When they got out of the door and into the bright morning sunlight, Sherlock took a deep breath of relief.
"Well that was weird." He decided.
"Tell me about it. And you don't actually have to look like you really have to fart." John pointed out, unlocking the door and getting into the car.
"You told me to look official." Sherlock debated, sliding into his seat as well.
"Well, you looked stupid." John pointed out.
"Sorry." Sherlock muttered.
"Hey, lesson learned. But if I must say, he was a complete psycho." John pointed out.
"So it is a werewolf right?" Sherlock asked.
"It has to be, nothing else does that, and no animal found in that place could rip open someone like that." John assured.
"That's terrifying. Werewolves are just people right? Until a full moon I mean." Sherlock pointed out.
"Yes, that's what makes it so hard to find the bloody things." John agreed.
"So, Bob could've been one, and the guy at the suit shop..."
"Your boyfriend?" John laughed.
"He could've been one too, and you, you could be a werewolf and you just came here to meet up with your werewolf buddies." Sherlock decided, inching farther from John. After a moment's thought, John lunged at him with a loud growl, accidently swerving the car but making Sherlock jump so much he was almost hanging out the window. This made John laugh so hard he almost crashed the car.
"Sherlock, I'm not a werewolf and I don't have any werewolf buddies. Mr. Franklin is surrounded by dead people all day, and it would be suspicious if all of their hearts were missing, so he's not either. And the guy at the suit shop, well I can't speak for him, he could be for all we know." John shrugged.
"He must have the best job, for him I mean. Like, all he has to do is let hot guys try on suits and then judge them on how they look. I wonder how many numbers he gives out a day; he probably has a whole stack." Sherlock decided.
"Hot guys huh?" John asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
"Well, not for me, for him I mean, he seemed, you know, not, straight." Sherlock muttered, looking down in shame for bringing something up.
"It must be paradise to him, yes. Why don't you call him up, discuss all the hot guys." John laughed.
"I'm not going to call him!" Sherlock defended.
"Then why'd you keep the number?" John asked.
"Because I don't know, I just did!" Sherlock groaned. But he didn't take the paper out of his pocket to destroy it or anything.
"Where are we going then?" Sherlock asked after a moment of sulking.
"To the Trevor household, seen of the crime." John pointed out.
"What are we going to do there?" Sherlock asked.
"Interview the wife, poke around, act official." John shrugged.
"What would the wife know?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, if he had an enemy that just happened to be a werewolf then we could track down said enemy, or if he had a debt that had to pay, there are a lot of reasons this could happen." John pointed out.
"Clearly." Sherlock muttered.
"Don't worry, you'll be fine, just act natural and let me do the talking." John decided.
"Is this legal?" Sherlock asked.
"Technically yes, but then again it's not illegal to ask people questions. And we're doing it for the greater good, remember that." John pointed out.
"The werewolf won't come after us will it?" Sherlock asked.
"There's no saying really." John shrugged. Sherlock looked nervous, peering out the window as if a beast were about to ram into the car and eat his face off.
"Do you know how to fill up magazines?" John asked.
"Well, I mean I haven't really read any, but..."
"On guns!" John pointed out.
"Oh, I suppose I could try." Sherlock shrugged. John handed him to clips and a bag full of silver bullets. Sherlock opened the bag curiously, poking around to see just what they were.
"Is there a difference between these and regular?" he asked.
"These are silver." John pointed out. "Other than that, no." Sherlock nodded, dropping the bag onto his lap and examining the gun. He clicked a little button, holding his hand under the magazine clip as if expecting it to come out. He clicked it again, still nothing.
"Is it broken?" Sherlock asked, and John looked over. Sherlock clicked the button to demonstrate just what was wrong, and John started to laugh.
"That's the safety Sherlock, the release is here." he clicked another button and the magazine slid easily out, and Sherlock caught it with a small gasp.
"Oh, sorry." He muttered with embarrassment, but John only laughed. Sherlock clumsily filled the magazine, but by the time they rolled up to the gates of Oak Hills Manor, only a couple of bullets were shoved in.
"Oh give it to me." John demanded, clicking in bullets as second nature as he drove through the paved gates.
"You look like an expert." Sherlock decided.
"I would consider myself one, yes." John agreed.
"Are we just allowed to drive through?" Sherlock asked.
"I guess so, there's no toll booth or anything." John shrugged, driving along. "Look for 234." He insisted, peering through his own window to try to find the Trevor house. Sherlock nodded, and followed suit. After a little bit of driving down the various roads, all which were pathetically named, Sherlock pointed it out. 234 was a manicured lawn sort of place, with three stories of white paint and silver shutters, with a large porch and pillars in the front. It was definitely what John would classify as a manor.
"This is actually quite intimidating." Sherlock decided as John pulled around the bend, just so the residents didn't see such a crappy car.
"Alright, here you go; in case there's a wolf, put it in your waistband." John decided, handing Sherlock the gun.
"Oh, thank you." He muttered, clicking on the safety and handling it like it was a time bomb or something. John got out of the car, slipping his gun in his waistband before anyone could see, hidden under the numerous fabrics of this stupid suit. Sherlock got out of the car, looking very uncomfortable, and watching the street as if he thought the police would come jumping out of the bushes any moment, or worse, the werewolf.
