A/N: Set some time before the 2009 movie.

I have known that Sherlock Holmes is a werewolf for quite some time. It would, of course, have been near impossible for even the great detective himself to hide his condition from me, his roommate, for very long at all, what with the fact that once a month he invariably turns into a large canine.

He revealed it to me after we had been living together for a few months, after presumably deciding that I could be trusted with his secret. I had already formed suspicions that he was a wolf, given that when the full moon rose, he would invariably slink off on some mysterious errand, not returning until the next morning, and I believe he knew I had worked it out. It was a gamble on his part, telling me, as the majority of this society treats werewolves as lower class citizens at best, and as a vermin fit only for extermination at worst. I, however, had known other werewolves; there had been a handful who'd served alongside me in the war, favoured as they were for their strength and supposed brutality, and what I had taken from this experience was the knowledge that these supposed degenerates were, on the whole, as civilised and human as myself. There will always be exceptions to the rule, but it seems that atrocities within the werewolf community will always be held as a standard of their species as a whole. There are an innumerable number of serial killers who possess no shapeshifting abilities, but never are humans faced with the contempt our werewolf brethren are.

I didn't judge Holmes when he revealed himself to me, for the reasons mentioned above and also for the fact that, by this point in our relationship, the detective had captivated me completely with his brilliant mind.

However, I had expected that little would change in our lives except Holmes would no longer leave the house in order to change under the full moon. How wrong I was!

For all my acquaintances, and even friendships, with other werewolves, I had never before seen one who was as comfortable in his own skin – skins? – as Holmes. My comrades had rarely shifted, changing only in the heat of battle or under the obligatory full moon. Holmes, on the other hand, positively adores his wolf shape, opting to wear it even when he isn't being controlled by the lunar pull.

This means that I often find myself sitting by the fireplace in the evenings with a newspaper in my hands and a brown furry body by my feet. Or, if Holmes is feeling particularly affectionate, which he often is in his canine form, with that rather large brown body on my lap.

At first I was puzzled as to why Holmes favoured this form so. Surely his brilliant mind would be slowed down somewhat by his wolf physiology, I thought. Eventually my curiosity grew too strong, and I broached the subject with; "Holmes, why is it you prefer to laze about as an infernal hairy beast? Surely it cannot be conductive to a sharp mind?"

Holmes fixed me with his twinkling eyes and gave what could only be described as a smug grin; his muzzle opening and his tongue lolling as he huffed out an amused sigh. Of course, seeing as the good detective was currently upside down, with his brown furred head hanging off the end of the sagging couch, the smug expression he was aiming for was ruined somewhat.

He righted himself, twisting his large furry body upright and changing seamlessly back into a human and settling into a comfortable position, before running a hand through his unruly hair as if to smooth it down, though of course all he achieved was making it stand even further on end.

"Well, my dearest Watson," he began, searching through his pockets for his pipe and some matches. When the pipe was lit he sat back, taking a contented puff and continuing. "You assume that my mental faculties are diminished when I take my other form. I can assure you that this is far from the case. Indeed it's far easier to concentrate as a wolf."

"But why?" I interjected. "Any other shifters I've known have found it much harder to control themselves in their canine forms."

Holmes gave me an infuriating smirk. "Exactly," was his answer, as if it was obvious.

I stared at him, uncomprehending. "Because…?"

"Sometimes it helps to get a different perspective on things," Holmes shrugged, then picked his newspaper from the ground and busied himself with reading. I knew then that the conversation was over, and that cryptic remarks were the only answers I was going to receive.

There are drawbacks to Holmes' love for his wolf shape. One such incident occurred not three days ago, when I was brought out of a late afternoon doze by a low growl emanating from Holmes' clenched teeth. The wolf had been lying on the burn-pocked rug, looking for all the world like he was enjoying a peaceful doze by the fire. I knew better than this though; it was infinitely more likely that the detective had been pondering our latest case, his powerful mind in a frenzy of activity underneath that relaxed façade.

I looked at the wolf, for a moment puzzled as to the source of my friend's discontent, but a minute later I was enlightened as Mrs Hudson bustled into the room, not bothering to knock, bearing a tray of tea and buns.

