Series: The Proper Care of Pets: Werewolf Edition - Part 1
The new flat that Sherlock had been able to get was cluttered, and close enough to central London that Mycroft would have thought he had somehow liked to the elderly woman who answered the door when he knocked, except she seemed so generally appreciative of Sherlock that he guessed this was one of Sherlock’s many clients who had paid him through either an interesting case or later favors, accepted or not. The steps lead up to a somewhat cluttered living space, the table in the kitchen having been taken over by lab equipment, and the bedroom having also been cluttered and not recently slept in.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Sherlock remarked with annoyance, glancing up at Mycroft from his place in his chair, the favored violin in his lap and ready to tell his mood or when it was time for Mycroft to leave. Sherlock had always been better at noticing other’s moods rather then expressing his own, and so used various tools for that.
“As usual, it’s to ensure you’re safety. I brought you something.”
“You brought me a werewolf, and I’m not interested,” Sherlock said, playing a few cords with his fingers, watching Mycroft as he looked around the room.
“You have him for a week,” Mycroft declared, earning a glare from Sherlock as he produced the small book he used for notes, “he came highly recommended, and I had to pull in a lot of favors to get him.”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, now really, Sherlock, you’re not going to tell me you’re not interested because you decided that PeTA is right.”
“No, simply that I have no time, and I saw him when you came in. He’s waiting downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, probably being fed and watered while you come up here. He’s dull, like everyone else you’ve sent as my keeper and very much like every other guard who’s followed me. Detective Inspector Lestrade is still quite annoyed at the last case, after your man shot the suspect when he attempted to attack me.”
“Which is why he’ll be happy to know you brought along a useful asset to his group as well.”
“He has dogs, and I’m sure that if Sally had the chance she’d infect me, but she’s Lestrade’s loyal pet. If I wanted one, I’d get a goldfish.”
“Your last fish died due to neglect,” Mycroft reminded him, “and this one is reliant. He’s not dull.”
Sherlock stopped attempting to pluck tunes out of the violin and looked up at Mycroft again. “You said you had to pull favors. So he’s not just dull, others think he’s worth something. He’s a mutt, last I checked. You don’t get pure-bred wolves like that in second-hand jackets or those jumpers.”
Mycroft waited as Sherlock thought then stood, putting the violin down. “He’s not just a keeper, then, he’s come highly recommended because he can also defend. Military trained, but hurt in the line of duty, so no long of use to them. Why is he of use to me?”
“At least one politician who could possibly make trouble for me, and two lords who know better, have their hand in for who gets his leash, as he’s come highly praised from the military and with some championships in his youth. He may not be pure-bred but he’s a good choice for body guard and helper.”
Sherlock tilted his head, thinking, “With something so valuable, what-ah, the wound…it’s not in his leg, but he has a limp and professional help doesn’t help.”
Mycroft waited before Sherlock shrugged, moving around the room and picking up something or another and moving it elsewhere. “He’s still dull.”
His brother sighed, dropping off a folder. “Yes, and he’s yours for a week.”
Sherlock finally just waved, Mycroft taking that as meaning he’d at least meet the werewolf, causing him to smile as he moved to the stairs, seeing the wolf at the stairs. “If you’d like?” he offered, watching him come up the rest and pass Mycroft, walking and looking around the room before his eyes fell on Sherlock, who had picked up the file and was putting it off with some others before he looked up. Mycroft had moved to the kitchen and thus didn’t see Lestrade rushing upstairs until he was nearly to the top, his feet heavy as he rushed in, causing Watson to turn. Lestrade paused long enough to look at the two before Sherlock said, “What’s different about this one?”
“You know how they never leave a note?” Lestrade said before Sherlock nodded, “This one did. Are you coming?”
“Who’s working forensics?”
“Anderson, but you don’t have to work with him.” Sherlock frowned, then looked to the werewolf before nodding. “Very well, but I must bring him along. I have him for a week, at least, might as well make the most of it.”
