Fic: Say That Again, But In English This Time (2/2)
Link to Part 1
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They were only able to treat the bullet graze on Sherlock’s foreleg while he waited for John to drain two packs of blood in the back of the ambulance. His ears were laid back against his sleek head, but other than that, Sherlock attempted a stoic front.
Usually, Sherlock would insist John be the one to treat him, but this time he acquiesced to the touch of the paramedic. He refused to get in the ambulance and be taken to the hospital, but this was as good as it got with Sherlock. He laid his massive head right next to where John was sitting, and watched from the corner of his eyes as they cleaned out his wound with saline. John touched his nose to get his attention - an attempt to distract him from the paramedics - and Sherlock started mouthing at his hand in return. It should be disturbing, having a wolf that could swallow his hand whole gnawing at his fingers. But Sherlock never broke skin when doing this, and John had the full attention of those curious eyes, as if the taste and feel of his hand was riveting.
In the quiet of his own head, John imagined that this was the wolf version of holding hands and playing with his fingers. It was an embarrassing and ridiculous thought better suited to a fourteen year old, but a little silliness in his own head wasn’t harmful to anyone. As long as no mindreaders were around, John had nothing to be embarrassed about. Absolutely. Right. Nothing at all.
They didn’t sew up the wound, because it was relatively shallow, and werewolf healing meant it would be gone the next day. Cleaning the wound was a quick job, and Sherlock soon ducked to the side of the ambulance and shifted. Naked and putting on the clothes that Lestrade - who was entirely too used to this process - held out for him, he was already explaining what had happened in a torrent of condescending words. John finished his first pack of blood as Sherlock sat back down next to him on the back of the ambulance, this time with trousers on. He was immediately set upon by the paramedics and had his wound deftly wrapped up before he could complain too much.
“So let me get this straight. A trained killer murdered Rebecca Davies because his lover was having an affair with her?” asked Lestrade, hands on his hips as he glared down at Sherlock. “This sounds more like a thriller movie plot than our case.”
John could feel Lestrade’s patience fraying after such a long day. He quickly turned to Sherlock and tried to piece it all together. “Okay, Rebecca was having sex with her neighbour, but he was in a relationship with someone else. His partner, the one who just attacked us, was the one who killed her in revenge. But how did you figure out that Rebecca had something going on with her neighbour?”
Sherlock fidgeted with the bandage around his arm the moment the paramedic stepped away, stopping only when John pulled his hand down.
He snorted in derision. “Who else could she be seeing? The carpet outside her neighbour’s flat bears imprints of a woman’s size six and a half shoes, with a square-oval shape heel one inch across in size. A perfect match to her favoured black pumps in her wardrobe, proving that she visits her neighbour’s flat frequently.”
“What if she was just a really friendly neighbour?” asked Lestrade, probably just to be stubborn.
“I wasn’t done yet,” snapped Sherlock. “Rebecca’s clothes were all sensible, boring, except she had bought new lingerie, sexier and more expensive than she would usually wear. All signs that she had someone new in her life, one she had started having sex with, based on his dirty clothes in her laundry basket. There were two strands of short, coarse hair, light-coloured, trapped under the neighbour’s door; the same type of hair on Rebecca’s bed and on the man’s clothes left behind. So of late, she regularly visited her neighbour, and his hair and clothes can be found in her flat. It could be an amazing coincidence, and she could just be really friendly. Maybe they’re just BFFs who like to plait each other’s hair in bed, and she’s so fond of him that she does his laundry.”
The sarcasm dripping from his voice clearly summed up his thoughts on that.
John tried to follow this razor-sharp reasoning, thinking back to how Sherlock had been examining the carpet in the corridors and the contents of her wardrobe while he and the police just waited with restrained patience. The EMT poured another preheated bag of blood into his empty mug, and he smiled his thanks at her.
John was still too busy drinking, so Lestrade was the one who broke into this litany of deductions. “Right. So how did you know that the murderer was a trained killer? And how did he get into her flat anyway?”
Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. “The way she was killed and the state of the flat, it was too clean, even though the murder was up-close and personal. This was revenge executed by a man who was used to cold-blooded executions. He used the skills of his day job for a personal matter, and it showed. And his point of entry was obvious enough. He used the window.”
“The window? They were on the fifth floor, and there was nothing for him to climb.”
Sherlock shot Lestrade a disparaging look. “I know it’s difficult, but use your little mind for actual reasoning, instead of just storing footie scores.”
“Sherlock,” John murmured.
“Oh, drink your blood, John,” grumbled Sherlock as he pulled on his shirt and buttoned it while he talked. “Of course he went in through the window! As your werewolf in training wheels said, there were no signs of forced entry. Even trained killers will find it hard to pick a lock and lift a chain latch from the other side of the door without leaving any signs, and then lock and latch the door again after leaving the flat. The only entrance to the flat that was unlocked was the window. People think they’re up on the fifth floor, so it’s safe to leave the window unlatched. They lock their flat and balcony door, and leave their bedroom window open, because people are idiots. All he needed was steel nerves and agility, which is practically a job requirement for him. The neighbour’s balcony was close enough to Rachel’s window that all the murderer had to do was climb onto the balcony’s concrete wall and step over to the window’s ledge. Then he slipped in through her open window. No magic or special tools required.”
John suddenly had a flash of insight. “This was how you knew that it was the neighbour’s lover taking revenge. Because his entry was through the neighbour’s flat.”
Sherlock smiled at him with pride. “Very good. That was one of the reasons that had led to my deduction. The murderer couldn’t be the neighbour, her new lover, because there was no reason why he had to come through the window when he could just knock on the door. The neighbour was also a careless man, based on how much evidence he left behind at the place of the affair, so it was unlikely that he was trained in anything to do with stealth. On the neighbour’s balcony, there was a flowering bonsai that clearly indicated the presence of a second occupant, and led me to suspect this mysterious other person.”
“How could a plant clearly indicate anything?” demanded Lestrade, throwing his hands up in the air.
Sherlock gestured just as sharply, gray eyes wide with dramatic disbelief. “How is it not obvious to you? Did you look at its shape! The water stain!”
“How about you walk us through it?” asked John, before Lestrade could strangle him.
Even though Sherlock huffed in irritation, John knew he loved showing off his deductions. “The age of the bonsai and the water stains around the pot on the balcony; obviously the plant isn’t new. A flowering bonsai, but the leaves and branches have been left to grow out of its previously pruned shape. So two people staying in the flat: One who was the real caretaker of the plant and has been away recently, while the other occupant watered the plant in this first person’s absence, but isn’t skilled enough to do much more than that.”
Sherlock’s hands moved as he spoke with relish, “But examination of the carpet in the corridor revealed only signs of Rebecca and the neighbour lingering outside that flat. So this mysterious occupant is very light-footed and prone to leaving no tracks behind. They also travel for weeks at a time considering the condition of the bonsai. All these signs and the circumstance of the murder pointed to the neighbour’s lover being a dangerous person who likely committed the crime upon coming home from a long stint away to find his lover cheating on him.”
There was a brief moment of shocked silence.
“That’s brilliant,” said John.
“It would be a lot easier if the janitor in the building did not wear such heavy cologne that it wiped out the smell of anything important in the hall outside the flats,” said Sherlock with some disgruntlement.
“But you managed anyway,” said John, unable to hold back from expressing admiration when Sherlock was wearing that little pleased smile.
Lestrade tried to bring them back on track. “So he came into the bedroom through the window, and used magic to keep her asleep.”
“She was awake,” Sherlock said, eyes remote as if imagining the scene again.
“How do you know that?” asked Lestrade, lips tightening with anger.
“I could smell faint traces of salt on her face. Tears had seeped out from the corners of her eyes as she lay there, but not enough to leave tear tracks. The position of her body was stiff, unnatural for someone who was sleeping. He had immobilised her, turned her onto her back, and probably questioned her. He likely used the same spell that he used on John when he tried to keep him from moving,” said Sherlock, voice flat.
“Christ,” Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. “He wanted her to be awake when he killed her.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t deserve that. I only met her once, at a Christmas party. She was nice. And young,” said Lestrade, rubbing his forehead. “Much too young.”
John got up and squeezed Lestrade’s shoulder. He received a tired but grateful glance in return.
“The bullet at the crime scene should match our attacker’s gun, since these professionals tend to gain an attachment to their work tools. You can get all the minor details once you find his lover. The neighbour hasn’t been back to the flat since the murder, so he must have suspected that he was being hunted. He’s probably gone into hiding with friends, people he isn’t very close to so that he can’t easily be found. But it shouldn’t be too hard for you. The man can’t be that bright if he cheated on a trained killer.”
“That was frighteningly close to a compliment,” said Lestrade. “So this trained killer of ours, will I be able to link him with other murders?”
Sherlock shrugged. “That’s not my area. Or yours.”
That reply resulted in raised eyebrows from Lestrade. “Something to do with murders that is not your area. I didn’t think I would ever hear- Wait. Damnit, not my area or yours. This is more Mycroft’s area, isn’t it?”
“You’re getting better at this,” said Sherlock, before adding with a smirk, “Marginally.”
“Well, at least the source is close to home,” said John.
“That’s not encouraging, not when it’s Mycroft. Damnit, we probably have a crazy secret agent on our hands then.” Lestrade looked like he was going to have permanent frown lines, and the lack of denial from Sherlock had Lestrade spluttering with horror.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and steered him away from the ambulance and the drained mugs of blood. “My condolences, Lestrade. Now, we should get going.”
“I don’t need to be directed on where to walk, Sherlock,” grumbled John.
“It’s faster this way.”
“It’s not, you controlling maniac.”
“You used that endearment just last week. You need to work on your creativity, John.”
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John was still limping when they got back to 221B. His thigh had been wrapped up, and the wound had probably closed a little, but injuries made by hawthorn were notoriously slow to heal. The lore didn’t always get it right, but staking by hawthorn had been one of those that were on the mark. Vampires were allergic to hawthorn, and introducing it into their body was painful and dangerous. The ambulance paramedics had cleaned out the wound as best as they could, but only more blood and time could do the rest.
