Show Me How to Stop Running (1/2), John/Sherlock, NC-17
So, apparently I can't stop writing AUs.
Title: Show Me How to Stop Running (1/2)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 12,392 words
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: John gets turned into a werewolf during Afghanistan, and it sucks, but then he moves in with another werewolf, and it gets better.
Before the wolf, John used to enjoy going to pubs. He'd enjoyed drinking with friends, and meeting new people, and taking in the atmosphere. It'd always felt alive, and comforting, a tangible reminder of what he's fighting for.
After the wolf, he can't handle it. It's too crowded, there are too many scents (food and beer and sweat and unwashed bodies, smothering him). Everyone who stands taller than him is enemychallengefight, and anyone who drops their gaze in front of him is weakpreyhuntkill.
He forces himself to go anyways, because he wants to and he hasn't talked to his rugby mates in months, and seen them in longer. Every breath is an effort and every step feels like dragging his feet through molasses, and at the end of the night when Joel Oswald lowers his head and puts a hand on his elbow to ask him if he's alright, the wolf sends him a vivid mental image of him tearing out his throat.
“I'm fine,” he says, and smiles, lips tightly shut.
--
Before the wolf, his nightmares were about death -- his dying, his letting other people die, pain and suffering and the bodies of friends. He'd dream about mortar fire and gunshots and fear, and wake with a shout, the coppery smell of blood vivid and sharp in his mind, hair soaked with sweat. And he'd sit up, shaking, telling himself that he was still alive, that he was a doctor, that he was there to save lives.
After the wolf, he still dreams about death, but almost never about dying. He dreams about blood in his mouth, and running on four legs, and the sick, moist, ripping sound flesh makes when torn apart by fangs. He dreams about screams and pain and the spill of blood against sand.
But when John wakes from those dreams, he wakes up hard.
--
John's not sure what he was expecting when Mike Stamford introduced him to his potential new flatmate, but he's pretty sure it isn't this, this feeling of every sense in his body going into overload, becoming alert, telling him danger. The wolf throws itself against the bars of its cage, howling.
Sherlock Holmes is not human.
And from the look in his eyes -- a little wide with surprise, he is making the same deduction about John. Sherlock's nostrils flare briefly, and John knows he's inhaling his scent, because he had done the same thing.
But when Sherlock opens his mouth, he says, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” not “You're a werewolf!” as John is expecting, and ends up not mentioning the werewolf thing at all, so that's okay then.
--
“So, uh, where do you transform during the full moon?” John asks, looking round the flat. The unoccupied apartment below them, 221C, looked promising, but he can't be sure.
“Hmm? What do you mean?” Sherlock asks, and casts a questioning glance at John.
John looks away, drops his gaze. “You're a werewolf.”
“As are you,” Sherlock replies calmly. “So?”
“So where do you go to transform during the full moon?”
“Well, there're some nice paths I follow on occasion, with just the right amount of cover in case someone human shows up. I can show you some of them if you'd like, but I assume you already have your own -- you've lived in London before, and it's hardly difficult to find somewhere to --” Sherlock cuts off abruptly. “Are you asking to run with me? I don't usually -- ”
“What? No. What do you --” John has the feeling he's having a totally different conversation than the one he thinks he's having. He sits down heavily in one of the armchairs, and Sherlock sits as well. “Wait, sorry, can we start over?”
“This is the flat. There's a second bedroom upstairs, as Mrs. Hudson said, and between the two of us, we should have no problem affording it.”
“It looks nice. Very nice,” John says, and tamps down on the wolf in the back of his mind, the one that's pacing in circles and anxious, because the sitting room smells like stranger, carrying the possessive scent of the man in front of him. He's in someone else's territory. “And... you're a werewolf. And I'm a werewolf.”
Sherlock nods, and steeples his fingers underneath his chin. His pale eyes regard John steadily, staring him down. John breaks first, and drops his gaze. “Yes.”
“When the full moon breaks, what do you do? Where do you change? Where do you go?”
In Afghanistan, after the bite, they'd tie him down the morning of, and drive him as near an enemy base as they could safely go. The next morning if they hadn't already found him, they'd pick him up by following the tracker 'round his neck, and clean the blood from his face and body, then send him back to his normal job.
He hadn't minded, because people had died (his men had died), the first time the change had come upon him, unexpected and terrifying.
“I change in my room, usually. I'll leave one of the windows open, so we can get in and out without using the front door.”
“Isn't that dangerous?”
“Not especially. It's only a few feet off the ground. You'd have to be exceptionally clumsy not to make that jump.”
“No, I mean, dangerous for them. For humans. Don't you...” John trails off, because Sherlock's looking more and more confused by the moment, head cocked.
“Don't I what?”
“Don't you hurt them?”
“No, why would I hurt them? Most people aren't so stupid as to go 'here doggy' to a bloody big wolf, and the ones that do will usually leave you alone if you show a little teeth and give them a growl. There's a DI with the police that's a wolf too -- if you get the dog warden on you, you can contact him and he'll smooth it over.”
John can feel the beginning of a headache coming on. “So you can just, go outside. On a full moon. And you don't feel any urges to, oh, I don't know, rip out the throats of everyone you see and roll around in their blood?”
The wolf whimpers at the look Sherlock's giving him, and John fights back the urge to whimper as well, because it feels like he's being peeled apart, layer by layer, each piece examined under one of those microscopes he'd seen on the kitchen table.
“You've been a werewolf for less than two years,” Sherlock declares. “Whilst you were still deployed in Afghanistan. Lycanthropy is transmitted through bite, so I'll assume it was horribly traumatic and you probably thought you were attacked by a wolf and going to die.”
“Yes.”
“What happened when you transformed?”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Something violent, then. How were you bitten?”
“They released werewolves on the full moon, had them attack our base. I was one of the casualties.”
“And the next full moon, they get you.”
“They had to shoot one of my legs out before they were able to herd me into a secure room and lock the door.”
“What do you do now, on full moons?”
“Lock myself in a room and hope I don't get out or damage anything too badly. Like in all the films.” John gives a sort of pained laugh.
“I don't watch werewolf films,” Sherlock says, and then adds, “Or films in general. They're too predictable. What happens in them?”
“Oh, you know...” John shrugs. “Man gets bitten by a werewolf, man turns into one, every full moon he has to lock himself up or else he'll go on a killing spree and spread the curse.”
“Do you want to go on a killing spree right now?”
“Of course not! But, the wolf, I can feel him, you know? It's like having someone else in your head, and it's so angry, all the time. He wants to. And I can control him, except on the full moon, when he breaks free.”
“It sounds unpleasant,” Sherlock comments mildly, as if they were talking about the weather.
John barks a laugh. “Yeah, it's horrible. Haven't you ever felt it?”
“I don't feel anything. I was born this way. My full moons are nothing like you're describing.” After a pause, Sherlock says, “I can help you adjust, if you want.”
