if you don't leave th--" Without warning, the D.I. cringed and doubled over, quickly regaining his composure to brace himself on the wall. "... if you don't leave the premises."

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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Flipping closed the worn leather wallet and hiding the physic paper once more from view, as he smiled broadly at the suited woman with hair even crazier than his. A consulting detective?he wondered to himself as he eyed the leather, what in the world could that be? Sometimes the paper surprised even him at what it brought out of the minds of those that read it. Anyway, the physic paper had saved him once again, or so he thought until the woman across from him turned her gaze to someone who must have entered behind him. A strained exclamation caught his attention and he whirled around as a silver-haired detective appeared in the entrance way.

The Doctor offered his broad grin to the man and was in the process of opening the leather wallet once more to introduce himself when the other man doubled over in some sort of internal pain. Without warning the Time Lord's face warped and became something completely different; the care-free grin disappeared as if it had never been and in it's place was something stern and almost frightening. From the innerpockets of his jacket, the Doctor withdrew an odd device that he clicked once- causing the end to glow an odd shade.

All of a sudden the sound of footsteps reached him and a pair of shiny black shoes appeared in his vision from where he had crouched next to the silver-haired detective. A crisp voice sounded from the general direction of the shoes, making it obvious to him that the owner was the person who spoke, "Hello...who's this?" The Doctor realized he must have been addressing him, but he ignored the man in favor of waving his mechanism around the general area of the hurt man. "Hmm, interesting, very interesting...," he mumbled to himself as he brought the sonic screwdriver to his face, wipping out a pair of thick frames and setting them on his slender nose to get a better look. "Odd, there seems to be something not quite human about you," he turned his eyes back to the other man, leaning in so close his nose was almost touching the other man's, "Very odd indeed..."

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Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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John was out of the cab just as quickly as Sherlock and took a few quick hopping steps to catch up to him. "Hold on a second," he murmured with an eye kept out for Lestrade. Usually the man was here waiting, but not this time. Odd. Shaking his head quickly Watson walked beside his flatmate as he crossed the tape. He always did this, waltzed right in as if he owned the place, but to be fair, in a way Holmes actually did. When Sherlock was called in it was because he was desperately needed. That left him in charge.

John stifled a chuckle to himself at this revelation under a clearing of his throat and followed Sherlock into the building, holding the door as had been done a bit earlier for him. It was highly uncharacteristic of the detective to do even the slightest thing for anyone other than himself and Watson knew this possibly better than anyone. That gesture earlier had been apology enough for the mess. A voice drifted down the stairs, then, and caught his attention as well as Sherlock's. The man's head swiveled up and a moment later he was dashing up the stairs intent on his new mission. "Oh, Christ, here we go," John murmured.

The veteran was up on the next floor seconds after Sherlock, but the newcomer was completely forgotten under the appearance of the man stumbling to the wall and slumping against it. "Greg," John called, halfway questioning and halfway alarmed. He had a patient. Brushing by Sherlock, obviously caught up in his own measures against the phony, Watson knelt by Greg and placed a hand out in a silent gesture of "let me make sure you're alright."

The oddball "consulting detective" was there by Lestrade's side right after, forcing John to back away. Anger roiled within the doctor. He had no clue who this man was, but he was intruding upon his friend's privacy as if it were his own personal business-after entering a marked crime scene, no less!- thereby pushing a medically trained officer away. To top it all off he started pointing some sort of buzzing pocket torch at the DI.

The words he said next were the final straw.

"Excuse me, but who the bloody hell do you think you are?!" John accused, putting himself between Lestrade and the trespasser.

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Lestrade growled lowly under his breath and hissed in pain as he brushed away John's hand to watch Sherlock. "I'm fine, Jo--" then the new man began his odd diagnosis.

And was correct.

Fear, sheer terror, crossed Lestrade's eyes for only a moment before anyone could see. Covering it quickly with the guilt and anger welling within him, the D.I. decided he'd had enough. This... this person had discovered his darkest secret, knew about Sherlock's job, the crimes being committed, and now he was in Greg's face when he needed his distance and time. There was nothing he could do but get him out of the way. The Yard could deal with the broken protocol later.