Holmes had skittered off into the other room a moment before the door had opened, re-emerging with an expression of utmost distaste upon his now human features.

"Would it kill you to knock, Mrs Hudson?"

She gave him an exasperated look, muttering "Oh, Mr Holmes…" in that weary yet somehow fond tone she seemed to reserve solely for him.

"There you are boys, tea and scones. Do enjoy." she said, and turned to go, then looked back over her shoulder at Holmes, who was partway through pulling a very unpleasant face at her. "And Mr Holmes, please try to keep the explosions to a minimum, I'm getting tired of being woken in the middle of the night by one of your experiments."

"Of course, nanny." Holmes spat.

"Dr Watson," she nodded her head fondly at me.

"Thank you for the tea, Mrs Hudson," I replied, showing that I could be mannerly even if my unruly roommate seemed incapable of it.

As soon as the door was shut, Holmes dropped into the chair beside me, snatching up a scone and stuffing it into his mouth whole.

I glared at him. "Do you have to eat like an animal all the time, Holmes? Can't you at least try to act civilised now and again?"

Holmes gave me his most innocent gaze and sighed through the cake, "But I am an animal, Watson."

"Quite," I muttered, cutting my scone in half and buttering it pointedly.

"I just wish she wouldn't barge in like that." Holmes eyed the door angrily, as if Mrs Hudson were about to reappear at any minute.

The need to keep Holmes' dual identity secret from our landlady has nothing to do with any prejudices the woman may have had; I know for a fact she has no problems with wolves, having observed her at the market more than once engaged in genial conversation with a mousey haired little woman bearing the crude triangle that denotes shapeshifting abilities tattooed on the back of her right hand. All werewolves are required to bear this mark, and whilst being a wolf isn't a criminal offence, not declaring it with a brand most definitely is. Holmes, being, well, Holmes, is resolutely undeclared.

His reason is sound; being a detective, the power to transform into a non-human creature certainly comes in useful. Ordinarily, seeing a wolf wandering around the back alleys of London would be suspicious, but Holmes, with his chocolate fur, brown eyes, and smaller than average build, looks more like a dog. With the sheer amount of strays in the city, he is able to pad around undetected.

Once I broached the subject of Holmes' doglike appearance, merely referencing in passing how it was lucky he didn't look much like a typical wolf, and to my surprise, he had actually been offended; sulking for days before I finally gave in and apologised. His muttered explanation for his size and colour was that blood werewolves – that is to say, those born with the power to change – are much more prone to having unusual colour variations than their bitten counterparts. This, as far as I can tell, is entirely fabricated, as I have never heard this "theory" mentioned by another soul.

He had refused to discuss the subject further, and I was content to lay my suspicions that Holmes wasn't a pure wolf to one side. It doesn't matter anyway.

What really made me curious, however, was how Holmes had managed to evade registration. Generally blood werewolves are branded after their first shift, which usually occurs around the age of 4 or 5. It is relatively easy to predict whether a child will be a wolf, given that the trait is usually passed down from parents. Occasionally cases are documented whereby a child with two normal parents is born with the capacity to shift, but when the family trees are examined (if this is possible), there will usually be one or more distant relatives with the same condition. I suspect this was the case with Holmes, although I have no idea how the man was able to keep it from his family from such a young age.

One day I asked Holmes how he had managed to avoid being branded for so long, and the detective responded by offering me his hand. Puzzled, I took it, examining the skin marked with various chemical burns and soot smears. I frowned up at Holmes.

"Look closer," the detective urged.

I complied, eyebrows furrowed as I scrutinised Holmes' rough, calloused hand with a practiced eye. The fingertips were stained a dull brown; a result of many years of smoking and handing chemicals; whilst the hand itself was peppered with a rash of cuts and burns in various states of healing; faded white patches and lines, a couple of scabbed over scratches, and a very fresh burn from a minor explosion the previous night, which was still eating hungrily in to the side of the detective's hand.

"What am I supposed to be looking for?" I asked, failing to see the point of this exercise.

"Nothing," Holmes smirked. "I merely wanted you to hold my hand."

I let go of the hand, sighing "oh Holmes" exasperatedly. "I thought you were being serious for once."