John had blinked at this, looking around but without much time as Lestrade had left, Sherlock managing a smile, or as much of one that he could in the presence of Mycroft, which was the only testament to how excited he was before he headed out, grabbing his coat, scarf, and gloves. “Coming?” he inquired when he got to the stairs, John following after him as fast as he could.
Sherlock at least held the taxi for both rather than leaving, and Mycroft considered that a success.
--
“Who let you have a wolf, Freak?” Sally Donovan asked, looking over the limping man with Sherlock, the large collar around his neck showing that he had a wolf form and could easily take it. He wore a ratty jumper and second-hand jacket, causing Donovan to wonder if he had not been well cared for before, and who would want to give the poor thing to someone like the Freak.
“He’s not mine,” Donovan heard, looking to the wolf and then back to the Freak. Despite what he said, he held up the tape before saying, “Coming John?”
“Um…” the wolf said, Donovan getting a good look at him. He had short, blond hair and a slightly haggard, confused face, blue eyes taking in Sherlock before crossing over, giving Donovan a smile that she felt required to return. She had never had a wolf of her own, but had grown up near a grouping of strays and they helped out with odd jobs around the house, and she had helped them how she could.
Donovan called in to Lestrade that the Freak was here, watching a few of the wolves with Scotland Yard take in the new arrival as Anderson came up, glaring at Sherlock and the wolf, John, respectively. Anderson disliked wolves for some unexplained reason, one of the many that while they were a casual fling, Sally could never marry the man.
Then Sherlock mentioned the fact that both were wearing the same deodorant. One of the wolves nearby cast her a look that said she was obviously amazed Sherlock could tell the scent, then moved away when Anderson noticed and glared at her, Sally stopping him from advancing as instead he returned to see about making the Freak look like an idiot.
He never succeeded, really, but it was something he thought he could do. Sally had stopped, waiting instead for Sherlock to mess up and to show the world that he was finally the psychopath he was.
She watched as the wolves sniffed around, some in wolf-form and one whining, having found a trace but not sure what it was. The few that had been in with Lestrade and herself during the investigation said that the areas were half-deserted and a scent should have been found, but instead there were too many that all they could tell for sure was that whoever else had been there had too many people coming with them, or no scent.
Which was hard to obtain, if at all, as everyone had a scent and instead, there was none, or the non-scent was there because too many were layered on top of the original one, which was also probable. Sally knew that it was frustrating Lestrade to no end, but without any extra information from the bodies, he couldn’t call in the Freak or any other specialist and most simply called the deaths ‘suicides’.
Within a few minutes, Sherlock ran out, passing Sally without a word and muttering to himself about ‘pink’, John appearing and starting to move to her, but instead going to the wolves instead. It was rude, she knew, for wolves to really talk to a Human without their permission, but she had grown up around a few and never really had taken to that form of training everyone else had.
“He’s gone,” she told him, explaining he’d left and that he was dangerous.
“I know,” John said, “but…” he sighed. “How do I get to the main road from-“ he stopped as a car pulled up, sleek black and making him all but bristle in anger. “Never mind. Thank you…for the advise.”
Sally was quite sure he wouldn’t take it, and watched him limp over to a taller man, the two talking and she staying near the wolves, watching but inching forward. Whoever this odd man was, he had somehow pissed this wolf off and she didn’t want to have to hurt him. He seemed nice.
“With respect,” John growled out, “piss off.”
At that, he walked away, Sally blinking as she watched him, the man also then looking back at her, his face the type she wouldn’t trust, possibly a career politician or something similar. His eyes, cool and the same odd coloring as Sherlock’s, gazed over her then back to the limping wolf.
“John Watson, get in the car,” he said, his voice seeming conversational but the order obvious, causing even Sally to flinch as she watched John turn back, looking him over before walking over, getting into the car, the man following before the dark door closed and the black car drove away.
