In The Light of The Moon
"You're a werewolf" came the drawling voice of John's flatmate from behind his impromptu shield of a newspaper.
John lowered it slowly to face the piercing blue eyes that were boring into him from the chair in the corner, the long, pale digits of the man's fingers steepling into a rigid structure underneath his chin.
Pain.
Such pain. Bone crunching between the creatures teeth, digging the cloth of his khakis deeper into the mess that was once his shoulder.
Beneath him the body of Sgt. Williams , throat ripped out, bleed out into the freezing sand, both their guns lying useless beside him, the empty shells of the bullets fired in vain littering the battlefield.
It dropped him, a man-like and utterly terrifying grin creeping across the wolf's face as John howled at his feet, clutching his shoulder as his blood began to burn like the flames of hell itself, streaking through his body.
The wolf raised up to its full height a good seven foot on his hind legs and threw its head back, in a position that in a human that would indicate laughter. John watched in horror as his own blood glistened on the creature's teeth as it howled at the orb of pure white in the sky above.
John rubbed at his shoulder subconsciously, his fingers brushing where his life changing wound had once been, a wound and scar that had healed through subsequent transformations.
His left hand shook beneath him at his flatmates scrutinizing gaze, the icy depth seemed to penetrate his very soul seeing into his heart, and the fire that was threatening to force itself to the surface and attack and destroy this- man.
This man who had found out his secret and was now a threat to John and the wolf's survival and secret. The shaking intensified, his blood boiling threateningly.
"Yes" he said simply, coolly, inclining his head in conformation. A dark eyebrow quirked upwards into the flash of brilliant black curls on the top of Sherlock's head, the eyes lighting up and flickering in interest.
"Afghanistan." The word was more of a statement than a question, his voice calm and collected in the way that only Sherlock could be after finding out that his flatmate turned into a bloodthirsty wolf in the light of the full moon.
"Yes." John repeated. Sherlock's lip curled into a smile.
There was a moments silence as John's darkened blue eyes stared into the silvery depths of Sherlock's. John tilted his head, the look in his eyes opening, allowing Sherlock to ask the thousands of questions that were flying through his mind.
"Did it hurt?" John resisted the urge to throw his newspaper at him.
"Yes." He said slowly, wincing as the memory tore through his mind.
That same eyebrow flexed upwards contorting the detectives face even more with the smile that broke across his face.
"Are you going to answer every question with yes?" Sherlock said, his eyes glittering with a brilliant silvery sheen.
John's face lit up with a mirror of Sherlock's smile.
"Not if the answer's no."
A deep huff off a laughed breath escaped Sherlock's nose, at his amusement at John's witty comment, his smile cracking oh so slightly wider.
"How did you work it out?" John's voice said, infiltrating Sherlock's mind in the way that no other voice has ever been capable off.
Sherlock's eyes widened for a split second in shock. John refrained from asking that question, often groaning in exasperation at himself more than anything when Sherlock began explaining more to himself than anyone the reasons for his normally out of the blue blurted comment.
"You..." he chocked as he met John's eyes, as pierced into him in their own John-like way, soft and gently encouraging Sherlock.
"You left the house last month, you have been frequently doing this since moving here, I cross-compared with a calendar of the lunar schedule after I got some inkling of what was going on and every date matched up with a full moon" he said, muttering into space as a pale hand waved over a scrawled calendar various curved drawing and rings.
John's eyes narrowed causing the detective to stop in his mutterings; a look of clear panic crossing his features as his eyes flickered to the doctor's shaking hand.
"What, other evidence did I leave?" John all but snarled, his voice taking on a gruff almost dog-like quality. Sherlock paled a shade more than his already startlingly white complexion.
"There's the shaking in your hand. Not mere post traumatic stress or the theory of your longings for a distant war zone that my idiotic brother put forward, that... that's a sign that the wolf is getting closer to the surface, your losing the control of your animal side put simply. And, then there was the crucial, evidence:..." he gulped, taking in the calm but ferocious look in his normally placid flatmate's face.
