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Sherlock Holmes has very few points of stability in his life, few things never change. He doesn't think about them much, as his mind is consumed with the hunt. He hunts in the metal jungle. A solitary warrior as he runs down the trail left by his prey. His mind revels in his movements, in his straining muscles, he longs to change but keeps a strangle hold on his other form. Only destruction would come from unleashing it.
But that doesn't mean that the beast isn't watching through his eyes and rattling his cage. He wants the prize they chase just as much as Sherlock does. He prowls around seeking for a weakness in the mental prison. Sherlock has made sure that he's quite contained before starting his run.
He sniffs the air, looking for the telltale scent of his packmate. There. The wind changes and Sherlock takes off at a loping run. He follows the scent he's known forever, as long as he could remember. They don't discuss how they smell similar and when mentioned they both are quick to defend themselves, saying, "Of course we smell similar, we were raised together!" usually with a glare at the other one. It's rare for siblings to stay in the same pack once they reach maturity but for the Holmes brothers it was never a question. They might have a surface dislike of each other, but they owe each other their loyalty.
He moves swiftly and returns his mind to the chase, one false move and the game is up.
And how he loves when he catches Mycroft unawares. The surprise on his face is a rare treat. Sherlock's lip curls as he pictures it.
One more corner. And....
There! He screeches to a halt looking at a coat that smells of Mycroft. Damn! He must have suspected this. He quickly turns to spot Mycroft across the street, leaning on his ever present umbrella. Sherlock huffs a breath. Mycroft tips his hat and turns to saunter away. One final glare and Sherlock prowls in the opposite direction.
The coat stays there, forgotten by both the brothers.