--
The whole of the case was memorable because Sherlock had lost John only once, and Mycroft had returned him with a glare before departing, John looking annoyed at the treatment. Sherlock had not read up on the wolf, but he’d been able to smell certain chemicals that he couldn’t have known about unless he’d read the papers, and considering he had looked confused at the talk about the ‘serial suicides’, that was out. This meant his training in the military had been possibly as a bomb division wolf…dull.
That didn’t work, and while it would be nice to figure him out, the case was much more interesting then Mycroft’s next attempt to get him to be protected. Honestly, it was just so silly.
He managed to leave the dog again, or thought he had, on the way to Angelo’s but he appeared there, rubbing his leg as Angelo came up, glancing at the dog and then at Sherlock before Sherlock shook his head, stating everything was fine before saying, “If you’re not able to keep up, I don’t see why you stay.”
“Maybe because your brother threatened to put a silver muzzle on me if I didn’t keep you safe,” John pointed out, looking through the menu as Sherlock waited for the killer. “He also said I could easily go to a workhouse on the docks.”
“So?”
John was silent before asking, “Why are we here?”
“I’m waiting for a killer. You’re here because my brother told you to watch over me.”
John frowned at that. “No, I’m not.” Angelo came by, taking the order and getting a water for Sherlock before leaving again, John sighing as he added, “I told your brother to piss off, anyway.”
Sherlock looked at him, blinking and staring to the point where most others were uncomfortable, eyes darting over the werewolf and finally taking him in. He was a mutt, possibly a wolf-dog rather than adding Human tendencies, or perhaps that too considering that, without the collar, most would mistake him for a pure Human or one without a wolf form. He was telling the truth, as well. The threat of the workhouse on the docks that had been the bane of the RSPCA and PeTA and other werewolf-rights groups, as well as the threat of being muzzled or even touched by anything silver had not prompted him to coming after Sherlock. It had not even been a thought in following his scent here, despite his bad leg that seemed to not be as bad as it could be after tracking someone down. No, he’d come here because, without Sherlock knowing it, he’d gotten himself a werewolf.
Sherlock turned back, ignoring John in the hopes he’d go away. Sherlock didn’t want a werewolf. Werewolves had been found out and used as slaves for centuries, bred and treated no better than dogs and hated in some societies. Many groups argued about the treatment, but the general end of it had been treatment as good as dogs, protection from the SPCA and other groups, and money allowed, as well as all stores and places of business having some sort of way to cater to werewolves. They were still slaves, but they were more servants than used in such horrible ways of the past.
Of course, there were the extremes. There were those who thought of wolves as just animals, and who regularly used them for fights or hard labor. There were those who thought of them as the same as humans, and who demanded equal rights. Both had their radicals and Sherlock had never wanted to be caught up in the mess because all of it was dull. Dull and far too normal and irrational for him to want to deal with, unless they committed an interesting crime and he was called in to solve it. Having a werewolf meant he was biased. Having a wolf meant he would have to care for it, and ensure he had money to do it. More importantly, having a wolf meant he would have something following him, something stopping him from learning everything he could because it wasn’t proper for someone to act this way, yet another thing to judge him.
--
John Watson, as a wolf, was larger than his small, compact self, his fur a light color with gray and white, making him look like a cross between a gray wolf and one found in Eurasia. He was able to keep up with Sherlock as soon as they started to run, shifting easily between human and wolf as they ran, his clothing being shred while his shoes were lost somewhere in one of the back alleys as they went after the taxi.
His form was kept as they got to the cab, Sherlock opening the door as Watson started in but stopped, sniffing the suitcase and sneezing twice, Sherlock seeing that the man couldn’t have been the murderer and apologizing, walking off with John following him, the limp gone and making him smile down a little at the wolf, who stayed close to him, the two hurrying off upon seeing the police nearby. Sherlock knew that he couldn’t lose John in his wolf form, so instead headed back to 221b. It had only been a day, and he had the wolf for a week. He’d be able to lose it soon, he was sure.
