Fic: Wolfskin
Title: Wolfskin
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Total Word Count: 4,629
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John's a wolf in human clothing. Literally.
Notes: Written for sherlockfest. Sadly, this was the only prompt out of that real life let me fill on time. Hopefully I'll get the others up over the next few weeks.
When John goes to Afghanistan, some part of him acknowledges that he will never be the same again. There will be gunfire, and screaming, and men bleeding out under his hands. There will be bombs and traps that send his fellow soldiers flying through the air in a million ragged pieces.
He will handle a gun, and he will take more lives than he saves.
Even should he survive to make it back to England, those were the sorts of things that left a man changed. Scarred. Broken. He’d seen veterans down the local pub, talking quietly amongst themselves and flinching every time the football fans knocked a table over in their enthusiasm, their eyes growing dark and distant as they lost themselves in bad memories. John knows full that that could very easily be him in a few years but goes anyway, anxious to help the troops already out there and get a little taste of action himself.
He prepares himself, steels his nerves for what is to come. He makes a list of all possible outcomes and writes action plans for each one, congratulating himself on covering all the bases and ensuring that whatever happens he will be ready.
He thinks he’s planned for everything: he’s wrong.
His first few days as a Combat Medical Technician go smoothly; the enemy is lying low and there are no attacks in John’s area, allowing him time to settle in and get to know his fellow troop members better. There are a few he takes an instant dislike to - glorified bullies who’d blatantly signed up just to get their hands on the weaponry - but on the whole they seem to be a decent bunch, and John finds himself almost looking forward to the months ahead.
Then, combat; his first foray into battle as the enemy erupts out of silence. Running, running, always running. Running to retrieve the wounded, running back to the infirmary, running to grab bandages, and thread, and anything else needed to stop his fellow soldiers’ blood from making a bid for freedom. One attacker manages to breach the post’s defences and make it inside the medical tent; John just shoots him in the head and carries on extracting a bullet from his patient.
It’s not until it is all over, and the dust has settled, that John realises what he’s done. He stares blankly at the crumpled body, avoiding looking at the mangled remains of its’ head. He hadn’t even thought about it, he realises. Just recognised the threat and automatically neutralised it.
He waits for the guilt to set in; the terrible wrenching horror at having taken another life, of depriving some poor woman of her son.
Nothing. Just a cold little voice in his head telling him he’d only done what was necessary to protect his comrades, that he needn’t waste time mourning someone who couldn’t have been a vary nice man if he tried to attack the wounded.
When his commanding officer returns, limping slightly on a twisted ankle, he blinks down at John’s first kill without saying anything at first. Then he smiles grimly and nods his head, offering a calloused hand for John to shake.
“Congratulations. Many men would have panicked at such a threat so soon into their first posting.” He says gruffly, gripping John’s hand in a grip so firm that John is mildly concerned he’s broken something. “You’ve got a cool head - we need men like you…now, more than ever.”
“Sir?” John blinks in mild confusion, aware that this is more than a mere compliment. If it weren’t for the fact he’s only just started here, he’d almost think he was being offered some sort of promotion.
“The enemy have recently started using…a special sort of weapon against us. We’re putting a team together specifically to counter it, and I think you’d be perfect for the job.”
“I’m flattered sir…but don’t you think it’s a little too soon? I’ve only been here a few days, you haven’t had a chance to make a real assessment of my capabil…”
“Nonsense.” The other man interrupts, looking mildly perturbed that John is trying to wiggle his way out of this. “You’ve already proved yourself worthy. It’s a simple side-promotion, nothing more. You won’t be taking on any extra responsibility, just some extra training.”
John hesitates, mulling it over. He’s still uncertain whether he is really the right person to join some sort of crack squad, but the idea of extra training appeals to him. He’s always had a bit of a thirst for new experiences, felt that little thrill at the thought of danger…perhaps this new position will be the ideal place for him to get both of those things?
“You’ll be richly recompensed, of course. Double the pension after your service ends, a free healthcare plan with a very elite private hospital in London…” The other man prompts, and John caves. Extra money is never to be sniffed at, and the chance to get any long lasting injuries looked after by someone other than the NHS is more than a little tempting.
Smiling faintly, he offers his hand for another bone crushing handshake.
“Alright then - I accept.”
“Wonderful. Training starts tonight at 0200 hours. A truck will pick you up from the yard at 0100 hours. Any questions?”
“What equipment do I need?”
“None.” John frowns at the succinct answer, sure he’s missing something.
“None, sir? What about armour, weaponry?”
“Wear the basic armour for safety during transport, but you needn’t bring anything else. You’ll be removing it at your destination anyway. Tonight’s training will be all about the physical - there will be no need to bring your gun.”
John feels inexplicably uneasy at his commanding officer’s blasé tone, but nods his acceptance anyway, tossing off a quick salute as the other man leaves before he can ask any other questions. Whatever this special training is, he’s sure he can handle it: he has yet to encounter any problem he can’t overcome (barring Harry calling him at midnight, drunk and out of control), and is quietly confident that this shall be no different.
He returns to his patients, bandaging them up as best as he can and thanking the soldiers who come by to assist him. Only one man will have to be sent home to recuperate. The rest will be fine in a week or so, burns and cuts leaving scars that tell a very specific story.
It’s late by the time he finally heads back to the bunkrooms, far too late for him to consider getting some sleep in before his mysterious training. Maybe he’ll polish his boots instead.