--
The werewolf with the police is named Gregory Lestrade, and when Sherlock invites him over to their flat, he comes, but with a deep reluctance that John understands wholeheartedly. Because the whole flat smells of Sherlock -- his space, his territory, and John's wolf already feels like an intruder, wanting to slink back to his room, where Sherlock never goes.
His bedroom is his, and the bathroom smells more like soap than anything else, but the sitting room smells like strangerterritorynotminenotsafecareful.
Lestrade's nose wrinkles when he walks into their flat, and his stride loses its confidence, becomes wary. “How did you find another werewolf in London?” he asks, and stays standing when Sherlock sits down on the sofa. “I thought they were rare.”
“A mutual friend introduced us,” Sherlock says. He stands with a reluctant grimace when it becomes obvious that no one else wants to sit down; he's taller than them both. “John's been a werewolf for a year and a bit -- picked it up in Afghanistan.”
Lestrade looks at him, and John can see his wolf, lurking in the back of his eyes. He's never been able to see Sherlock's. “Hi,” John says, and holds out his hand.
But instead of taking his hand, Lestrade takes another step closer, and slides his face next to John's. His nose brushes against John's ear, and it brings Lestrade close enough that when John takes a deep breath, he inhales his scent. It should feel strange, overly familiar, but the wolf in him wags its tail, pleased.
Lestrade smells like wolf, like strength, like paper and soap and polite wariness.
Next to them, Sherlock makes an exasperated noise. “Really, there's no need to be obvious about it. He says he has problems when he changes into a wolf. How were your first changes?” To John, Sherlock says, “Lestrade's been a werewolf since childhood.”
“I was attacked while I was playing in the woods, when I was a boy,” Lestrade explains. “But I don't actually remember very much about it. It's all a blur.”
“Perhaps it's like chicken pox,” Sherlock says, and before John can get out a sarcastic comment about lycanthropy being nothing like chicken pox, thanks, he continues, “The change must be harsher on you the later in life you develop it.”
“Maybe. How did it happen?” Lestrade asks him.
“Werewolves attacked the base I was at, and I was one of the survivors,” John answers. “Did you know Sherlock can't feel the wolf?”
“You can't feel the wolf?” Lestrade asks Sherlock, at the same time that Sherlock says,
“What wolf?”
“You can feel it, right? Because I don't want to be the only nutter here,” John asks, but Sherlock's the one that looks confused; Lestrade's nodding with him.
“The wolf in the back of your head,” he agrees. “It's always there, and when you change, it's more in control.”
“You can control it, can't you?” John says, and Lestrade nods.
“It took a while before I could, but when I changed, I turned into a wolf cub. I couldn't do much damage. My parents used to lock me in the bathroom with gloves on so I couldn't draw blood; it took months before I stopped attacking them, and longer before I remembered what happened when I changed.”
“I never knew that,” Sherlock says, looking aggrieved. “And for god's sake, sit down already. Must we stand in the hallway like this?”
He throws himself down on the sofa defiantly, and John's (the wolf's) gaze is drawn momentarily by the sight of Sherlock's bared throat, long and exposed. The sudden urge to bite down on it frightens him -- and from the look Sherlock gives him (bored) he knows that Sherlock knows too. Knows, but isn't afraid.
Lestrade sits on the arm of the sofa. “I never knew it was different for you,” he says.
“I didn't know there was a difference until I met John. It must be different because he was turned into one, while I have always been a werewolf.” Sherlock hesitates, then adds, “Would you like to be there when he changes?”
“Sure. Didn't have anything else planned this month,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock grins at him, sharp.
“Brilliant. Come here before moonrise. We can use 221C.”
--
The wolf doesn't like the idea -- transforming in closed quarters with two other, more-experienced wolves, and John's done enough research on wolves (normal ones, but werewolves can't be that different, can they?) since getting back to know that they'll probably end up fighting each other.
But he's expecting to have plenty of time to adjust to the idea, to ease his wolf into accepting more wolves on his territory. Which is why it comes as a complete surprise when he gets home and sees the huge black wolf, curled up on the sofa.
He jumps back with a muffled curse, and drops the shopping with a crash. The wolf lifts his head, ears perked up, and John realizes with surprise that he can read his body language as clear as day. Alertness, recognition, and a greeting, telegraphed plainly in his eyes and the half-wag of a tail.
“Sherlock?” He asks, incredulous, because the moon hasn't risen, and the full moon's not for another week yet. “Is that you?”
A snort, a slight drop of the head, and a derisive ear flick. Yes, it's obviously Sherlock, and John shouldn't have needed to ask such a dumb question. Even from this distance and with his human nose, when he inhales he can recognize Sherlock's scent, subtly different (less soap, more fur) yet still the same, and his wolf whines with envy. It wants to come out too.
John's never seen a werewolf up close and personal, aside from the one that bit him -- and all his memories of that are hot breath, a ripping pain in his shoulder, fear so thick he could choke on it, and the words Please, God. Let me live.
Sherlock hops off the sofa, and he's massive. He's the same size as he would be in human form, give or take, which makes him nearly twice as big as a normal wolf, and John knows from experience that his teeth are sharp enough to rip out a man's throat in a single leap. He could probably kill John right now, if he wanted to -- but then again, John's not sure that's actually different from when he's human.
Besides, his ears say curious, and his tail says relaxed, and his upright gait says he's not hunting, so when Sherlock finally reaches him, John picks up the shopping bag and offers Sherlock his free hand to sniff. “I got ground beef for pasta tonight, another package of biscuits, and some milk.”
Sherlock's nose is cold against his palm, and his tail wags. He follows John to the kitchen when he puts away the shopping (lowers his head and whines when John finds the severed head in the fridge and jumps back with a curse), and sits up in a classic begging position when John opens the package of biscuits. John starts to hand him one, then stops. “There's chocolate in this. I thought dogs couldn't eat chocolate.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him -- John hadn't even known that was possible for a wolf to do. John gives him the biscuit.
“How are you -- How are you so human?” John asks, and reaches, carefully, for Sherlock's head. Sherlock's ear twitches when John's hand makes contact, and he leans into his hand. John scratches Sherlock tentatively behind the ear, and Sherlock's tail thumps, pleased, against the floor. “How did you change? The full moon's a week away.”
Sherlock shrugs.
“I suppose it's hard to talk like that, isn't it.” John hesitates at the sofa -- it's not his, it's Sherlock's, full of his scent, but his wolf doesn't seem to mind. His wolf wants him to bury his face against Sherlock and inhale, wants to be friends. John sits on the sofa, and Sherlock hops up next to him, sticking his nose against John's neck.
John yelps and bares his neck, and Sherlock licks it. “Don't; it tickles,” he laughs. “Did you change on purpose? Can you control it?”
Sherlock nods, the movement strange and foreign on his body.
His wolf whines wistfully, and John strokes Sherlock's back and says, “Can you teach me to do that? Is it always like this?”