"The urm... blood and hair" he whispered. John's shaking stopped for a moment in shock.
"Blood and hair?" he repeated, his mind whirling as to when Sherlock had obtained that and more importantly what he had done with it.
Sherlock cleared his throat, biting back another gulp. This was the first time he had been truly fearful in John's company.
"You left it behind after one full moon; you clearly hadn't stopped shedding when you returned here. Of course the hair mystified me, and I had to test it. It had blood crusted in it, your blood. So did the hair, but they both had canine DNA in it. It seemed impossible but with the lunar cycle and your disappearances, it seemed the only possibility. I...uh... I burnt them afterwards." He finished quietly, waiting for his flatmates reaction, looking up at him beneath his long jet black lashes, one of his similarly coloured curls of hair falling into his eyes.
John's breath hitched, the shaking in his hand subsiding to a small twitch as his wolf stirred in his mind. It watched Sherlock through John's eyes, watching the slowly darkening sky in the window behind him.
No full moon tonight, but he, the wolf that declared himself as Faolon in John's mind after that first fateful night, was significantly stronger under any moonlight.
And as he watched, turning John's eyes into the bright silvery blue eyes of his wolf to get a better look at the man who had bowed his head to John, tentatively twiddling his thumbs together.
The pupils contracted, allowing more of the moon-like silver to flood John's eyes, zooming in on his flatmate, focusing on the pulse-point and the blood that rushed through his vessels.
"Taste" Faolon whispered in his mind, licking mental lips and John felt himself lurch forward before he caught himself in his actions.
"No, Sherlock is not food. He is our flatmate." John said to himself. The wolf growled in his mind and lurched himself forward towards the mental block, whining pitifully as John gave him a mental slap on the nose.
"Taste" the wolf whined more desperately. The John in his mind eyed the wolf, and gave him another sharp slap to the nose. Another pitiful whine escaped his lips, the remnants of which petered through John's own pursed human ones.
Sherlock's eyes flew up to meet John's, the silvery grey of his eyes competing with the colour that John's had turned, a small gasp escaping his own lips at the colour reflecting back at him.
The wolf sniffed in interest, using John's own nose as a receptor, the animal nature of it picking up Sherlock's scent even from across the room. Sherlock's eyes stared right back at him, staring directly into the wolf.
Faolon gave a slight growl, this time deeper, the noise just reaching the human John's throat.
"Mate" it growled, the eyes swivelling at the man before John, whose breath caught in his throat as John cocked his head at him.
"N- " MATE" The wolf growled, throwing itself against the mental barrier in his mind, causing John's whole body to throw forward, a how escaping his throat, his teeth gritted, and his muscles clenched and tightened as the wolf tried to force a transformation .
He whited out for a moment. When he came through, his jaw was locked, his breath coming in small sharp gasps and the shaking in his hands flowing through his whole body.
A hand was stroking his hair... A HAND WAS-
John yelped, jolting backwards from Sherlock who nearly jumped a mile himself, falling backwards into the sofa that he was sitting on.
"The- hell – do you think you were- doing. Wolf- you..." John heaved, taking a huge breath in through his nose to steady his nerves.
Sherlock's scent infiltrating his senses. Oh.
Oh.
Both the wolf and the wolf-like John smelt it. Sherlock's scent.
John had never smelt anything like it before, and he was sure he would never smell anything like it again. A mixture of clean skin, tea, old books, wool and silk (no doubt from those ridiculously expensive clothes he wore) mixed with something that was uniquely his that was pure unadulterated odorous ecstasy.
A growl from both of them rumbled in John's throat, a wolf-like grin appearing on his face and his pupils widening to almost consume the liquid fire that was raging in his eyes.
"J-John" Sherlock stammered, his chest heaving in fear, the buttons of that ridiculously tight shirt straining in time with his breaths, his cheeks flushed to the point of redness and his legs splayed beneath him. Perfectly submissive without even trying.