--
Sherlock was not sure how John got to the building so quickly, only that he had almost found out that he was right when the doors behind the man opened, causing him to turn only to be tackled by John in wolf-form, teeth sinking into his shoulder as the cabbie let out a scream. Sherlock dropped the pill, surprised by the attack before the man attempted to raise the fake gun.
The movement was a fast one, the weight shifting and a foot going down to a spot that only a medically-trained wolf would know to use, the man letting out another cry of pain before Sherlock moved back around to face him, snarling at him as much as the wolf was through the hold on his shoulder, blood starting to pool on the floor. “Who is it? Who’s my fan?”
At the man’s non-answer, John once more shifted, causing the cabbie more pain before he screamed out the name. Satisfied, Sherlock touched John’s shoulder, getting him to let the man loose. His muzzle was coated with blood, and he slowly licked some of it off, following Sherlock to a bathroom nearby as the police began to come. “Well, change back.”
John did, turning so he wasn’t facing forward but instead to the side. Sherlock tilted his head a little, seeing the wound on his shoulder. The silver had left a crater, a sort of splintered thing that had some discoloring, enough to show the area where the silver had affected the most, one going upward towards his neck. Besides that, he was in good shape, and Sherlock could see how he was able to gain his value as a companion.
Sherlock sighed, taking off his coat and handing it to John. “Here…until we get back, at least.” John took it, wrapping the larger coat around himself and looking back to Sherlock.
“You need to stop being…however you are.” Sherlock finally said, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck, then finally asking, “Why? Why did you follow me?”
“I like you,” John said, shrugging as they walked outside, Sherlock looking at him with surprise as they did, speechless as they reached Lestrade. One of the wolves in his unit brought up some clothing, the basics, which John smiled and thanked him for before going to put on shoes, a pair of pants, and a shirt, blinking at the sight of a jumper from home causing him to blink, the wolf shrugging a little before leaving. Sherlock gave his statement, looking around for a moment before John returned, the two leaving together.
Sherlock tried to figure out what it was that made him want to keep John. He shouldn’t keep John, though, because that would be trouble, the sort that he didn’t want to have right now.
Part 2
“To what do I owe this visit?” Sherlock remarked with annoyance, glancing up at Mycroft from his place in his chair, the favored violin in his lap and ready to tell his mood or when it was time for Mycroft to leave. Sherlock had always been better at noticing other’s moods rather then expressing his own, and so used various tools for that.
“As usual, it’s to ensure you’re safety. I brought you something.”
“You brought me a werewolf, and I’m not interested,” Sherlock said, playing a few cords with his fingers, watching Mycroft as he looked around the room.
“You have him for a week,” Mycroft declared, earning a glare from Sherlock as he produced the small book he used for notes, “he came highly recommended, and I had to pull in a lot of favors to get him.”
“I don’t care.”
“Oh, now really, Sherlock, you’re not going to tell me you’re not interested because you decided that PeTA is right.”
“No, simply that I have no time, and I saw him when you came in. He’s waiting downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, probably being fed and watered while you come up here. He’s dull, like everyone else you’ve sent as my keeper and very much like every other guard who’s followed me. Detective Inspector Lestrade is still quite annoyed at the last case, after your man shot the suspect when he attempted to attack me.”
“Which is why he’ll be happy to know you brought along a useful asset to his group as well.”
“He has dogs, and I’m sure that if Sally had the chance she’d infect me, but she’s Lestrade’s loyal pet. If I wanted one, I’d get a goldfish.”
“Your last fish died due to neglect,” Mycroft reminded him, “and this one is reliant. He’s not dull.”
Sherlock stopped attempting to pluck tunes out of the violin and looked up at Mycroft again. “You said you had to pull favors. So he’s not just dull, others think he’s worth something. He’s a mutt, last I checked. You don’t get pure-bred wolves like that in second-hand jackets or those jumpers.”