Because it looks fun. Because he came home to see a werewolf in their flat but he wasn't afraid because it wasn't threatening him. Everything about Sherlock is screaming, this is fun, I am happy and comfortable, but the only memories John has of the full moon is dread, and fear, and pain. He'd like to not be afraid.
Sherlock nods, then opens his mouth and makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a bark and a whine. He tries again, then hops off the sofa again and trots into his bedroom. When he comes out, he's human again, dressed in pajamas and pulling a dressing robe over his shoulders.
“I was cold, so I shifted. Wolves are much better adapted to cold weather. I find it easier to sleep this way too,” he adds, “and it has been a couple days since I last slept, so I decided I ought to catch up.”
“Is that a werewolf thing too? Not sleeping for days on end?”
“Not that I know of. My mother hated it when I skipped a night, can't imagine why. It's such a waste of time. But once you can get through the change safely,” Sherlock continues, “It won't be hard to teach you how to do it at will. I learned when I was five, and it didn't take long to teach Lestrade, either. It's a matter of concentration. I'll show you once you can retain your consciousness while shifting.”
--
On the day of the full moon, John can feel the wolf clawing at the inside of his mind, eager to get free. He's been home all day -- halfheartedly checking out job leads and brushing up his CV. He knows he ought to start looking for a job soon, but his savings plus his pension will hold him a handful of months yet, and the itching right under his skin makes it hard to focus. And he doesn't dare trust himself outside, because he doesn't know how he'll react to all the people, not with the wolf so close to the surface.
As the sun starts to set, John feels increasingly nervous, because neither Sherlock nor Lestrade are at the flat (or at 221C -- he's checked, twice). But he's handled moonrise alone before, and he's fairly certain if he locks himself in he'd be safe.
Sherlock gets home with maybe twenty minutes to spare, followed by Lestrade, who is carrying a huge, wrapped package that smells like blood. John's mouth waters.
“Where've you been?” John asks, and suppresses the anxious whine at the back of his throat.
“Work,” Lestrade says, “And then we had to pick up the meat from the butcher's. I placed an order with them, so we won't be hungry while we're in the other flat.”
Sherlock takes off his coat, and disappears into his bedroom; when he returns, he's carrying a thick blanket, and has changed into pajamas. “I don't like getting fur on my other clothes,” he explains.
Taking a leaf from Sherlock's book, John brings his blanket down to 221C too, and drops it in a corner of the room. It smells familiar, and some of the wolf's nervousness fades. If either Lestrade or Sherlock are nervous, they don't show it.
Five minutes to moonrise -- John can feel it in his bones. It's like being pulled at from all directions.
Sherlock and Lestrade are disrobing, and, with some self-consciousness, John does the same. It feels strange, the way the other two men are approaching it, with deep nonchalance. 'Oh, it's about time for me to turn into a bloodthirsty beast, better buy a slab of beef and bring down some blankets I can sleep on'. He giggles nervously.
“John?” Lestrade asks, and takes a half-step towards him. John drops his gaze, fights the urge to bare his throat. There is a massive scar on Lestrade's thigh, a streaked, vaguely-round path of raised, shiny flesh. It looks a little like the one John has on his shoulder, where the werewolf that'd attacked him had removed half his shoulder and crushed the bones in one bite. “Are you okay?”
He coughs. “Just nervous. I've never changed with anyone else before.” And now I'm changing with two other wolves, and my wolf doesn't know how we're going to rank up against them. He sneaks a glance at Sherlock -- his body is unmarred, and John doesn't know if it's because he doesn't get hurt, or if it's because he does, and just heals without leaving scars. He suspects the latter.
“Yes, well, there'll be no bloodshed if Lestrade stays out of my half of the room,” Sherlock says pointedly, and Lestrade bares his teeth at him.
“You won't take half the room, and you know it.”
“I'd be too bored if I did,” Sherlock agrees, and grins.
The change hits like it always does -- like a freight train to the spine, and John struggles to hold back his pained howl as the wolf tears at him, ripping itself out of his body, bones cracking as his skeleton forces itself into a new shape.
Dimly, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock's wide eyes, fur already rippling over his back and chest, and hears him shout, “Don't fight it! You'll hurt yourself!”, the last words blending seamlessly into a canine howl.
And then, he's gone.
--
Fear. Danger. Humans. Humans have been here before, but not recently. Two other wolves, here, in this room. There's not enough space for all three of them, but the dark one smells familiar. Not danger. He and the grey one stand in the middle of the room, over the meat he can smell now. He's hungry; he doesn't remember what it feels like to be full, and he slinks closer, ears down.
Neither of the other two wants to be the one to lower his head and remove the paper, so he does it. He darts forward to rip off a piece of paper with his teeth, and it tears with a loud rip. There's blood on it, and he laps at it, though his eyes don't leave the others.
The dark one darts in, now that the meat's revealed -- flesh, animal, dead, bloody. He grabs the biggest piece in his jaws, and the grey one lunges at him, teeth bared. They clash over it, then roll away, snarling and snapping. He smells blood -- fresh blood, wolf blood. But not hate, and not fear, and fangs make contact more with air and fur than flesh.
It's over quickly; the grey one wins, but only because the dark one gets bored, rolls onto his back briefly and gets up. He ignores the meat they were fighting over and grabs the other piece, the second biggest, because there's three pieces. The grey one ignores him, and drags his prize to his corner, by the pile of cloth that smells like him.
He dares to edge closer when the grey one's away, slinks near the last piece of meat, offers a wary twitch of the ear when the dark one's eyes meet him. The other wolf's ears prick forward, and he sniffs him, and his tail wags. Friend?
He wags back, and licks his jaw, lets their noses bump. Yes.
There is plenty of meat, and no one takes it from him, no one shoves burning things in his face or in his fur, and he eats greedily, swallows it down in huge chunks as fast as he can until he's sated, then drags the rest to his corner, hides it under his blanket, smothers it with his scent so everyone will know it's his.
He naps, and wakes, and naps some more, until he's next woken up by a nose behind his ear, and a soft whuff. He shoots to his feet, bristling and snarling, but it's the dark wolf, the familiar one, who lets him in his territory. He stands, stiff-legged, in front of the remains of his meal. Mine.
The other wolf doesn't even look at it. He bows, wags his tail, pricks his ears forward. Play?
So he does, and the gray wolf joins too, and they chase and wrestle in the too-small room until the moon starts to fade and they separate, quietly, to their own familiar scents.
--
When John wakes up, he is naked and cold and apparently lying on top of a piece of raw meat that's ruined his blanket. His stomach feels bloated, overfull in a way that's less pleasant and more 'I want to vomit.' He groans.
Sherlock is already dressed, and Lestrade is nowhere in sight. “He left already,” Sherlock says. “You shouldn't overeat when you're a wolf, by the way. It translates poorly when you change back.”
John casts his memories back to the night before; everything's hazy. He usually only gets impressions, and brief flashes of memory -- fear, anger, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the sound of screaming. This time, though, is different. “I think I recognized you,” he says, and accepts Sherlock's hand to help him up. “The wolf recognized you.”