John had been resting in his armchair for a few minutes when Sherlock shocked him by placing a cup of tea in his hands.
“What is wrong with you?” asked John, holding his tea in shock. “What’s in this?”
“Tea, a splash of milk, a pinch of sugar,” said Sherlock.
Just the way John liked it.
“You never make me tea.”
Sherlock flopped down on the couch. “You like to have tea after a case, but you aren’t comfortable standing for long with that injury. Don’t expect tea to be a regular occurrence from me.”
John wasn’t sure he could survive Sherlock making tea regularly. He sipped it hesitantly, and found it to be perfect. When he couldn’t detect anything strange in the tea, he drank it with relish. Ah, the warmth hit just the spot.
He lowered the cup to the table just in time to see Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” asked John in resignation, ready for some ridiculous explanation which Sherlock would make it sound perfectly reasonable.
“Removing my shirt.”
“Yes. Thank you. Why?”
Sherlock sighed. “I have an arm injury.”
John took a deep breath to stay calm. “I noticed. They bandaged you at the scene, I was there.”
“And you are in need of blood. There are no blood packs in the flat,” pointed out Sherlock.
“I did notice that too. What happened to my supplies? I bought a week’s worth just last night,” said John, trying to ignore Sherlock’s quick fingers, and the way he shrugged off his shirt in a fluid roll of his shoulders.
He had a lot of experience ignoring it when Sherlock stripped in the middle of the living room. It was either that or wear a permanent blush, which just wasn’t on for a vampire. Living with a werewolf who regularly shifted meant a lot of nudity.
“Please, try to focus on the topic at hand. You need blood to heal, and there is none. I have a convenient wound that is still bleeding, and will bleed more so once I remove this bandage,” said Sherlock with an eye roll, like John was slow and stupid for needing this to be spelled out.
John leaned back sharply. “What the hell, Sherlock? I’m not going to drink from your wound.”
“You can bite into it if it’s not bleeding enough. However, silver bullet wounds never heal very fast, so there should be an adequate amount of blood-”
“That is not why I’m objecting. I can’t just drink from you! Keep that bandage on, damnit.”
Sherlock paused while undoing the bandage. “I’m still bleeding. What’s the point of wasting blood that is only going to be soaked up by this bandage? It’s not like the bandage needs it more than you do.”
“What are- For one, don’t compare me to a bandage,” said John, face scrunched up at the absurdity of the situation. “And secondly, drinking someone else’s blood is a- It’s not that simple. Either it’s against their will and you’re likely going for the kill, or it’s- It’s intimate.”
“We live together, how much more intimate can we get,” said Sherlock in an irritated tone.
“We’re flatmates. Flatmates does not equal exchanging blood,” John struggled to explain.
Sherlock glared at him. “You don’t trust me.”
The barest hint of hurt could be heard through his tone, and seen in the way his lips tipped down, just the slightest bit.
John crossed his arms. “I trusted you with my life earlier.”
Sherlock’s hands dropped to his belt buckle, and he started undoing it. Oh no, this was much more familiar to John.
“You don’t trust me enough to drink my blood,” snapped Sherlock, shoving his trousers down along with his underpants.
He chucked them with no small amount of fury behind the couch. John was still sitting, so it was difficult to not get a look of Sherlock’s hanging cock and balls, just swinging in the open. Then Sherlock turned his back to John.
“Licking your bloody wound has nothing to do with trust!” cried out John. “Sherlock, don’t, please-”
It was too late. Sherlock’s back was rippling, and an inhuman ripple ran under his skin. John had only a second to see Sherlock’s pale, but extremely pert arse before his whole body shook and stretched. Sherlock always turned his back to John before he changed. Actually, he most often left the room to strip and change. Nudity only ever occurred in the living room if Sherlock was in a huff about something, then he would shed his clothes willy-nilly and shift wherever he was in the flat.
John sighed as he watched the pale body bulged in odd places, heard the disturbing cracks and rustles of bones growing, breaking, rejoining. Sherlock fell to all fours as fur shot out of his skin, and he started snarling at a hair-raising pitch. In seconds, the change was over, and in Sherlock’s lanky human place, there was a huge wolf that would stand a head taller than his human form. At this stage, John was used to seeing the change, enough so that none of it disturbed him anymore.
Sherlock shook his body, like a dog would after being doused in water. Then he threw himself onto the couch and curled up into a giant, pouting ball of bristling fur, fangs and claws. He pointedly held his back to John and the rest of the room. He was such a huge wolf that he barely fit on the couch even when all his limbs were tucked tightly together, his tail squashed beneath his hind legs in what must be an awkward and uncomfortable position.
It wouldn’t do to pay attention to Sherlock when he was like this, so John finished the rest of his tea and tried to read the newspaper. But his eyes were continuously drawn towards the unhappy, furry wolf sulking on the couch.
The first days after Sherlock had solved a case were usually good ones, where the flat was filled with a buoyant mood, and there were no wolves sulking or howling around the place. This wasn’t the end to the day that John had anticipated, and the disappointment sat heavily in him. He sighed and put down the paper. Getting up, he limped over to the couch, making sure to make a lot of noise for his own safety. He bent down and pulled Sherlock’s tail out from under his legs, arranging it in a more comfortable curl on the couch. Sherlock huffed and pulled his tail away, digging his snout further into the cushions. John sighed, frustrated and bewildered in equal parts.
There was almost no room on the couch, so John had to perch right on the very edge with his back pressed tightly against Sherlock’s furry one. There was no response from Sherlock at all. So, it would be like that then.
John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s back, combing the thick, coarse fur down. On better days when they were both on the same page, John would sometimes push Sherlock’s fur in the wrong direction so that it would stand up in spikes and probably feel rather uncomfortable. He would receive a startled, betrayed look from Sherlock, and a wrestling match between werewolf and vampire would commence. It usually ended with John being pinned - because there were few things John could do that didn’t result in bodily harm when trying to overpower a large wolf - and having to suffer through demeaning snuffling and wolf-breath. Sometimes, as punishment, Sherlock would take a nap on him. It wasn’t that bad a punishment, really; Sherlock was so very warm.
But there would be no roughhousing tonight, not when Sherlock was sulking.
John stroked several times along his back, before moving to the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock hated to be touched by anyone, in wolf or human form, but John seemed to be the exception. Even then, it had taken months before John got over his initial shyness and felt able to touch Sherlock in wolf form. He scratched behind those big, rounded ears, before moving to the scruff around his neck. At first, Sherlock shoved his snout into the couch, trying to hold on to his pout; but a few more hard scratches between the ears and along the side of his face, and Sherlock’s dismissive posture was soon turning into a stretch for John to scratch the more pleasurable spots. Slowly but surely, he turned his head to let John rub under his snout, body relaxing reflexively into the touch.
With more strategic patting and scratching, the tight ball of unhappiness became a stretched out and relaxed Sherlock-wolf. It didn’t work every time, but John was always quietly pleased with himself when he could coax Sherlock out of his sulks. Those pale eyes were closed in pleasure and his ears rested in a relaxed position. John was very tempted to scratch the spot just above Sherlock’s tail, that made his hind legs thump against his will and resulted in a familiar, embarrassed growl, but he didn’t want to break the tentative peace.
His wayward impulses didn’t break the quiet moment, but the knock on the front door did. He continued stroking Sherlock’s back as he listened to Mrs. Hudson opening the door and the creaking stairs signalled the presence of a visitor.
He recognised the footsteps right away. Sherlock probably did as well, but he didn’t move from his position, so John didn’t bother either.
Mycroft let himself into the flat, wearing a three piece suit and his completely artificial benign smile. “Hello, John. Giving Sherlock a rubdown, I see.”
John refused to be embarrassed. “Well observed, Mycroft.”
A wolfy huff of amusement emitted from the couch.
Mycroft sighed, sitting himself in John’s armchair instead. “My brother can be such a bad influence on you.”
“It’s a two way street,” said John with a shrug.
“I’m not sure about that,” murmured Mycroft. “Sherlock, I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.”
Sherlock remained blissfully quiet under John’s hand.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Then he raised his eyebrows and made a show of breathing in deeply.
“John, you do smell interesting today.”
Suddenly, Sherlock was moving, forcing John to move out of his way. Sherlock leapt out of the couch with a growl, shifting even as he moved. His whole body shivered, his fur sinking back into his skin as bulging muscles and elongated bones shrank and snapped back. His teeth were still bared as he shook back into his naked, human form. He didn’t look embarrassed to be standing naked before his brother, only reaching over casually to pick up the blue dressing gown draped over the back of the couch. He pulled it on with no rush and wrapped it around his lean body with a dramatic flick of his wrists before tying the robe closed. John settled back onto the couch after this display.
“I didn’t think you were coming at all since I didn’t get any response to my messages,” snapped Sherlock, settling himself onto the couch again.
“I was a little caught up with the mess in which you were only peripherally involved,” explained Mycroft.
“I caught your murderer for you,” said Sherlock, sounding a little outraged.
Mycroft shrugged. “It was your case, so you would have caught him regardless of his connections.”
“Why didn’t you set your own people on him?”
“You might not know Jacob Hall, the murderer in this case, but he is known to several important people. Hall’s handler is now in a position of power. He took some convincing that Hall had gone rogue,” sighed Mycroft. “People can be so sentimental.”
John rolled his eyes. “Which you’re not, of course.”
“Of course.”
Sherlock leaned forward, his tone contemptuous as he said, “You wanted to leave the arrest of Hall to Scotland Yard. There would be no fall out if the police worked out who the murderer was without interference. You would seem impartial, and maintain a front that you haven’t been pulling strings on this case.”
Mycroft inclined his head. “The daughter of the Commissioner killed by a rogue secret service agent, who is in turn sponsored by someone rather high up in the chain of command. If I had interfered at that point, we wouldn’t have the tidy ending that we do right now.”