In a blur of motion Greg grabbed the man's shoulder and spun him to meet the wall face-first, ergo breaking the intense eye contact shared a moment before. "Put your hands behind your back," he spat. Without giving the "detective" time to follow through he grabbed each wrist and pinned them under one of his hands, holding the other out for cuffs. Donovan supplied them and the D.I. confined the trespasser. "I'm taking him downstairs, Sherlock, scene's yours." Against his will he cringed and stumbled to the wall again. It was time to go. Now. "D-Donovan, you're in charge... I need to call it a night, John, call me when 'e's got somethin'..." With a deep breath the detective began to lead the Doctor for the door and headed for the stairs.

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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Several things happened very quickly then, and the Doctor observed silently as another new arrival attempted to slide between him and the non-human-humanoid he'd been assessing before being forced aside by said man. Then without warning his face was slammed against a wall, his spiky hair flattened between his skin and the plaster. "Oh am I being arrested?" he inquired blithely, although the words were muffled by the wall, turning them into a series of barely audible gibberish. "Oh, suppose I am," he affirmed for himself when a pair of silver cuffs seemed to materialize on his wrists, almost causing him to drop the screwdriver he still clutched tightly in his hand.

Before he could say another word he was being hauled unceremoniously by the shorter man across the room and toward the stairs. Without sparing a glance or a word for the gawking room of onlookers, the Doctor called over his shoulder to his arresting officer, "Oh don't be so gruff- it's perfectly normal not to be normal. Take me for instance, I'm not human either and I don't get angry with people for pointing it out," the words he spoke he didn't bother to whisper and chose instead to speak them loud enough to distract the man as he slid the sonic screwdriver up to point at the silver handcuffs until it began to emit a low buzzing noise.

The Doctor continued to speak as he was dragged down the stairs by the detective, "So what are you exactly, eh? A Zygon? No no no, can't be that... Perhaps you're from Klom? Eh, been a while since I met someone from there.... but no, that doesn't seem right either..." The babble spewed forth from his mouth the second a thought came into his mind and didn't seem to have an end, nor did it seem he expected to be listened to. That was until he turned his head, a wide, open-mouth smile on his face, "So, which is it hmm?"

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"Oh, well that's just my rank, but you can call me Jack or anything else you'd like...," the flashing, white smile was back- turned on full force as he met the other man's eyes with his, "It's a pleasure to meet you Dean." Jack's attention was broken when the taller man introduced himself as well. Releasing the hand he had been shaking, he took Sam's in his and offered him the same smile, "And you as well Sam." Although the shorter of the two was more his usual style, Jack had never been known to be picky or to loose an opportunity to flirt with anyone he found attractive on some level.

"So, what are you two boys doing here in London? On vacation? Or a... honeymoon perhaps?" He offered with a bright knowing smile and a little wiggle of his eyebrows. Two handsome men, obviously foreign to London and- judging from the postcards he'd seen- on some sort of vacation could mean many things, but Jack was hoping his instincts- or wishful thinking- was right on target. It had been quiet a while since he'd been with a married couple, much less two handsome men such as these, and he was looking forward to doing it again. Of course, he'd settle for just the shorter one if it turned out the two weren't what he hoped.

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: The Doctor
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Lestrade paraded the dangerous man (there was nothing else he could be at this point other than insane) towards his vehicle. Of course he decided to whip around in the midst of a group of police when he had exited the building and was nearly across the tape. Greg kept his face a mask, put a shivering hand on the back of the man's head and forced him back around to face front, holding the cuffs a bit higher up for more leverage. "You're obviously not well, but you're safe. I'll take you to the Yard and have our psychiatrist check you out, head trauma and the li--" The D.I. cut off and crumbled to his hands and knees with a sharp cry of pain, unintentionally clutching the cuffs and dragging the man down with him. At the last moment he managed to angle himself so the trespasser would land on him instead of the cement. It hurt like hell, but even if the man was a nutter he didn't deserve to get hurt. Cops watched in alarm and confusion as Greg tried to force his hands to open, to let go of the cuffs or to push himself to his feet. Alarm struck him as he saw how long the shadows on the street were. He had maybe half an hour tops... Oh God...