Mycroft waited as Sherlock thought then stood, putting the violin down. “He’s not just a keeper, then, he’s come highly recommended because he can also defend. Military trained, but hurt in the line of duty, so no long of use to them. Why is he of use to me?”
“At least one politician who could possibly make trouble for me, and two lords who know better, have their hand in for who gets his leash, as he’s come highly praised from the military and with some championships in his youth. He may not be pure-bred but he’s a good choice for body guard and helper.”
Sherlock tilted his head, thinking, “With something so valuable, what-ah, the wound…it’s not in his leg, but he has a limp and professional help doesn’t help.”
Mycroft waited before Sherlock shrugged, moving around the room and picking up something or another and moving it elsewhere. “He’s still dull.”
His brother sighed, dropping off a folder. “Yes, and he’s yours for a week.”
Sherlock finally just waved, Mycroft taking that as meaning he’d at least meet the werewolf, causing him to smile as he moved to the stairs, seeing the wolf at the stairs. “If you’d like?” he offered, watching him come up the rest and pass Mycroft, walking and looking around the room before his eyes fell on Sherlock, who had picked up the file and was putting it off with some others before he looked up. Mycroft had moved to the kitchen and thus didn’t see Lestrade rushing upstairs until he was nearly to the top, his feet heavy as he rushed in, causing Watson to turn. Lestrade paused long enough to look at the two before Sherlock said, “What’s different about this one?”
“You know how they never leave a note?” Lestrade said before Sherlock nodded, “This one did. Are you coming?”
“Who’s working forensics?”
“Anderson, but you don’t have to work with him.” Sherlock frowned, then looked to the werewolf before nodding. “Very well, but I must bring him along. I have him for a week, at least, might as well make the most of it.”
John had blinked at this, looking around but without much time as Lestrade had left, Sherlock managing a smile, or as much of one that he could in the presence of Mycroft, which was the only testament to how excited he was before he headed out, grabbing his coat, scarf, and gloves. “Coming?” he inquired when he got to the stairs, John following after him as fast as he could.
Sherlock at least held the taxi for both rather than leaving, and Mycroft considered that a success.
--
“Who let you have a wolf, Freak?” Sally Donovan asked, looking over the limping man with Sherlock, the large collar around his neck showing that he had a wolf form and could easily take it. He wore a ratty jumper and second-hand jacket, causing Donovan to wonder if he had not been well cared for before, and who would want to give the poor thing to someone like the Freak.
“He’s not mine,” Donovan heard, looking to the wolf and then back to the Freak. Despite what he said, he held up the tape before saying, “Coming John?”
“Um…” the wolf said, Donovan getting a good look at him. He had short, blond hair and a slightly haggard, confused face, blue eyes taking in Sherlock before crossing over, giving Donovan a smile that she felt required to return. She had never had a wolf of her own, but had grown up near a grouping of strays and they helped out with odd jobs around the house, and she had helped them how she could.
Donovan called in to Lestrade that the Freak was here, watching a few of the wolves with Scotland Yard take in the new arrival as Anderson came up, glaring at Sherlock and the wolf, John, respectively. Anderson disliked wolves for some unexplained reason, one of the many that while they were a casual fling, Sally could never marry the man.
Then Sherlock mentioned the fact that both were wearing the same deodorant. One of the wolves nearby cast her a look that said she was obviously amazed Sherlock could tell the scent, then moved away when Anderson noticed and glared at her, Sally stopping him from advancing as instead he returned to see about making the Freak look like an idiot.
He never succeeded, really, but it was something he thought he could do. Sally had stopped, waiting instead for Sherlock to mess up and to show the world that he was finally the psychopath he was.
She watched as the wolves sniffed around, some in wolf-form and one whining, having found a trace but not sure what it was. The few that had been in with Lestrade and herself during the investigation said that the areas were half-deserted and a scent should have been found, but instead there were too many that all they could tell for sure was that whoever else had been there had too many people coming with them, or no scent.
