Sherlock
John discovers something shocking about Sherlock that neither of them realised before.. As the past returns to strike him.
The rain rumbled against the window, and a lightning fork landed with a loud crackle. John was sat up in his bed, head turned to stare out at the flickering darkness. He looked very tired, dark shadows under his eyes, hands curled into the warmth of the quilt. He swallowed and rubbed his eyes, waiting… the lights were off and the flat was dark. But still he waited.
The hard red light of the alarm clock changed to 2:36am. John's head had started to slip forward, eyelids drifting down a little, when the sound of the door opening and shutting shot him up to his feet. Worry made his leg ache as he limped out the door, flicking on the lounge light; Sherlock looked over at him, squinting slightly, his hair slicked down with the water, scarf soaking and thick jacket damp. "John." he said. There were darker circles under his eyes than normal. "I expected you to be asleep."
"No, Sherlock. I heard you go out." he crossed his arms and tapped his foot a little, cornering him. "Where were you going at midnight in a rainstorm?" he wasn't a happy bunny at all right now. He worried about the flatmate more than he wanted to admit right now; but Sherlock was looking decidedly uncomfortable, a strange look on him as he stripped off his coat and jacket, hanging them up. "I went for a walk." he responded, rubbing his hand over his dripping hair. John continued to scowl at him, but knew he wouldn't get an answer. He turned and slammed the door to his bedroom.
Sherlock finished taking off his outdoor clothing and took a deep breath, leaning on the wall for a moment against a wave of vague nausea that ran over him. He wasn't ashamed of what he had done, but he definitely had the feeling John would not approve at all. He was wearing short sleeves under the jacket, a pale blue tee. He inspected the right arm; several dark bruises at the elbow and just below. He winced as he touched one, then shook it off. After a glass of cold water he headed back to his bed, falling asleep almost instantly.
In the morning John was up before Sherlock, as normal, moving around with a cup of hot tea. He opened his laptop and sat there, beginning to type onto his blog. He moved a little better than before, but still his tongue peeked out and he typed single-fingered.
"Sherlock went out last night. Midnight, with that horrible storm.."
He glanced out the window; the light was bright and warm. The world seemed refreshed.
"I don't know why he did that. He wouldn't talk when he came back in and I cornered him. He seemed ill, almost; not just tired. I've never seen him quite like that."
He stopped typing and sat back, sipping his tea for a long, comfortable moment, letting out some of his discomfort in the hot steam. Then there came a loud thud from Sherlock's room. He sat up stiffly. It wasn't normal for there to be anything like that; he was normally very quiet. "Sherlock?" he called, moving over toward the door, leaving the tea next to his laptop. "Sherlock, is everything alright?" he stood near the door; there came a faint call back, then a stronger, "Yes, I'm fine!" though he did sound a little strange.
"Do you want a cup of tea?" he said, after a pause, not sure what to say. After receiving an affirmative, he went to make it, still feeling worried; there was another thud, and then five minutes later Sherlock emerged, dressed in his dark purple shirt. He looked just as tired as he had last night, but he smiled at John and took the drink, watching him sit down at the laptop. There was the normal lack of a thank you as he went to the window and looked out of it, sipping the tea. A few flakes of snow had just begun to fall.
"What was the noise?" John asked, in the silence, which was still comfortable. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the street outside and the swirling flakes. "I knocked my lamp of the desk. No problem." and John was startled. That wasn't something Sherlock did. He wasn't clumsy at all. Strange. He didn't say anything more though, and Sherlock remained in place, watching the falling flakes, before disappearing for his daily needs. When he returned, and swept up a piece of toast off John's plate, followed by a flop onto the sofa, John had finished the blog post and now began to pay proper attention to the world once more.
"So. What happened last night?" he asked, getting to his feet, moving over to sit on the chair nearby, still nursing half a cup of tea. Sherlock pretended to not have heard him, flicking through the newspaper from the table doggedly. "Sherlock. You went out at midnight in a storm. Why?" he narrowed his eyes and leant forward. Sherlock sighed and leant back, looking at him in the eye. "You will not believe me if I tell you, John." there was an edge of amusement in his eyes now, the gray glittering. He pulled up the sleeve violently and John inhaled sharply.
"You've had blood tests?" he asked, bemused and confused, and just a little confused. "No, John, no!" he laughed, leaning back, feeling a little dizzy again. "I got drug tests. They looked interesting, in the paper. I was bored." He shrugged at John's growing angry face. He got up and went for his coat. "Woah!" John was on his feet, and indeed, he was angry. Sherlock whirled around. "You're going to tell me that what I did was childish and irresponsible. I recognise your expression. You're angry because I didn't tell you last night and you're concerned about me. That's why you made me a cup of tea. You've posted on your blog about me but you're not reading the newspaper because you wanted to focus on me, for some reason." he grinned. "And no, I don't regret doing it."