“You did see my wolf shape before,” Sherlock agrees. He shoots a look at John and nudges the chunk of beef with a bare foot. In the light of day, it doesn't look nearly as appetizing as it had before (he remembers that too, remembers being hungry and thinking it looked like the most delicious thing ever). “You should stick this in the freezer before it goes bad.”
“It's been on the floor.”
“So? You were perfectly happy eating it before.”
“Yes, when I was a werewolf.”
“You're still a werewolf. Besides, you can always cut off the dirty pieces, if you're so fastidious about these things. How much do you remember about the night before?”
“I changed. There was food. We played afterwards.”
“Any details? Lestrade says how much you remember has to do with how in control of yourself you are.”
The feeling of another muzzle against his, the taste of raw meat in his mouth, dark ears pricked forward in a show of friendship. “Only a few things. What do you think?”
Sherlock's folding his blanket, brushing off bits of fur. “About what?”
“About what he says?”
“I've no idea. My earliest memories in wolf shape are from the same time as my earliest memories in human shape. Newborn werewolves aren't one of my areas of expertise.”
“Is that what I am? A newborn werewolf?”
“If you have a better metaphor, you're welcome to it.”
They end up putting some of the leftover meat in the freezer, and the rest in the bath. When John asks, Sherlock says, “I usually eat on the days surrounding a full moon. I'll finish it tonight.”
Sherlock seems just as sharp-witted and alert as he always does, but John's tired from being up most of the night, and when Sherlock goes out, John stays in. His muscles are still sore from the transformation, and he has no idea what he's going to do when he finally gets a job, short of calling in sick every full moon, which seems a bit too obvious.
He throws his ruined blanket in the wash and curls up in front of the telly, wrapped in Sherlock's blanket. If he can't be bothered to take it to his room, he's not got any right to object to John using it, and the wolf finds it soothing. The programmes are rubbish but he leaves the telly on anyways, letting the voices lull him to sleep.
--
Lestrade stops by in the evening to check up on him. “I just wanted to see how you're doing,” he says, and hesitates in the hallway until John beckons him in.
John's been living at the flat long enough that it doesn't smell quite so foreign anymore. His armchair smells distinctly his, which pleases the wolf to no end.
“You seemed a little spooked last night.”
“Oh, well.” John shrugs, embarrassed. “I don't really remember much. But we relaxed at the end, yeah? And I think I overate too, so I feel like shite.”
Lestrade grins at him, then becomes serious. “Your wolf remembers what happened to it before you were discharged,” he says. “I'm not going to ask what that was, but it must not have been pleasant.”
“I killed three people, the first time I transformed. I didn't mean to. The Taliban had a pack of werewolves it was using to wipe out our bases, and when I survived, after they managed to knock me out, we had me, and we did to them what they did to us.” He's not proud of it -- the thought churns his stomach still, wakes him up growling and snarling in the night. But it was for the best.
Lestrade's silent for a long moment. “I'm sorry,” he says finally.
“Me too.”
“I can try to explain to you how to control the wolf,” Lestrade offers, when it becomes clear John's not going to say anything further. “Think of it as another person, living in your mind. You can't just bottle it up all month, or it's going to overdo things when it finally gets out. Like you did last night,” he adds pointedly.
“That doesn't sound like control,” John points out.
Lestrade nods. “That's because it's not. The bite gave you the wolf, and now you have to compromise with it. You can't force it down, or it'll fight you.”
“But it's dangerous. Violent.”
“It's not right now.” Lestrade moves closer, sitting on the coffee table -- it places his head lower than John's, and his wolf rumbles, pleased. Lestrade's a friend, and not challenging his dominance. “When I was a kid, I used to bargain with it -- we wouldn't hurt any of our classmates, but we'd stalk deer in the woods behind my house. Or we wouldn't growl at our parents during the full moon, and I'd bring my stuffed bear into the room with me for the next one. We're friends now,” and the smile he gives John is full of self-humor.
Making friends with his wolf. John hadn't thought it'd wanted friends, but the night before had proven him wrong. The wolf's sated now, pleased. It'd stuffed itself full last night, and now one of its playmates is back, lurking just beneath the skin of its human's companion. He's close enough to scent. John reaches a careful, mental hand towards the wolf in his mind, and feels a wary greeting in return.
He smiles.
“I can try that.”
--
Sherlock doesn't have an inner wolf because Sherlock is his inner wolf. When they're at a crime scene together, Sherlock dips his gloved fingers into the cold blood left by the victim's corpse. He sniffs it, and rubs it between his fingers, and already has his mouth open and tongue out to taste it before John digs an elbow into his ribs.
Sherlock stops. “Not good?” He asks.
“Not good,” John confirms, and looks around; no one's noticed Sherlock about to taste the victim's blood. “Normal people don't do that, you know.”
“Oh,” Sherlock says, in a voice that John's pretty sure means I don't understand at all, but I'll take your word for it for convenience's sake.
Sherlock smiles with his mouth closed to John, and to Lestrade (unless he's deliberately provoking him, which he does sometimes), but shows his teeth to Anderson and Donovan. John doesn't realize what it means until Donovan tells him Sherlock's dangerous, and John finds himself baring his teeth at her and saying, “Thanks for the warning,” when really he means, So am I.
A sneer looks an awful lot like a snarl, and a smile an awful lot like bared teeth.
If John is a human being and a wolf, who have come to share the same body, then Sherlock is something entirely different. He is some perfectly-blended mix of wolf and man, with no line in the sand where one ends and the other begins, equally at home on four legs or two.
There are things Sherlock ignores -- he lies on his back all the time, belly and throat exposed, and it drives John's wolf to distraction, but there are things he follows too. He slouches and drops his eyes when John wins an argument with him, and touches but doesn't sit in John's armchair. When he's angry he bares his teeth, and John can recognize his hunting stance even when they're human -- or as close to human as Sherlock gets, anyhow.
--
“It's not as bad as you think it was,” John says over dinner (takeaway for him, and tea for Sherlock), as they pore over the details of Sherlock's latest case.
“The suspect's alibi?” Sherlock is researching something on his phone. He doesn't look up.
“Full moons during Afghanistan. I know you and Greg think they brutalized me after I got bitten, but it wasn't like that. No one knew about me, except for the special ops group in charge of me, and except for one night a month, I was treated with just as much respect as I'd always been.”
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, but John knows he doesn't believe him.
“It's understandable, is all I'm saying. I turned into a dangerous beast every full moon, and they had to contain me. No one knew, aside from my handlers.”
“You were an asset and they used you.”
“I went willingly. I didn't want to put any of my unit in danger. I could have called it off at any time,” John insists, even as his wolf snarls inside him. They'd hurt it, left it half-mad with fury and terror. “They doubled my pension because of it.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock says, but what John's wolf hears is betrayal, you were theirs and they hurt you.