He glances up at the full moon shining above him, a reassuring sight that’s no different here than at home.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
‘Special training’ turns out to apparently be nothing more than John and thirty others being locked in a room with a furious wolf and having their throats torn out. It’s a slaughter, and John flinches as another soldier’s dying screams get choked with blood, voice fading to a mere gurgle.
They’re unarmed, they’re without armour, and the metal door refuses to budge regardless of how many people shove it.
John is panicking now, aware that there are fewer and fewer voice yelling in fear, aware that he’s going to die in this room for no apparent reason. Murray, a shy man who’d tentatively introduced himself when John arrived in the complex, is convulsing in the corner, whimpering to himself as he holds his guts in with nothing more than bloody hands and sheer willpower. John tried to help him earlier, but was forced to dash back as the wolf leapt on a nearby soldier, cutting off his route and spraying the walls with arterial blood.
There’s a low snarl behind him, and John swallows hard, slowly turning to face it.
There’s no one else. He’s the last man standing, and the wolf clearly hasn’t finished yet. It takes a few steps forward, taunting him, and John feels ill at the sight of the blood dripping freely from its muzzle.
“Come on then.” He hisses, opening his arms and staring down at it defiantly. “Come on then!”
Fangs in his shoulder, a bite so powerful John thinks his ligaments have been torn from the strength in that jaw alone. He roars, crashing to the floor and batting at his attacker ineffectually, struggling to get loose and failing miserably.
Sudden, blissful relief as the wolf s abruptly gone, yanked away by some mysterious saviour. John moans in pain, fumbling a hand over to apply pressure to his wound, biting back a curse at the fresh bolt of agony the action brings.
A pinprick in his arm and the world darkens around him, bring blessed relief. John forces his eyes to open, staring blearily up at the person standing over him, but he’s too far gone from the drugs and blood loss to focus properly. All he can see are formless shadows, moving patches of darker black that murmur nonsensical words to John and set about moving him.
What happened? He wants to ask. Why did you do that to us?
There’s a hand on his shoulder, and the blackness swallows him up.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
John wakes to fire in his blood, a roaring torture that brings him screaming into consciousness and leaves him writhing helplessly in his bed. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, so intense that the time he fell down the stairs and broke his leg seems like nothing now.
He’s dimly aware that he’s in some sort of ward, the room full of soldiers who are screaming just like John is, a torn and alien shrieking exploding out of them to combine into an eerie chorus that leaves John straining against his restraints, desperate to run, and climb and chase.
Without him realising, John’s lips pull back into an ugly snarl, face contorting into an expression more bestial than human. He arches his back, uncaring of his shoulder wound, and howls.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
So. Werewolves. He hadn’t expected that.
He knows the stories, of course. Enjoys watching Underworld and the Hammer Horror films as much as any other man. But that’s where his interest had stopped; they were fictional, illusory, metaphors created to explain away man’s darker nature.
Not real. And certainly not in Afghanistan, biting the voice boxes out of unknowing soldiers.
They’d explained everything to him when he woke the second time, far more lucid than before and much less inclined to bay at the moon. The enemy had managed to find one of these so-called mythical creatures and create a small platoon of wolf-soldiers, men who transformed into wolves at the full moon and promptly set about wiping out whole regiments.
Britain had initially responded with some quickly thrown together silver bullets, which had proved to be as fictional in their effectiveness as John had once thought werewolves were. Out of options, the army had then decided to fight fire with fire, and managed to procure a werewolf of their own, a savage little thing from the Caledonian Forest that was pre-verbal even when human.
Which was where John and the others came in.
Seven had died of their injuries after the initial attack, the blood loss and nerve damage too severe for anything to be done for them. A further four had reacted badly to the transformation, going into shock and arresting before anyone knew what was happening.
John grits his teeth, gut clenching as he thinks about how many enthusiastic young lives were lost in the making of this ‘elite’ troop. He wants to shake someone, scream at them and ask whether it was worth losing eleven brave men and women, volunteers who hadn’t even known what they were signing up for.
He starts at the growl that slips past his lips, and realises that his fingers have curled into claws, flexing rhythmically against the bedcovers in a way that makes him feel vaguely ill.
He thinks about the reason he was chosen for this, the qualities that had apparently made him ideal, and throws up.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
The next full moon brings his first real transformation, and with it freedom. John’s spent the last month being instructed in ways to keep control of the beast inside, of how to control his instincts and function as a normal human being, and he’s thoroughly tired of hearing the same tired phrases over and over again.
He stands in the yard with the other infected soldiers, thrumming with tension as he awaits the agonising change. Murray nudges him, shoots him a sickly nervous smile, and John winks back, burying his own fear under a confidence he does not feel.
When the change hits him, it catches him off guard. Far from the fiery needles and ripping pain of his initial conversion, the actual transformation feels more like slipping into a warm bubble bath. John throws off his human shape in delight, falling onto all fours and marvelling at the way even the dirt beneath his paws feels different.
All around him other soldiers are stretching luxuriously, yipping happily to themselves and nosing at each other. Within a few minutes they’re engaged in the best game of tag John’s ever been part of, and he bounds across the sand with a joyful bark, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his flank and loving every moment of it.
Perhaps, he thinks, this will be alright. Perhaps this really was worth it.
Murray jumps on top of him, tackling him to the ground in an excited bundle of fur and teeth, and John has never felt happier.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Tearing out a man’s throat is easier than John had expected. The right application of pressure, and his sharp teeth take care of the rest. He swallows the man’s dying screams and raises his blood soaked snout, growling threateningly at the boy attempting to reach for his gun. He doesn’t fight the young ones - the idea of killing teenagers who’ve blatantly been indoctrinated into this life since birth doesn’t sit well with him - but that doesn’t mean he’s just going to let them pull a weapon on him either.