“Politics.” Sherlock spat the word out like it was poison in his mouth. “We had to clean up your mess.”
“On the contrary. You chose to do the clean-up, because you rather thought you would enjoy it.”
John cut in with some confusion, “We had to face down a trained secret service agent! What was there to enjoy?”
“Ah, still so naïve. Sherlock solved the murder within moments of entering the flat. The only reason he stayed on the case was to personally catch a highly trained and deadly agent under the Government’s employ, and prove that the two of you can best such a man. My brother was showing off.” Mycroft spread his hands for dramatic emphasis.
John opened and shut his mouth soundlessly, before turning to glare at Sherlock.
“Oh, don’t be tedious, John. You enjoyed it as much as I did. It had your heart racing, and your adrenaline going,” said Sherlock with a flippant wave of his hand. “And you can’t be displeased that now you know Her Majesty’s best secret agents are no match for the two of us working together.”
Ignoring the ego-stroking, John addressed the important point, “It would have still been nice if you had shared your knowledge that we were going after a dangerous and trained MI5 agent!”
“I knew we were more than his match. Regardless, we have caught the killer, and he’s safely behind bars now,” said Sherlock quickly.
Mycroft sighed. “I do prefer if you refrained from confronting the government’s unstable agents head-on, but I suppose this is the most acceptable outcome we could have hoped for.”
He stood up and straightening his dove gray suit.
“I’ll see myself out, John. You need to rest your leg.”
John settled back onto the arm of the couch, relieved that he could keep off his feet.
At the door, Mycroft looked over his shoulder. “After all, you’re going to need all the rest you can get, given Sherlock’s fledgling claim on you.”
An ominous growl erupted from Sherlock’s chest, sounding unnatural coming from a human body. But Mycroft was already out the door and walking down the stairs at a sedate, yet somehow smug pace.
John didn’t have time to think too much about Mycroft’s departure, because he was too busy staring at Sherlock.
“What-”
“That fat bastard ruins everything,” snarled Sherlock, drawing his feet up onto the couch and tucking his knees under his chin.
He kept his gaze fixed on the recently vacated armchair, refusing to look in John’s direction.
“Sherlock, what does he mean by claiming?” asked John, voice on the edge.
“Oh, stop playing the fool. Do I really have to explain everything to you?” Sherlock sneered.
Tired of this deflection, John slid onto the couch and poked Sherlock in the arm. “That would be more convincing if you could look at me. What are you up to now? Is this another childish way to make sure I’m always helping out with your cases? Or- Or is this-”
In a sudden move, Sherlock twisted around and grabbed John by the shoulders before shoving hard. He had John pinned flat on the couch in less than a second. Of course, John had his hand around Sherlock’s neck in instinctive reaction to the sudden aggressive movement. Sherlock ignored the potential choking, and instead, leaned closer.
“Or what? What do you think this could possibly be about?” snarled Sherlock. “Surely even you can’t be so ignorant that you didn’t notice that you have been accepting my food, wearing my scent, letting me handle you in front of all those people. Are you going to pretend you don’t know you have my attention, that you don’t see what I’m trying to- to start between us?”
His gray eyes were cold and furious, but with him pressed so close, John could also sense something he rarely ever felt from Sherlock - fear.
“I never knew,” John whispered, honestly taken aback. “You were- You were taking my food and hiding my scarf and gloves so that I would accept your things. That’s insane, Sherlock. That’s not how it’s done!”
His voice was half-wonderment, half-incredulity. Of course nothing could be done normally at 221B, not if it could be accomplished through subterfuge and dramatics.
Sherlock’s face contorted in anger at his words, body tensing as he drew back. But John slipped his hand from Sherlock’s neck to his shoulder instead, holding him in place. He knew he really shouldn’t do this, because encouraging Sherlock’s bad behaviour and stroking his ridiculous, werewolf tendencies could only be a bad thing, but John wanted to. John had poor impulse control too.
He leaned up and nudged at Sherlock’s chin with his nose, nuzzling at his cheek. Then he kissed Sherlock, soft and open.
Sherlock made a sharp sound before kissing John back with great fervour. Sherlock’s hands curled around his cheeks, holding him still at the best angles for a deep, explorative kiss. He could hear Sherlock humming with pleasure as he sucked obsessively on John’s lower lip, as if enamoured with that piece of flesh.
When they parted a bare few inches, John stared up at him with heavy eyes. “You could have just said something.”
Sherlock ignored him. “This isn’t just sex, you have to know that. A claiming for a wolf is much more serious. We don’t share very well. We don’t go away.”
“As if as you haven’t been a ridiculous, possessive pillock from day one,” was all John said.
That seemed to be good enough for Sherlock, because he fell into a frenzy that seemed to involve getting as close to John as humanly possible. He kissed him hard and deep, before literally ripping their clothes off. Sherlock’s hardly suffered any damage since his robe was easily removed, but John’s sweater would never be the same again. Hands roamed along all the bared skin as they grappled playfully for leverage. Sherlock started shifting them higher up the couch, being especially pushy with where he wanted John to be. This was no different to their everyday activities, so John let him.
Sherlock mouthed at his nipples, sucked bruising kisses along his neck, palming John’s hard, leaking cock possessively.
“Mine,” murmured Sherlock, as he came back up to kiss John on the mouth again, like he couldn’t help it.
John arched his back, gasping, “No, my cock is definitely still mine.”
Sherlock smirked, stroking along John’s traitorous erection. “It seems happy enough belonging to me.”
“Shut up and jerk me off,” ordered John, hoping the desperation wasn’t coming through in his voice.
“While I fuck you,” rumbled Sherlock. “I’ll do that while I fuck you.”
“Okay, fuck, yes, hurry up,” said John even as he pushed up into Sherlock’s clever hand.
The smell of blood finally penetrated his lust-addled senses, and he realised that without the bandages, Sherlock’s upper arm injury was still seeping a little blood as it healed. John stretched up and kissed around it, before closing his mouth over the slowly knitting wound and sucking. The blood that coated his tongue was delicious, tasted of virile wolf and pounding energy, smoky and different as Sherlock should be.
“Yessss,” Sherlock hissed.
John pulled back, running his tongue over his lips. “You wanted to share your blood. To cement your claim.”
Sherlock frowned. “And you refused.”
“You need to use your words when it comes to the important stuff, you wanker,” said John. “Now, I thought you were going to fuck me?”
Everything moved very fast after that. Sherlock was quick when motivated and was off the couch at top speed. He came back from his room with the lube while John was still lying flat on his back, trying to catch his breath.
John’s head was spinning with how quickly they were moving, how deftly Sherlock opened him up, licking into his mouth as a distraction. His pleasure-soaked senses were clamouring for more, more, more, and he spread his legs with hardly a thought, pushing back against Sherlock’s cock as it began to sink in.
Sweating and grasping at the broad shoulders before him, John arched his back helplessly into the slick, relentless sensation of Sherlock sliding into him. John moaned as he shuddered around this deep penetration, causing Sherlock to shiver and gasp in response. They kissed messily as their hips started to move in a desperate rhythm.
“Sherlock, Sherlock, harder,” John said, almost mindlessly, jerking every time Sherlock moved just right, touching off a spark of pleasure up his spine.
Sherlock held his hips tighter, pounding into him. Then he shifted his grip so that he could pull on John’s arousal as well, fulfilling his earlier promise. John felt impossibly hard, impossibly filled, and squeezed his legs around Sherlock’s waist as he gasped out in soundless, meaningless moans.
Then he was coming, his pleasure cresting and his body seizing as his cock jerked with his orgasm. Sherlock fucked him through his climax, rubbing against the tip of his wet cock and spreading his come everywhere.
John twitched and moaned as Sherlock kept thrusting into him, moving even faster now, causing a sensation overload in John’s sensitive body. Sherlock was curling low over his body, staring straight into John’s eyes while gasping and baring his teeth, fucking into John relentlessly until his own body jerked, hips stuttering. He came inside John, body moving in harsh thrusts as he bent down for an intense kiss. Then Sherlock moved his head so that his neck was closer to John’s mouth.
“Bite me. You have to bite me, now,” said Sherlock.
John had no idea what Sherlock thought vampiric sex and claiming involved, but they could have that talk later. Right now, John was itching to taste Sherlock again. His second set of canines descended. They were longer and thinner than his human set, and sank so sweetly into Sherlock’s bared flesh. He sliced into the smooth skin, stopping before he could go too deep. When he withdrew his fangs and sealed his mouth around the puncture wounds, Sherlock groaned in pleasure, shuddering in his arms.
He could taste more of the strong, delicious blood now, could swirl Sherlock’s essence in his mouth and take it into his body. It made him moan as well, made him want to fuck again and to hold on and never let go. The blood was ecstasy in his mouth, and he pulled away with a shaky gasp. He licked the puncture wounds gently, helping to keep them clean. It would take a day or so before they healed over completely, and the thought of seeing them there again made his slow beating heart skip with excitement.
Running his hands over Sherlock’s sweaty back, John sighed blissfully and squeezed his arms around Sherlock.
And his whole body clenched when he realised that Sherlock hadn’t softened through his orgasm. In fact, Sherlock was as hard as ever.
John opened his eyes and pushed Sherlock back a little. “Are you still-”
“The full moon isn’t far off,” Sherlock said in a deep rumble. “I want to make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
John stared up into Sherlock’s unusual eyes, entranced by the thin silver rims around dark, dilated pupils
“Oh fuck,” gasped John as Sherlock renewed his thrusts.
He could feel his body responding - he thanked his vampiric constitution - but before he could get hard again, Sherlock pulled out and started stroking himself furiously. John was captivated by the obscene work of art before him, drinking in the sight of Sherlock’s strong shoulders, flexing forearms and hard muscles as Sherlock pulled at his own cock. He ran his hands up those tensed thighs, moving his own legs down so that he could touch the still hard erection Sherlock was sporting, hands grazing against Sherlock’s tightening fingers.
Sherlock gasped, arched, and came all over John.
