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Being a werewolf isn't necessarily a disadvantage to pursuing a military career. In fact, though they aren't likely to say it out loud, the armed forces are rather keen to pick up new recruits who can turn into fur-bearing killing machines at will, even when those recruits are most suited, academically, to the support services -- such as medicine.
Things went swimmingly for one John Watson, as a result, until a group of Afghan resistance fighters got hold of a shipment of silver bullets. A single shot to the shoulder (after how many lead slugs taken protecting his men and patients?) was the end of a career, and a life of dedicated service. What was left was a dingy flat, a thin pension, a psychosomatic limp, a cane, a therapist, and a lifetime of change-suppressant meds that left John feeling disoriented and weak.
Somehow, it seemed as if the Universe had made a mathematical error. Things weren't supposed to work out this way.
--
Mike was an old friend, and a good one. Good enough to know about John's medical condition and why it made him a dodgy flatmate. The minute John walked into the lab and got a whiff of the man working there (old blood and cold earth, parchment skin and frost on dead leaves) he had more than half an idea of why they were being introduced. Pair the supernatural freaks together, right. But then the stranger had told John about Afghanistan and Harry, been so intriguing John couldn't resist a second meeting. From there, things escalated.
--
Sherlock lifted the pill towards his lips with fingers that were only barely shaking (adrenaline; lovely, but distracting,), ready to gamble, ready to prove his cunning by betting his life, knowing that even a vampire couldn't resist any and all poisons . . . only to be knocked aside, the pill flying from his fingers, as an arc of sleek fur swept between him and the cabbie. Blood followed in a darkly-sparkling arc, the huge wolf vanished from the room in a single bound, and the man who had killed four people lay thrashing on the floor, bleeding his life away from the slash marks on his throat.
--
Lestrade settled the orange blanket back around Sherlock's shoulders with dry good humor, but there was a hint of genuine care that set Sherlock's teeth on edge. He began to show off, began to prove he didn't need help, started describing his unlikely savior.
"Whoever it was had complete mastery of their wolf form," Sherlock said. "The kill was a single, clean blow. They didn't stop to feed. That argues for some kind of training. Police, maybe. Military more likely. That sort of control isn't found in civilian . . ." He caught sight of John then, loitering around, trying (and utterly failing) to look casual on the far side of the police tape, and Sherlock continued without a hitch, "Brown fur. Dark brown. Maybe even black; the light was bad." Which was rubbish, since the light hadn't been bad at all, and the fur he'd seen was distinctly sandy-blond.
Lestrade didn't fail to notice the change in direction and his eyebrows lifted.
"I'm not even sure it was a wolf. Might have been a bear," Sherlock continued. It was a safe prevarication; even if the police managed to collect genetic samples from the corpse's wounds, it would already be breaking down, lycanthrope DNA being notoriously unstable. Identifying the species would be difficult, much less an individual. "You know what," Sherlock said to Lestrade, "ignore me. I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket."
Lestrade had a far better bollocks-radar than the average man, but he glanced in John's direction and let it pass. He'd had a serial killer taken out of circulation, and at the moment he wasn't inclined to complain.
"Nice kill," Sherlock told John on the far side of the police tape.
"Yes," John said, eyes and face clear as a summer sky. "From what they tell me, it was."
"Military training came in handy."
"It would."
"You haven't been taking your meds."
"'Course I have. It's illegal not to. Been picking up my prescription every month from the clinic."
"And been dumping it down the sink."
"The loo . . ." John corrected, then stopped. Sherlock smiled. John hadn't been trying very hard, not really.
"How long have you known?" John asked.
"About the lycanthropy? Since we first met."
"I'm not surprised. You wouldn't have been immune to the poison you know. Your metabolism isn't that different from a normal human's."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly, and John tapped the side of his nose. "Since we first met," John said, clarifying in passing. Then: "This is how you get your kicks, isn't it, risking your life -- such as it is -- to prove you're clever?"
They ended up in a little Chinese restaurant on Baker Street. John ate while Sherlock watched and made wildly inaccurate predictions about what was in the fortune cookies they received.
They laughed rather a lot for two men just off a crime scene.
--
Together, they hunted. Sherlock was right, John learned: seeking out facts and solutions could be as absorbing as the more primal types of hunting. It helped keep other needs at bay, especially with the meds out of the picture, and made for an oddly satisfying way of life. John didn't even need to change with the full moon, though it tended to make him stroppy for a day or two every month.
When other instincts finally couldn't be denied, they booked a trip up north. Mrs. Hudson smiled at them, a secret little smile, her two boys off for a romantic weekend together.