Which was hard to obtain, if at all, as everyone had a scent and instead, there was none, or the non-scent was there because too many were layered on top of the original one, which was also probable. Sally knew that it was frustrating Lestrade to no end, but without any extra information from the bodies, he couldn’t call in the Freak or any other specialist and most simply called the deaths ‘suicides’.
Within a few minutes, Sherlock ran out, passing Sally without a word and muttering to himself about ‘pink’, John appearing and starting to move to her, but instead going to the wolves instead. It was rude, she knew, for wolves to really talk to a Human without their permission, but she had grown up around a few and never really had taken to that form of training everyone else had.
“He’s gone,” she told him, explaining he’d left and that he was dangerous.
“I know,” John said, “but…” he sighed. “How do I get to the main road from-“ he stopped as a car pulled up, sleek black and making him all but bristle in anger. “Never mind. Thank you…for the advise.”
Sally was quite sure he wouldn’t take it, and watched him limp over to a taller man, the two talking and she staying near the wolves, watching but inching forward. Whoever this odd man was, he had somehow pissed this wolf off and she didn’t want to have to hurt him. He seemed nice.
“With respect,” John growled out, “piss off.”
At that, he walked away, Sally blinking as she watched him, the man also then looking back at her, his face the type she wouldn’t trust, possibly a career politician or something similar. His eyes, cool and the same odd coloring as Sherlock’s, gazed over her then back to the limping wolf.
“John Watson, get in the car,” he said, his voice seeming conversational but the order obvious, causing even Sally to flinch as she watched John turn back, looking him over before walking over, getting into the car, the man following before the dark door closed and the black car drove away.
--
The whole of the case was memorable because Sherlock had lost John only once, and Mycroft had returned him with a glare before departing, John looking annoyed at the treatment. Sherlock had not read up on the wolf, but he’d been able to smell certain chemicals that he couldn’t have known about unless he’d read the papers, and considering he had looked confused at the talk about the ‘serial suicides’, that was out. This meant his training in the military had been possibly as a bomb division wolf…dull.
That didn’t work, and while it would be nice to figure him out, the case was much more interesting then Mycroft’s next attempt to get him to be protected. Honestly, it was just so silly.
He managed to leave the dog again, or thought he had, on the way to Angelo’s but he appeared there, rubbing his leg as Angelo came up, glancing at the dog and then at Sherlock before Sherlock shook his head, stating everything was fine before saying, “If you’re not able to keep up, I don’t see why you stay.”
“Maybe because your brother threatened to put a silver muzzle on me if I didn’t keep you safe,” John pointed out, looking through the menu as Sherlock waited for the killer. “He also said I could easily go to a workhouse on the docks.”
“So?”
John was silent before asking, “Why are we here?”
“I’m waiting for a killer. You’re here because my brother told you to watch over me.”
John frowned at that. “No, I’m not.” Angelo came by, taking the order and getting a water for Sherlock before leaving again, John sighing as he added, “I told your brother to piss off, anyway.”
Sherlock looked at him, blinking and staring to the point where most others were uncomfortable, eyes darting over the werewolf and finally taking him in. He was a mutt, possibly a wolf-dog rather than adding Human tendencies, or perhaps that too considering that, without the collar, most would mistake him for a pure Human or one without a wolf form. He was telling the truth, as well. The threat of the workhouse on the docks that had been the bane of the RSPCA and PeTA and other werewolf-rights groups, as well as the threat of being muzzled or even touched by anything silver had not prompted him to coming after Sherlock. It had not even been a thought in following his scent here, despite his bad leg that seemed to not be as bad as it could be after tracking someone down. No, he’d come here because, without Sherlock knowing it, he’d gotten himself a werewolf.