He milked his orgasm with jerking hands, and moaned as he rubbed against John’s half-hard cock. Long dark lashes parted to show a sliver of intense gray eyes that roamed over John’s debauched and frankly, dirty body. It seemed to please Sherlock, because he smiled, a wide and sincerely happy smile that was beyond rare. He ran his hands over his own come, rubbing it into John’s skin, over his hardening cock and tensed stomach. Then he tipped forward and stretched over John, who was still shivering from his own intense orgasm.
“You’re a possessive bastard,” said John, returning Sherlock’s affectionate nuzzling.
Sherlock was too busy pressing kisses to John’s neck and face to respond; almost rumbling with pleasure. Grinning stupidly at the ceiling, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and squeezed him back tightly.
“You’re more like a cat right now,” said John while tracing idle circles on Sherlock’s smooth skin.
“Don’t be insulting,” murmured Sherlock before licking into his mouth. His hips were starting to move in a more distinctive and rhythmic manner, causing John’s slow-burning arousal to pay a lot more attention.
John pushed up closer, and asked in astonishment, “Are you really hard again?”
“Full moon,” was all Sherlock said as he kissed John into compliance.
Oh boy. John had better stock up on blood the next time the full moon came around.
# # # # # # # # # #
Epilogue
“No. I’m serious, I draw the line at this,” said John, keeping his arms crossed.
“Just this night, for this first change,” said Sherlock as he stepped closer and started herding John towards the wall. “I’ll be distracted otherwise, thinking about the others. I won’t be held responsible for what I do.”
“What happened to how you’re in control and don’t need a babysitter?” asked John.
Sherlock sighed, as if John was being stubborn just to irritate him. “I’m not asking you to be my babysitter. I am in control; and I’ll be in control as I attack every werewolf and Unseen out there who so much as looks at you, if you go out without obvious claims.” He tried a different sort of reasoning. “All werewolves who claim non-werewolves do this. Don’t be illogical about this, John.”
Oh God, he was bringing up logic. There was little hope of winning this debate now.
John glared at him. “You’re not making up these rules just to get me to do what you want, are you?”
“Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
But John was already conceding, turning around and slipping his arms into the coat Sherlock was holding up. He started doing up the buttons as he turned around, ignoring how Sherlock needlessly smoothed down the collar.
Sherlock’s coat, that long, flapping, dramatic garment, looked ridiculous on John’s shorter frame. He wasn’t that much shorter than Sherlock, but those few inches definitely ensured that he looked like a hobo who had picked out a random jacket; it fell past his knees and had sleeves that hid his hands. It didn’t fit too badly around his torso, but this still wasn’t a good look. While the coat looked posh on Sherlock, it looked like an oversized raincoat on John.
“This is so stupid,” said John.
Sherlock was too busy preening in glee at the sight of John wearing something that was covered in his scent to respond. As if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against John’s. He pressed close enough to pin John to the wall, pressing them together from shoulders to knees, and held him in a suffocating embrace for a minute. While he was there, he leaned down and licked John’s cheek before breathing in at the vulnerable junction between his neck and shoulder.
“You smell like me,” he said in a rumble of pleasure.
“I thought that was the point,” said John. “Will you move off me, you handsy dog?”
“No.” Sherlock started chewing on his earlobe instead.
“We promised Mycroft that we would turn up tonight; if we don’t get there in the next fifteen minutes, we’re going to have a troop of men in black invading our flat,” pointed out John.
Sherlock sighed and pulled away. “This is so tedious.”
He grumbled as he stripped out of his clothes. Within a few minutes, John was sharing space with a huge wolf instead. He rolled up his sleeves and reached down to scratch behind Sherlock’s big ears. Sherlock tilted his head up to him, gray eyes heavy with pleasure.
Sherlock padded behind him silently as they made their way down the stairs.
“Hello, boys!” said Mrs. Hudson from her open doorway. “Going out for a run?”
Sherlock huffed even as he nosed forward to sniff her. She scolded, “I know it was obvious, Sherlock. No need for cheek from you, I was just being polite. Now, don’t make too much noise when you get back in please.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow morning, so we shouldn’t be any bother. But we’ll be quiet if we’re in early, Mrs. Hudson,” said John as he opened the front door.
“You’re a dear as always, John. I’ll watch over the place while you’re out. Have fun!” she said, smiling as she waved them off. With Mrs. Hudson’s hob magic in place, there was no doubt that the place would be near impenetrable to outside threats.
John and Sherlock headed out onto the streets and ducked into the first alley they came across. They climbed the fire-escape stairs with ease and stood there for a moment as they contemplated London from the top of a three storey building. Sherlock nudged him in the knee.
John looked down at Sherlock with a grin. “Come on. Let’s run,”
They set off across the rooftops under the glow of the full moon.
# # # # # # # # # #
It was close to midnight when they reached Mycroft’s extravagant compound, and the full moon had been visible in the sky for hours. Contrary to popular belief, werewolves didn’t have to shift during the full moon, but they did feel better for it. Sherlock was one of the few who seemed unaffected while staying in human form during this time of the month; John suspected he was just better at pretending than most.
The gates automatically opened for them, biometric senses long ago keyed in to allow their entry during the full moon. Though this was the first time Sherlock was using his access to his brother’s space.
The moment they were on Mycroft’s grounds, a long, calling howl went up in the air, swiftly echoed by two others. Sherlock ran towards them, and John kept at his heels. He watched as Sherlock leapt on a larger, howling wolf, and a tussle immediately broke out between them.
“Urgh, stupid macho posturing,” grumbled John.
While Sherlock was black and sleek, the other wolf was a dark gray and bulkier in size. John wasn’t too familiar with Mycroft’s wolf form, but he could recognise him from short glimpses in the past when Mycroft had come to stalk Sherlock at 221B during full moons. Sherlock and Mycroft wrestled in a manner that would have seemed very violent to most humans, all bared teeth and harsh bites to flanks, but they didn’t dig their teeth in; it was mostly a show of strength. Sherlock was no longer really part of Mycroft’s pack, despite Mycroft’s attempts to bring him back to the fold, so they rarely met in wolf form without some aggression.
Another smaller, silver wolf growled at them, pushing his nose occasionally into the fray only to leap back away from a batting paw. Lestrade’s wolf form was more familiar to John. He had seen him as a wolf often enough, nosing around a crime scene when there were no humans around. Despite the advantages of having a werewolf on the team, humans tended to get antsy when an oversized wolf romped about in the city during the daytime.
He spotted Anthea lying on her side, a sleek gray wolf who watched the play-fighting with alert, pricked-up ears. He didn’t go near her; in human form, she was neutral towards him, but in her wolf form, she was aggressive to most other Unseens.
Lestrade loped over and sniffed at John curiously. In a blink of the eye, Sherlock flew over, snarling with true ferocity.
“Sherlock!” chastised John.
Mycroft was by Lestrade’s side as well, both of them with bared teeth and aggression displayed by their proudly held heads and tails; but Sherlock had already quieted down at John’s reprimand, snapped out of his possessive state. He growled but lowered his body, calming down when John shoved him lightly in the side.
John said, “The whole point of seeing the pack was to introduce them to our, um, new relationship. How is that going to happen if you don’t let them come near me?”
Sherlock sat down by John’s side and leaned against him, not reacting now when Lestrade came forward again and sniffed them both. John sat down on the ground and let Mycroft and Lestrade sniff him over. He made a face at the cold wet noses in his ears and face, trying not to feel claustrophobic while surrounded by their large, hulking forms. Perhaps Sherlock was attuned to his feelings, because he started herding them away after a minute of this.
They didn’t go far, stopping a few steps away so that Mycroft could sniff and lick Lestrade’s face instead. Sherlock flopped down a little way from John and behaved as if he was above these wolf-like antics, choosing to ignore his play-fighting with Mycroft earlier.
John knew that given time, a couple more wolves would join them at Mycroft’s compound. It was an area that Mycroft had bought and used for the full moon gathering of his pack. There was the occasional pup that Mycroft took into the pack, and a few distant Holmes cousins would join in as well if they were in the country. When they were all here, or when Mycroft was tired of waiting, they would take to the streets of London, running free as they laid claim to their territory.
In a moment, John would go over and let himself be tumbled to the ground by an overenthusiastic Sherlock. Lestrade and Mycroft would probably nose in, only to be pushed away since Sherlock was still possessive at the moment. They would wrestle, pretend-bite, and John would probably have to take Sherlock’s expensive jacket to the dry-cleaner’s tomorrow to get rid of the grass stains and wolf fur. When the other wolves arrived, they would all run as a pack, with John keeping up easily by Sherlock’s side in his great, silly coat.
For now, John just watched the pack mingle and play, smiling as Sherlock watched him in return with contented gray eyes.
THE END
# # # # # # # # #
End notes:
1. Mrs. Hudson is a hob. Hobs look after households, and are sometimes summoned to look after the health of children. She sees Sherlock as a child at times, so his health is in good hands. That would be where the similarities between the original mythological hob and the ones in my story end!
2. The title is in reference to Sherlock’s incomprehensible expression of interest, as well as his incomprehensible leaps of logic during deductions. Alright, I was desperate. I forgot that the fic didn’t have a title until right this moment of posting. Aaaaahhhh.
3. The ten different types of milk found in John’s cupboard: Skimmed, semi-skimmed, 1% fat, full fat, organic, Jersey and Guernsey, soy milk, skimmed soy milk, oat milk, rice milk. I have no idea if Jersey and Guernsey are supposed to be one or two types of milk. My britpicker has protested that Sherlock would drink fresh milk with tea, and I agree he would prefer it that way, but in terms of grocery shopping, he probably went into the nearest store and just bought up an entire shelf of milk. That’s my excuse anyway.
4. So…anyone has requests/prompts for this ‘verse? I find myself quite liking it.
# # # # # # # # # #
They were only able to treat the bullet graze on Sherlock’s foreleg while he waited for John to drain two packs of blood in the back of the ambulance. His ears were laid back against his sleek head, but other than that, Sherlock attempted a stoic front.
