"Oh, here comes the psychopath and his dog," Sally announced with a hint of conceit in her tone.
Sherlock merely ignored her comment as he strode confidently past the flashing lights and wailing sirens to the crime scene.
John, however, did not take kindly to her comment and returned a stern, hard stare to her as he trotted behind Sherlock.
Lestrade escorted them to the mutilated body. "Lucky for us, one of the few things we did find of this man was his wallet which had identification, problem is we're not really sure who, or what, could have caused this sort of... damage... to a person. It's, pardon the pun, bloody awful."
Sherlock swept his greatcoat back and knelt beside the corpse. "Teeth marks, ripping, chunks of flesh unaccounted for and quite a voluminous amount of blood," he stated. "Have you considered something ate the man?"
John rubbed his left elbow and looked at the body nervously.
"Well, I know that's what it looks like, but what sort of animal is large enough to overpower a man that you can find in the heart of London? Obviously, it must have been a stray dog that got to his body before we did. So, this man died some other way and that's what we need from you," Lestrade reasoned.
Sherlock stood up to face Lestrade. "Obviously," he stated coolly. John heard the sarcasm in his voice. "Natural causes. When the coroner examines his heart, they'll find it was severely stressed likely resulting in a heart failure."
Lestrade looked at the body, then back at Sherlock. "I'm not going to lie, that sounds, well, to be honest, a bit silly, but you've never been wrong. Alright, I guess. Thanks for your help."
Sherlock then proceeded to walk briskly towards John.
"The heart attack was a lie; what do you think really happened to this man?" hissed John as they walked side-by-side away from the scene.
"How's your arm?" asked Sherlock calmly.
Two weeks earlier, on a chase, John had been attacked by what he thought to be large dog. It's teeth sank into his arm through his heavy coat and John nearly re-damaged his shoulder in the struggle, until Sherlock's carefully timed shots scared the animal off.
The bite was serious, but not enough to warrant a trip to hospital. Instead, John stoically bit his lip while Sherlock stitched him back up, and bandaged the wound.
John rubbed his arm again, "Fine, but you're avoiding the question."
Sherlock looked straight ahead. "Werewolf."
A chuckle escape John's lips until he realized Sherlock wasn't laughing. "Wait, you're serious?"
"John, I don't think you realize how serious I am."
"And next you'll be telling me vampires and ghosts are real too?"
Sherlock dug in his pockets in search for his key as they approached the steps of 221b Baker Street.
John rolled his eyes, fished his key from his hip pocket and unlocked the door for the consulting detective.
Sherlock smiled gently at him as he walked through the door that John held open for him.
It had been months since John and Sarah had a falling out. John, who constantly put her in life and death situations, was broke, had a questioning relationship with his flatmate, and was always late had turned out not to be boyfriend Sarah had hoped for. They had attempted to remain friends shortly after they broke up, but it was strained and they eventually broke it off completely.
In the time since, John and Sherlock's friendship strengthened, but the former had been old-fashioned and hard-headed. The feelings he had for Sherlock were simply because he spent so much time with the man. The urges arose, certainly, but only because he hadn't gone at it with anyone recently. To admit there could be a more-than-platonic relationship with Sherlock would be blasphemous.
Once inside, Sherlock undid the buttons on his coat and let it drop on the large armchair.
"They do exist," Sherlock responded over his shoulder as he unbuttoned his shirt.
"What?" John asked distractedly as he moved Sherlock's coat from the chair to the coat rack.
"Werewolves, vampires, ghosts, witches, they're all real," Sherlock repeated as he turned to John who turned slightly pink at the sight of Sherlock's exposed chest.
John licked his lips, cleared his throat, then asked again, "I'm sorry, what?"
"Oh come on, John. I've said it twice now. You are definitely not so thick that you missed what I've told you a third time.
"I heard you, Sherlock. But I mean, that's a bit, I don't know, Halloween-y, isn't it? I mean, if you want to get me in the spirit, there are better ways to do it."
"I'm being completely serious right now."
"Really? Alright, what's a real vampire look like then? Big teeth, sparkles in the sun, what?" John said jokingly and a bit frustrated with Sherlock's insistence on the subject.
Sherlock's face dropped. "No sparkling in the sun, but the teeth are... indeed... there," Sherlock lifted his upper lip to reveal a gleaming, pointy canine.
John stumbled backwards. "Okay, you've got me. Great costume, Sherlock, but now you're scaring me."
Sherlock's stony expression softened. "John, haven't you ever read the novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle? Who did you think those stories were about?"