Sherlock turned back, ignoring John in the hopes he’d go away. Sherlock didn’t want a werewolf. Werewolves had been found out and used as slaves for centuries, bred and treated no better than dogs and hated in some societies. Many groups argued about the treatment, but the general end of it had been treatment as good as dogs, protection from the SPCA and other groups, and money allowed, as well as all stores and places of business having some sort of way to cater to werewolves. They were still slaves, but they were more servants than used in such horrible ways of the past.
Of course, there were the extremes. There were those who thought of wolves as just animals, and who regularly used them for fights or hard labor. There were those who thought of them as the same as humans, and who demanded equal rights. Both had their radicals and Sherlock had never wanted to be caught up in the mess because all of it was dull. Dull and far too normal and irrational for him to want to deal with, unless they committed an interesting crime and he was called in to solve it. Having a werewolf meant he was biased. Having a wolf meant he would have to care for it, and ensure he had money to do it. More importantly, having a wolf meant he would have something following him, something stopping him from learning everything he could because it wasn’t proper for someone to act this way, yet another thing to judge him.
--
John Watson, as a wolf, was larger than his small, compact self, his fur a light color with gray and white, making him look like a cross between a gray wolf and one found in Eurasia. He was able to keep up with Sherlock as soon as they started to run, shifting easily between human and wolf as they ran, his clothing being shred while his shoes were lost somewhere in one of the back alleys as they went after the taxi.
His form was kept as they got to the cab, Sherlock opening the door as Watson started in but stopped, sniffing the suitcase and sneezing twice, Sherlock seeing that the man couldn’t have been the murderer and apologizing, walking off with John following him, the limp gone and making him smile down a little at the wolf, who stayed close to him, the two hurrying off upon seeing the police nearby. Sherlock knew that he couldn’t lose John in his wolf form, so instead headed back to 221b. It had only been a day, and he had the wolf for a week. He’d be able to lose it soon, he was sure.
--
Sherlock was not sure how John got to the building so quickly, only that he had almost found out that he was right when the doors behind the man opened, causing him to turn only to be tackled by John in wolf-form, teeth sinking into his shoulder as the cabbie let out a scream. Sherlock dropped the pill, surprised by the attack before the man attempted to raise the fake gun.
The movement was a fast one, the weight shifting and a foot going down to a spot that only a medically-trained wolf would know to use, the man letting out another cry of pain before Sherlock moved back around to face him, snarling at him as much as the wolf was through the hold on his shoulder, blood starting to pool on the floor. “Who is it? Who’s my fan?”
At the man’s non-answer, John once more shifted, causing the cabbie more pain before he screamed out the name. Satisfied, Sherlock touched John’s shoulder, getting him to let the man loose. His muzzle was coated with blood, and he slowly licked some of it off, following Sherlock to a bathroom nearby as the police began to come. “Well, change back.”
John did, turning so he wasn’t facing forward but instead to the side. Sherlock tilted his head a little, seeing the wound on his shoulder. The silver had left a crater, a sort of splintered thing that had some discoloring, enough to show the area where the silver had affected the most, one going upward towards his neck. Besides that, he was in good shape, and Sherlock could see how he was able to gain his value as a companion.
Sherlock sighed, taking off his coat and handing it to John. “Here…until we get back, at least.” John took it, wrapping the larger coat around himself and looking back to Sherlock.
“You need to stop being…however you are.” Sherlock finally said, sighing and rubbing the back of his neck, then finally asking, “Why? Why did you follow me?”
“I like you,” John said, shrugging as they walked outside, Sherlock looking at him with surprise as they did, speechless as they reached Lestrade. One of the wolves in his unit brought up some clothing, the basics, which John smiled and thanked him for before going to put on shoes, a pair of pants, and a shirt, blinking at the sight of a jumper from home causing him to blink, the wolf shrugging a little before leaving. Sherlock gave his statement, looking around for a moment before John returned, the two leaving together.
Sherlock tried to figure out what it was that made him want to keep John. He shouldn’t keep John, though, because that would be trouble, the sort that he didn’t want to have right now.
Part 2