Sherlock got to his feet, taking small steps towards John, his hands placed flat out until they reached the smaller man's chest. Or... he would have been the smaller man, but this awakening of the wolf inside caused him to rise to half his true height, for once taller than Sherlock.
Sherlock gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as his hands twitched on John's shirt, the fingers automatically feeling the muscles that were tensing and forming beneath the cloth. Another gulp appeared in his throat.
John gently ran his finger across the skin that was presented on his flatmates neck, pressing lightly at the collar bone, causing Sherlock to shudder, his breath brushing over John's face and nose causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.
His fingers continued their journey, until they reached the first obstacle of Sherlock's button. A sharp tug of impatience on the wolf (and a little of John's) sent the buttons pinging across the room merely for the crime of keeping Sherlock clothed.
John/Wolf surveyed the man before him, the brilliant silver eyes swirling over the toned features of Sherlock's chest, the brilliant marble white skin that covered the muscles that made him up, and the cloth that covered his shoulders.
The John side of him gently brushed his lips against his flatmate who was now quivering in anticipation, who immediately responded, bringing his head upwards to deepen the kiss and press his body into John's hastily changing one.
John nipped at Sherlock's lips, allowing a deep groan of pleasure to escape the detective lips and allowing the werewolf proper access into his mouth, pushing his tongue into the other man's mouth, tasting that amazing smell that tipped him over the edge in the first place, his taste buds exploding as Sherlock infiltrated them.
John's hand flew up to Sherlock's hair, entangling his fingers in the enticingly thick and beautiful curls as their tongue continued their exploration of each other's mouths.
Sherlock moved backwards, meeting John's eye for a split second glittering wildly and jet black from desire, his hair mussed by John's roaming fingers, his lips bright red and ravaged from their kissing and his chest heaving free from it's now ruined silky constraints.
His lips slammed back onto Johns, his fingers fumbling on John's now straining sweater, pulling it over John's head and causing the torn shirt beneath to come away in cheap cotton tendrils, as John pushed them towards the wall.
Sherlock's upper back met it with a bump, his lower back protected by the strong arms that were encircling his tiny in comparison waist, the long, slender fingers splayed across the still clothed hips.
They were the next to go, the wolf frantic, half tearing those in his haste to get the new offender off his flatmate's body. John's jean's practically exploded from him and before they realized they were standing stark naked before each other.
Sherlock's eyes travelled downwards, his eyes flickering over the dark thatch of hair that started at his stomach, travelling downwards. A soft smirk appeared on his lips and he ran his tongue over that full and sensual bottom lip.
Before John could stop or ask or encourage him, Sherlock was on his knees, the warm, wet confines of his mouth around his cock, his breath circulating around it. A strangled groan escaped John's throat, his hand flying back into Sherlock's tangles, his hands involuntarily making soft tugs in the silky curls.
Sherlock makes a noise at the back of his throat, deep and murmuring, causing vibrations to move through his whole body and lord have mercy into John through their meeting point.
The wolf wants to thrust into Sherlock's beautiful mouth, jolt him backwards make him take him even deeper, but John still has control over the situation and bites his lip, his back arching slightly.
Sherlock looks up at him, ever the mind reader and seems to get the message, moving even closer, deeper, his hand resting against John's leg, his lips turning a more and more violent shade of brilliant red as John's cock moves in and out of it, and god help John if it isn't the most sinfully beautiful thing that he's ever seen.
"Fuc- Sherlock" he moans. He feels close to the edge, so close to being pushed over. The sensation in his stomach is white hot, burning into his eyes as he slams them shut, his head falling backwards as he comes, releasing himself into Sherlock's mouth.
Sherlock swallows it all, milking him, cleaning him, his tongue running over the once again hardening shaft once more, before releasing him with a wet pop, getting to his feet and standing up to his full height, ignoring the low growl, heavy almost panting-like noise that's escaping John's throat.