An idea hit him as he began to lose control of his calm facade. "Y-You asked... You asked wh-what I was-s-s," he struggled softly to the man. "God, it... i-it ma-.... ngh, it makes no s-sense... bh..." he took a deep breath to control his heaving chest. "We-Werewolf..." Desperate eyes turned up to the man lying on him. Greg had no idea why, no idea how, nor how absolutely imbecilic he was to be telling a complete nut this... Above all he had no idea why he asked what he did next.

"Can y... Can you he-help me?"

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Captain Jack Harkness Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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Dean Winchester

Catching on wasn't something he did quickly, sometimes not at all, but this "Captain" Jack character flashed a smile, eyebrows wiggling just right and Dean recognized the signs. He did the same thing. To girls.

"Whoa, whoa," he said, backing up a step with hands up. "We're not...I mean...Why does everyone think we're gay?!" he exclaimed to his brother, shoving his arm as if it was his fault. It probably was. With that long hair and stupid puppy dog expression, he could swing for either team it seemed. Dean's eyes closed with frustration before facing Jack again. "Look...Thanks for the uh..." he wasn't sure what to say "...interest? But..."

That's when he noticed the cop cars over Jack's broad shoulder.

"Is he okay?" he questioned, pointing. An officer with some lanky, crazy haired culprit had been taking out his handcuffs, when he suddenly collapsed. Dean's previous discomfort with Jack vanished as he stuffed the postcards in his jacket. Something wasn't right. Perhaps it was only a heart attack that caused the mess, but Dean needed a reason to step away from the "Captain" as soon as possible.

"'Cuse us," he said with false politeness and dragged Sam into the street.

"What'd you see?" his taller brother asked, already in gear as well. He glanced over, seeing Sam graze his thumb over the handle of his dagger beneath his jacket.

"Cop collapsed," Dean explained.

"So?" Sam stopped in step when they reached the opposite sidewalk. "Not exactly our deal..."

"Could be," Dean simply replied, sending a look back over to Jack. A wary look.

Sam laughed. "Nervous butterflies?"

"Shut it."

With that, they started over to the police cars, watching as different officers started heading in to help their collapsed comrade. The man who was about to be cuffed, lay on top of him as the officer mumbled something that Dean couldn't hear or read on his trembling lips.

"What do you think?" Dean asked.

Sam was still grinning, hands going to his pockets, fully relaxed. "I think Captain Jack likes you."

"Would you stop it?"

The taller brother could only laugh.

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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John watched with concern as Lestrade roughly apprehended the trespasser and marched him down the stairs, out of the building, and out of sight. Something was off about the stranger, but something was also off around Lestrade. With a start he realized that Sherlock had already gone into the flat and Donovan had followed Greg outside to leave "the freak" alone. Upon entering he found his flatmate licking a gloved finger and murmuring frustratedly to himself. "Sherlock," the doctor ventured, "I don't thing we should leave Greg to himself, he's not well and I couldn't diagnose what was bothering him, could be pretty serious if he was reacting so violently..." The detective continued about without a word and ducked into another room, obviously ignoring him. "Are you even listening to me?" No response. Clenching his fists a few times to relieve some of his rising frustration, John tried to make a couple deductions of his own. He remembered from the Chinese smuggling case that certain factors could be used to determine a person's dominant hand. He wasn't sure if it would help and was certain Sherlock would have already filed it away, but he needed to practice anyway. The mug's handle was facing the right, coffee table was further to the right, so logically the victim was right handed.

That was when the detective stepped out of the bedroom with blood on his knee and shirtfront, old blood which had begun to dry, so not his. He was such a careful man, so there had to have been a lot of it if he couldn't avoid getting some on himself. Sherlock's face was pale... that wasn't good. Taking a few tentative steps towards his friend, John reached out a cautious hand. "Are you al-"

"Watson..." Oh, God, his voice was so shaky, already the doctor knew that whatever was in there was not going to be good. "Come look at this corpse. I want a doctor's opinion."

Definitely not good.