Usually, Sherlock would insist John be the one to treat him, but this time he acquiesced to the touch of the paramedic. He refused to get in the ambulance and be taken to the hospital, but this was as good as it got with Sherlock. He laid his massive head right next to where John was sitting, and watched from the corner of his eyes as they cleaned out his wound with saline. John touched his nose to get his attention - an attempt to distract him from the paramedics - and Sherlock started mouthing at his hand in return. It should be disturbing, having a wolf that could swallow his hand whole gnawing at his fingers. But Sherlock never broke skin when doing this, and John had the full attention of those curious eyes, as if the taste and feel of his hand was riveting.
In the quiet of his own head, John imagined that this was the wolf version of holding hands and playing with his fingers. It was an embarrassing and ridiculous thought better suited to a fourteen year old, but a little silliness in his own head wasn’t harmful to anyone. As long as no mindreaders were around, John had nothing to be embarrassed about. Absolutely. Right. Nothing at all.
They didn’t sew up the wound, because it was relatively shallow, and werewolf healing meant it would be gone the next day. Cleaning the wound was a quick job, and Sherlock soon ducked to the side of the ambulance and shifted. Naked and putting on the clothes that Lestrade - who was entirely too used to this process - held out for him, he was already explaining what had happened in a torrent of condescending words. John finished his first pack of blood as Sherlock sat back down next to him on the back of the ambulance, this time with trousers on. He was immediately set upon by the paramedics and had his wound deftly wrapped up before he could complain too much.
“So let me get this straight. A trained killer murdered Rebecca Davies because his lover was having an affair with her?” asked Lestrade, hands on his hips as he glared down at Sherlock. “This sounds more like a thriller movie plot than our case.”
John could feel Lestrade’s patience fraying after such a long day. He quickly turned to Sherlock and tried to piece it all together. “Okay, Rebecca was having sex with her neighbour, but he was in a relationship with someone else. His partner, the one who just attacked us, was the one who killed her in revenge. But how did you figure out that Rebecca had something going on with her neighbour?”
Sherlock fidgeted with the bandage around his arm the moment the paramedic stepped away, stopping only when John pulled his hand down.
He snorted in derision. “Who else could she be seeing? The carpet outside her neighbour’s flat bears imprints of a woman’s size six and a half shoes, with a square-oval shape heel one inch across in size. A perfect match to her favoured black pumps in her wardrobe, proving that she visits her neighbour’s flat frequently.”
“What if she was just a really friendly neighbour?” asked Lestrade, probably just to be stubborn.
“I wasn’t done yet,” snapped Sherlock. “Rebecca’s clothes were all sensible, boring, except she had bought new lingerie, sexier and more expensive than she would usually wear. All signs that she had someone new in her life, one she had started having sex with, based on his dirty clothes in her laundry basket. There were two strands of short, coarse hair, light-coloured, trapped under the neighbour’s door; the same type of hair on Rebecca’s bed and on the man’s clothes left behind. So of late, she regularly visited her neighbour, and his hair and clothes can be found in her flat. It could be an amazing coincidence, and she could just be really friendly. Maybe they’re just BFFs who like to plait each other’s hair in bed, and she’s so fond of him that she does his laundry.”
The sarcasm dripping from his voice clearly summed up his thoughts on that.
John tried to follow this razor-sharp reasoning, thinking back to how Sherlock had been examining the carpet in the corridors and the contents of her wardrobe while he and the police just waited with restrained patience. The EMT poured another preheated bag of blood into his empty mug, and he smiled his thanks at her.
John was still too busy drinking, so Lestrade was the one who broke into this litany of deductions. “Right. So how did you know that the murderer was a trained killer? And how did he get into her flat anyway?”
Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. “The way she was killed and the state of the flat, it was too clean, even though the murder was up-close and personal. This was revenge executed by a man who was used to cold-blooded executions. He used the skills of his day job for a personal matter, and it showed. And his point of entry was obvious enough. He used the window.”
“The window? They were on the fifth floor, and there was nothing for him to climb.”
Sherlock shot Lestrade a disparaging look. “I know it’s difficult, but use your little mind for actual reasoning, instead of just storing footie scores.”
“Sherlock,” John murmured.
“Oh, drink your blood, John,” grumbled Sherlock as he pulled on his shirt and buttoned it while he talked. “Of course he went in through the window! As your werewolf in training wheels said, there were no signs of forced entry. Even trained killers will find it hard to pick a lock and lift a chain latch from the other side of the door without leaving any signs, and then lock and latch the door again after leaving the flat. The only entrance to the flat that was unlocked was the window. People think they’re up on the fifth floor, so it’s safe to leave the window unlatched. They lock their flat and balcony door, and leave their bedroom window open, because people are idiots. All he needed was steel nerves and agility, which is practically a job requirement for him. The neighbour’s balcony was close enough to Rachel’s window that all the murderer had to do was climb onto the balcony’s concrete wall and step over to the window’s ledge. Then he slipped in through her open window. No magic or special tools required.”
John suddenly had a flash of insight. “This was how you knew that it was the neighbour’s lover taking revenge. Because his entry was through the neighbour’s flat.”
Sherlock smiled at him with pride. “Very good. That was one of the reasons that had led to my deduction. The murderer couldn’t be the neighbour, her new lover, because there was no reason why he had to come through the window when he could just knock on the door. The neighbour was also a careless man, based on how much evidence he left behind at the place of the affair, so it was unlikely that he was trained in anything to do with stealth. On the neighbour’s balcony, there was a flowering bonsai that clearly indicated the presence of a second occupant, and led me to suspect this mysterious other person.”
“How could a plant clearly indicate anything?” demanded Lestrade, throwing his hands up in the air.
Sherlock gestured just as sharply, gray eyes wide with dramatic disbelief. “How is it not obvious to you? Did you look at its shape! The water stain!”
“How about you walk us through it?” asked John, before Lestrade could strangle him.
Even though Sherlock huffed in irritation, John knew he loved showing off his deductions. “The age of the bonsai and the water stains around the pot on the balcony; obviously the plant isn’t new. A flowering bonsai, but the leaves and branches have been left to grow out of its previously pruned shape. So two people staying in the flat: One who was the real caretaker of the plant and has been away recently, while the other occupant watered the plant in this first person’s absence, but isn’t skilled enough to do much more than that.”
Sherlock’s hands moved as he spoke with relish, “But examination of the carpet in the corridor revealed only signs of Rebecca and the neighbour lingering outside that flat. So this mysterious occupant is very light-footed and prone to leaving no tracks behind. They also travel for weeks at a time considering the condition of the bonsai. All these signs and the circumstance of the murder pointed to the neighbour’s lover being a dangerous person who likely committed the crime upon coming home from a long stint away to find his lover cheating on him.”
There was a brief moment of shocked silence.
“That’s brilliant,” said John.
“It would be a lot easier if the janitor in the building did not wear such heavy cologne that it wiped out the smell of anything important in the hall outside the flats,” said Sherlock with some disgruntlement.
“But you managed anyway,” said John, unable to hold back from expressing admiration when Sherlock was wearing that little pleased smile.
Lestrade tried to bring them back on track. “So he came into the bedroom through the window, and used magic to keep her asleep.”
“She was awake,” Sherlock said, eyes remote as if imagining the scene again.
“How do you know that?” asked Lestrade, lips tightening with anger.
“I could smell faint traces of salt on her face. Tears had seeped out from the corners of her eyes as she lay there, but not enough to leave tear tracks. The position of her body was stiff, unnatural for someone who was sleeping. He had immobilised her, turned her onto her back, and probably questioned her. He likely used the same spell that he used on John when he tried to keep him from moving,” said Sherlock, voice flat.
“Christ,” Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. “He wanted her to be awake when he killed her.”
“Yes.”
“She didn’t deserve that. I only met her once, at a Christmas party. She was nice. And young,” said Lestrade, rubbing his forehead. “Much too young.”
John got up and squeezed Lestrade’s shoulder. He received a tired but grateful glance in return.
“The bullet at the crime scene should match our attacker’s gun, since these professionals tend to gain an attachment to their work tools. You can get all the minor details once you find his lover. The neighbour hasn’t been back to the flat since the murder, so he must have suspected that he was being hunted. He’s probably gone into hiding with friends, people he isn’t very close to so that he can’t easily be found. But it shouldn’t be too hard for you. The man can’t be that bright if he cheated on a trained killer.”
“That was frighteningly close to a compliment,” said Lestrade. “So this trained killer of ours, will I be able to link him with other murders?”
Sherlock shrugged. “That’s not my area. Or yours.”
That reply resulted in raised eyebrows from Lestrade. “Something to do with murders that is not your area. I didn’t think I would ever hear- Wait. Damnit, not my area or yours. This is more Mycroft’s area, isn’t it?”
“You’re getting better at this,” said Sherlock, before adding with a smirk, “Marginally.”
“Well, at least the source is close to home,” said John.
“That’s not encouraging, not when it’s Mycroft. Damnit, we probably have a crazy secret agent on our hands then.” Lestrade looked like he was going to have permanent frown lines, and the lack of denial from Sherlock had Lestrade spluttering with horror.
Sherlock put his hands on John’s shoulders and steered him away from the ambulance and the drained mugs of blood. “My condolences, Lestrade. Now, we should get going.”
“I don’t need to be directed on where to walk, Sherlock,” grumbled John.
“It’s faster this way.”
“It’s not, you controlling maniac.”
“You used that endearment just last week. You need to work on your creativity, John.”
# # # # # # # # # #
John was still limping when they got back to 221B. His thigh had been wrapped up, and the wound had probably closed a little, but injuries made by hawthorn were notoriously slow to heal. The lore didn’t always get it right, but staking by hawthorn had been one of those that were on the mark. Vampires were allergic to hawthorn, and introducing it into their body was painful and dangerous. The ambulance paramedics had cleaned out the wound as best as they could, but only more blood and time could do the rest.
