Sherlock Short Stories

Werewolf

Sherlock Holmes was a Freak.
He was abnormally clever, rude, obnoxious, arrogant and oblivious to other's emotions. He found beauty in a murder scene and chasing serial killers was his fun 'hobby'. He was a sociopath with irregular sleeping and eating patterns and an absurd knack for the violin.
But none of that was why he was a Freak.
Sherlock Holmes was a Freak because he was not entirely human... Sherlock Holmes was a werewolf.

From a very young age he had been able to hide his wolffish tendencies: his family knew, of course, and helped him 'blend in'. Hiding his other half was never a particular struggle because Sherlock Holmes, as well as being a Freakish sociopath, was utterly alone.

Then Sherlock met John.
John.
John.
John Watson.
John Hamish Watson.
Just the name made Sherlock's unfeeling heart pound with love and his pupils dilate. His John; his flatmate. Then hiding his secret became increasingly difficult...

"Sherly, do you want tea?" Asked his blogger, getting up and shuffling to the kitchen. Once he made it to the other half of the flat, he cleared away Sherlock's morning experiment (only a slight grimace setting in at the Sheep's brains scattered across the work surface - he was used to Sherlock's contributions to science by now) and boiled the kettle.
"Yes Please, John, thank you,"
John sputtered slightly at the detectives manners.
"What's wrong? What's happened?" He asked immediately.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You are being polite so you are either hiding something or something is bothering you, probably both." Deduced the doctor. Sherlock sadly noted that his blogger was not entirely stupid.
"It's nothing, John, really," Sherlock dismissed. Quite frankly, it was not alright because Sherlock so desperately needed to shape-shift and John's soothing scent (mostly that of tea and biscuits but with something else Sherlock couldn't quite place) wasn't helping him control himself. No, he chided, I cannot reveal what a Freak I am. John, no matter how understanding, would leave him at the drop of that stupid deer hunting hat if he found out just how freakish he was. Or so he thought.
"-lock? Sherlock? Are you even listening to me? Have you gone into your mind palace again?"
"No John I was just... thinking. I'm going for a walk," Sherlock couldn't contain himself much longer. He needed to shift.
"No." The stocky soldier blocked the door boldly, "you aren't leaving this flat until you tell me what on Earth is going on." John stood his ground, proud and unafraid.
"Why does it matter? I'm okay John really I just really need to go for a walk now,"
"No! The last time you acted like this you jumped off a bloody roof! Okay! Tell me what is going on!" John was shouting angrily.

But John wasn't angry, more so... John was truly terrified. He did not want to lose his love again. His love. John had known for a while now that he loved Sherlock and had to constantly remind himself that Sherlock did not feel those emotions and that nothing could come of it and that he was not gay! But John loved Sherlock. And so, he couldn't bare to let his love, his most wonderful detective, leave like this.
"Please John... I can't hold it much longer and then you'll think I'm a Freak..."
"Hold what in much-" but John didn't finish because as he began his sentence Sherlock began to transform.

First, his curly hair parted slightly to reveal two dark grey... dog ears? Then, Sherlock's back snapped forward suddenly, bones shifting and shuddering about like a box of needles rattled by its owner. Skin stretched, his face began to lengthen, widen, grow fur... and then, standing before John, was not Sherlock Holmes but... a wolf!

John was frozen in terror at what had happened.

Silence.

The wolf, Sherlock, the wolf, slowly approached John; tail down and ears twitched back, the dark haired canine shuffled on its belly to greet John with a soft lick.
"Please don't eat me," John whined. He wasn't one to normally express fear so blatantly but this was an exceptional circumstance. The wolf, Sherlock, simply rested its furry head against his leg in response. John slowly slid to the floor and allowed the large dog to rest on his lap.
"Sh- Sherlock?" The wolf nodded in reply.
"You... you're a werewolf",
The wolf nodded, looking away to express its apology.
"You're a werewolf."