Part 2
Title: Show Me How to Stop Running (1/2)
Rating: NC-17
Length: 12,392 words
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Summary: John gets turned into a werewolf during Afghanistan, and it sucks, but then he moves in with another werewolf, and it gets better.
Before the wolf, John used to enjoy going to pubs. He'd enjoyed drinking with friends, and meeting new people, and taking in the atmosphere. It'd always felt alive, and comforting, a tangible reminder of what he's fighting for.
After the wolf, he can't handle it. It's too crowded, there are too many scents (food and beer and sweat and unwashed bodies, smothering him). Everyone who stands taller than him is enemychallengefight, and anyone who drops their gaze in front of him is weakpreyhuntkill.
He forces himself to go anyways, because he wants to and he hasn't talked to his rugby mates in months, and seen them in longer. Every breath is an effort and every step feels like dragging his feet through molasses, and at the end of the night when Joel Oswald lowers his head and puts a hand on his elbow to ask him if he's alright, the wolf sends him a vivid mental image of him tearing out his throat.
“I'm fine,” he says, and smiles, lips tightly shut.
--
Before the wolf, his nightmares were about death -- his dying, his letting other people die, pain and suffering and the bodies of friends. He'd dream about mortar fire and gunshots and fear, and wake with a shout, the coppery smell of blood vivid and sharp in his mind, hair soaked with sweat. And he'd sit up, shaking, telling himself that he was still alive, that he was a doctor, that he was there to save lives.
After the wolf, he still dreams about death, but almost never about dying. He dreams about blood in his mouth, and running on four legs, and the sick, moist, ripping sound flesh makes when torn apart by fangs. He dreams about screams and pain and the spill of blood against sand.
But when John wakes from those dreams, he wakes up hard.
--
John's not sure what he was expecting when Mike Stamford introduced him to his potential new flatmate, but he's pretty sure it isn't this, this feeling of every sense in his body going into overload, becoming alert, telling him danger. The wolf throws itself against the bars of its cage, howling.
Sherlock Holmes is not human.
And from the look in his eyes -- a little wide with surprise, he is making the same deduction about John. Sherlock's nostrils flare briefly, and John knows he's inhaling his scent, because he had done the same thing.
But when Sherlock opens his mouth, he says, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” not “You're a werewolf!” as John is expecting, and ends up not mentioning the werewolf thing at all, so that's okay then.
--
“So, uh, where do you transform during the full moon?” John asks, looking round the flat. The unoccupied apartment below them, 221C, looked promising, but he can't be sure.
“Hmm? What do you mean?” Sherlock asks, and casts a questioning glance at John.
John looks away, drops his gaze. “You're a werewolf.”
“As are you,” Sherlock replies calmly. “So?”
“So where do you go to transform during the full moon?”
“Well, there're some nice paths I follow on occasion, with just the right amount of cover in case someone human shows up. I can show you some of them if you'd like, but I assume you already have your own -- you've lived in London before, and it's hardly difficult to find somewhere to --” Sherlock cuts off abruptly. “Are you asking to run with me? I don't usually -- ”
“What? No. What do you --” John has the feeling he's having a totally different conversation than the one he thinks he's having. He sits down heavily in one of the armchairs, and Sherlock sits as well. “Wait, sorry, can we start over?”
“This is the flat. There's a second bedroom upstairs, as Mrs. Hudson said, and between the two of us, we should have no problem affording it.”
“It looks nice. Very nice,” John says, and tamps down on the wolf in the back of his mind, the one that's pacing in circles and anxious, because the sitting room smells like stranger, carrying the possessive scent of the man in front of him. He's in someone else's territory. “And... you're a werewolf. And I'm a werewolf.”
Sherlock nods, and steeples his fingers underneath his chin. His pale eyes regard John steadily, staring him down. John breaks first, and drops his gaze. “Yes.”
“When the full moon breaks, what do you do? Where do you change? Where do you go?”
In Afghanistan, after the bite, they'd tie him down the morning of, and drive him as near an enemy base as they could safely go. The next morning if they hadn't already found him, they'd pick him up by following the tracker 'round his neck, and clean the blood from his face and body, then send him back to his normal job.
He hadn't minded, because people had died (his men had died), the first time the change had come upon him, unexpected and terrifying.
“I change in my room, usually. I'll leave one of the windows open, so we can get in and out without using the front door.”
“Isn't that dangerous?”
“Not especially. It's only a few feet off the ground. You'd have to be exceptionally clumsy not to make that jump.”
“No, I mean, dangerous for them. For humans. Don't you...” John trails off, because Sherlock's looking more and more confused by the moment, head cocked.
“Don't I what?”
“Don't you hurt them?”
“No, why would I hurt them? Most people aren't so stupid as to go 'here doggy' to a bloody big wolf, and the ones that do will usually leave you alone if you show a little teeth and give them a growl. There's a DI with the police that's a wolf too -- if you get the dog warden on you, you can contact him and he'll smooth it over.”
John can feel the beginning of a headache coming on. “So you can just, go outside. On a full moon. And you don't feel any urges to, oh, I don't know, rip out the throats of everyone you see and roll around in their blood?”
The wolf whimpers at the look Sherlock's giving him, and John fights back the urge to whimper as well, because it feels like he's being peeled apart, layer by layer, each piece examined under one of those microscopes he'd seen on the kitchen table.
“You've been a werewolf for less than two years,” Sherlock declares. “Whilst you were still deployed in Afghanistan. Lycanthropy is transmitted through bite, so I'll assume it was horribly traumatic and you probably thought you were attacked by a wolf and going to die.”
“Yes.”
“What happened when you transformed?”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Something violent, then. How were you bitten?”
“They released werewolves on the full moon, had them attack our base. I was one of the casualties.”
“And the next full moon, they get you.”
“They had to shoot one of my legs out before they were able to herd me into a secure room and lock the door.”
“What do you do now, on full moons?”
“Lock myself in a room and hope I don't get out or damage anything too badly. Like in all the films.” John gives a sort of pained laugh.
“I don't watch werewolf films,” Sherlock says, and then adds, “Or films in general. They're too predictable. What happens in them?”
“Oh, you know...” John shrugs. “Man gets bitten by a werewolf, man turns into one, every full moon he has to lock himself up or else he'll go on a killing spree and spread the curse.”
“Do you want to go on a killing spree right now?”
“Of course not! But, the wolf, I can feel him, you know? It's like having someone else in your head, and it's so angry, all the time. He wants to. And I can control him, except on the full moon, when he breaks free.”
“It sounds unpleasant,” Sherlock comments mildly, as if they were talking about the weather.
John barks a laugh. “Yeah, it's horrible. Haven't you ever felt it?”
“I don't feel anything. I was born this way. My full moons are nothing like you're describing.” After a pause, Sherlock says, “I can help you adjust, if you want.”