John had been resting in his armchair for a few minutes when Sherlock shocked him by placing a cup of tea in his hands.
“What is wrong with you?” asked John, holding his tea in shock. “What’s in this?”
“Tea, a splash of milk, a pinch of sugar,” said Sherlock.
Just the way John liked it.
“You never make me tea.”
Sherlock flopped down on the couch. “You like to have tea after a case, but you aren’t comfortable standing for long with that injury. Don’t expect tea to be a regular occurrence from me.”
John wasn’t sure he could survive Sherlock making tea regularly. He sipped it hesitantly, and found it to be perfect. When he couldn’t detect anything strange in the tea, he drank it with relish. Ah, the warmth hit just the spot.
He lowered the cup to the table just in time to see Sherlock unbuttoning his shirt.
“What are you doing?” asked John in resignation, ready for some ridiculous explanation which Sherlock would make it sound perfectly reasonable.
“Removing my shirt.”
“Yes. Thank you. Why?”
Sherlock sighed. “I have an arm injury.”
John took a deep breath to stay calm. “I noticed. They bandaged you at the scene, I was there.”
“And you are in need of blood. There are no blood packs in the flat,” pointed out Sherlock.
“I did notice that too. What happened to my supplies? I bought a week’s worth just last night,” said John, trying to ignore Sherlock’s quick fingers, and the way he shrugged off his shirt in a fluid roll of his shoulders.
He had a lot of experience ignoring it when Sherlock stripped in the middle of the living room. It was either that or wear a permanent blush, which just wasn’t on for a vampire. Living with a werewolf who regularly shifted meant a lot of nudity.
“Please, try to focus on the topic at hand. You need blood to heal, and there is none. I have a convenient wound that is still bleeding, and will bleed more so once I remove this bandage,” said Sherlock with an eye roll, like John was slow and stupid for needing this to be spelled out.
John leaned back sharply. “What the hell, Sherlock? I’m not going to drink from your wound.”
“You can bite into it if it’s not bleeding enough. However, silver bullet wounds never heal very fast, so there should be an adequate amount of blood-”
“That is not why I’m objecting. I can’t just drink from you! Keep that bandage on, damnit.”
Sherlock paused while undoing the bandage. “I’m still bleeding. What’s the point of wasting blood that is only going to be soaked up by this bandage? It’s not like the bandage needs it more than you do.”
“What are- For one, don’t compare me to a bandage,” said John, face scrunched up at the absurdity of the situation. “And secondly, drinking someone else’s blood is a- It’s not that simple. Either it’s against their will and you’re likely going for the kill, or it’s- It’s intimate.”
“We live together, how much more intimate can we get,” said Sherlock in an irritated tone.
“We’re flatmates. Flatmates does not equal exchanging blood,” John struggled to explain.
Sherlock glared at him. “You don’t trust me.”
The barest hint of hurt could be heard through his tone, and seen in the way his lips tipped down, just the slightest bit.
John crossed his arms. “I trusted you with my life earlier.”
Sherlock’s hands dropped to his belt buckle, and he started undoing it. Oh no, this was much more familiar to John.
“You don’t trust me enough to drink my blood,” snapped Sherlock, shoving his trousers down along with his underpants.
He chucked them with no small amount of fury behind the couch. John was still sitting, so it was difficult to not get a look of Sherlock’s hanging cock and balls, just swinging in the open. Then Sherlock turned his back to John.
“Licking your bloody wound has nothing to do with trust!” cried out John. “Sherlock, don’t, please-”
It was too late. Sherlock’s back was rippling, and an inhuman ripple ran under his skin. John had only a second to see Sherlock’s pale, but extremely pert arse before his whole body shook and stretched. Sherlock always turned his back to John before he changed. Actually, he most often left the room to strip and change. Nudity only ever occurred in the living room if Sherlock was in a huff about something, then he would shed his clothes willy-nilly and shift wherever he was in the flat.
John sighed as he watched the pale body bulged in odd places, heard the disturbing cracks and rustles of bones growing, breaking, rejoining. Sherlock fell to all fours as fur shot out of his skin, and he started snarling at a hair-raising pitch. In seconds, the change was over, and in Sherlock’s lanky human place, there was a huge wolf that would stand a head taller than his human form. At this stage, John was used to seeing the change, enough so that none of it disturbed him anymore.
Sherlock shook his body, like a dog would after being doused in water. Then he threw himself onto the couch and curled up into a giant, pouting ball of bristling fur, fangs and claws. He pointedly held his back to John and the rest of the room. He was such a huge wolf that he barely fit on the couch even when all his limbs were tucked tightly together, his tail squashed beneath his hind legs in what must be an awkward and uncomfortable position.
It wouldn’t do to pay attention to Sherlock when he was like this, so John finished the rest of his tea and tried to read the newspaper. But his eyes were continuously drawn towards the unhappy, furry wolf sulking on the couch.
The first days after Sherlock had solved a case were usually good ones, where the flat was filled with a buoyant mood, and there were no wolves sulking or howling around the place. This wasn’t the end to the day that John had anticipated, and the disappointment sat heavily in him. He sighed and put down the paper. Getting up, he limped over to the couch, making sure to make a lot of noise for his own safety. He bent down and pulled Sherlock’s tail out from under his legs, arranging it in a more comfortable curl on the couch. Sherlock huffed and pulled his tail away, digging his snout further into the cushions. John sighed, frustrated and bewildered in equal parts.
There was almost no room on the couch, so John had to perch right on the very edge with his back pressed tightly against Sherlock’s furry one. There was no response from Sherlock at all. So, it would be like that then.
John ran his fingers over Sherlock’s back, combing the thick, coarse fur down. On better days when they were both on the same page, John would sometimes push Sherlock’s fur in the wrong direction so that it would stand up in spikes and probably feel rather uncomfortable. He would receive a startled, betrayed look from Sherlock, and a wrestling match between werewolf and vampire would commence. It usually ended with John being pinned - because there were few things John could do that didn’t result in bodily harm when trying to overpower a large wolf - and having to suffer through demeaning snuffling and wolf-breath. Sometimes, as punishment, Sherlock would take a nap on him. It wasn’t that bad a punishment, really; Sherlock was so very warm.
But there would be no roughhousing tonight, not when Sherlock was sulking.
John stroked several times along his back, before moving to the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock hated to be touched by anyone, in wolf or human form, but John seemed to be the exception. Even then, it had taken months before John got over his initial shyness and felt able to touch Sherlock in wolf form. He scratched behind those big, rounded ears, before moving to the scruff around his neck. At first, Sherlock shoved his snout into the couch, trying to hold on to his pout; but a few more hard scratches between the ears and along the side of his face, and Sherlock’s dismissive posture was soon turning into a stretch for John to scratch the more pleasurable spots. Slowly but surely, he turned his head to let John rub under his snout, body relaxing reflexively into the touch.
With more strategic patting and scratching, the tight ball of unhappiness became a stretched out and relaxed Sherlock-wolf. It didn’t work every time, but John was always quietly pleased with himself when he could coax Sherlock out of his sulks. Those pale eyes were closed in pleasure and his ears rested in a relaxed position. John was very tempted to scratch the spot just above Sherlock’s tail, that made his hind legs thump against his will and resulted in a familiar, embarrassed growl, but he didn’t want to break the tentative peace.
His wayward impulses didn’t break the quiet moment, but the knock on the front door did. He continued stroking Sherlock’s back as he listened to Mrs. Hudson opening the door and the creaking stairs signalled the presence of a visitor.
He recognised the footsteps right away. Sherlock probably did as well, but he didn’t move from his position, so John didn’t bother either.
Mycroft let himself into the flat, wearing a three piece suit and his completely artificial benign smile. “Hello, John. Giving Sherlock a rubdown, I see.”
John refused to be embarrassed. “Well observed, Mycroft.”
A wolfy huff of amusement emitted from the couch.
Mycroft sighed, sitting himself in John’s armchair instead. “My brother can be such a bad influence on you.”
“It’s a two way street,” said John with a shrug.
“I’m not sure about that,” murmured Mycroft. “Sherlock, I thought you were the one who wanted to talk.”
Sherlock remained blissfully quiet under John’s hand.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Then he raised his eyebrows and made a show of breathing in deeply.
“John, you do smell interesting today.”
Suddenly, Sherlock was moving, forcing John to move out of his way. Sherlock leapt out of the couch with a growl, shifting even as he moved. His whole body shivered, his fur sinking back into his skin as bulging muscles and elongated bones shrank and snapped back. His teeth were still bared as he shook back into his naked, human form. He didn’t look embarrassed to be standing naked before his brother, only reaching over casually to pick up the blue dressing gown draped over the back of the couch. He pulled it on with no rush and wrapped it around his lean body with a dramatic flick of his wrists before tying the robe closed. John settled back onto the couch after this display.
“I didn’t think you were coming at all since I didn’t get any response to my messages,” snapped Sherlock, settling himself onto the couch again.
“I was a little caught up with the mess in which you were only peripherally involved,” explained Mycroft.
“I caught your murderer for you,” said Sherlock, sounding a little outraged.
Mycroft shrugged. “It was your case, so you would have caught him regardless of his connections.”
“Why didn’t you set your own people on him?”
“You might not know Jacob Hall, the murderer in this case, but he is known to several important people. Hall’s handler is now in a position of power. He took some convincing that Hall had gone rogue,” sighed Mycroft. “People can be so sentimental.”
John rolled his eyes. “Which you’re not, of course.”
“Of course.”
Sherlock leaned forward, his tone contemptuous as he said, “You wanted to leave the arrest of Hall to Scotland Yard. There would be no fall out if the police worked out who the murderer was without interference. You would seem impartial, and maintain a front that you haven’t been pulling strings on this case.”
Mycroft inclined his head. “The daughter of the Commissioner killed by a rogue secret service agent, who is in turn sponsored by someone rather high up in the chain of command. If I had interfered at that point, we wouldn’t have the tidy ending that we do right now.”