The boy pauses as he realises John’s not going to attack without provocation, sinking to his knees with his hands above his head and a grateful expression on his face. An expression that quickly turns to horror as he’s leapt on from behind, fangs less discerning than John’s ripping out his throat without a second thought. John snarls in protest, but it’s far too late: the boy’s eyes are already dead and dark, a look of betrayal frozen on his face for evermore.
The other wolf sniffs scornfully at John and bounds away, leaving him frozen in place and shaking with rage.
This may be a goddamn war zone, but some things just aren’t done. Being outside the realms of the natural doesn’t mean you can just kill someone’s who’s already surrendered without protest. John hates the soldiers who feel that now they’re werewolves they’re above the rules of warfare, that humanity is below them.
John does what has to be done, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.
Except for the part where he does.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Everything comes crashing to an end when one of the enemy soldiers gets lucky and manages to shoot John in the hind leg. The thin bone shatters, sending him crashing to the ground, and John howls in pain as the triumphant sharpshooter steps on his leg deliberately. He tries desperately to bite his attacker, to sink his teeth into the man’s leg and not let go, but there’s a hand twisted in the fur at the nape of his neck and he can’t quite reach.
One of the wolves on the other side spots them, running over to enthusiastically set about mauling John, digging claws into his flank and biting at every inch of John he can reach. John whimpers, jerking as his own blood dyes his sandy fur red, wondering whether there will be a human body for Harry to bury or just a random wolf that the army has to secretly dispose of.
Just when he thinks he can’t take any more, a furious howl blasts through the air and both of John’s attackers are knocked clear away from him. John blinks as he recognises the wolf standing protectively over him, astonished at the fact that it’s little mild Murray who’s come to his rescue, that it’s Murray who currently looks like he’s about to rip the heart out of anyone who gets too close to John.
Reinforcements arrive, and Murray takes the opportunity to drag John to safety, whining apologetically every time John’s broken leg catches on the ground. John nuzzles him in thanks, shivering as strong hands take him and lift him into the waiting truck.
He doesn’t see Murray again. By the time John wakes up in hospital, the rest of the troop have been deployed elsewhere. The doctors are so sympathetic that John’s teeth ache with it, even as he hates them for telling him what he has already guessed.
It’s over for him. His leg in wolf form will never really heal, and the bites have aggravated his initial shoulder wound to the point where it’s likely to impede on his movement as a human. They’re sending him home, where he’ll be safe.
John nods bitterly, feeling like a failure.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
London seems…tired…after John’s experiences in Afghanistan. Everything’s just that little bit more grey, that little more drab and unexciting. John stares out of the window of his temporary accommodation, contemplating using his gun on himself for the fifth time this morning alone. He shouldn’t even have it anymore; but the special privileges afforded to him meant that no one was quite brave enough to tell him so.
More than anything, he misses the freedom. The first full moon after he got back, he slipped out to Hyde Park in the dead of night and tried to go running. But his lame leg failed him, sending him tripping into a nearby tree, and the most he managed was a pitiful hobble around the outskirts of the park.
The leg bothers him in human form too. His therapist tells him it’s psychosomatic, a response to the trauma he experienced overseas (John wonders what she’d say if she knew exactly what had happened: if it weren’t for the fact she’d have him committed, he’d tell her just to see the reaction), but John knows that that’s not quite right. His human leg may not have anything wrong with it, but his wolf leg constantly reminds him of its’ uselessness, sending him phantom pains whenever he’s not entirely focused on what he’s doing.
He cries at night, not from nightmares of past pain, but the knowledge that his life will never be that exciting again.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Sherlock changes everything.
He sweeps into John’s life like a particularly destructive tornado, ripping up the foundations he’d so carefully laid down and forcing John to rebuild his life around him. John should have been angry with him for it, should have complained a lot more about the heads in the fridge, and the sudden kidnappings. Except for the fact that he’s so damn grateful for them.
When he’s with Sherlock, it’s like he’s running with the pack again, free of all restrictions, living by nobody’s boundaries but his own. He forgets that his leg hurts, forgets that life should be boring and Sunday Roast dull. He runs through London’s alleyways and tackles murderers, risks his life on a daily basis and bloody enjoys every moment of it, regardless of what he tells Sherlock.
He thinks Sherlock knows anyway - there’s a certain quirk to his lips every time John protests about the latest criminal who’s tried to string him up, as if he can see right through the lie to the throbbing pulse of contentment within. The idea’s less terrifying than it should be.
When he’d first become aware of Sherlock’s ability to read him like a book, John had been more than a little worried. It was one thing for your flatmate to deduce your service history with a single glance, quite another for said flatmate to realise you’re a supernatural beast with the ability to rip out his throat with a single bite.
Except that Sherlock didn’t believe in the supernatural. He’d laughed out loud when Mrs Hudson tried to make him watch Psychic Sally, and regularly scorned John’s love of horror movies.
“If such creatures truly existed John,” Sherlock said one night as he came home to find John watching Underworld again, “do you really think I would have been oblivious to their presence all these years?”
Yes, John thought. You can’t even see the one right under your nose.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Sherlock gets caught off guard whilst taking down a prostitution ring, and for once it’s him who is bundled into a taxi and kidnapped barely five feet from his door.
It’s a full moon that night.