Sherlock's lips moves to meet his once more, John's tongue infiltrating the younger man's mouth, tasting himself on his lips and tongue. It's a ridiculous turn on for him and especially the wolf, who loved the idea of dominating Sherlock, feeling him moan and groan beneath him.
The wolf begs him to let him, give him a little more time with Sherlock. John, with his tongue down Sherlock's throat and the detective's hand brushing him, coaxing him back to his full size, relents.
The change is almost immediate, the wolf barrels through the mental barrier, pushing into Sherlock and attacking Sherlock with tantalizingly soft nips at his neck, leaving the man gasping and whining, half exhilarated, half terrified.
While his mouth teased Sherlock's neck, his hands found their way to their nipples where they began to pinch and twist, with just enough pressure to leave the man gasping, his head lolling backwards against the wall.
Sherlock would have fallen to the floor if suddenly quick hands hadn't cupped him around the arse and keep him locked around him. Sherlock continued to whine and pant as John continued his onslaught on his neck, occasionally bringing that tongue into play and lapping against his collar bone, even more occasionally bringing his teeth in, to nip just a little too hard, leaving brilliant red marks that would soon be bruises to mar the otherwise unblemished alabaster skin.
"Take- take me John." Sherlock whined, his back pressing further and further into the wall. John stopped looking upwards, his eyes brilliant grey, panting.
"Say that again" he growled, his voice huskier and deeper than Sherlock had ever heard.
"Take me John." he repeated, deliberately dropping his voice an octave to match the wolf's deepened voice.
John threw his head back, seizing Sherlock by the legs and pushing him further up the wall, angling Sherlock so he was directly above his leaking member.
With a howl like moan he arched himself into the detective who immediately cried out in pleasure, his eyes fluttering shut from the bliss that immediately shuddered through his body.
Sweat poured from the both of them, as they found a rhythm that suited both John's animalistic style and Sherlock's long forgotten and under-practiced technique. A ball of sweat fell down the detective's skin and John licked it off, latching his lips to the skin beneath and sucking for all his might.
John's right hand clasped around Sherlock's back as his left hand found Sherlock's own hardened shaft, gently beginning to stroke it, before moving in unison with his own thrusts and Sherlock's now forgotten downwards thrust as he whined and moaned under John's touch.
Sherlock couldn't speak for the brilliant and intense feelings that were flying through his already sore and ransacked body. It was unbearable. It was painful. It was fucking wonderful.
"John... I" his words were cut off by John's mouth, pressing hard into the soft skin of his neck, biting, drawing blood at the points of his teeth. Marking his as John's.
He cried out, his body tightening around John as the man gave one final jolt of his hand and a final upwards thrust. He heard his own name fall from the doctor's lips, his seed pumping into him, causing another orgasm to rip through the detective's body. John pulled out of him holding tightly as Sherlock fell limp in his arms, his knees collapsing beneath him, swooning like a de-flowered maiden, his pulse pounding wildly in the wrist beneath John's calloused hands.
...
Sherlock couldn't hear anything other than his own thundering heart in his ears and chest. He didn't even recognize the surroundings as his own for a moment; everything seemed to be a brighter colour than it should be, slightly blurred around the edges. His mind whirred back into life, his senses becoming vaguely aware of John's mouth nuzzling and licking where he had sunk his teeth back into them the night before.
He blinked heavily, his eyes fluttering as he took in the sun filtering in through the open window, and the sounds of London sang back at him. John peered at him, his face flushing lightly red in the morning sun.
"Morning" John whispered, lightly pressing his tongue against the healed skin and the shiny silver mark that had formed there. Sherlock turned on his side, facing the man head on, a soft smile appearing on his lips. He was pleased to see that John had reverted to his smaller normal state and was lying, curled at his waist, his feet entwined with the detective.
"Morning" he replied, gently pressing his lips to John's, pursing them open and accepting John inside his mouth.
It seemed that although the wolf conquered the night, it was the morning where John's heart really lay. And Sherlock, he could enjoy the best of both worlds.