“Politics.” Sherlock spat the word out like it was poison in his mouth. “We had to clean up your mess.”
“On the contrary. You chose to do the clean-up, because you rather thought you would enjoy it.”
John cut in with some confusion, “We had to face down a trained secret service agent! What was there to enjoy?”
“Ah, still so naïve. Sherlock solved the murder within moments of entering the flat. The only reason he stayed on the case was to personally catch a highly trained and deadly agent under the Government’s employ, and prove that the two of you can best such a man. My brother was showing off.” Mycroft spread his hands for dramatic emphasis.
John opened and shut his mouth soundlessly, before turning to glare at Sherlock.
“Oh, don’t be tedious, John. You enjoyed it as much as I did. It had your heart racing, and your adrenaline going,” said Sherlock with a flippant wave of his hand. “And you can’t be displeased that now you know Her Majesty’s best secret agents are no match for the two of us working together.”
Ignoring the ego-stroking, John addressed the important point, “It would have still been nice if you had shared your knowledge that we were going after a dangerous and trained MI5 agent!”
“I knew we were more than his match. Regardless, we have caught the killer, and he’s safely behind bars now,” said Sherlock quickly.
Mycroft sighed. “I do prefer if you refrained from confronting the government’s unstable agents head-on, but I suppose this is the most acceptable outcome we could have hoped for.”
He stood up and straightening his dove gray suit.
“I’ll see myself out, John. You need to rest your leg.”
John settled back onto the arm of the couch, relieved that he could keep off his feet.
At the door, Mycroft looked over his shoulder. “After all, you’re going to need all the rest you can get, given Sherlock’s fledgling claim on you.”
An ominous growl erupted from Sherlock’s chest, sounding unnatural coming from a human body. But Mycroft was already out the door and walking down the stairs at a sedate, yet somehow smug pace.
John didn’t have time to think too much about Mycroft’s departure, because he was too busy staring at Sherlock.
“What-”
“That fat bastard ruins everything,” snarled Sherlock, drawing his feet up onto the couch and tucking his knees under his chin.
He kept his gaze fixed on the recently vacated armchair, refusing to look in John’s direction.
“Sherlock, what does he mean by claiming?” asked John, voice on the edge.
“Oh, stop playing the fool. Do I really have to explain everything to you?” Sherlock sneered.
Tired of this deflection, John slid onto the couch and poked Sherlock in the arm. “That would be more convincing if you could look at me. What are you up to now? Is this another childish way to make sure I’m always helping out with your cases? Or- Or is this-”
In a sudden move, Sherlock twisted around and grabbed John by the shoulders before shoving hard. He had John pinned flat on the couch in less than a second. Of course, John had his hand around Sherlock’s neck in instinctive reaction to the sudden aggressive movement. Sherlock ignored the potential choking, and instead, leaned closer.
“Or what? What do you think this could possibly be about?” snarled Sherlock. “Surely even you can’t be so ignorant that you didn’t notice that you have been accepting my food, wearing my scent, letting me handle you in front of all those people. Are you going to pretend you don’t know you have my attention, that you don’t see what I’m trying to- to start between us?”
His gray eyes were cold and furious, but with him pressed so close, John could also sense something he rarely ever felt from Sherlock - fear.
“I never knew,” John whispered, honestly taken aback. “You were- You were taking my food and hiding my scarf and gloves so that I would accept your things. That’s insane, Sherlock. That’s not how it’s done!”
His voice was half-wonderment, half-incredulity. Of course nothing could be done normally at 221B, not if it could be accomplished through subterfuge and dramatics.
Sherlock’s face contorted in anger at his words, body tensing as he drew back. But John slipped his hand from Sherlock’s neck to his shoulder instead, holding him in place. He knew he really shouldn’t do this, because encouraging Sherlock’s bad behaviour and stroking his ridiculous, werewolf tendencies could only be a bad thing, but John wanted to. John had poor impulse control too.
He leaned up and nudged at Sherlock’s chin with his nose, nuzzling at his cheek. Then he kissed Sherlock, soft and open.
Sherlock made a sharp sound before kissing John back with great fervour. Sherlock’s hands curled around his cheeks, holding him still at the best angles for a deep, explorative kiss. He could hear Sherlock humming with pleasure as he sucked obsessively on John’s lower lip, as if enamoured with that piece of flesh.
When they parted a bare few inches, John stared up at him with heavy eyes. “You could have just said something.”
Sherlock ignored him. “This isn’t just sex, you have to know that. A claiming for a wolf is much more serious. We don’t share very well. We don’t go away.”
“As if as you haven’t been a ridiculous, possessive pillock from day one,” was all John said.
That seemed to be good enough for Sherlock, because he fell into a frenzy that seemed to involve getting as close to John as humanly possible. He kissed him hard and deep, before literally ripping their clothes off. Sherlock’s hardly suffered any damage since his robe was easily removed, but John’s sweater would never be the same again. Hands roamed along all the bared skin as they grappled playfully for leverage. Sherlock started shifting them higher up the couch, being especially pushy with where he wanted John to be. This was no different to their everyday activities, so John let him.
Sherlock mouthed at his nipples, sucked bruising kisses along his neck, palming John’s hard, leaking cock possessively.
“Mine,” murmured Sherlock, as he came back up to kiss John on the mouth again, like he couldn’t help it.
John arched his back, gasping, “No, my cock is definitely still mine.”
Sherlock smirked, stroking along John’s traitorous erection. “It seems happy enough belonging to me.”
“Shut up and jerk me off,” ordered John, hoping the desperation wasn’t coming through in his voice.
“While I fuck you,” rumbled Sherlock. “I’ll do that while I fuck you.”
“Okay, fuck, yes, hurry up,” said John even as he pushed up into Sherlock’s clever hand.
The smell of blood finally penetrated his lust-addled senses, and he realised that without the bandages, Sherlock’s upper arm injury was still seeping a little blood as it healed. John stretched up and kissed around it, before closing his mouth over the slowly knitting wound and sucking. The blood that coated his tongue was delicious, tasted of virile wolf and pounding energy, smoky and different as Sherlock should be.
“Yessss,” Sherlock hissed.
John pulled back, running his tongue over his lips. “You wanted to share your blood. To cement your claim.”
Sherlock frowned. “And you refused.”
“You need to use your words when it comes to the important stuff, you wanker,” said John. “Now, I thought you were going to fuck me?”
Everything moved very fast after that. Sherlock was quick when motivated and was off the couch at top speed. He came back from his room with the lube while John was still lying flat on his back, trying to catch his breath.
John’s head was spinning with how quickly they were moving, how deftly Sherlock opened him up, licking into his mouth as a distraction. His pleasure-soaked senses were clamouring for more, more, more, and he spread his legs with hardly a thought, pushing back against Sherlock’s cock as it began to sink in.
Sweating and grasping at the broad shoulders before him, John arched his back helplessly into the slick, relentless sensation of Sherlock sliding into him. John moaned as he shuddered around this deep penetration, causing Sherlock to shiver and gasp in response. They kissed messily as their hips started to move in a desperate rhythm.
“Sherlock, Sherlock, harder,” John said, almost mindlessly, jerking every time Sherlock moved just right, touching off a spark of pleasure up his spine.
Sherlock held his hips tighter, pounding into him. Then he shifted his grip so that he could pull on John’s arousal as well, fulfilling his earlier promise. John felt impossibly hard, impossibly filled, and squeezed his legs around Sherlock’s waist as he gasped out in soundless, meaningless moans.
Then he was coming, his pleasure cresting and his body seizing as his cock jerked with his orgasm. Sherlock fucked him through his climax, rubbing against the tip of his wet cock and spreading his come everywhere.
John twitched and moaned as Sherlock kept thrusting into him, moving even faster now, causing a sensation overload in John’s sensitive body. Sherlock was curling low over his body, staring straight into John’s eyes while gasping and baring his teeth, fucking into John relentlessly until his own body jerked, hips stuttering. He came inside John, body moving in harsh thrusts as he bent down for an intense kiss. Then Sherlock moved his head so that his neck was closer to John’s mouth.
“Bite me. You have to bite me, now,” said Sherlock.
John had no idea what Sherlock thought vampiric sex and claiming involved, but they could have that talk later. Right now, John was itching to taste Sherlock again. His second set of canines descended. They were longer and thinner than his human set, and sank so sweetly into Sherlock’s bared flesh. He sliced into the smooth skin, stopping before he could go too deep. When he withdrew his fangs and sealed his mouth around the puncture wounds, Sherlock groaned in pleasure, shuddering in his arms.
He could taste more of the strong, delicious blood now, could swirl Sherlock’s essence in his mouth and take it into his body. It made him moan as well, made him want to fuck again and to hold on and never let go. The blood was ecstasy in his mouth, and he pulled away with a shaky gasp. He licked the puncture wounds gently, helping to keep them clean. It would take a day or so before they healed over completely, and the thought of seeing them there again made his slow beating heart skip with excitement.
Running his hands over Sherlock’s sweaty back, John sighed blissfully and squeezed his arms around Sherlock.
And his whole body clenched when he realised that Sherlock hadn’t softened through his orgasm. In fact, Sherlock was as hard as ever.
John opened his eyes and pushed Sherlock back a little. “Are you still-”
“The full moon isn’t far off,” Sherlock said in a deep rumble. “I want to make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”
John stared up into Sherlock’s unusual eyes, entranced by the thin silver rims around dark, dilated pupils
“Oh fuck,” gasped John as Sherlock renewed his thrusts.
He could feel his body responding - he thanked his vampiric constitution - but before he could get hard again, Sherlock pulled out and started stroking himself furiously. John was captivated by the obscene work of art before him, drinking in the sight of Sherlock’s strong shoulders, flexing forearms and hard muscles as Sherlock pulled at his own cock. He ran his hands up those tensed thighs, moving his own legs down so that he could touch the still hard erection Sherlock was sporting, hands grazing against Sherlock’s tightening fingers.