John uses Mycroft’s contacts to track down their base and waits for night to fall, hiding in the bushes until the change sweeps over him. He may not be cut out for war or running any more, but he’s more than agile enough to take down a group of lowlifes who aren’t expecting him.
The sight of Sherlock gagged and unconscious in the corner sends him into a blind rage, and before he knows what’s doing he’s ripped out the throats of all but one of the gang members. He’s busy clawing at the boss’ heart when he hears a throat being delicately cleared behind him, and whirls round to find Mycroft standing there looking distinctly unsurprised and far from impressed.
“Really, Doctor Watson. Did you even spare a thought for those who would have to clean up after you and cover your tracks?” He drawls, swinging his umbrella in lazy circles. “I know my brother means a lot to you, but that doesn’t mean you have to behave in such an uncivilised manner.”
He knows. Of course he knows, he’s bloody Mycroft Holmes.
“Get in the van. We’ll take you to a special holding location until you can return to Baker Street without attracting attention.”
John hesitates, wondering if he’s actually going to be leaving that ‘special holding location’. Mycroft rolls his eyes, tutting.
“Preferably sooner, rather than later. I doubt you want Sherlock to wake up and see you like this. I assure you, it’s just for the night - I haven’t the patience to deal with Sherlock’s tantrums were you to disappear.”
John does what he’s told, and true to Mycroft’s word is released early next morning. Sherlock’s already discharged himself from hospital, and is waiting for John in the sitting room, looking wound up and anxious. There’s a patch over his eye that makes him look a bit like Pudsey Bear, but John senses that this isn’t the best time to laugh at that.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock demands, leaping to his feet and crossing the room in a single bound, hands patting John down haphazardly. “Mycroft said that you’d been kidnapped too, wouldn’t let me anywhere near you until you’d been checked out, god damn…”
“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John manages, heart warmed by Sherlock’s obvious concern. It’s worth the silent treatment for days on end, and the cutting remarks that make up so much of what Sherlock actually is, if only for moments like these.
“Good. That’s good.” Sherlock mutters, retreating to the sofa and reclining on it like some strange lady of leisure. “Fetch my phone will you, it’s in the top pocket of my dressing gown.”
John rolls his eyes fondly and moves closer to the sofa, plucking the mobile out of Sherlock’s breast pocket without saying a word.
“Thank you. Now, if you could just send a quick text for me…”
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
The letter comes a few days after the kidnapping incident, addressed to John and hand delivered whilst Sherlock is out examining the fog density of London, or whatever he’s doing that afternoon.
It is, unsurprisingly, from Mycroft. John skims through the contents, before doing a double take and starting over, reading more carefully this time.
Moriarty’s been spotted setting up a new base of operations in the Dockland area, and Mycroft wants John to take him out at the next full moon.
I apologise for having to put you in this position, John, the letter reads, but Sherlock cannot be allowed to find him. Should the two meet again, the only result can be a murder-suicide. I trust that you find this conclusion to be just as unsatisfactory as I do.
For a moment John wonders why Mycroft is asking him, rather than sending his own men to accomplish the task. Then he gets it - Mycroft’s no fool, and he’s not got to such a position of power without reason. If John kills Moriarty, there will be nothing to link it back to Mycroft and stain his name. And Mycroft knows full well that John will take the bait, because Sherlock’s involved and that’s always been a bit of a red flag for John.
On the night of the next full moon, Sherlock’s away, trapped into having dinner with Mycroft after the threat of ‘disappointing Mummy’ is made. John slips down to the Docklands and transforms, padding through the long grey corridors of Moriarty’s base and ripping out the throats of anyone he comes across before they can scream.
He remembers the child on the phone. He remembers the swimming pool. He remembers the nights spent by Sherlock’s bedside, waiting for him to wake from the coma the explosion knocked him into.
He remembers the morning Sherlock woke up, a trembling hand taking John’s and an uncertain thumb stroking across his palm.
It’s a bit of an anticlimax when he finally gets to Moriarty. Unprepared for such an attack, the criminal mastermind goes down with a single bite, dead before he even hits the floor. John worries at his head for a while, feeling immense satisfaction at the way Moriarty flops around so lifelessly.
Sneaking through the streets of London, he returns to Baker Street, fully intending to sleep the transformation off in the comfort of his own bedroom; he’ll come downstairs tomorrow morning, and Sherlock will never know he left.
He doesn’t expect to find Sherlock relaxing on the sofa, already escaped from Mycroft’s clutches. There’s a terrible moment of silence where they both stare at each other, John frozen halfway through the doorway, Sherlock clearly trying to deduce the correct way of getting a dangerous wolf out of the flat without injury to himself.
Then John’s leg, overworked and overstressed from tonight’s activities, finally makes itself known, and John lets out a yelp of pain as it gives out under him. Sherlock’s expression changes immediately, an astonished disbelief spreading over his face even as he warily approaches.
“…John?”
John whines, knowing that the game’s up. Sherlock’s going to take advantage of his weakness and throw him out, or he’s going to tie him up and use him in an experiment, or…
Gentle hands settle carefully in his fur, and John opens his eyes in shock as he realises he’s being petted of all things.
“I love the fact you just keep surprising me.” Sherlock murmurs, and John snuffs in amusement. Only Sherlock could take such a reveal so calmly. He arches his back unconsciously as Sherlock’s fingers hit just the right spot, freezing as he realises exactly what he’s doing. Sherlock laughs, raising a sardonic eyebrow and purposefully returning to scratch at that particular area.
If he notices the blood on John’s snout he doesn’t say anything.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Total Word Count: 4,629
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John's a wolf in human clothing. Literally.