Half an hour later, the two men were sat awkwardly facing each other in their living room, unsure of what to say and how to act.
"Okay..." John stammered, "Okay... so...right..."
"Spit it out already John!" Sherlock just wanted to get the rejection and hate over and done with so he could move on and go back to his normal, sociopathic... lonely life.
"I just, you... how long has this been..?"
"All my life,"
"And... So, what, were you bitten or-"
"I was born like this. We don't know why or how."
"Wait... if you were born like this is-"
"No, Dear Watson, my brother is not a werewolf too," Sherlock Holmes was, as ever, far ahead of the game.
"Jesus Christ," John just couldn't get his head around it. His Sherlock was a werewolf. Sherlock had lied, time and time again... all those mysterious loo breaks and evening trips out and abnormal sense of smell and...and all of a sudden the walls of their little flat - normally so comforting - seemed to suffocate him, closing around him like prison bars and warping his surroundings into imaginary dangers. He needed to get out, "I'm going for a walk,"

And so John Watson grabbed his coat and ran out of the house. He didn't return to 221B Baker Street for another week.
In that week he visited Molly and Greg and even Mycroft (though briefly and it wasn't his choice - another black car had pulled up next to him). He had gone to five different McDonalds and slept on three different couches.
In that week, Sherlock Holmes did not eat (save for digestives forced down his throat by Mrs Hudson), did not sleep and did not leave his living room. In that week, Sherlock Holmes tried two new experimental drugs, and devolved back into his old druggy self.

Three weeks passed but John had had enough. He needed to see Sherlock. He needed to sort this mess out.

When John Watson returned he immediately felt guilty for leaving Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock was a werewolf. Yes, Sherlock had lied to him. But Sherlock had also saved his life countless amounts of times, had stood by him when no one else had, had been a brave and solid companion, and, most importantly, Sherlock was his friend. Friends don't ever, ever, leave each other.
"John?" Sherlock drearily asked in his drugged up state.
"Yeah, Sherly, it's me. I'm sorry for leaving,"
"Why are you- am I imagining you again?"
"No Sherly, I'm here. Look, I'm sorry for how I reacted," John awkwardly shuffled from foot to foot.
"No, no, it's okay. You... why... I've forgotten what I was saying,"
John sighed and began cleaning up the flat. The flat was, for once, dead silent. Sherlock, normally so loud and careless was simply curled in a ball on the sofa, dog ears poking out of his hair but pinned back as if he had been shunned - which, John supposed, Sherlock probably felt like he had. It was the worst feeling ever. Finally, Sherlock's slurred voice cut through the thick silence, "John,"
"Hm?"
"Do you - I mean... do you hate me?"
"No!" John ran forward and quickly shook Sherlock, "I do not hate you! I love you Sherlock! You are my closest and bestest friend!"
"Oh, alright... thank you Hamish," Sherlock muttered back before drowsily slipping into a drug induced sleep. John (being a Doctor) immediately checked his pulse, but once he was satisfied that his flatmate was perfectly alright (just incredibly high) he turned back to the tip of a sitting room.
"Oh, Sherlock,"

That same evening, the pair received and impromptu visit from none other than the government himself.
"Mycroft." Sherlock drowsily notices before slipping back into his delirious slumber.
"What do you want, Mycroft? I don't want to seem rude but I think it's pretty obvious we don't need anyone coming in right now, especially not you," John snapped, at the end of his tether; too many emotions were building up inside his chest and too many new pieces of information were flooding in.
"I assume this," Mycroft featured vaguely around to the garbage dump of a flat, "is because he told you his secret,"
"Y-yes. He... well he showed me actually," John grimaced slightly, still not entirely comfortable with Sherlock also being a Wolf. But one glance at his sleeping flatmate - not sinister at all just confused and sad - banished any doubts about his trust in Sherlock. His wolffish features suddenly seemed to be part of him, part of his appeal and nature, rather than a monster hidden inside. Mycroft shot a disapproving glare to his oblivious brother, "sentiment, Watson, has taken its affect,"
"What-"
"I mean, John, that my brother does not share secrets, or cry, or get high, or sleep soundly, over just anyone."
John snorted, "well he does with-" and that was when he realised...
"Sherlock loves me too,"
"Yes, Dr Watson, and if you hurt him then I promise you that-"
"I won't hurt him. I would never." John said, despite knowing that he had already done some damage. With that, John turned and left Mycroft to show himself out.
"Now, come on Sherlock. I've made you tea." John said. And, despite knowing the awful withdrawals Sherlock would soon be going through, despite knowing that he would have to face his supernatural abilities, despite knowing of the hundreds of criminals in London alone, despite knowing that all would not be well, John thought that - maybe - everything would turn out just fine.