Sherlock gasped, arched, and came all over John.
He milked his orgasm with jerking hands, and moaned as he rubbed against John’s half-hard cock. Long dark lashes parted to show a sliver of intense gray eyes that roamed over John’s debauched and frankly, dirty body. It seemed to please Sherlock, because he smiled, a wide and sincerely happy smile that was beyond rare. He ran his hands over his own come, rubbing it into John’s skin, over his hardening cock and tensed stomach. Then he tipped forward and stretched over John, who was still shivering from his own intense orgasm.
“You’re a possessive bastard,” said John, returning Sherlock’s affectionate nuzzling.
Sherlock was too busy pressing kisses to John’s neck and face to respond; almost rumbling with pleasure. Grinning stupidly at the ceiling, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and squeezed him back tightly.
“You’re more like a cat right now,” said John while tracing idle circles on Sherlock’s smooth skin.
“Don’t be insulting,” murmured Sherlock before licking into his mouth. His hips were starting to move in a more distinctive and rhythmic manner, causing John’s slow-burning arousal to pay a lot more attention.
John pushed up closer, and asked in astonishment, “Are you really hard again?”
“Full moon,” was all Sherlock said as he kissed John into compliance.
Oh boy. John had better stock up on blood the next time the full moon came around.
# # # # # # # # # #
Epilogue
“No. I’m serious, I draw the line at this,” said John, keeping his arms crossed.
“Just this night, for this first change,” said Sherlock as he stepped closer and started herding John towards the wall. “I’ll be distracted otherwise, thinking about the others. I won’t be held responsible for what I do.”
“What happened to how you’re in control and don’t need a babysitter?” asked John.
Sherlock sighed, as if John was being stubborn just to irritate him. “I’m not asking you to be my babysitter. I am in control; and I’ll be in control as I attack every werewolf and Unseen out there who so much as looks at you, if you go out without obvious claims.” He tried a different sort of reasoning. “All werewolves who claim non-werewolves do this. Don’t be illogical about this, John.”
Oh God, he was bringing up logic. There was little hope of winning this debate now.
John glared at him. “You’re not making up these rules just to get me to do what you want, are you?”
“Would I do that?”
“Yes.”
But John was already conceding, turning around and slipping his arms into the coat Sherlock was holding up. He started doing up the buttons as he turned around, ignoring how Sherlock needlessly smoothed down the collar.
Sherlock’s coat, that long, flapping, dramatic garment, looked ridiculous on John’s shorter frame. He wasn’t that much shorter than Sherlock, but those few inches definitely ensured that he looked like a hobo who had picked out a random jacket; it fell past his knees and had sleeves that hid his hands. It didn’t fit too badly around his torso, but this still wasn’t a good look. While the coat looked posh on Sherlock, it looked like an oversized raincoat on John.
“This is so stupid,” said John.
Sherlock was too busy preening in glee at the sight of John wearing something that was covered in his scent to respond. As if that wasn’t enough, Sherlock leaned forward and rubbed his cheek against John’s. He pressed close enough to pin John to the wall, pressing them together from shoulders to knees, and held him in a suffocating embrace for a minute. While he was there, he leaned down and licked John’s cheek before breathing in at the vulnerable junction between his neck and shoulder.
“You smell like me,” he said in a rumble of pleasure.
“I thought that was the point,” said John. “Will you move off me, you handsy dog?”
“No.” Sherlock started chewing on his earlobe instead.
“We promised Mycroft that we would turn up tonight; if we don’t get there in the next fifteen minutes, we’re going to have a troop of men in black invading our flat,” pointed out John.
Sherlock sighed and pulled away. “This is so tedious.”
He grumbled as he stripped out of his clothes. Within a few minutes, John was sharing space with a huge wolf instead. He rolled up his sleeves and reached down to scratch behind Sherlock’s big ears. Sherlock tilted his head up to him, gray eyes heavy with pleasure.
Sherlock padded behind him silently as they made their way down the stairs.
“Hello, boys!” said Mrs. Hudson from her open doorway. “Going out for a run?”
Sherlock huffed even as he nosed forward to sniff her. She scolded, “I know it was obvious, Sherlock. No need for cheek from you, I was just being polite. Now, don’t make too much noise when you get back in please.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow morning, so we shouldn’t be any bother. But we’ll be quiet if we’re in early, Mrs. Hudson,” said John as he opened the front door.
“You’re a dear as always, John. I’ll watch over the place while you’re out. Have fun!” she said, smiling as she waved them off. With Mrs. Hudson’s hob magic in place, there was no doubt that the place would be near impenetrable to outside threats.
John and Sherlock headed out onto the streets and ducked into the first alley they came across. They climbed the fire-escape stairs with ease and stood there for a moment as they contemplated London from the top of a three storey building. Sherlock nudged him in the knee.
John looked down at Sherlock with a grin. “Come on. Let’s run,”
They set off across the rooftops under the glow of the full moon.
# # # # # # # # # #
It was close to midnight when they reached Mycroft’s extravagant compound, and the full moon had been visible in the sky for hours. Contrary to popular belief, werewolves didn’t have to shift during the full moon, but they did feel better for it. Sherlock was one of the few who seemed unaffected while staying in human form during this time of the month; John suspected he was just better at pretending than most.
The gates automatically opened for them, biometric senses long ago keyed in to allow their entry during the full moon. Though this was the first time Sherlock was using his access to his brother’s space.
The moment they were on Mycroft’s grounds, a long, calling howl went up in the air, swiftly echoed by two others. Sherlock ran towards them, and John kept at his heels. He watched as Sherlock leapt on a larger, howling wolf, and a tussle immediately broke out between them.
“Urgh, stupid macho posturing,” grumbled John.
While Sherlock was black and sleek, the other wolf was a dark gray and bulkier in size. John wasn’t too familiar with Mycroft’s wolf form, but he could recognise him from short glimpses in the past when Mycroft had come to stalk Sherlock at 221B during full moons. Sherlock and Mycroft wrestled in a manner that would have seemed very violent to most humans, all bared teeth and harsh bites to flanks, but they didn’t dig their teeth in; it was mostly a show of strength. Sherlock was no longer really part of Mycroft’s pack, despite Mycroft’s attempts to bring him back to the fold, so they rarely met in wolf form without some aggression.
Another smaller, silver wolf growled at them, pushing his nose occasionally into the fray only to leap back away from a batting paw. Lestrade’s wolf form was more familiar to John. He had seen him as a wolf often enough, nosing around a crime scene when there were no humans around. Despite the advantages of having a werewolf on the team, humans tended to get antsy when an oversized wolf romped about in the city during the daytime.
He spotted Anthea lying on her side, a sleek gray wolf who watched the play-fighting with alert, pricked-up ears. He didn’t go near her; in human form, she was neutral towards him, but in her wolf form, she was aggressive to most other Unseens.
Lestrade loped over and sniffed at John curiously. In a blink of the eye, Sherlock flew over, snarling with true ferocity.
“Sherlock!” chastised John.
Mycroft was by Lestrade’s side as well, both of them with bared teeth and aggression displayed by their proudly held heads and tails; but Sherlock had already quieted down at John’s reprimand, snapped out of his possessive state. He growled but lowered his body, calming down when John shoved him lightly in the side.
John said, “The whole point of seeing the pack was to introduce them to our, um, new relationship. How is that going to happen if you don’t let them come near me?”
Sherlock sat down by John’s side and leaned against him, not reacting now when Lestrade came forward again and sniffed them both. John sat down on the ground and let Mycroft and Lestrade sniff him over. He made a face at the cold wet noses in his ears and face, trying not to feel claustrophobic while surrounded by their large, hulking forms. Perhaps Sherlock was attuned to his feelings, because he started herding them away after a minute of this.
They didn’t go far, stopping a few steps away so that Mycroft could sniff and lick Lestrade’s face instead. Sherlock flopped down a little way from John and behaved as if he was above these wolf-like antics, choosing to ignore his play-fighting with Mycroft earlier.
John knew that given time, a couple more wolves would join them at Mycroft’s compound. It was an area that Mycroft had bought and used for the full moon gathering of his pack. There was the occasional pup that Mycroft took into the pack, and a few distant Holmes cousins would join in as well if they were in the country. When they were all here, or when Mycroft was tired of waiting, they would take to the streets of London, running free as they laid claim to their territory.
In a moment, John would go over and let himself be tumbled to the ground by an overenthusiastic Sherlock. Lestrade and Mycroft would probably nose in, only to be pushed away since Sherlock was still possessive at the moment. They would wrestle, pretend-bite, and John would probably have to take Sherlock’s expensive jacket to the dry-cleaner’s tomorrow to get rid of the grass stains and wolf fur. When the other wolves arrived, they would all run as a pack, with John keeping up easily by Sherlock’s side in his great, silly coat.
For now, John just watched the pack mingle and play, smiling as Sherlock watched him in return with contented gray eyes.
THE END
# # # # # # # # #
End notes:
1. Mrs. Hudson is a hob. Hobs look after households, and are sometimes summoned to look after the health of children. She sees Sherlock as a child at times, so his health is in good hands. That would be where the similarities between the original mythological hob and the ones in my story end!
2. The title is in reference to Sherlock’s incomprehensible expression of interest, as well as his incomprehensible leaps of logic during deductions. Alright, I was desperate. I forgot that the fic didn’t have a title until right this moment of posting. Aaaaahhhh.
3. The ten different types of milk found in John’s cupboard: Skimmed, semi-skimmed, 1% fat, full fat, organic, Jersey and Guernsey, soy milk, skimmed soy milk, oat milk, rice milk. I have no idea if Jersey and Guernsey are supposed to be one or two types of milk. My britpicker has protested that Sherlock would drink fresh milk with tea, and I agree he would prefer it that way, but in terms of grocery shopping, he probably went into the nearest store and just bought up an entire shelf of milk. That’s my excuse anyway.
4. So…anyone has requests/prompts for this ‘verse? I find myself quite liking it.