A.N. Let's Write Sherlock's challenge 11 is divided in three major branches: Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Monster. I already wrote a story each for the first two branches, and now am completing the triptych. First chapter is John's point of view.

However improbable

I had always known that Sherlock would be the death of me someday (by proxy, of course; he wasn't a murderer). But I had never factored in – not even after Baskerville – that something quite like this could happen.

We had been contacted by the relative of a young girl whose brutal death had found no explanation satisfying enough for our client. It had been chalked up to rabid strays – as she was literally half-eaten – but she worked with dogs and the relative was sure she'd know how to deal with them. Sherlock had connected to her death a few other similar cases which had happened on a widespread area, all too strangely timed for it to be really the work of wild dogs.

Probably a serial killer, he'd proclaimed enthusiastically, that then gave the body to his (surely abused and half-feral) dogs to mess up the traces. Perhaps – considering a few recently buried bodies dug out and ripped into in a nearby graveyard – a cannibal who had finally decided to get himself some fresh meat.

That the case had Sherlock beaming wasn't a surprise. The dogs' use had ensured that New Scotland Yard and the professional forensics didn't even start to suspect someone's involvement, and this criminal promised to be clever and ruthless. Even if eventually we discovered cleverness had very little part in the killings, so in that it was a disappointment – I guess.

It was time for our murderer to hunt again (he had an obvious system), and Sherlock and I were hoping to stop him, since we had a clear enough idea of his modus operandi and patterns. Finally, one bright night, we stumbled on a crime scene. Well, when I say crime scene...we slipped inside a nightmare might be more adequate a description.

There was a dead body, of course, but the thing heartily biting into it wasn't a stray, nor indeed a dog of any kind. It had to be at least a wolf, going by its size alone. He raised bloody jaws from his meal and – very clearly – snarled, "Sod off. I'm not sharing."

I honestly have no idea if I would have obeyed such an order had I been alone, but Sherlock had frozen and was – as far as I could tell- trying to blink away what was happening. Which might not have been an altogether bad idea, I thought at the time.

But then the wolf (tail-less; weird which things stick in your head) looked up and grumbled, "Unless you're offering to be dessert. Are you?" and leaped towards us, so willing him to disappear clearly wasn't working. I did the only sensible thing (I still maintain that). I shot him. I should have done so before, really, but I was too weirded out to act. Sadly, that didn't even slow him down. So, with no time to think, I just shoved Sherlock out of the way and braced for the impact.

A giant wolf jumping on you and then quite intent on trying to chew through your chest is bloody painful, let me tell you. I really thought I'd die. And the only thing going through my head was, "God, give him enough sense to run now." Vain hope, of course.

A moment later Sherlock was hissing, "Let him go," and attempting to bodily dislodge him from me. It annoyed the wolf, who turned on him, and for a moment I closed my eyes not to see the worst I feared would happen. But then I heard the sound of breaking glass, a blaring alarm and a mighty yowl.

Sherlock must have dodged, and so the wolf had ended breaking a shop window and lying half on top of a jewelry display. It rolled away hurriedly. Oh, right. Werewolf. Silver. I doubted that Sherlock would know that, but he'd seen the adverse reaction of the beast. He wasn't about to investigate the whys and hows. He took something from the display and chucked it to the snarling wolf. The very snarl was the ruination of the creature, because the projectile – skill or luck – lodged into its throat. We had a choking wolf, and soon a dying wolf, reverting to human form. Not that it saved him.

The second the monster stopped being a threat, Sherlock was by my side asking, "What do I do?" with a scared look on his face.

And now that I wasn't worried sick over him, I noticed that for someone bitten by a werewolf and supposed to be dying of blood loss, I felt considerably good. "Put pressure on the wound," I instructed anyway.

He did so, and a moment later whispered in amazement, "John? The wound is closing."

It really was, and soon I had only an ugly scar to show for it. "Let's go home," I said. Before the police arrived, alerted by the alarm, and accused us of robbery and murder.

When we were safely ensconced home, Sherlock declared, "We must have been drugged. But how? When?"

"You figure it out. I'm going to sleep and hope that this turns out to be a nightmare," I replied.

Which it didn't. Of course not. Just my luck. I had to point it out the following morning, panic in my voice. "Sherlock. I've got the scar."

"Was it all true, then? How can it be?" he countered, sounding lost. But he must have decided that we couldn't both panic, because then he continued, "No matter. It's clearly not impossible, since it happened. People called chemists alchemists in the past, before the truth was understood. You are currently an unknown quantity, but we're going to figure you out. Don't worry, John."

