Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Due to popular demand, we're back to the melanistic cheetah/wolf shifters AU. Enjoy! And in case you celebrate it, a very happy Easter!
A much-needed talk
John hates when they need to hunt some criminal after sunset. Sherlock shifts, more often than not. To be fair, John does too. It heightens the senses, and reversing it is quick enough. All it takes is concentration (believe me, you don't want to see the illustrations of people that have suffered brain damage, for one reason or another, while mid-shift…medical texts can be nightmare inducing on their own).
For the panther, among the other benefits is the fact that criminals literally won't know what hit them. The detective is experienced at blending into the darkness, exploiting every gloomy corner and sometimes going as far as purposefully damaging a street lamp or two so as to be able to drop on the suspect like a dark, clawed cloud.
Such a scene could rightfully inspire a romantic poet. If the man could see it. Because that's the point: John follows. He always follows, it's in his nature. You don't leave pack members alone in a fight. But when Sherlock uses 'stealth mode', he can barely see the creature darting ahead and keeping to the shadows, despite his own heightened senses.
Then, his nose is what guides him. Not that the consulting detective wears a penetrating cologne – that would announce his presence to any murderer or smuggler as well. But after sharing a flat so long (okay, let's be honest, almost from the start) the detective's smell – wild, chemical and spicy all at once – means home. It's a mixture so complex that John would need hours to pinpoint every single component if required, but one his sense of smell naturally zeroes on, if it's in the area at all.
So yes, unless the bloody idiot decides to dive into a skip (but then he'll need light to see what he's looking for, surely) his partner will have an idea of the general direction the sleuth is hiding in, and would even if blindfolded – which is rather useful, with the kidnapping habit criminals seem to have developed when he's involved.
John would still prefer to be able to see him, because the army drilled into him the need for exact aim. In case he finds himself having to use human weapons to stop their prey, he doesn't want to risk accidentally hitting Sherlock because the damn cat was still in the cover of the dark, making impossible for the former soldier to calculate his friend's probable trajectory. He's seen accidents by friendly fire – more than either his officers or himself ever wanted to – and he'll be damned before he adds to that statistic. Especially not in an unofficial battlefield like London.
So, after each case where the detective – predictably – shifts and runs ahead, looking considerably like a dark cloud of doom himself, John will grumble. Remind the other that if they're supposed to work together, he needs to have more than a vague impression of his partner's position. This time, though, he's determined. This issue needs solving now. "Unless," the wolf concludes his usual rant, "you're actively trying to persuade me to stop tagging along. In that case, simply speaking up would do the trick, you know. I'm not trying to ruin your work."
"Don't be stupid," the sleuth snaps, glaring. If he was shifted at the moment, his tail would be whipping the air in frustration. "OF COURSE I don't want you to stop following me on cases. You've become paramount to them, and not just because of your fighting prowess."
"Yeah, well, that fighting prowess would benefit from you waiting for me. What happens when I'm not quick enough? Or worse, when I mistake a movement in the shadows for a suspect's accomplice instead of mine?" The doctor glares right back.
"You cannot start wondering about what ifs when every instance has been you saving my life instead of endangering me in any way," Sherlock huffs.
"As much as your trust in me is moving, you should know that a theory only needs one evidence to the contrary to be disproved. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather take precautions before your faith in me is shattered by reality," John semi-growls.
"Well, what do you expect me to do?" the detective retorts, his imaginary tail lashing even harder.
"Stop. Fucking. Leaving. Me. Behind." It's a full growl, now. Normally, he would sigh and shrug the question away. But today's criminal – an American nicknamed Diablo, a former associate of Mrs. Hudson who decided Europe looked like a safe haven – decided to shift himself…into a melanistic jaguar. With two big, black cats in his line of sight, there was no way that John could aim properly, even with Sherlock's head being smaller and with bones more prominent. He ran forward to help, of course. But for a smattering of seconds, he was still terrified at the idea that the heavier set criminal would open his partner's throat before sprinting away.
"It's not my fault that you might as well be a snail," the sleuth complains, settling on the sofa for a good, long sulk.
"Well, it's not my fault either if I'm built for resistance instead of sprinting. I'll have you know, that served me well in the past. You wouldn't last a day in the army." John is not going to let himself be insulted without a peep. And if he happens to accidentally-on-purpose hit on Sherlock's military kink, well, some things still need to be said.
Predictably, the panther's eyes sparkle with a mixture of defiance and arousal. "Are you trying to pull the Captain card on me?" he rumbles.
"Only if it works." The former soldier winks for good measure, before adding, "Really, I'm serious about this. You cannot rush ahead all the time…or I will have to take measures you don't want."
"What? Fifty push ups? Or a thorough spanking?" Suddenly Sherlock is very much invading his space, looking anything but contrite. This needs to stop.
"I said you won't like my retaliation, and I mean it. If you're going to continue with your attitude on cases, I'll just have to stop coming along." John is stern enough to convey it's not a joke. At least he hopes so.
"What? No!" the detective sounds outraged, but he soon reins himself in. "Besides, you like them too!"
"Of course I do. But if you're not going to allow me to protect you to the best of my abilities, what use am I? You're already doing all the deducing. I'm not about to jog along and end up being too late to help. Turning a corner to find your dead body is not on my bucket list, ta very much. If you can't think of anything but the hunt long enough to ensure it doesn't happen, I'll have to stay home," the wolf declares, glaring up at him.
"Well, wouldn't that put me in more danger? Seriously, John!" Sherlock huffs, throwing his arms in the air in dramatic protest against the world's lack of logic.
"More? Why? When you don't let me keep pace to begin with? I don't want you leashed, if that's what you fear. I just need you to be close enough – or at least in a situation where there's enough light – for me to be able to help at need. And that means knowing where the heck you are. I realise that getting the drop on criminals is useful. And as long as I can locate you well enough not to accidentally send a bullet ricocheting under one of your ribs, I don't mind. But you cannot use one of your magician's tricks and disappear completely. Or my presence will prove useless, if not detrimental. And I'm not going to put you at risk that way," John rants, arms crossed.
"I'm hardly a magician," the detective grumbles, turning away from him. If he's supposed to make such a decision on the spot, he shouldn't be observing his love. The man tends to make his cerebral cortex shut down, and instinct take over. And right now, instinct is saying "Appease him, you idiot!" and sounding rather like a pissed off Molly – which, if anyone ever doubted, is something you don't want to cross.
"Would you test that assertion against a class of kids as your judges?" his blogger quips, sure to win. It's not just his 'disappearing' trick. Sherlock has too many qualities that are just this side of magic. And he's not talking about the shifting, which is completely natural, even if it was misunderstood in centuries past.
"Dull," the sleuth declares. "Never mind that," and he gestures brushing it all away, "if I start being accounted for at all times and not vanishing on you, what do I get?" So much for appeasing his mate. Mind Molly – as well as quite a few people he hosts in his mind palace for every eventuality – is facepalming at the moment.
"My continued help on cases, obviously," John replies cheekily. At the other's glare, he sighs, "And of course, I am well aware of the usefulness of positive reinforcement. Why, you label body parts in the fridge now, two times out of three. No worries, I'll make it worth your while."
"How?" Sherlock insists, a shadow of a whine in his voice. He's never dealt well with information being hidden from him. He'd usually be able to deduce it, but no matter how obvious the wolf is about the past, he's proven too many times that he can still surprise the consulting detective.
"That's for me to know…and for you to enjoy." He leaves the room, signalling that the argument is finished. Now the sleuth will have to behave, if only to discover what he wants. John will go back in a minute, with tea. That should put his love in a better mood.