Sherlock Holmes' Paw stories - Chapter 2
Title: Sherlock Holmes' 7 Paw Stories: John
Rated: T
Genre: Humor/Hurt/Comfort
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,031
Summary: When the door was pushed open, John grabbed his handgun. When something heavy jumped on his bed and roared, he fired. The roar broke into a wail as the tiger fell back. A tiger. There was a tiger in his room. Johnlock, bromance or slash. Tiger!SH
Chapter 2: SH
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Sherlock Holmes' 7 Paw Stories: Sherlock
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Sherlock hated sleeping. It was dull and waiting to fall asleep bored him to death - to such an extent that he usually just gave up and went to do something. He didn't like waking up, either, because it usually took him more than 10 seconds to be perfectly alert and it made him feel slow and sluggish. That was one of the reasons he had needed to win against the Woman - he really hadn't appreciated her trick with the syringe - although he still admired her for it.
Therefore when it took him more than 30 seconds to be fully alert after a little nap on the kitchen table, he knew something was wrong. And of course, it annoyed him. Irritating, he thought. When he saw the paws, striped body and tail, he recognized that was an understatement.
At first he thought he was dreaming, but when he bumped violently against the wall to check for pain, it worked. He growled. All right, so throwing himself at the wall might not have been the best of ideas - but what was he supposed to do? He couldn't exactly pinch himself, could he?
After fifteen minutes of roaming in the living-room and trying to understand, he got bored. After 30 minutes, he felt ill at ease. After an hour, he panicked.
With hindsight, he had no idea why at that time he thought of going to John. He was his only friend, but to Sherlock that just meant he cared deeply for John - not that John could be useful or, God forbid, smarter than him. He hadn't shown much understanding on the moor either. Still, once he started feeling something like fear and loss, the terrible gnawing doubt he hated most, he knew he'd end up in John's room.
But he wouldn't admit it, even to himself, so he waited another hour before walking up the stairs to his flatmate's bedroom and pushing the door open gingerly. He noticed John move his hand under his pillow. Gun, he noted. And John was pretending to be asleep. Not good - Sherlock knew he'd have to act fast. So he very logically entered the room and jumped on the bed so abruptly John gasped - to reassure him and signify his friend he was Sherlock and not a tiger, he roared.
As the bullet entered his flesh, he yelped and remembered John was probably too ignorant to know siberian tigers roared infrequently, mostly after a successful kill or during the search for a mate. Obviously there was no proper mate for a tiger around, and there wasn't anyone else in the whole house that it could have killed, Mrs. Hudson being away. If John had been Sherlock, he would have known all that, and he'd have observed, but he wasn't, and so he did the most John-like thing Sherlock knew: he fired.
It hurt so much that if Sherlock had had any lingering doubt as this being the reality, he was now quite convinced that he wasn't dreaming. The wooden floor of John's room was cold, he noted in a pain-stricken daze. Very slowly, the ex-soldier climbed out of bed and gradually moved towards the door, never losing sight of him - and yet, not noticing. If John couldn't tell, who would? Something very close to hopelessness joined the fear and confusion that were settling in Sherlock's stomach. This was only confirmed when he heard his friend double-lock the door behind him. Great. He was still a tiger, and was now in terrible pain and bleeding on the floor in a locked room. Maybe going to John hadn't been such a great idea after all.
"Sherlock! SHERLOCK! It's a tiger. A bloody tiger! And it's in my room! What have you done again?" John yelled in the staircase.
Siberian tiger, to be more precise, thought Sherlock, a little groggy from the shot. He flinched at the accusation - he hadn't done anything this time. Had he? In any case, he was miffed that John would automatically assume he was at fault. His agonizing wail grew louder with outrage.
This whole situation was absolutely absurd. Would he just die here like that? As tiger shot by his own flatmate? The thought was so dramatically ironic that he couldn't help but grin and chuff, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through his leg and he winced.
He could hear John rambling downstairs and a sudden thump told him he must have kicked something. Most likely a chair, since Sherlock could locate him in the kitchen and he wouldn't dare kick the table, which was covered with files and tubes - and his microscope too. The detective was trying to occupy his mind to distract it from the pain. Why wasn't John coming back? Even if he didn't c are for his well-being, as he wasn't aware of who was trapped in a tiger's body, he should have been considering the neighbours' reactions by now. Sherlock cursed his slowness.