John laughed; it was canned and sounded fake even to him. "A cousin? A great-grandparent? A coincidence, maybe? I mean, there was a 'John Watson' in those stories too."
"Yes, well, that was a coincidence, but those books are really about me. John, you know me better than anyone else. Is it really such a stretch for you?"
John's eyes grew large as it sunk in. "This whole time... but Mycroft...?"
Sherlock held his gaze, "Yes, we really are brothers, and I'm afraid of all the people I've had to endure the company of, his has been the most... constant," Sherlock said dismissively, his attention now focused on a the cluttered table.
"What- I- This-" John stammered.
Sherlock looked back at John moved swiftly to press him to his chest. "It's very lonely, this life, but then I found you and I felt emotions I'd thought were long gone. It's strange and odd, and I wasn't going to tell you for another few years but..."
John's head snapped back to inquire from Sherlock, "But what?"
"John, that bite."
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me. There is no way, no BLOODY FUCKING WAY," John pulled away in disbelief.
Sherlock took a pained breath and clasped John's wrists, and looked worriedly into his eyes. "I mean it John, how do you feel?"
John shook his head, "Fine-" he stopped, licked his lips, and thought for a moment, "Actually, my stomach's been bothering me. It's probably nothin- OW," John said, clutching his stomach.
He backed away from Sherlock still holding his side. He paused, waiting, and after a minutes straightened up. "AH!" he said again, nearly dropping to his knees. If Sherlock hadn't caught him, he likely would've been on the floor.
"John? Are you okay? John?" Sherlock said, obvious distress in his voice. John looked up at his face in strained panic. "Where does it hurt, John? How can I help you?"
John's breathing became labored, and he struggled in quiet heroism against the spasms that coursed through his body, radiating outward from the bite wound, his injured shoulder, and his stomach. The pain increased in intensity, and John could suffer in silence no more.
Sherlock had since laid him out on some a large blanket, removed his clothes, and proceeded to wipe the sweat from John's brow as he twisted and turned, screaming in agony. John slipped out of consciousness, but between spasms, he would call out softly, "Sherlock, Sherlock."
"I'm here," Sherlock comforted him. His inability to help John was torturing him as he watched John writhe in pain.
John's body began to distort, as the real transformation began, and John's screams grew louder. Fur grew from John's skin, and he began to take on the countenance of a wolf.
Sherlock realized it was dangerous to let him loose in the apartment; he doubted if he would have the strength to fend him off, so he hoisted the disfigured army doctor over his shoulder, lay him as gently as he could on the floor of his room, and locked the door.
Sherlock sat, fingers pressed together, in the armchair, staring straight ahead, but not paying attention to what was in front of him. He winced each time he heard John howl, or whimper, or smash something. He hadn't realized how difficult it would be to listen.
Just before dawn, the noise quieted down to sniffling and scuffling, then gradually sweet silence. A small gasp of relief left Sherlock as he let go of the tension he'd been holding in since the ordeal began. He rubbed his eyes, yawned, and without meaning to, dozed off. Sherlock woke with a start when he heard the bedroom door unlock.
He turned as John timidly opened the door a crack to look out.
Sherlock stood up, and John opened the door fully. He was wrapped in the blanket Sherlock had laid him on.
John took a few shaky steps so that he stood just in front of the door. An awkward silence passed between the two as they stood, holding each other's gaze.
John spoke first, "So, um, you're a v-, wow, this sounds stupid, vampire?"
"Yes, well, you're a werewolf."
John half-smiled. "How come you never tried to 'drink my blood' or something?"
Sherlock looked puzzled, "Did you... want me to? I have other sources, but if you want-"
"God no," John interrupted. Another awkward silence passed, and it was John who broke it again. "We are quite the odd pair, aren't we?" he chuckled slightly.
Sherlock breathed deeply. "I suppose we are. John, listen, I don't care if we have to deal with this every full moon, or every night, or however often it happens. John, I-"
"Oh, shut up," John grinned, and ran to Sherlock, leaving the blanket forgotten on the floor. They embraced in a passionate kiss that seemed to last for an eternity.
"What the HELL is this?" demanded John when he opened his laptop. "Sherlock, what in God's name were you reading?"
"I think they call it fanfiction," replied Sherlock laying on the couch staring up at the ceiling.
"Please, tell me you don't-"
"God, no, John. I've told you before, it's my work I'm married to. Frankly, if you keep implying something like that, I really will believe you are making an advance on me."
John shook his head, then licked his lips. "You're an idiot, you know that?" He looked at the screen again, smiling at it sardonically. "Besides, what sort of pathetic story ends with me snogging your face?"