--
The werewolf with the police is named Gregory Lestrade, and when Sherlock invites him over to their flat, he comes, but with a deep reluctance that John understands wholeheartedly. Because the whole flat smells of Sherlock -- his space, his territory, and John's wolf already feels like an intruder, wanting to slink back to his room, where Sherlock never goes.
His bedroom is his, and the bathroom smells more like soap than anything else, but the sitting room smells like strangerterritorynotminenotsafecareful.
Lestrade's nose wrinkles when he walks into their flat, and his stride loses its confidence, becomes wary. “How did you find another werewolf in London?” he asks, and stays standing when Sherlock sits down on the sofa. “I thought they were rare.”
“A mutual friend introduced us,” Sherlock says. He stands with a reluctant grimace when it becomes obvious that no one else wants to sit down; he's taller than them both. “John's been a werewolf for a year and a bit -- picked it up in Afghanistan.”
Lestrade looks at him, and John can see his wolf, lurking in the back of his eyes. He's never been able to see Sherlock's. “Hi,” John says, and holds out his hand.
But instead of taking his hand, Lestrade takes another step closer, and slides his face next to John's. His nose brushes against John's ear, and it brings Lestrade close enough that when John takes a deep breath, he inhales his scent. It should feel strange, overly familiar, but the wolf in him wags its tail, pleased.
Lestrade smells like wolf, like strength, like paper and soap and polite wariness.
Next to them, Sherlock makes an exasperated noise. “Really, there's no need to be obvious about it. He says he has problems when he changes into a wolf. How were your first changes?” To John, Sherlock says, “Lestrade's been a werewolf since childhood.”
“I was attacked while I was playing in the woods, when I was a boy,” Lestrade explains. “But I don't actually remember very much about it. It's all a blur.”
“Perhaps it's like chicken pox,” Sherlock says, and before John can get out a sarcastic comment about lycanthropy being nothing like chicken pox, thanks, he continues, “The change must be harsher on you the later in life you develop it.”
“Maybe. How did it happen?” Lestrade asks him.
“Werewolves attacked the base I was at, and I was one of the survivors,” John answers. “Did you know Sherlock can't feel the wolf?”
“You can't feel the wolf?” Lestrade asks Sherlock, at the same time that Sherlock says,
“What wolf?”
“You can feel it, right? Because I don't want to be the only nutter here,” John asks, but Sherlock's the one that looks confused; Lestrade's nodding with him.
“The wolf in the back of your head,” he agrees. “It's always there, and when you change, it's more in control.”
“You can control it, can't you?” John says, and Lestrade nods.
“It took a while before I could, but when I changed, I turned into a wolf cub. I couldn't do much damage. My parents used to lock me in the bathroom with gloves on so I couldn't draw blood; it took months before I stopped attacking them, and longer before I remembered what happened when I changed.”
“I never knew that,” Sherlock says, looking aggrieved. “And for god's sake, sit down already. Must we stand in the hallway like this?”
He throws himself down on the sofa defiantly, and John's (the wolf's) gaze is drawn momentarily by the sight of Sherlock's bared throat, long and exposed. The sudden urge to bite down on it frightens him -- and from the look Sherlock gives him (bored) he knows that Sherlock knows too. Knows, but isn't afraid.
Lestrade sits on the arm of the sofa. “I never knew it was different for you,” he says.
“I didn't know there was a difference until I met John. It must be different because he was turned into one, while I have always been a werewolf.” Sherlock hesitates, then adds, “Would you like to be there when he changes?”
“Sure. Didn't have anything else planned this month,” Lestrade says, and Sherlock grins at him, sharp.
“Brilliant. Come here before moonrise. We can use 221C.”
--
The wolf doesn't like the idea -- transforming in closed quarters with two other, more-experienced wolves, and John's done enough research on wolves (normal ones, but werewolves can't be that different, can they?) since getting back to know that they'll probably end up fighting each other.
But he's expecting to have plenty of time to adjust to the idea, to ease his wolf into accepting more wolves on his territory. Which is why it comes as a complete surprise when he gets home and sees the huge black wolf, curled up on the sofa.
He jumps back with a muffled curse, and drops the shopping with a crash. The wolf lifts his head, ears perked up, and John realizes with surprise that he can read his body language as clear as day. Alertness, recognition, and a greeting, telegraphed plainly in his eyes and the half-wag of a tail.
“Sherlock?” He asks, incredulous, because the moon hasn't risen, and the full moon's not for another week yet. “Is that you?”
A snort, a slight drop of the head, and a derisive ear flick. Yes, it's obviously Sherlock, and John shouldn't have needed to ask such a dumb question. Even from this distance and with his human nose, when he inhales he can recognize Sherlock's scent, subtly different (less soap, more fur) yet still the same, and his wolf whines with envy. It wants to come out too.
John's never seen a werewolf up close and personal, aside from the one that bit him -- and all his memories of that are hot breath, a ripping pain in his shoulder, fear so thick he could choke on it, and the words Please, God. Let me live.
Sherlock hops off the sofa, and he's massive. He's the same size as he would be in human form, give or take, which makes him nearly twice as big as a normal wolf, and John knows from experience that his teeth are sharp enough to rip out a man's throat in a single leap. He could probably kill John right now, if he wanted to -- but then again, John's not sure that's actually different from when he's human.
Besides, his ears say curious, and his tail says relaxed, and his upright gait says he's not hunting, so when Sherlock finally reaches him, John picks up the shopping bag and offers Sherlock his free hand to sniff. “I got ground beef for pasta tonight, another package of biscuits, and some milk.”
Sherlock's nose is cold against his palm, and his tail wags. He follows John to the kitchen when he puts away the shopping (lowers his head and whines when John finds the severed head in the fridge and jumps back with a curse), and sits up in a classic begging position when John opens the package of biscuits. John starts to hand him one, then stops. “There's chocolate in this. I thought dogs couldn't eat chocolate.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at him -- John hadn't even known that was possible for a wolf to do. John gives him the biscuit.
“How are you -- How are you so human?” John asks, and reaches, carefully, for Sherlock's head. Sherlock's ear twitches when John's hand makes contact, and he leans into his hand. John scratches Sherlock tentatively behind the ear, and Sherlock's tail thumps, pleased, against the floor. “How did you change? The full moon's a week away.”
Sherlock shrugs.
“I suppose it's hard to talk like that, isn't it.” John hesitates at the sofa -- it's not his, it's Sherlock's, full of his scent, but his wolf doesn't seem to mind. His wolf wants him to bury his face against Sherlock and inhale, wants to be friends. John sits on the sofa, and Sherlock hops up next to him, sticking his nose against John's neck.
John yelps and bares his neck, and Sherlock licks it. “Don't; it tickles,” he laughs. “Did you change on purpose? Can you control it?”
Sherlock nods, the movement strange and foreign on his body.
His wolf whines wistfully, and John strokes Sherlock's back and says, “Can you teach me to do that? Is it always like this?”