Notes: Written for sherlockfest. Sadly, this was the only prompt out of that real life let me fill on time. Hopefully I'll get the others up over the next few weeks.
When John goes to Afghanistan, some part of him acknowledges that he will never be the same again. There will be gunfire, and screaming, and men bleeding out under his hands. There will be bombs and traps that send his fellow soldiers flying through the air in a million ragged pieces.
He will handle a gun, and he will take more lives than he saves.
Even should he survive to make it back to England, those were the sorts of things that left a man changed. Scarred. Broken. He’d seen veterans down the local pub, talking quietly amongst themselves and flinching every time the football fans knocked a table over in their enthusiasm, their eyes growing dark and distant as they lost themselves in bad memories. John knows full that that could very easily be him in a few years but goes anyway, anxious to help the troops already out there and get a little taste of action himself.
He prepares himself, steels his nerves for what is to come. He makes a list of all possible outcomes and writes action plans for each one, congratulating himself on covering all the bases and ensuring that whatever happens he will be ready.
He thinks he’s planned for everything: he’s wrong.
His first few days as a Combat Medical Technician go smoothly; the enemy is lying low and there are no attacks in John’s area, allowing him time to settle in and get to know his fellow troop members better. There are a few he takes an instant dislike to - glorified bullies who’d blatantly signed up just to get their hands on the weaponry - but on the whole they seem to be a decent bunch, and John finds himself almost looking forward to the months ahead.
Then, combat; his first foray into battle as the enemy erupts out of silence. Running, running, always running. Running to retrieve the wounded, running back to the infirmary, running to grab bandages, and thread, and anything else needed to stop his fellow soldiers’ blood from making a bid for freedom. One attacker manages to breach the post’s defences and make it inside the medical tent; John just shoots him in the head and carries on extracting a bullet from his patient.
It’s not until it is all over, and the dust has settled, that John realises what he’s done. He stares blankly at the crumpled body, avoiding looking at the mangled remains of its’ head. He hadn’t even thought about it, he realises. Just recognised the threat and automatically neutralised it.
He waits for the guilt to set in; the terrible wrenching horror at having taken another life, of depriving some poor woman of her son.
Nothing. Just a cold little voice in his head telling him he’d only done what was necessary to protect his comrades, that he needn’t waste time mourning someone who couldn’t have been a vary nice man if he tried to attack the wounded.
When his commanding officer returns, limping slightly on a twisted ankle, he blinks down at John’s first kill without saying anything at first. Then he smiles grimly and nods his head, offering a calloused hand for John to shake.
“Congratulations. Many men would have panicked at such a threat so soon into their first posting.” He says gruffly, gripping John’s hand in a grip so firm that John is mildly concerned he’s broken something. “You’ve got a cool head - we need men like you…now, more than ever.”
“Sir?” John blinks in mild confusion, aware that this is more than a mere compliment. If it weren’t for the fact he’s only just started here, he’d almost think he was being offered some sort of promotion.
“The enemy have recently started using…a special sort of weapon against us. We’re putting a team together specifically to counter it, and I think you’d be perfect for the job.”
“I’m flattered sir…but don’t you think it’s a little too soon? I’ve only been here a few days, you haven’t had a chance to make a real assessment of my capabil…”
“Nonsense.” The other man interrupts, looking mildly perturbed that John is trying to wiggle his way out of this. “You’ve already proved yourself worthy. It’s a simple side-promotion, nothing more. You won’t be taking on any extra responsibility, just some extra training.”
John hesitates, mulling it over. He’s still uncertain whether he is really the right person to join some sort of crack squad, but the idea of extra training appeals to him. He’s always had a bit of a thirst for new experiences, felt that little thrill at the thought of danger…perhaps this new position will be the ideal place for him to get both of those things?
“You’ll be richly recompensed, of course. Double the pension after your service ends, a free healthcare plan with a very elite private hospital in London…” The other man prompts, and John caves. Extra money is never to be sniffed at, and the chance to get any long lasting injuries looked after by someone other than the NHS is more than a little tempting.
Smiling faintly, he offers his hand for another bone crushing handshake.
“Alright then - I accept.”
“Wonderful. Training starts tonight at 0200 hours. A truck will pick you up from the yard at 0100 hours. Any questions?”
“What equipment do I need?”
“None.” John frowns at the succinct answer, sure he’s missing something.
“None, sir? What about armour, weaponry?”
“Wear the basic armour for safety during transport, but you needn’t bring anything else. You’ll be removing it at your destination anyway. Tonight’s training will be all about the physical - there will be no need to bring your gun.”
John feels inexplicably uneasy at his commanding officer’s blasé tone, but nods his acceptance anyway, tossing off a quick salute as the other man leaves before he can ask any other questions. Whatever this special training is, he’s sure he can handle it: he has yet to encounter any problem he can’t overcome (barring Harry calling him at midnight, drunk and out of control), and is quietly confident that this shall be no different.
He returns to his patients, bandaging them up as best as he can and thanking the soldiers who come by to assist him. Only one man will have to be sent home to recuperate. The rest will be fine in a week or so, burns and cuts leaving scars that tell a very specific story.
It’s late by the time he finally heads back to the bunkrooms, far too late for him to consider getting some sleep in before his mysterious training. Maybe he’ll polish his boots instead.
He glances up at the full moon shining above him, a reassuring sight that’s no different here than at home.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
‘Special training’ turns out to apparently be nothing more than John and thirty others being locked in a room with a furious wolf and having their throats torn out. It’s a slaughter, and John flinches as another soldier’s dying screams get choked with blood, voice fading to a mere gurgle.