"Of course I was, doctor." Holmes replied with a wolfish grin. "But I must admit, it's reassuring that even you, with your trained eye, cannot spot what I was trying to show you."

He proffered his hand again, this time tapping the skin on the back of it with two fingers of his left hand. "Look there."

I grabbed the hand again, bringing it up to my face and squinting. What I had at first taken for a faded chemical burn on the middle of Holmes' hand was in fact-

I looked up, gaping at the detective.

"You cut your brand out?"

Holmes beamed, confirming I was correct.

I admired the minimal scarring that remained, tilting the detective's hand left and right to catch the light best. "Well, mad as you are, you certainly made a good job of it."

"Why thank you, Doctor. I cut it out right before a full moon shift, and I must say; I was rather pleased at the result."

This made sense; shifters' healing abilities, whilst generally only slightly better than the average human's most of the time, become greatly improved in the days immediately proceeding and succeeding the full moon shift.

"You astound me, Holmes. But you do realise the penalty for something like this is death, don't you?"

Holmes was still grinning in that infuriating manner.

"Oh what am I saying – of course you do. Knowing you you're probably getting some kind of sick thrill out of it."

"You know me too well, Watson. Now, can I have my hand back, or do you intend on keeping it?"

I worry about Holmes, though, much more than the detective is aware of. I worry about how one day Holmes might accidentally, or possibly purposely, poison himself in some failed experimentation, or get himself shot fatally, or pick a fight with the wrong lout. But these are not my main worries. My worst fear is about what will happen when my friend is finally exposed as a werewolf. I know in my heart that this day will inevitably happen – Holmes' cavalier attitude about his condition means that someone with a half a brain in their head will eventually work out what the detective really is.

To me, the various quirks and oddities Holmes regularly displays make his lycanthropy obvious, and I am constantly surprised by how dim Lestrade and the other officers at Scotland Yard are not to realise.

When I voiced these fears, Holmes countered with "but of course you notice, you know what I am. You have to remember that our friends down at the Yard are under the impression that I'm simply a genius who employs somewhat unusual methods in order to solve my cases." He paused, considering. "That's true, obviously, but it's not exactly the full story." Here he eyed me conspiratorially. "You, my good doctor, are the only one who knows the full story, and I trust you absolutely."

"But Holmes," I said, feeling my temper beginning to break. "You sniff crime scenes. You lick the evidence. The other day you actually growled at Clarkie!"

"No, actually, I had a cough then," Holmes said haughtily.

"Whatever," I said, waving my hand dismissively. "You aren't going to listen to me anyway. You know, sometimes I don't even know why I bother."

"It's because you care about me more than anyone else in the whole of London." Holmes quipped, placing his hand on his chest and pretending to swoon.

"Yes, Holmes, I do care about you. Someone has to, seeing as you don't seem to."

At this point I picked up my newspaper and held it up so Holmes was obscured from my view. There was a moment of silence, which I noted warily. A silent Holmes usually means trouble in one way or another.

Then came a long, low, plaintive whine. I ignored it, trying my hardest to focus on my paper.

Holmes whined again, louder this time. Still I ignored him, gritting my teeth. But the detective was persistent, and on the third heartrending cry I flung my newspaper to the floor in annoyance.

"What is it now, Holmes?" I demanded.

The wolf was sitting on the floor, wagging his tail lazily and staring at me with that amused, smug, exasperating look that seems to be Holmes' speciality.

At my words he leapt into my lap, sitting on my knees and covering my face with sloppy kisses. I beat at him ineffectively, my indignant protests falling on deaf ears. When Holmes had evidently decided that my face was thoroughly washed he relented; draping himself over my legs and the arms of the chair. I briefly contemplated standing up so he fell to the floor, but I was well aware that the most likely outcome of this action would be that he would jump back up and start the face licking ritual all over again. Instead, I picked my newspaper up again, using Holmes as a kind of table on which to balance the broadsheet whilst I read, clutching it with one hand whilst I absentmindedly scratched behind the wolf's ears with the other.

Embraces like this are commonplace, and I have come to adore the closeness we share when Holmes is in his canine form. This lifestyle he and I are living cannot go on forever, and I'm sure the detective knows this just as well as I do, even if he would rather pretend to the contrary. All we can do is enjoy it while it lasts.