Because it looks fun. Because he came home to see a werewolf in their flat but he wasn't afraid because it wasn't threatening him. Everything about Sherlock is screaming, this is fun, I am happy and comfortable, but the only memories John has of the full moon is dread, and fear, and pain. He'd like to not be afraid.
Sherlock nods, then opens his mouth and makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a bark and a whine. He tries again, then hops off the sofa again and trots into his bedroom. When he comes out, he's human again, dressed in pajamas and pulling a dressing robe over his shoulders.
“I was cold, so I shifted. Wolves are much better adapted to cold weather. I find it easier to sleep this way too,” he adds, “and it has been a couple days since I last slept, so I decided I ought to catch up.”
“Is that a werewolf thing too? Not sleeping for days on end?”
“Not that I know of. My mother hated it when I skipped a night, can't imagine why. It's such a waste of time. But once you can get through the change safely,” Sherlock continues, “It won't be hard to teach you how to do it at will. I learned when I was five, and it didn't take long to teach Lestrade, either. It's a matter of concentration. I'll show you once you can retain your consciousness while shifting.”
--
On the day of the full moon, John can feel the wolf clawing at the inside of his mind, eager to get free. He's been home all day -- halfheartedly checking out job leads and brushing up his CV. He knows he ought to start looking for a job soon, but his savings plus his pension will hold him a handful of months yet, and the itching right under his skin makes it hard to focus. And he doesn't dare trust himself outside, because he doesn't know how he'll react to all the people, not with the wolf so close to the surface.
As the sun starts to set, John feels increasingly nervous, because neither Sherlock nor Lestrade are at the flat (or at 221C -- he's checked, twice). But he's handled moonrise alone before, and he's fairly certain if he locks himself in he'd be safe.
Sherlock gets home with maybe twenty minutes to spare, followed by Lestrade, who is carrying a huge, wrapped package that smells like blood. John's mouth waters.
“Where've you been?” John asks, and suppresses the anxious whine at the back of his throat.
“Work,” Lestrade says, “And then we had to pick up the meat from the butcher's. I placed an order with them, so we won't be hungry while we're in the other flat.”
Sherlock takes off his coat, and disappears into his bedroom; when he returns, he's carrying a thick blanket, and has changed into pajamas. “I don't like getting fur on my other clothes,” he explains.
Taking a leaf from Sherlock's book, John brings his blanket down to 221C too, and drops it in a corner of the room. It smells familiar, and some of the wolf's nervousness fades. If either Lestrade or Sherlock are nervous, they don't show it.
Five minutes to moonrise -- John can feel it in his bones. It's like being pulled at from all directions.
Sherlock and Lestrade are disrobing, and, with some self-consciousness, John does the same. It feels strange, the way the other two men are approaching it, with deep nonchalance. 'Oh, it's about time for me to turn into a bloodthirsty beast, better buy a slab of beef and bring down some blankets I can sleep on'. He giggles nervously.
“John?” Lestrade asks, and takes a half-step towards him. John drops his gaze, fights the urge to bare his throat. There is a massive scar on Lestrade's thigh, a streaked, vaguely-round path of raised, shiny flesh. It looks a little like the one John has on his shoulder, where the werewolf that'd attacked him had removed half his shoulder and crushed the bones in one bite. “Are you okay?”
He coughs. “Just nervous. I've never changed with anyone else before.” And now I'm changing with two other wolves, and my wolf doesn't know how we're going to rank up against them. He sneaks a glance at Sherlock -- his body is unmarred, and John doesn't know if it's because he doesn't get hurt, or if it's because he does, and just heals without leaving scars. He suspects the latter.
“Yes, well, there'll be no bloodshed if Lestrade stays out of my half of the room,” Sherlock says pointedly, and Lestrade bares his teeth at him.
“You won't take half the room, and you know it.”
“I'd be too bored if I did,” Sherlock agrees, and grins.
The change hits like it always does -- like a freight train to the spine, and John struggles to hold back his pained howl as the wolf tears at him, ripping itself out of his body, bones cracking as his skeleton forces itself into a new shape.
Dimly, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock's wide eyes, fur already rippling over his back and chest, and hears him shout, “Don't fight it! You'll hurt yourself!”, the last words blending seamlessly into a canine howl.
And then, he's gone.
--
Fear. Danger. Humans. Humans have been here before, but not recently. Two other wolves, here, in this room. There's not enough space for all three of them, but the dark one smells familiar. Not danger. He and the grey one stand in the middle of the room, over the meat he can smell now. He's hungry; he doesn't remember what it feels like to be full, and he slinks closer, ears down.
Neither of the other two wants to be the one to lower his head and remove the paper, so he does it. He darts forward to rip off a piece of paper with his teeth, and it tears with a loud rip. There's blood on it, and he laps at it, though his eyes don't leave the others.
The dark one darts in, now that the meat's revealed -- flesh, animal, dead, bloody. He grabs the biggest piece in his jaws, and the grey one lunges at him, teeth bared. They clash over it, then roll away, snarling and snapping. He smells blood -- fresh blood, wolf blood. But not hate, and not fear, and fangs make contact more with air and fur than flesh.
It's over quickly; the grey one wins, but only because the dark one gets bored, rolls onto his back briefly and gets up. He ignores the meat they were fighting over and grabs the other piece, the second biggest, because there's three pieces. The grey one ignores him, and drags his prize to his corner, by the pile of cloth that smells like him.
He dares to edge closer when the grey one's away, slinks near the last piece of meat, offers a wary twitch of the ear when the dark one's eyes meet him. The other wolf's ears prick forward, and he sniffs him, and his tail wags. Friend?
He wags back, and licks his jaw, lets their noses bump. Yes.
There is plenty of meat, and no one takes it from him, no one shoves burning things in his face or in his fur, and he eats greedily, swallows it down in huge chunks as fast as he can until he's sated, then drags the rest to his corner, hides it under his blanket, smothers it with his scent so everyone will know it's his.
He naps, and wakes, and naps some more, until he's next woken up by a nose behind his ear, and a soft whuff. He shoots to his feet, bristling and snarling, but it's the dark wolf, the familiar one, who lets him in his territory. He stands, stiff-legged, in front of the remains of his meal. Mine.
The other wolf doesn't even look at it. He bows, wags his tail, pricks his ears forward. Play?
So he does, and the gray wolf joins too, and they chase and wrestle in the too-small room until the moon starts to fade and they separate, quietly, to their own familiar scents.
--
When John wakes up, he is naked and cold and apparently lying on top of a piece of raw meat that's ruined his blanket. His stomach feels bloated, overfull in a way that's less pleasant and more 'I want to vomit.' He groans.
Sherlock is already dressed, and Lestrade is nowhere in sight. “He left already,” Sherlock says. “You shouldn't overeat when you're a wolf, by the way. It translates poorly when you change back.”
John casts his memories back to the night before; everything's hazy. He usually only gets impressions, and brief flashes of memory -- fear, anger, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the sound of screaming. This time, though, is different. “I think I recognized you,” he says, and accepts Sherlock's hand to help him up. “The wolf recognized you.”