After minutes that felt like centuries to Sherlock, steps were heard in the staircase and a wave of relief washed over him. Until he remembered what his hope in his friend had led him to the last time he was expecting help from him - what if John came to shoot him in the head this time to stop the wailing? The moment the door was opened Sherlock dropped the act and thought it wiser to remain silent. Maybe it would even convince John that he wasn't just any tiger.
John stared at him and he stared back. See? I'm a good tiger. A smart tiger. What can you deduce from that? Not much, apparently, as he aimed the gun at him again and kept his distance. Sherlock sent him an exasperated look, which he missed as he seemed to be checking on his injury. Well, perhaps he'd come to fix that, at least.
"Don't you dare move, kitty, or I swear I will shoot you right between the eyes."
Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. Kitty? He blinked, twice. KITTY? He fixed a haughty gaze on his flatmate. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me, he thought with regal disdain, until he remembered John was holding a gun. John frowned.
"No more wailing? I thought you were hurt."
Sherlock gave him a look. I am hurt, you idiot. Can't you tell? And whose fault do you think it is? But John didn't seem to be doing much thinking at all, and appeared to be lost in his eyes. In a tiger's eyes, for goodness' sake! Hello, I'm still bleeding here. John was examining the wound, and Sherlock saw something like worry flash in his eyes. He frowned. John wouldn't worry for a tiger. Then it hit him. Of course. John wouldn't worry for a tiger, but he'd be stupid enough to wonder whether he'd get into trouble for it, since tigers were endangered, and it was rather hard to hide a dead one in your flat for too long. Sherlock observed him as he seemed to reassure himself, and groaned in annoyance, ignoring the foreign twinge this cause him. He'd never admit that the thought of his friend worrying about such things while he was bleeding on the floor could hurt him somehow.
"Okay, listen here. I need to stop the bleeding so I'll have to touch you... wait, actually, this is crazy, let me just call the police and a vet or something."
No! Sherlock panicked and before he could think about it twice jumped on John and made him fall on his back. He clenched his shoulders, not realizing he was in fact digging his paws into them. No. I don't want to see anyone. Not while I don't even know what's happening to me. Please. The very strange thought I only need you crossed his mind, but Sherlock blamed it on fear.
"What are you?"
Sherlock grunted and fell back to the floor as his left leg gave way under his body. John seemed to seize the opportunity and applied pressure around the wound, then on the different pressure points, probably those that were more likely to help stop the bleeding. Sherlock ground his teeth but couldn't hold back a whimper.
"I'm sorry I shot you, but what were you doing on my bed, really?"
Sherlock turned back his gaze on him and scowled. What could I have possibly been doing John, huh? And what is wrong with you firing so soon? Oh, don't tell me you shoot anyone who goes on your bed. He ignored the fact that not many of John's girlfriends had paws and roared when they climbed into bed.
"You remind me someone - damn him, by the way, leaving me with a bloody tiger in the flat..."
Sherlock growled frighteningly, furious. I'm right here, you imbecile! John jumped and picked his gun nimbly.
"Don't. Move. I have no qualms shooting a man, don't think for one second I'll balk at shooting a big cat."
Another twinge, which Sherlock skilfully ignored as well. I know, he thought bitterly, usually I'm the one you shoot for, not the target. He felt very tired all of a sudden and the pain was taking its toll on him, so he just rested his head on the floor. He'd just play dead, since John was so intent on offing him tonight. He did not acknowledge the acerbity pervading his own thoughts.
John sure wasn't being gentle. He was used to dealing with soldiers on the front though, Sherlock thought, so it was only natural. As a GP, he wouldn't have to treat such wounds, and certainly not without anaesthesia. He noticed he'd brought morphine, but understood that John would have used it to tame him, not to relieve him from the pain. Oh well. At least he hadn't come up with the intention of putting a bullet into his head.