They’re unarmed, they’re without armour, and the metal door refuses to budge regardless of how many people shove it.
John is panicking now, aware that there are fewer and fewer voice yelling in fear, aware that he’s going to die in this room for no apparent reason. Murray, a shy man who’d tentatively introduced himself when John arrived in the complex, is convulsing in the corner, whimpering to himself as he holds his guts in with nothing more than bloody hands and sheer willpower. John tried to help him earlier, but was forced to dash back as the wolf leapt on a nearby soldier, cutting off his route and spraying the walls with arterial blood.
There’s a low snarl behind him, and John swallows hard, slowly turning to face it.
There’s no one else. He’s the last man standing, and the wolf clearly hasn’t finished yet. It takes a few steps forward, taunting him, and John feels ill at the sight of the blood dripping freely from its muzzle.
“Come on then.” He hisses, opening his arms and staring down at it defiantly. “Come on then!”
Fangs in his shoulder, a bite so powerful John thinks his ligaments have been torn from the strength in that jaw alone. He roars, crashing to the floor and batting at his attacker ineffectually, struggling to get loose and failing miserably.
Sudden, blissful relief as the wolf s abruptly gone, yanked away by some mysterious saviour. John moans in pain, fumbling a hand over to apply pressure to his wound, biting back a curse at the fresh bolt of agony the action brings.
A pinprick in his arm and the world darkens around him, bring blessed relief. John forces his eyes to open, staring blearily up at the person standing over him, but he’s too far gone from the drugs and blood loss to focus properly. All he can see are formless shadows, moving patches of darker black that murmur nonsensical words to John and set about moving him.
What happened? He wants to ask. Why did you do that to us?
There’s a hand on his shoulder, and the blackness swallows him up.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
John wakes to fire in his blood, a roaring torture that brings him screaming into consciousness and leaves him writhing helplessly in his bed. It’s unlike anything he’s ever experienced before, so intense that the time he fell down the stairs and broke his leg seems like nothing now.
He’s dimly aware that he’s in some sort of ward, the room full of soldiers who are screaming just like John is, a torn and alien shrieking exploding out of them to combine into an eerie chorus that leaves John straining against his restraints, desperate to run, and climb and chase.
Without him realising, John’s lips pull back into an ugly snarl, face contorting into an expression more bestial than human. He arches his back, uncaring of his shoulder wound, and howls.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
So. Werewolves. He hadn’t expected that.
He knows the stories, of course. Enjoys watching Underworld and the Hammer Horror films as much as any other man. But that’s where his interest had stopped; they were fictional, illusory, metaphors created to explain away man’s darker nature.
Not real. And certainly not in Afghanistan, biting the voice boxes out of unknowing soldiers.
They’d explained everything to him when he woke the second time, far more lucid than before and much less inclined to bay at the moon. The enemy had managed to find one of these so-called mythical creatures and create a small platoon of wolf-soldiers, men who transformed into wolves at the full moon and promptly set about wiping out whole regiments.
Britain had initially responded with some quickly thrown together silver bullets, which had proved to be as fictional in their effectiveness as John had once thought werewolves were. Out of options, the army had then decided to fight fire with fire, and managed to procure a werewolf of their own, a savage little thing from the Caledonian Forest that was pre-verbal even when human.
Which was where John and the others came in.
Seven had died of their injuries after the initial attack, the blood loss and nerve damage too severe for anything to be done for them. A further four had reacted badly to the transformation, going into shock and arresting before anyone knew what was happening.
John grits his teeth, gut clenching as he thinks about how many enthusiastic young lives were lost in the making of this ‘elite’ troop. He wants to shake someone, scream at them and ask whether it was worth losing eleven brave men and women, volunteers who hadn’t even known what they were signing up for.
He starts at the growl that slips past his lips, and realises that his fingers have curled into claws, flexing rhythmically against the bedcovers in a way that makes him feel vaguely ill.
He thinks about the reason he was chosen for this, the qualities that had apparently made him ideal, and throws up.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
The next full moon brings his first real transformation, and with it freedom. John’s spent the last month being instructed in ways to keep control of the beast inside, of how to control his instincts and function as a normal human being, and he’s thoroughly tired of hearing the same tired phrases over and over again.
He stands in the yard with the other infected soldiers, thrumming with tension as he awaits the agonising change. Murray nudges him, shoots him a sickly nervous smile, and John winks back, burying his own fear under a confidence he does not feel.
When the change hits him, it catches him off guard. Far from the fiery needles and ripping pain of his initial conversion, the actual transformation feels more like slipping into a warm bubble bath. John throws off his human shape in delight, falling onto all fours and marvelling at the way even the dirt beneath his paws feels different.
All around him other soldiers are stretching luxuriously, yipping happily to themselves and nosing at each other. Within a few minutes they’re engaged in the best game of tag John’s ever been part of, and he bounds across the sand with a joyful bark, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his flank and loving every moment of it.
Perhaps, he thinks, this will be alright. Perhaps this really was worth it.
Murray jumps on top of him, tackling him to the ground in an excited bundle of fur and teeth, and John has never felt happier.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Tearing out a man’s throat is easier than John had expected. The right application of pressure, and his sharp teeth take care of the rest. He swallows the man’s dying screams and raises his blood soaked snout, growling threateningly at the boy attempting to reach for his gun. He doesn’t fight the young ones - the idea of killing teenagers who’ve blatantly been indoctrinated into this life since birth doesn’t sit well with him - but that doesn’t mean he’s just going to let them pull a weapon on him either.
