Sherlock had expected to be shoved into dormancy when he stopped resisting his other self, instead he now felt/saw/heard his alter ego's thoughts from moment to moment when he paid attention. He didn't understand it and it seemed not to be as awake as it wanted to be, but it was far more immediate and vivid than it had been for the most part, and it seemed to be letting him continue until he did something to displease it. However, though his instinct was to trust no one and nothing, he did not argue with his other self about trusting John. Now that he had been touched by him and spent a time in his proximity, Sherlock could smell and sense that John was a healer, as well as a fighter, and that he would not harm others lightly, or for sport. Any other would have fought him over that attempt to bite, but this John not–prey–person had apparently forgiven the offense almost at once. He didn't need half the coaxing that John gave him; he would have followed the man regardless, especially now.
It was a peculiar experience to walk along next to a being like John instead of stalking him as prey; however, his other self had refused to allow him to do so, even the night before, and he had thus far made do with numerous smaller creatures instead of one of the not–prey–people. Even so, once his belly was full and his body no longer screaming for fuel, he hardly cared what had filled it, so long as it suited his body's needs. Meat was meat, after all.
So many interesting smells and sounds caught his attention, and the not–prey–people were often even more distracting; so many enticing spurts of fear–scent on the cold air as others passed Sherlock and John. It didn't help that John, walking along so outwardly–unconcerned, was tense as if about to run or pounce; he feared Sherlock would attack one of the no–longer–prey–people. Another time, before Sherlock had foolishly allowed his other self to intrude, that assumption would have been correct. Even so, John kept one hand at the back of Sherlock's neck, just in front of the highest point of his shoulders; and, though there was nothing John could have done to stop him hunting, or simply ranging further away to follow some of those interesting scent trails, Sherlock chose to allow that hand to stay for most of the journey.
However, when John took him through an enclosure where grass and trees and neatly–trimmed undergrowth formed paths, Sherlock pulled away eagerly. John made some more noises, things his other self couldn't yet untangle through the filter of their not–exactly–joined selves, but he knew it was a caution or something of that nature. The tone told him the gist of it, if nothing else. A warning to a youngling—don't range too far, it's not safe! He snorted as he slipped into the greenery.
Sherlock caught multiple trails used by small creatures, scented things that had burrowed into the earth and others nesting in the trees and bushes; he might hunt here fairly well now and then. He caught a small furred thing, scurrying unwisely into his path, and ate it in a couple of bites. He wasn't really in need yet, but opportunity ought not to be ignored. Though in another situation he would have spent a long while mapping out this territory, he heard John's voice, sounding worried and a little frustrated. Time was irrelevant to him, but he knew it had been a little while since he left John to explore.
Circling back, he found the male on the path where he'd left him, and it was a pleasant surprise when John turned in his general direction suspiciously before Sherlock emerged onto the stone–like path. Good instincts in this one, perhaps his other self was even cannier than he'd thought. He sniffed, seeing that John held something dark in one hand, a bitter scent coming from it that he had smelled traces of earlier. This was the origin of the scent, then. It was the Dangerous Thing he had wanted to bring out of hiding earlier. Sherlock growled, ears laying back a bit, though not fully, as he still—only a bit reluctantly now—trusted the male.
Making more sounds, John slowly tucked the Dangerous Thing away and showed empty hands, palms up. Had it been intended for defense or attack? No scent of aggression coloured the air... Sherlock sniffed John curiously... nor fear, for that matter. Something subtler... anxiousness... not exactly fear, more fear for another. The scent of a parent or mate when there is danger to their own. One of John's hands moved toward him slowly, he was cautious even after Sherlock had allowed him to touch, and he butted his head up to meet John's hand; apology accepted.
The fingers—his other self missed them greatly—wriggled against him pleasantly and he half–slitted his eyes in enjoyment. A rumbling purr escaped him, bringing the motion of John's fingers to a halt for a moment, but then he continued the soothing touches. Perhaps he had mistaken the purr for a growl? Silly creature.
John gave a soft, uneven sound that Sherlock's combined self understood as amusement, and then tugged lightly on a fold of the loose skin at Sherlock's neck. Letting himself be urged to move, Sherlock followed at John's side, feeling unexpectedly pleased at their truce. Perhaps they might hunt together before this moonspan passed. Yes, he thought he would be willing enough to share his kills with this one.