John was furious now, up on his feet and staring as Sherlock tugged on his outdoor clothes. "Where in the hell are you going now?" he snapped, taking in the mischievous grin on his companion's face. "To find a case. Why not?" he said, and John stepped in front of him. That look fell away. "I've had it." John said, softly, dangerously. "You are goddamn staying here, if I have to get Mrs Hudson to guard you, so be it. You are going nowhere today, unless Lestrade calls, and then I'll be going with you. Understand?" and there he stood.
Sherlock smirked, and undid that clothing. "Don't you love it when you stand up for yourself, John?" he murmured. John frowned as he turned away, hanging the coat up - then he made a noise deep in his chest, and his knees buckled. Alarmed, John didn't think to act until Sherlock caught himself on the sofa, straightening up slowly, a confused look in his eyes. He sat down back on the sofa without prompting, and John moved to sit opposite again. "Maybe I will stay in today." Sherlock said softly, and stretched out his legs, flicking the television on. John just stared at him, trying not to mention what had just happened.
He stayed in that day as well, thankfully he was off; he watched carefully, by now very worried. He insisted on checking the bruises over, but there was nothing he could do, really, now that the damage had been done. Sherlock continued to brush it off, as ever, but when he got up to go to the toilet later in the evening, he had taken but four paces before he let out another pain noise, buckling. John was quicker this time, catching him before he could fall, helping his straighten up. "Thank you." he said, as he got upright, rubbing his chest. "Just a… bad hiccup." but of course, the doctor saw straight through it, terror wrapping around his skin like a prickly blanket.
He heard the vomiting but didn't say a word when he came back in and washed his mouth out with water. "Right. Okay." he sat down opposite John, leaning back with his eyes shut, dark shadows below his eyes, skin pale and clammy. "Maybe this wasn't… the most genius of ideas I have been struck by." he murmured.
The rest of the evening rolled by with no more incidents, although Sherlock wasn't very responsive to John's questions or discussions. He claimed a headache and went to be very early, soon followed by John, who couldn't bear the silent house.
He was woken by a horrible crunching noise. Then a hard, harsh choking noise; he was down the stairs in a moment, heart pounding, knowing immediately that it was coming from Sherlock's room. He banged on the door; "Sherlock! Are you okay?" there was a strangled noise of pain from within, and a hard panting. He was sure he heard his name, and he pushed the door open, thankful it had no lock. He froze at what he saw; Sherlock was on the floor, doubled over. A small puddle of blood nearby on the floor, and blood on his chin. His left arm was pulled in tight to his chest, and the other on the floor; he wore only jogging bottoms and was shaking, a thin gleam of sweat on his skin.
"John." he rasped again, and shuddered, letting out another noise, but now it was a shout of agony, his back rippling and his arm giving way, leaving him on his side on the floor. John moved to him in an instant. "What the hell is happening?" he asked, panic in his voice, as Sherlock stared at him. "Sorry, John." he choked out, "I think I might be having… a negative reaction. isn't it fascinating? Agh!" Sherlock cried out, twisting, and another hard crunch came from in his body. More blood ran down his face.
"Oh sweet jesus, no…" John backed away. "The hospital. I'll call - we can't…" Sherlock's arm snapped out, grabbing the front of his pyjama shirt. "No, stay, please." tears ran down his face as well now, mingling. Yet another crunch and he rolled back onto his front again, but they seemed to be growing. John stayed crouched, a hand over his mouth. Another crunch and he collapsed again.
Sherlock dug his nails into the carpet, and let out a scream of agony, making John jerk back in shock, tears in his eyes. "Help me." the whisper was soft, so soft John thought he'd imagined it; but there was the trembling form of his friend. Then, with a tremendous ripping noise, the skin split from his shoulder all down each side, a bone spur breaking out. "Oh my god, oh my… sweet jesus…" John backed away. This was unreal, impossible… the same happened on both sides, calcium building quickly, shaping into new things. Sherlock seemed incapable of noise, his skin cracking and flaking in places. His head twisted to look at John, the eyes wide.
As he stared into his friend's face the pupils dilated, narrowing into catlike slits, and he jerked and shook his head like an animal, trying to focus his eyes. Black claws were growing over his old nails, splitting the darkening skin, as his curls began to fall away. His jaw and cheek crunched and split, stretched out a good few inches. The tears continued falling, and it was clear he was in agony. His body grew larger, changed shape, his ribcage barrelling, bone growing from his pelvis. It was like a werewolf's transformation, but so much more horrific. Dark red and gold scales spread over him, his ears like tiny cat's on the side of his head; leathery wings. The size of a Labrador with powerful back legs, blacks claws, and a stubby but deadly-toothed mouth.
It was like a pocketsize dragon.
When everything was over Sherlock's strength gave out and he collapsed sideways. John knelt in the blood to stare in his face. "Please, please tell me this is a nightmare, a dream, a trick, anything." he whispered, touching what had been a human face minutes ago. A thin line of feathers rose up on his scalp, as if responding to the touch, and a low whimpering noise came from his throat. "Sherlock. Oh my god." he whispered, as the animal eyes, still that grey, slid shut. "Please let this be a nightmare."