--
Sherlock sat on a fallen tree trunk and tuned his violin; the frosty night air had changed the tension of the strings. Once he had it right, he settled bow to strings and played an eerie, descending glissando.
Off in the distance, a long, trailing howl responded. It was like a wolf's but far too deep, coming from a larger throat and ribcage.
Sherlock was sated, feeling warm all over, glowing even, having taken his fill tonight of four-footed prey. But John's psychology required more . . . involvement with the animals he hunted, to be properly satisfied.
Together they played a duet for some hours, the hunting werewolf and the waiting vampire, a conversation without words. The Children of the Night, making music together. The conceit made Sherlock laugh out loud. Really, it wasn't much different than going out for Chinese, except that it took a longer drive to get there, Sherlock could bring his violin, and there were no fortune cookies.
--
Their first time together -- together together -- started as an argument. Sherlock hadn't fed for weeks, the full moon was near, and John had finally had it. Sherlock might enjoy being one of the living dead because it meant he could ignore his body and physical needs weeks longer than an actual human, but that didn't mean he could ignore everything.
Pale and shaking, Sherlock had needed either food or blood. John, in a fit of annoyance, spiked a fingernail into a long claw and ran it down his own arm, shoving the bleeding scratch nearly in Sherlock's face to prove his point.
In the morning, they had a considerable amount of cleanup to do. Fortunately (and not unexpectedly) Sherlock knew a lot of ways to deal with bloodstains, most of which actually worked. However, there wasn't much they could do about, for example, the clawmarks in the wallpaper. Given Mrs. H's reaction to a few bullet holes, John winced at the thought of what she would say (and charge). He managed to convince Sherlock to spend the day rearranging the flat, covering up the most incriminating damage with bookshelves and other furniture. Sherlock grumbled but gave in quickly enough to show that he, too, respected their landlady's wrath.
Besides, it wasn't like they could go anywhere else while they were healing. John was light-headed from blood loss, his neck stiff from being wrenched around to one side with bone-cracking force, and he had the hickey to end all hickeys; Sherlock, in turn, looked like he'd got the worst end of a fight with a lawnmower. Still, by late afternoon, around about the time they loaded the last of the books back on the final shelf, they were back to normal.
They decided to go get curry since neither of them felt like cooking.
--
Things weren't quite so violent after that, with the first burst of ferocious tension burnt away. Still, it was gratifying for both of them to have a partner they needn't worry about hurting for once.
It was nice to be able to cut loose a little, now and then, especially when Mrs. Hudson was out for the evening.
--
Jim's uneven, hateful, nightmare voice cut through the pool room again, and red laser sights swarmed over Sherlock and John; Moriarity was just toying with them, had never intended to let them live.
John met Sherlock's eyes, and knew exactly what they were both thinking: Moriarity couldn't be allowed to get away. He was a monster and he'd never stop, not so long as he lived. Thing was, he wasn't the only monster in the room; he just didn't seem to know it.
As terrifyingly detailed as Moriarity's information about them was, it seemed to have a few crucial gaps. He might know enough to catch Sherlock's attention with a pair of twenty-year-old shoes, but he didn't seem to realize that snipers with high-powered rifles didn't pose the slightest threat to Sherlock once the bomb had been taken out of the equation (not even supernatural beings stand up well to being fragmented by a close-range explosion). You can shoot a vampire all you like, but he'll just get up and keep going.
Nor did he seem to know about John: Moriarity had never once mentioned silver to him and John couldn't believe the man wouldn't use any and all leverage to threaten and terrify those in his control. If those rifles were loaded with ordinary ammunition, the worst they could do to John was cause him pain. It was a risk he was willing to take.
Moving quickly with the hand on the side of his body away from Moriarity, trying not to telegraph what he was doing, John unfastened his trousers and then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs with as little motion as possible while he toed the heels of his shoes loose on his feet. The change was powerful enough to rip his new body free of any encumbering clothing, but if things were already unfastened it would give John a few more precious seconds' advantage.
Sherlock saw the preparations and understood. John gave the tiniest nod of his head, and watched as Sherlock's eyes go empty-black from lid-to-lid, the superficial humanity draining out of his features. John reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt and ripped at it, popping buttons as he rose to his feet and flung himself in Moriarity's direction in a single, fluid motion, the change already beginning to take him. From the corner of his eye, in the hyperawareness that blended a soldier's combat training with with a wolf's predatory instincts, he saw Sherlock fling his gun away in favor of freeing the far more dangerous weapons of his bare hands.
Together, they hunted.
Moriarity had just enough time to look surprised.