“You did see my wolf shape before,” Sherlock agrees. He shoots a look at John and nudges the chunk of beef with a bare foot. In the light of day, it doesn't look nearly as appetizing as it had before (he remembers that too, remembers being hungry and thinking it looked like the most delicious thing ever). “You should stick this in the freezer before it goes bad.”
“It's been on the floor.”
“So? You were perfectly happy eating it before.”
“Yes, when I was a werewolf.”
“You're still a werewolf. Besides, you can always cut off the dirty pieces, if you're so fastidious about these things. How much do you remember about the night before?”
“I changed. There was food. We played afterwards.”
“Any details? Lestrade says how much you remember has to do with how in control of yourself you are.”
The feeling of another muzzle against his, the taste of raw meat in his mouth, dark ears pricked forward in a show of friendship. “Only a few things. What do you think?”
Sherlock's folding his blanket, brushing off bits of fur. “About what?”
“About what he says?”
“I've no idea. My earliest memories in wolf shape are from the same time as my earliest memories in human shape. Newborn werewolves aren't one of my areas of expertise.”
“Is that what I am? A newborn werewolf?”
“If you have a better metaphor, you're welcome to it.”
They end up putting some of the leftover meat in the freezer, and the rest in the bath. When John asks, Sherlock says, “I usually eat on the days surrounding a full moon. I'll finish it tonight.”
Sherlock seems just as sharp-witted and alert as he always does, but John's tired from being up most of the night, and when Sherlock goes out, John stays in. His muscles are still sore from the transformation, and he has no idea what he's going to do when he finally gets a job, short of calling in sick every full moon, which seems a bit too obvious.
He throws his ruined blanket in the wash and curls up in front of the telly, wrapped in Sherlock's blanket. If he can't be bothered to take it to his room, he's not got any right to object to John using it, and the wolf finds it soothing. The programmes are rubbish but he leaves the telly on anyways, letting the voices lull him to sleep.
--
Lestrade stops by in the evening to check up on him. “I just wanted to see how you're doing,” he says, and hesitates in the hallway until John beckons him in.
John's been living at the flat long enough that it doesn't smell quite so foreign anymore. His armchair smells distinctly his, which pleases the wolf to no end.
“You seemed a little spooked last night.”
“Oh, well.” John shrugs, embarrassed. “I don't really remember much. But we relaxed at the end, yeah? And I think I overate too, so I feel like shite.”
Lestrade grins at him, then becomes serious. “Your wolf remembers what happened to it before you were discharged,” he says. “I'm not going to ask what that was, but it must not have been pleasant.”
“I killed three people, the first time I transformed. I didn't mean to. The Taliban had a pack of werewolves it was using to wipe out our bases, and when I survived, after they managed to knock me out, we had me, and we did to them what they did to us.” He's not proud of it -- the thought churns his stomach still, wakes him up growling and snarling in the night. But it was for the best.
Lestrade's silent for a long moment. “I'm sorry,” he says finally.
“Me too.”
“I can try to explain to you how to control the wolf,” Lestrade offers, when it becomes clear John's not going to say anything further. “Think of it as another person, living in your mind. You can't just bottle it up all month, or it's going to overdo things when it finally gets out. Like you did last night,” he adds pointedly.
“That doesn't sound like control,” John points out.
Lestrade nods. “That's because it's not. The bite gave you the wolf, and now you have to compromise with it. You can't force it down, or it'll fight you.”
“But it's dangerous. Violent.”
“It's not right now.” Lestrade moves closer, sitting on the coffee table -- it places his head lower than John's, and his wolf rumbles, pleased. Lestrade's a friend, and not challenging his dominance. “When I was a kid, I used to bargain with it -- we wouldn't hurt any of our classmates, but we'd stalk deer in the woods behind my house. Or we wouldn't growl at our parents during the full moon, and I'd bring my stuffed bear into the room with me for the next one. We're friends now,” and the smile he gives John is full of self-humor.
Making friends with his wolf. John hadn't thought it'd wanted friends, but the night before had proven him wrong. The wolf's sated now, pleased. It'd stuffed itself full last night, and now one of its playmates is back, lurking just beneath the skin of its human's companion. He's close enough to scent. John reaches a careful, mental hand towards the wolf in his mind, and feels a wary greeting in return.
He smiles.
“I can try that.”
--
Sherlock doesn't have an inner wolf because Sherlock is his inner wolf. When they're at a crime scene together, Sherlock dips his gloved fingers into the cold blood left by the victim's corpse. He sniffs it, and rubs it between his fingers, and already has his mouth open and tongue out to taste it before John digs an elbow into his ribs.
Sherlock stops. “Not good?” He asks.
“Not good,” John confirms, and looks around; no one's noticed Sherlock about to taste the victim's blood. “Normal people don't do that, you know.”
“Oh,” Sherlock says, in a voice that John's pretty sure means I don't understand at all, but I'll take your word for it for convenience's sake.
Sherlock smiles with his mouth closed to John, and to Lestrade (unless he's deliberately provoking him, which he does sometimes), but shows his teeth to Anderson and Donovan. John doesn't realize what it means until Donovan tells him Sherlock's dangerous, and John finds himself baring his teeth at her and saying, “Thanks for the warning,” when really he means, So am I.
A sneer looks an awful lot like a snarl, and a smile an awful lot like bared teeth.
If John is a human being and a wolf, who have come to share the same body, then Sherlock is something entirely different. He is some perfectly-blended mix of wolf and man, with no line in the sand where one ends and the other begins, equally at home on four legs or two.
There are things Sherlock ignores -- he lies on his back all the time, belly and throat exposed, and it drives John's wolf to distraction, but there are things he follows too. He slouches and drops his eyes when John wins an argument with him, and touches but doesn't sit in John's armchair. When he's angry he bares his teeth, and John can recognize his hunting stance even when they're human -- or as close to human as Sherlock gets, anyhow.
--
“It's not as bad as you think it was,” John says over dinner (takeaway for him, and tea for Sherlock), as they pore over the details of Sherlock's latest case.
“The suspect's alibi?” Sherlock is researching something on his phone. He doesn't look up.
“Full moons during Afghanistan. I know you and Greg think they brutalized me after I got bitten, but it wasn't like that. No one knew about me, except for the special ops group in charge of me, and except for one night a month, I was treated with just as much respect as I'd always been.”
Sherlock makes a noncommittal noise, but John knows he doesn't believe him.
“It's understandable, is all I'm saying. I turned into a dangerous beast every full moon, and they had to contain me. No one knew, aside from my handlers.”
“You were an asset and they used you.”
“I went willingly. I didn't want to put any of my unit in danger. I could have called it off at any time,” John insists, even as his wolf snarls inside him. They'd hurt it, left it half-mad with fury and terror. “They doubled my pension because of it.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock says, but what John's wolf hears is betrayal, you were theirs and they hurt you.
Part 2