"I'm not your fucking experiment," I growled, surprising the both of us.

"I just want to help, John," he said, subdued.

"Yeah, of course. Sorry. I...don't know why I lashed out like that." Liar. "Know what? Experiment away. I authorize you. At least you won't be bored."

Later, when DI Gregson came to talk about the two bodies and the weird theft, Sherlock dismissed him with a curt, "Otherwise busy." He was being as truthful as he could be. Gregson was rather put out at being refused, but had to give it up.

We researched, obviously concentrating on treatment of my...condition (and, to my insistence, contagion – the last thing I want is to contaminate Sherlock too). Sadly we had no reliable source, so we had to dig through a lot of veritable nonsense. Becoming a werewolf after sleeping outdoors with the moonlight shining on your face? "I'd have a Wolves Network," Sherlock remarked.

Some things were honestly weird (even considering how fantastical our life had become). Changing into a wolf by drinking water from a werewolf's footprint? Who would? ...On second thought, Sherlock. Well, that was one experiment we wouldn't be trying. I wouldn't let him. I would even stretch it to being careful that he does not drink from my mug, even after washing it.

In the end, as long as I don't attack him, flat sharing turns out to be surprisingly fine for infection's risk as long as I don't attack him. Only that isn't as obvious as it should be – not attacking him. I scare myself, but I'm really half a monster now. Things that would have made me barely roll my eyes before now elicit feral growls. Sherlock has started tiptoeing around me, trying not to set me off. It breaks my heart, but I don't tell him to stop walking on eggshells. He's just being necessarily careful.

Once, soon after my change, he tried snarling back at me when I lashed out, perhaps attempting to make me cower. Before I had consciously decided anything (that's what terrifies me; It takes the lead suddenly and completely) I had Sherlock – who didn't expect such an overboard reaction – bodily subdued on the floor, and he was spewing apologies, fear in his eyes. I didn't break any skin that time, but it was way too close for comfort.

After that, I tried telling him that I would find other accommodations – somewhere alone – but Sherlock refused adamantly to agree to my project. "It should have been me, John. I'm not letting you go through this on your own," he declared earnestly. I tried telling him that he didn't have to – to think like that, to do any of this.

When my friend stubbornly insisted, meaningfully saying, "You don't get to have things your way, John. Not this time. Not about this," I relented. I was too grateful for his help – hell, for his very presence – to press the issue as I know I should have. I despised my weakness, but still I couldn't make myself leave him.

If not about that, I at least did what I had to do about something. I had a silver bullet created. I refused to become a monster. Sherlock knew – he's Sherlock, of course he knew even if I didn't tell him – but he never mentioned it.

As for remedies to my condition, we have tried the mildest ones (well, not that there's much mild in drinking plenty of vinegar). These did exactly nothing, but making me sick sometimes. Concerning the more vicious ones (such as piercing the subject's hands with nails), Sherlock, lead scientist that he was, refused to even consider them. That I asked seemed to make no difference.

"I'm not torturing you, John," he stated vibrantly.

I'd try them by myself, but I was likely to faint half-way through or otherwise become unable to complete the requirements, and then I would have accomplished exactly nothing but hurting myself and forcing Sherlock to take care of me.

I tried to explain to him that any agony would be worth it if it made safe for people to be around me again. To be honest, Sherlock was the only one who had ever set off the beast yet, but I spoke generally all the same.

My friend objected quietly that the wolf was likely to attack viciously if we tried to drive him out so brutally. I was forced to recognize that wasn't wrong, but still I wished to persuade him to attempt them. When Sherlock concluded, "and I would let it rip me apart for doing that to you," I dropped the matter. Christ, Sherlock. There was no reasoning with him when he got like that.

Another possibility that I was interested in was wolfsbane (there should be a reason for it to hold that name), but once again Sherlock was entirely adverse to trying it out. Aconitum napellus, aka wolfsbane, is a lethal poison for perfectly normal human beings, beside (perhaps) curing lycanthropy. Sherlock could tell me off the top of his head how many killers had used it in the past century and then continue with these murders' details if I so wished. He decreed that in no way he would be the one to accidentally kill me. I didn't mention that he'd likely be forced to kill me intentionally soon (well, I hoped to spare him that). The matter wasn't something Sherlock could be rational about, clearly, as odd as it sounded. At least not at the moment.