The boy pauses as he realises John’s not going to attack without provocation, sinking to his knees with his hands above his head and a grateful expression on his face. An expression that quickly turns to horror as he’s leapt on from behind, fangs less discerning than John’s ripping out his throat without a second thought. John snarls in protest, but it’s far too late: the boy’s eyes are already dead and dark, a look of betrayal frozen on his face for evermore.
The other wolf sniffs scornfully at John and bounds away, leaving him frozen in place and shaking with rage.
This may be a goddamn war zone, but some things just aren’t done. Being outside the realms of the natural doesn’t mean you can just kill someone’s who’s already surrendered without protest. John hates the soldiers who feel that now they’re werewolves they’re above the rules of warfare, that humanity is below them.
John does what has to be done, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys it.
Except for the part where he does.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Everything comes crashing to an end when one of the enemy soldiers gets lucky and manages to shoot John in the hind leg. The thin bone shatters, sending him crashing to the ground, and John howls in pain as the triumphant sharpshooter steps on his leg deliberately. He tries desperately to bite his attacker, to sink his teeth into the man’s leg and not let go, but there’s a hand twisted in the fur at the nape of his neck and he can’t quite reach.
One of the wolves on the other side spots them, running over to enthusiastically set about mauling John, digging claws into his flank and biting at every inch of John he can reach. John whimpers, jerking as his own blood dyes his sandy fur red, wondering whether there will be a human body for Harry to bury or just a random wolf that the army has to secretly dispose of.
Just when he thinks he can’t take any more, a furious howl blasts through the air and both of John’s attackers are knocked clear away from him. John blinks as he recognises the wolf standing protectively over him, astonished at the fact that it’s little mild Murray who’s come to his rescue, that it’s Murray who currently looks like he’s about to rip the heart out of anyone who gets too close to John.
Reinforcements arrive, and Murray takes the opportunity to drag John to safety, whining apologetically every time John’s broken leg catches on the ground. John nuzzles him in thanks, shivering as strong hands take him and lift him into the waiting truck.
He doesn’t see Murray again. By the time John wakes up in hospital, the rest of the troop have been deployed elsewhere. The doctors are so sympathetic that John’s teeth ache with it, even as he hates them for telling him what he has already guessed.
It’s over for him. His leg in wolf form will never really heal, and the bites have aggravated his initial shoulder wound to the point where it’s likely to impede on his movement as a human. They’re sending him home, where he’ll be safe.
John nods bitterly, feeling like a failure.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
London seems…tired…after John’s experiences in Afghanistan. Everything’s just that little bit more grey, that little more drab and unexciting. John stares out of the window of his temporary accommodation, contemplating using his gun on himself for the fifth time this morning alone. He shouldn’t even have it anymore; but the special privileges afforded to him meant that no one was quite brave enough to tell him so.
More than anything, he misses the freedom. The first full moon after he got back, he slipped out to Hyde Park in the dead of night and tried to go running. But his lame leg failed him, sending him tripping into a nearby tree, and the most he managed was a pitiful hobble around the outskirts of the park.
The leg bothers him in human form too. His therapist tells him it’s psychosomatic, a response to the trauma he experienced overseas (John wonders what she’d say if she knew exactly what had happened: if it weren’t for the fact she’d have him committed, he’d tell her just to see the reaction), but John knows that that’s not quite right. His human leg may not have anything wrong with it, but his wolf leg constantly reminds him of its’ uselessness, sending him phantom pains whenever he’s not entirely focused on what he’s doing.
He cries at night, not from nightmares of past pain, but the knowledge that his life will never be that exciting again.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Sherlock changes everything.
He sweeps into John’s life like a particularly destructive tornado, ripping up the foundations he’d so carefully laid down and forcing John to rebuild his life around him. John should have been angry with him for it, should have complained a lot more about the heads in the fridge, and the sudden kidnappings. Except for the fact that he’s so damn grateful for them.
When he’s with Sherlock, it’s like he’s running with the pack again, free of all restrictions, living by nobody’s boundaries but his own. He forgets that his leg hurts, forgets that life should be boring and Sunday Roast dull. He runs through London’s alleyways and tackles murderers, risks his life on a daily basis and bloody enjoys every moment of it, regardless of what he tells Sherlock.
He thinks Sherlock knows anyway - there’s a certain quirk to his lips every time John protests about the latest criminal who’s tried to string him up, as if he can see right through the lie to the throbbing pulse of contentment within. The idea’s less terrifying than it should be.
When he’d first become aware of Sherlock’s ability to read him like a book, John had been more than a little worried. It was one thing for your flatmate to deduce your service history with a single glance, quite another for said flatmate to realise you’re a supernatural beast with the ability to rip out his throat with a single bite.
Except that Sherlock didn’t believe in the supernatural. He’d laughed out loud when Mrs Hudson tried to make him watch Psychic Sally, and regularly scorned John’s love of horror movies.
“If such creatures truly existed John,” Sherlock said one night as he came home to find John watching Underworld again, “do you really think I would have been oblivious to their presence all these years?”
Yes, John thought. You can’t even see the one right under your nose.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
Sherlock gets caught off guard whilst taking down a prostitution ring, and for once it’s him who is bundled into a taxi and kidnapped barely five feet from his door.
It’s a full moon that night.
