Oops, were those your feelings?

When John had first arrived home from a late night shop, he had thought that the flat had been burgled.  What else was he supposed to think, when the place was a mess, and there were scratches on the furniture and Sherlock’s experiments scattered across the floor?

Sherlock himself must, obviously, have been out.  There was no other way that someone could have come in, done this, and then got out again, and he’d had no call from Lestrade.

Except, that was when he noticed the large canine creature sprawled out on Sherlock’s chair.

Shock overcame him at first - the shopping dropped dramatically to the ground - and then he started to back away step by step.  There was a wolf in his flat.  And if Sherlock was behind this, then- then- he didn’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be nice.

As the shock wore off, however, he started to try and think clearer.  Phone, did he have his phone on him?  Yeah, jacket pocket, and he could use it to call the police, or London Zoo - somethin-

The wolf whined.  Like a dog.  Was that- did they even do that?  Curious, he peered closer, as close as he could get without putting himself in harms’ way more than he already was.

Those claws - especially the front ones - looked like they’d just been used, and they fitted the marks in on the furniture perfectly.  Dark fur, but with a silky sheen, as though brushed through, but with a few sore looking areas.  And the eyes-

John breathed in sharply, trying to ignore what he saw.

The wolf had Sherlock’s eyes.

Animals weren’t supposed to have eyes so cold and alive a blue as that, and nor were they supposed to be so perceptive.  And yet they were full of pain as well, pain and confusion, and Sherlock’s scarf was wrapped almost comfortingly around the wolf’s paws.

In the end, the shopping didn’t get put away - that was another lot of milk gone to waste - and he spent the night in the living room, waiting for Sherlock to get back in and explain the situation or deal with it.

Sherlock didn’t come home.  At least, not before he’d already fallen asleep waiting for him to arrive.

…

John awoke to the sound of the shower, and instantly made the connection between that and the fact that he’d slept in an odd position on the floor and drew the conclusion that he was going to ache in far too many places before the day was through.

His eyes darted to the chair he’d seen the wolf lying about on, only to find it currently abandoned, scarf gone.

He groaned, knowing that Sherlock was going to be pissed when he found out.  He liked that scarf.

Resigning himself to the inevitable and deciding to get it over and done with and out of the way, he heads off to the shower, and arrives just in time to see Sherlock coming out of the bathroom and heading off to his room, a towel around his waist - giving a perfect view of the now perfectly visible scars from that damn dog that he thought had healed up properly.

And, when he came to think about it, Sherlock had looked positively haggard.  As though he’d been kept up all night, and not - for once - by a case.

Which was worrying.  Because if something had Sherlock that concerned, then it had to be bad.  Or personal.  Although John wasn’t too sure what kind of personal things would affect him that much.

Mrs. Hudson came up a couple of hours later with bacon, for some reason or another, but Sherlock had been watching the stares with a haunted expression long before she’d actually appeared.

The rest of the time, he was eerily silent, with an introspective look on his face.  Normally, silences were accepted as part of Sherlock’s usual behaviour, but this wasn’t a case and he wasn’t focusing on… anything much.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s head came up sharply, attention suddenly entirely on John himself.

“Er, it’s probably something you already figured out, but… your scarf.  I think it was taken.  Last night.  There was-“

“A wolf.  Dark fur.  On my chair.”

Clipped words, but not entirely out of character.

“You knew?  You- you knew?”

Sherlock snorted.

“Of course I knew.  I was there.”

“There?  What-  what were you thinking?”

The unspoken ‘I could have died’ hovered in the air between them.  But Sherlock didn’t say anything else, just turning back to his breakfast.  

Assuming that Sherlock would be all right again given a few hours in order to get his head back on track, John went out, met some friends, and bought a second lot of the shopping he’d not got into the fridge the previous night.

This time, though, he came back earlier.  It was still dusk, and the moon had not yet risen.

He had put away most of the items - milk had gone in first - when he’d heard a noise coming from the direction of Sherlock’s room.  Quickly, he shoved in the last few things before hastening to where the noises were coming from.  He knew that sound.  It was Sherlock - Sherlock in pain.

His door had been locked when he’d tried it.  Irritably, he’d tried calling in, but had received a breathy reply, only asking him to stay away, with a little more desperation than he had thought Sherlock capable of.

The problem was, John was a doctor, and right now, Sherlock sounded as though he was in, to be honest, agony.  He was doing his best to pretend it wasn’t as bad as it was, but John knew him better than that.

“Sherlock, I don’t care what kind of sick experiment you think you’re doing in there, but if you don’t open this door right now, I’m kicking it down!”

No response.  And with all he knew, the time it would take to go downstairs and get Mrs. Hudson to give him the master key could well kill Sherlock.  So, in went the door.

He was greeted with a sight that he hoped that he would never have to see again.  Sherlock, always so full of pride, was hunched over, sheets covering him.  But there was something else that was wrong, so very, very wrong.  He looked- his body was- was changing…

And Sherlock wasn’t taking it too well.

“All right, breathe.  I know this probably sounds stupid right now, but breathe.  Follow me.  One, two…”

Miraculously, it seemed to be working.  Or at least, it did until Sherlock threw back his head and tried his best not to scream so loud that the entire street heard.

“John - you have to - get out.  It- it’s coming…”

“No, Sherlock.  I’m going to help you.  But I can’t help you if you don’t let me!”

“What I want,” Sherlock somehow managed to pant out, “is for you to get out.  You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I don’t see anything dangerous in here other than your singing ability just a couple of minutes ago.”

Sherlock laughed, the first time all day, and John started to smile again too, except that was when Sherlock’s body spasmed, and he seemed to be growing smaller, somehow, though larger in other ways.

He was scared.  Sherlock, the great detective renowned for how unflappable he was, was scared.  John hadn’t seen him like this since…

…Since the case with the Baskerville dog.

Sherlock’s panting had changed.  It sounded different.  Different yet familiar.

Wary of what he might see yet overridden by concern and not wanting to find Sherlock dead, he pulled back the covers.

There, eyes taut with recent pain, was the exact same wolf that had been sprawled on Sherlock’s chair the previous night.

Within that small moment John’s paradigm shifted.

Sherlock hadn’t seen the wolf because he’d been watching from afar, but because he’d been there all that time.  Sherlock was, and had been, the wolf.

And his scarf was right there on the floor next to Sherlock’s bed.

……

AN: Okaaaay.  So this turned out darker and longer than I’d expected.

But I realised that I needed more than just ‘John came home and realised Sherlock was a wolf’.  That wouldn’t work.  So something had to give.  And the scars came back for reasons, I say.  reasons.

Woke up this morning and thought I was dead

What a terrible pounding in my head

The world had changed and left me behind

Over and over I wish time would unwind.