The doctor's ministrations kept eliciting growls from him and he hated the fact that he couldn't complain - expostulating was fine as long as he could formulate words and manage to show John how superior he truly was, but being a tiger, all he could utter were those pitiful grunts. He didn't even want to think about the moans. Inadvertently, he caught John's self-satisfied little smile and sent him a sidelong glance. How dare the man be all smug about this? Stupid John with his stupid soldier's dominance complex and his stupid handgun. Stupid stupid stupid...
"Here we go. Now, just let me make a call..."
Sherlock roared and John jumped again. Didn't you hear me the first time?
"What is wrong with you? I don't care if you're not happy, I need to make a call so someone comes and brings you home!"
That was it. Sherlock couldn't take any more of John's obliviousness. Gingerly, he got up, and teetered to the door.
"Where are you going? Wait!"
Sherlock managed his way down the stairs but his leg wobbled with pain and on the last step, he crashed.
"You're injured, for God's sake! What's wrong with my room?"
I don't care about your stupid room, Sherlock sulked. He limped to the kitchen and was relieved to see his clothes were still lying on the floor.
"Wait, he'll rant for hours if you ruin these..."
Oh, you have no idea...
Sherlock rolled into a ball and pressed the clothes close to him. See? They're mine. MINE. What does that tell you?
John had stopped dead in his tracks and stared.
"You're... don't tell me you're Sherlock's pet?" he staggered.
Sherlock groaned in dismay. Don't be daft. I wouldn't want a pet! And a tiger? Please. I already have you anyway.
He left the clothes there and hobbled towards his room. He jumped onto his bed and rolled on his back, sending John a look. See? I'm not a cat. I'm human. Hu-man. He didn't realize cats did in fact lie on their backs too, when they wanted to play. John just goggled.
"Right. I have no idea what you're saying. Please do take the bed, it's not like he uses it. If you're Sherlock's pet, I'm going to kill him..."
Sherlock snapped and snarled at his infuriating flatmate - how could he be so slow? John backed off.
"Okay, okay, let me just call him, all right?"
Oh yeah, call me. That's gonna help. John picked his phone and dialled a number. It rang in the kitchen. John cursed.
"How could he leave his phone when he didn't even tell me where he was going?" he asked in a desperate tone, looking at the one he was trying to call.
Sherlock shrugged and ignored him. I give up. You're too stupid to be worth my time.
"God I swear you're just like him, so bloody arrogant and capricious and... No... Don't tell me..."
A glimmer of hope flickered in Sherlock's eyes and he regained interest. John's legs wavered and he sat down on the bed.
"Sherlock... are you Sherlock?"
Sherlock sighed in relief. Finally.
"Oh God I've gone bonkers..."
Oh God, not again ! Sherlock roared in exasperation and John jumped - again.
"Would you please stop doing that?" he yelled back.
Sherlock sent him a dark look and scoffed. John had never seen a scoffing tiger, and his bewilderment was increasing by the second.
"What have you done?"
Sherlock glanced at him. Are you an idiot? Wait, I don't even know why I'm asking.
"You can't be Sherlock. Is there a hidden camera or something? Someone must have trained you to react like this..."
John's stupidity was just boundless. Sherlock just shook his head and grew more desperate: he had no idea what was happening to him, and he couldn't count on John to be of any help. All he'd managed to do was shoot a bullet at him.
"How am I supposed to bloody believe you've turned into a tiger?" he shouted.
Sherlock winced at the outburst. Yes, why would you? But beyond the bitterness he had to admit that John usually did believe him. Always.
Except... Remembering one time John hadn't actually believed him (even though he'd been right, of course), he jumped off from the bed, stumbling as he landed on his injured leg, and left the room. John didn't follow, and that was just fine. After roaming the living-room for a minute or so, he finally found what he was looking for: the Cluedo. He tried to grab it and remembered he couldn't, with those stupid paws. Dull. Picking it in his mouth, holding it tight between his jaws, he went back to the room and stared at John. The idiot shivered, and Sherlock realized he could indeed look quite intimidating. In fact, he was more likely to beat John in a fight in this form than in his human body - well, maybe not, because John was stupid after all. But still. He held a smirk back at the thought. Actually, John had been scared. That's why he'd fired. Sherlock wondered why he hadn't thought of this before: it was true he could rather easily jump on his friend and rip his throat off before he injured him further. Then he remembered why he hadn't thought of this. He didn't exactly want to rip John's throat, thank you very much.