John uses Mycroft’s contacts to track down their base and waits for night to fall, hiding in the bushes until the change sweeps over him. He may not be cut out for war or running any more, but he’s more than agile enough to take down a group of lowlifes who aren’t expecting him.
The sight of Sherlock gagged and unconscious in the corner sends him into a blind rage, and before he knows what’s doing he’s ripped out the throats of all but one of the gang members. He’s busy clawing at the boss’ heart when he hears a throat being delicately cleared behind him, and whirls round to find Mycroft standing there looking distinctly unsurprised and far from impressed.
“Really, Doctor Watson. Did you even spare a thought for those who would have to clean up after you and cover your tracks?” He drawls, swinging his umbrella in lazy circles. “I know my brother means a lot to you, but that doesn’t mean you have to behave in such an uncivilised manner.”
He knows. Of course he knows, he’s bloody Mycroft Holmes.
“Get in the van. We’ll take you to a special holding location until you can return to Baker Street without attracting attention.”
John hesitates, wondering if he’s actually going to be leaving that ‘special holding location’. Mycroft rolls his eyes, tutting.
“Preferably sooner, rather than later. I doubt you want Sherlock to wake up and see you like this. I assure you, it’s just for the night - I haven’t the patience to deal with Sherlock’s tantrums were you to disappear.”
John does what he’s told, and true to Mycroft’s word is released early next morning. Sherlock’s already discharged himself from hospital, and is waiting for John in the sitting room, looking wound up and anxious. There’s a patch over his eye that makes him look a bit like Pudsey Bear, but John senses that this isn’t the best time to laugh at that.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock demands, leaping to his feet and crossing the room in a single bound, hands patting John down haphazardly. “Mycroft said that you’d been kidnapped too, wouldn’t let me anywhere near you until you’d been checked out, god damn…”
“I’m fine, Sherlock.” John manages, heart warmed by Sherlock’s obvious concern. It’s worth the silent treatment for days on end, and the cutting remarks that make up so much of what Sherlock actually is, if only for moments like these.
“Good. That’s good.” Sherlock mutters, retreating to the sofa and reclining on it like some strange lady of leisure. “Fetch my phone will you, it’s in the top pocket of my dressing gown.”
John rolls his eyes fondly and moves closer to the sofa, plucking the mobile out of Sherlock’s breast pocket without saying a word.
“Thank you. Now, if you could just send a quick text for me…”
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-
The letter comes a few days after the kidnapping incident, addressed to John and hand delivered whilst Sherlock is out examining the fog density of London, or whatever he’s doing that afternoon.
It is, unsurprisingly, from Mycroft. John skims through the contents, before doing a double take and starting over, reading more carefully this time.
Moriarty’s been spotted setting up a new base of operations in the Dockland area, and Mycroft wants John to take him out at the next full moon.
I apologise for having to put you in this position, John, the letter reads, but Sherlock cannot be allowed to find him. Should the two meet again, the only result can be a murder-suicide. I trust that you find this conclusion to be just as unsatisfactory as I do.
For a moment John wonders why Mycroft is asking him, rather than sending his own men to accomplish the task. Then he gets it - Mycroft’s no fool, and he’s not got to such a position of power without reason. If John kills Moriarty, there will be nothing to link it back to Mycroft and stain his name. And Mycroft knows full well that John will take the bait, because Sherlock’s involved and that’s always been a bit of a red flag for John.
On the night of the next full moon, Sherlock’s away, trapped into having dinner with Mycroft after the threat of ‘disappointing Mummy’ is made. John slips down to the Docklands and transforms, padding through the long grey corridors of Moriarty’s base and ripping out the throats of anyone he comes across before they can scream.
He remembers the child on the phone. He remembers the swimming pool. He remembers the nights spent by Sherlock’s bedside, waiting for him to wake from the coma the explosion knocked him into.
He remembers the morning Sherlock woke up, a trembling hand taking John’s and an uncertain thumb stroking across his palm.
It’s a bit of an anticlimax when he finally gets to Moriarty. Unprepared for such an attack, the criminal mastermind goes down with a single bite, dead before he even hits the floor. John worries at his head for a while, feeling immense satisfaction at the way Moriarty flops around so lifelessly.
Sneaking through the streets of London, he returns to Baker Street, fully intending to sleep the transformation off in the comfort of his own bedroom; he’ll come downstairs tomorrow morning, and Sherlock will never know he left.
He doesn’t expect to find Sherlock relaxing on the sofa, already escaped from Mycroft’s clutches. There’s a terrible moment of silence where they both stare at each other, John frozen halfway through the doorway, Sherlock clearly trying to deduce the correct way of getting a dangerous wolf out of the flat without injury to himself.
Then John’s leg, overworked and overstressed from tonight’s activities, finally makes itself known, and John lets out a yelp of pain as it gives out under him. Sherlock’s expression changes immediately, an astonished disbelief spreading over his face even as he warily approaches.
“…John?”
John whines, knowing that the game’s up. Sherlock’s going to take advantage of his weakness and throw him out, or he’s going to tie him up and use him in an experiment, or…
Gentle hands settle carefully in his fur, and John opens his eyes in shock as he realises he’s being petted of all things.
“I love the fact you just keep surprising me.” Sherlock murmurs, and John snuffs in amusement. Only Sherlock could take such a reveal so calmly. He arches his back unconsciously as Sherlock’s fingers hit just the right spot, freezing as he realises exactly what he’s doing. Sherlock laughs, raising a sardonic eyebrow and purposefully returning to scratch at that particular area.
If he notices the blood on John’s snout he doesn’t say anything.