"Just act natural, let me talk." John assured, patting his shoulder reassuringly. Sherlock nodded, taking a deep breath and following John down the sidewalk. 234 had a gate itself, dark iron twisted into pegs at the top, which looked very nice actually. Not one strand of grass looked taller or smaller than another, there were no weeds, it looked more like a carpet than growing grass, and there were neat round hedges around the porch. It was a rich person's paradise and a hunter's nightmare. Such terrifying precision, such class, it made John want to throw up. The only thing John found odd was that this Mr. Trevor was supposed to have been found dead on the sidewalk, but he didn't even see blood.
"Nice place." Sherlock muttered, and John just nodded in false agreement. John walked up to the door, beautifully painted of course, with an iron doorknocker. Instead he just rang the doorbell, thinking that was more FBI worthy. There was a scuffle inside, and the door cracked open mysteriously. An old woman, tear streaked and red eyed, peeked her face through the crack to see who was coming to visit.
"Sorry, I've got enough casseroles to last a lifetime." She muttered, trying to close the door. John shoved his foot in the door, taking out his false badge with ease.
"FBI ma'am, we'd just like to ask about your husband's death." He said in a low, demanding voice. The door opened wide enough for him to see her fully, she was about a head shorter than him, with her white hair tied back behind an ugly butterfly clip. She looked devastated though, and it broke John's heart to see someone so innocent so sad.
"What does FBI care about a dog attack?" she asked.
"We're just investigating any other possible attack methods, I'm Agent Garrett and this is my trainee, Agent Ward." John said, putting his badge away.
"Oh well, come in then, I suppose you know who I am." She decided, opening the door wider and leading them into the house. Even for an old woman she wore high heels that clicked along the wood, which John found amazing that she had enough balance. Mrs. Trevor walked through the house, which was, if possible, fancier than the outside of the house. It was complete with hard wood floors, tan painted walls, crown molding, and a large, elegant wooden stair case. There were pictures hanging on the walls, but they all looked recent, John didn't notice any of them without white hair, as if there was a time in their lives that they wanted forgotten. Mrs. Trevor went to the kitchen and started boiling a pot of tea, setting out a plate of biscuits for the wait.
"So, what would you like to know?" she asked.
"What exactly happened when Mr. Trevor was found? You found him, am I correct?" John asked. Mrs. Trevor wiped a tear from her face.
"Yes, I did. I was coming home from grocery shopping and he was just," she sniffled a little bit, "he was just lying on the sidewalk, his chest completely torn open." John sighed, sliding a box of tissues towards her.
"Was there anything odd, any signs of a struggle or how the dog got in?" he asked.
"No, not that I saw." She shrugged.
"I noticed that there wasn't a lot of blood on the sidewalk, was it cleaned recently?" John asked.
"Yes, after the attack I hosed it off, I could bear to see..." she shook her head and clutched a tissue to her face. John and Sherlock exchanged glances, but if John was correct a hose wouldn't clear it up so easily. The tea kettle screamed, so Mrs. Trevor took it off and poured some tea into three cups.
"Would you like some cream with that?" she asked as she handed them both cups with tea bags floating half submerged in them.
"Yes please." Sherlock said with a shy smile. Mrs. Trevor opened the fridge, and what John saw kind of amazed him. There was a whole bunch of meat, chicken, beef, all in family packs from the grocery store; he even saw canned dog food. Why would a widow, who had no pets or family and too many casseroles of sympathy have so much meat? John pegged this whole visit as odd.
"Here you are." She decided, handing Sherlock the cream. He smiled and poured a bit into his tea, stirring it up with a little spoon and thanking her. John, however, didn't touch his tea.
"So, tell me about Mr. Trevor, did he had any enemies, people that might want to get back at him for anything?" John asked. Mrs. Trevor looked at him with an odd expression, as if wondering why on earth he would be asking such an absurd question.
"Well, no, I couldn't think of someone on the top of my head. He was liked where ever he was, always a smile on his face, to see him go so suddenly, the whole neighborhood is shocked." She muttered. John bowed his head in sympathy, but things just weren't adding up. This Mrs. Trevor looked more and more like she could grow fangs at any moment.
"This was a dog attack though wasn't it? You can't kill someone with a dog." She pointed out.
"Well, you probably could, that's why we're investigating. We're sure it's nothing Mrs. Trevor, just something the agency wanted to..." his sentence was cut off with a loud yell, followed by metal clanging, seemingly coming from downstairs. Mrs. Trevor went pale, her tea cup half way to her mouth. John and Sherlock both eyed her suspiciously, trying to see what in the world could've made that sound.
"Sorry, I must have left the TV on." She decided, but her voice was weak and forced, she was terrified, so much that her face was almost the color of her hair.
"Well, that's all we will need, we'll check in if we have any more questions, thank you for your time Mrs. Trevor." John decided.
"That's all?" she asked, now very scared.
"That's all." John agreed, smiling at her. Sherlock drained his cup and smiled at her with a tea mustache, which John found the most adorable thing on the face of the planet. Of course he wouldn't say anything, but it was very un FBI like.
"Well, thank you, I hope your investigation was substantial." She decided, smiling at them innocently. Sherlock and John nodded, and left the house, which was starting to get very suspicious.