John stared and tried to think of something to say for a moment before swallowing and nodding curtly, hands by his side and shoulders squared. His footsteps were suddenly startlingly loud as he walked to the door and nudged it open with an elbow. The first thing he saw was blood. The next was glass. Then the pawprints, and finally...

"Oh, Christ..."

The body was among the most mutilated he had seen in his life. He'd seen the most grotesque deaths imaginable on the front, but this was in a home. From the outside appearance no one would have suspected the horror and gruesome spectacle present in this tiny room. Sherlock's uneasiness was easily explained now, but he was rather used to bodies, wasn't he? Watson clenched his fists a few more times and knelt by the body as close as he could without getting himself bloody before realizing that it was going to happen anyway. One knee in the red and brown puddle, he put his face as close as possible to the dead man's. No scent other than blood and decay. The attack had been made with something long and sharp, huge diameter, nothing he was familiar with. And it had been brutal. His right hand (dominant) had nearly been torn off and his entire arm was nearly gone. He had... the poor sod, tried to defend himself by curling up, but it hadn't deterred his attacker. He would have bled out quickly, but in extreme agony. It was almost as if it were an animal attack, but what animal could get in through a second story window, be this large, ferocious, unable to be stopped or redirected, much less escaped? Not to mention clever and stealthy enough to sneak up and leave the other room untouched.

Another deep breath as he stood from the sticky floor and looked back to the door. "No alcohol, so whoever it was got him fast. They'd be strong and bloody agile to get through that window with no leverage and to inflict this damage. Looks like a multi-pronged weapon, large sharp points and two different types, one seems to be a clamp and the other like ah, a rake or something..." He glanced back at the body sadly. "Once his throat was gone it was quick... but all the other injuries are pre-mortem... He was played with... What the hell did he get himself into?" And, on the same note, what the hell did they get themselves into?

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Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester
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"Down we go!" he called as the trembling man dragged him down so that he landed on-top of him, not a comfortable position to be sure. By this time he'd luckily been able to free himself with use of the sonic screwdriver from one side of the handcuffs, leaving his hands free to soften the blow a bit as he dropped to the ground. However-unluckily- the other man was still gripping tightly to the cuff fastened to his left wrist, meaning that he could only maneuver himself so he was lying to where he could his captor's sweat-encrusted face a little better rather than sit up.

"We-Werewolf..." the panted word made the Doctor's eyebrows shoot up and a smile spread quickly across his thin face. "Oh my, it's been quiet a while since I dealt with anything Lupine in origin! Couldn't be a real werewolf could you, eh?" As he chattered away, the Doctor shifted his screwdriver so that it was in front of his face and that his free hand could manipulate it a little. A few moments later he pointed it directly into the face of the man he was lying upon as he continued, "There was that one time in Scotland, but eh- turned out to just be lycan-esque, not a real werewolf unfortunately... and that other time awhile back with the woman who seemed to be a werewolf, but alas she wasn't exactly human to begin with..." Finally the tiny machine seemed to have rendered its final diagnosis and he yanked it up quickly so he could look at it.

"Oh huh, what's this? No-no-no-no-no... Yessss.... A real, really, real case of werewolf-ism! Brilliant!!!" Whirling back to the man underneath him he grinned broadly, but let it slowly fade as he realized what that meant, "Unfortunately... I have no knowledge of how to help you..." Slowly he placed the hand still wielding the screwdriver on the police officer's shoulder, his face deadly serious, "But I will think of something."


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"We're not...I mean...Why does everyone think we're gay?!" The pretty one exclaimed to the tall one, seemingly very angry at the implication. Despite the quick rebuttal and denial, Jack wasn't dissuaded; he'd met many supposedly "straight" men before that were willing to give themselves to him with only a little bit of cajoling- and besides, he quite enjoyed the chase on occasion. It was especially gratifying when he managed to convert two at a time, which may be the case if he tried this time. However, before he could pursue the cause any further the two were excusing themselves and hurrying toward something on the other side of the street behind him.