"Jesus. You really are Sherlock."
But Sherlock was no longer listening. He dropped the box at the realization hit him. Wait. Didn't that mean...? He tried to put an end to his deductive chain of thoughts but it was too late. He wasn't stupid enough not to realize it. I wouldn't have ripped his throat. I wouldn't have let him shot me between the eyes.
"I'm sorry I shot you. What were you thinking jumping on my bed like that?"
Sherlock averted his gaze and jumped back onto the bed, sitting next to his friend. He was still nonplussed and trying to make sense of his discovery.
John sighed.
"So... what do we do now? Should I call Mycroft?"
The comment roused him from his nebulous reflection and he snarled violently. Maybe I should go for the throat after all.
"All right, calm down, I won't call him. But Sherlock, you need someone to..."
You talk too much, Sherlock thought and he put his paw on John's right thigh. I have you. And you make for enough stupidity in the room already. He refused to process the fact that Mycroft certainly wouldn't be on the stupid side of the balance.
"Okay. Okay, Sherlock."
John smiled and petted his head, right between the ears. Sherlock relaxed slightly, blocking any visualization of the scene. John's petting felt nice, period. He didn't want to think any further.
"You know, maybe I like you better in Tigger form."
Sherlock stared. In what?
"Oh come on, don't tell me you've never heard of Winnie the Pooh?"
Oh please, he thought, rolling his eyes and letting his head fall onto the pillow dramatically.
"I should have gotten a camera. Really. You have no idea how well this would sell."
Sherlock sent him a death glare and a threatening growl. This seemed to have the desired effect, as the sight of his exposed canines made John swallow. Satisfied with the impression he'd made, Sherlock bared his teeth even more. So much for the soldier's dominance complex.
"Right. No camera. I don't have one anyway."
As John stroke his back down his spine, he seemed to think of something funny, and bit his lips to stop himself from laughing. Sherlock arched his brow - and such a sight did nothing to calm John's impending laughter.
Since John wasn't giving him the explanation he was obviously demanding, Sherlock thought it good to hiss and swing his tail to show his displeasure. Are you laughing at me? John ignored him and played with an ear instead, relishing in the smoothness. Don't you dare try to bribe me with petting! he thought, completely oblivious to the ambiguity of the phrasing. John didn't even seem to notice his sulking. Moving to the cheeks, he ran his fingers through the fluffy white hair on each side of his indignant face.
"I was just thinking that it'd be funny if Mycroft had left any of his surveillance camera in the flat."
Sherlock's ears flattened and his pupils dilated. He growled with ire. John frowned and pressed a finger to his muzzle, startling him efficiently. Sherlock gawked, bewildered, and John seemed to find this very funny.
"Look, you're the one who somehow managed to turn into a tiger, so don't take it out on me, all right? I'm sorry I shot you, but you had it coming."
This time Sherlock acknowledged the twinge. Right. John would think that, wouldn't he? Maybe he did have it coming after all.
"Sorry, Sherlock, didn't mean it that way. But hell, I'm talking to a tiger as if it were my flatmate, what do you expect me to do? This is insane, you know. Bloody insane. Like everything related to you, really," John said, resuming his petting and sending him an apologetic look.
Sherlock just turned his head the other way.
"Oh, stop flying off the handle to every word I say! You're such a complete tosser sometimes. Most of the time."
Right. That's why you keep flying to me like a moth to a flame, he brooded. John started playing with the paw closest to him like the dotty idiot he was. Sherlock had never noticed he liked cats so much. Maybe he should buy him one some day, if he was being very nice. Very, very nice.
As John shifted a bit on the bed, he accidentally brushed against the injured leg, eliciting a pitiful grown from his feline flatmate.
"Oops, sorry. Guess it'd be better if you lied on the other side of the bed."
Sherlock complied and saw John marvel at his meekness. Scoffing, he rolled onto the side and glared. John chuckled and moved to rest on his elbow, Roman-style.
"On second thought, you really have weird eyes. For a tiger, I mean," he added precipitately.
Sherlock pouted with all the disdain he could gather. Oh thank you, I am very flattered. He caught a glimpse of stupefaction and... denial? in John's eyes and scrutinized his face suspiciously.
Seeing his stare, John grinned.
"Can't read those thoughts, can you? No wonder, they're so stupid... Oh, don't give me that "as-if-you-weren't-always-stupid" look or I'll stop petting you."
Sherlock's eyes turned into slits. And you think that's a threat? You're the one going all gaga because you're petting a damn tiger and it makes you feel almighty.
But John wasn't impressed at all and dared stroke his throat as if he were merely a giant fluffy cat. Sherlock looked daggers at his friend's irksome smirk.
"Don't lie, Sherlock. I know you like it. You are purring."
Sherlock froze and was mortified to see that John was right. He was indeed purring. Chuffing, corrected his brain, trying to come to the rescue - but it was too late, and the humiliation was complete. He turned away abruptly, breaking contact with John, and rolled on his other side, turning his back to him. Please let this be a nightmare.
"Oh, come on, nothing's wrong with that. It's not as if you were purring in human form..."
When Sherlock heard John chuckle, he knew he'd just pictured him actually purring as a man, he wished he could literally bury himself in the pillow and disappear from the face of the earth. He tensed as John nuzzled in the fur at the back of his head and laughed. It felt weird, this buzzing, and the vibration of his chuckles coursed through his whole body. He was surprised to find it not entirely unpleasant - but it was humiliating nonetheless. If he ever turned back into human form again, he'd have to find a way to erase John's memory of the event. He absolutely wouldn't live with his flatmate holding the memory of him purring against his hand. For now, he decided to play along, and let his long-suffering flatmate use him as a pillow. Maybe he did deserve this to some extent. Sherlock could almost hear the cogs in the machinery of John's little brain as he wondered if he could maybe just sleep for now and deal with this whole farce.
"I mean, it can't get any worse, right?" he mumbled against Sherlock's back. "So it can wait..."
Remarkable logic, John, quite remarkable...
He could almost feel John's silly grin against his fur and the idiot was really thinking too loud for his own good. Make the most of it while you can, Sherlock thought sullenly. But even John's smugness couldn't bring him to push him back as he was slowly falling asleep, becoming heavier against his back. Sherlock concentrated very hard to not form the thought that John was in fact spooning him. Instead, he focused on the warmth spreading from the body against his, and the strangeness of an alien breath against the fur of his neck - the feel of the fur being just as alien. This was okay. A little more than okay, perhaps.
John was half-asleep already, but before he fell into a deep slumber, he whispered drowsily:
"I lied... Fluffy tiger's fun, but I still like you in human form too..."
"Still"... "too"... emphasized Sherlock grimly. But he failed to ignore the warmth fluttering in the pit of his stomach.
When John woke up in the morning, Sherlock was already waiting in the kitchen, pretending to examine something with his microscope. He himself had only managed to fall asleep a little before dawn, and still had woken up hours ago... in human form. With John still hugging him as if he were a giant pillow. Sherlock couldn't remember having ever felt so awkward - nor having ever blushed so hard.
He heard his flatmate jump out of his bed (the thought was quite disturbing) and soon John burst into the room in a frenzy.
"Sherlock! Sherlock!"
"Um?"
"What... how..."
"What were you doing in my bed? I have no idea. How did I sleep? Very well, thank you, though not much."
"But... the tiger..."
Sherlock looked up and arched an eyebrow through his goggles. He had to remain perfectly composed, or John wouldn't buy this. But it was the only way. Sherlock hadn't found any means to erase one's memory yet.
"Are you still sleeping?"
Speechless, John fell back on a chair. Sherlock turned back to his microscope, as if uninterested.
"Where did you go last night?"
"Went out for the Russian roulette case. I've solved it, by the way."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You were sleeping so peacefully, and you didn't hear me when I called the first time, so.."
John eyed him suspiciously, but Sherlock ignored him to signify the discussion over.
"Right. Well, I think I need an aspirine."
Once he'd left the room, Sherlock let relief wash over him.
He couldn't possibly have lived with this. But for some unfathomable reason, he couldn't bring himself to delete this night's memories from his hard drive either... He scoffed, and turned back to the microscope.
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«(o.o)»
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