Jack pivoted on his heel slowly- the dark grey greatcoat he wore swirling in a circle behind him- to turn and watch the other men leave. Suddenly what they had been watching caught his eye, and as he leaned around their receding backs he caught sight of a familiar coat lying atop a person on the ground. "Couldn't be..." he mumbled to himself- brow furrowing. Then the person in the coat sat up and he caught sight of floppy hair and an unmistakable, glowing screwdriver. "DOCTOR!!!" He shouted with a smile and raced across the street- veering around the two men from earlier as he slid under the police tape.

Heedless of the situation he hurried over to his friend and the man he was lying atop, "Oh Doctor, I had not idea you were like that... and in the street of all places!"

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Characters Present

Character Portrait: John Watson Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Captain Jack Harkness Character Portrait: Sherlock Holmes Character Portrait: The Doctor
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John huffed out a very unamused breath and shook his head. "No, Sherlock, we are not doing any of that 'hound' business again, alright?" That had been an absolute nightmare back at Baskerville and he wasn't too keen on redoing any of it. Sherlock's irritation was even similar to that night at the inn. God, he was livid. Was he doubting himself again? John stood awkwardly in the middle of the trashed bedroom with blood on his trousers and the side of his cheek, unsure of what to do. "Look," he finally managed, "whatever you decide to do I'll be right behind you, yeah? You don't have to take this case, they can't make you, but if you want to I won't disappear..." With a sigh the doctor walked back out into the main room. "Maybe a wolf escaped from the zoo or something?"

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The sweat on Greg's forehead began to bead and run as the pain down his spine multiplied. The device in his face would've been batted away if the D.I. were able to control himself. The light, the sound, they hurt his eyes and ears as he became more sensitive. Tense and in agony, he did his best not to make a scene. Granted, the trespasser was doing that well enough on his own. Then another man came cracking jokes and smiling. He didn't have time for this. Giving the cuffs in his hand a short, weak jerk he turned desperate eyes to the odd man lying to his side. "I-I have a cella... a cellar... off of Hack-Hackney-y... Got to get there..." The shadows lengthened even more, increasing the D.I.'s anxiety and fear. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he hurt anyone, wouldn't ever live down leaving bodies like the one in the flat behind him.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Greg Lestrade Character Portrait: Captain Jack Harkness Character Portrait: Sam Winchester Character Portrait: The Doctor Character Portrait: Dean Winchester Character Portrait: Amy Pond
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Leaning down to hear the strained protestations of the man lying below him, the Doctor nodded seriously to the instructions he was given. Of course he wasn't entirely sure where this 'Hackney' place was nor what exactly one would do in a 'cellar' especially if one were turning into a werewolf, certainly the werewolf-man had to be at least a little reliable on the matter of his own well-being. Just as he was in the process of responding- his mouth even open to begin the statement- a great group of people spontaneously appeared around him, led by none-other than his acquaintance the ineffable Jack Harkness. Jaw snapping shut at the ridiculous banter directed toward him by the Captain, the Doctor turned his gaze to take in the growing group of individuals.

"This man says he needs to get to this 'cellar'," the man supplied in answer to the shorter of the two men that had followed his friend from somewhere, not bothering to acknowledge Jack or even introduce himself as he was in currently preoccupied with overcoming the crisis of the moment. Before he could inquire as to whither or not any of the three new arrivals had any knowledge of where this 'Hackney' was, another human strolled into their midst. This time it was a fiery-haired woman, who demanded-with a short greeting-in a no-nonsense tone, "Hello, do any of you know a weird man called the Doctor?"

Had he been in any other mood he would have immediately jumped on this new development- how did this woman know him? Had he met her before, and if he had- how did he not remember such stunningly, brilliant hair? And didn't she know not to call people weird no matter how amazingly different they were?- but as it was, there was a man lying on the ground clutching at his hand (well, really his handcuffs) and begging for help. So, the Doctor replied with a quick, broad-smile and a waving hand, "Yes, yoo-hooo. That would be me. The Doctor here. But all that can be sorted out later, yea? Now this man needs help. A cellar on Hackney he says. Which one of you can get us there, hmm?" His dark eyes darted between the lot of them as he began to help the man as quickly as possible to his feet. "Tick-tock, tick-tock," he intoned with a sarcastic air.