*EDIT: 8o8 I was only gone for a few hours... And then I saw lovely reviews and favorites and things before I came back to fix up some mistakes and things...! I love you guys...!
PS: Idek how England works, so pardon moi if I don't know how many of what species is where. I'm just going by whatever inaccurate info I come by. I think otters and hedgehogs are still more common to see out there than they are over here~! (For me, AKA Never. 8n8)

Chapter 2: A Fish Is Miracles

The first few days were hell on earth.

Well, that was actually just exaggerating a bit. It was mildly tiresome for both flat mates, true, but for John especially. He often got tired puttering about the flat, and quickly, to the point where he had quite literally fallen asleep wherever he was, collapsing, exhausted. It was enough to have Sherlock worried-although these days, it wasn't as difficult to do as it had once been. That was another thing-wherever John paused and fell asleep, he always found himself back on the Union Jack cushion, as if it'd been carried over to him-or, in this case, dragged over. It was an endearing thought, Sherlock fussing over him for once instead of it being the other way round, but he didn't have any particularly high hopes as to what it could mean. Sherlock was merely just a bundle of whims that could be kind and mindful one moment, then frigid and distant in the next. It was unpredictable, and frustrating to try and understand, let alone study-John had simply learned to let it go on it's wild paths and stay out of its way when he could.

Things were shockingly domestic, though-Sherlock had grumbled about some experiments he couldn't access and observe in the refrigerator (hopefully not those toes and bacteria samples again-John had gotten enough of finding them in strange places for toes-like the stew pot) but hadn't gone into a frenzy of any kind for drugs or cases or any of the norm that would have had John wrestling his own fists safely away from Sherlock's sharply prominent cheekbones, and amazingly versatile eyes within a few days.

These features he missed especially, although he'd never say it, and if Sherlock knew, he didn't make any comment on it, so they let it be.

The duo had settled on Tea and Biscuits in the "proper English way" for the past few days, which had served them well thus far, as Sherlock didn't eat much and John found that he was nocturnal, making good for the times that he fell asleep on his own, as Sherlock wasn't a creature of the night like he'd been intended to be. He'd found ways to amuse himself, playing with Sherlock's new antics-he was more energetic, and friendlier, but also more active, too, and that made for a constantly tired John when he tried to keep up with his larger friend as he trod up and about the flat busily. As a result, Sherlock would place John in the folds of his scarf again, as he'd done the first day, and continue about the flat without a pause. Animal urges called for, of course, animalistic reaction-if Sherlock felt the urgent need to swim, he and John would struggle to twist the bathtub knobs to get him water (No thumbs and all, they remembered wryly). If John felt uncomfortable and the need to burrow, he and Sherlock did their best to drag down sheets and blankets, placing his larger head under the sheet to watch as John scurried about here and there to happily fix up a complex series of tunnels he'd surely have gotten lost in had his friend been elsewhere.

Sherlock's anxiety of John being crushed by passersby when they were out turned out to be in vain, solved easily by none other than Greg Lestrade. They'd been quarantined tightly to just the flat by Lestrade, who had finally put to good use the blackmail he'd organized, and checked on the duo often. While it begrudged the couple of animals-gone-wrong, they were somewhat relieved about the thought of not facing exposure immediately, if at all. It was. really only a matter of time before others started to get suspicious, unfortunately, what with the rumor mills at both the clinic and Scotland Yard being contented and well-fed with John and Sherlock's regard to one another in their presences. Frankly, John wasn't so sure he'd be able to deal with any more "knowing looks" he'd receive while tending to his shifts at the clinic after he'd hung up the phone with them, explaining that he'd have to attend to his flatmate unexpectedly.

"It's an emergency," he'd explained through the line cryptically. Sherlock had stood behind him at a careful distance the whole time, saying nothing, simply listening. After he'd ended his call, the otter had trotted away, back to the sofa, where he flopped for at least the fiftieth time that afternoon.

Every time he did that, John had to smother a laugh; he'd never noticed how otter-like Sherlock really was until after this whole frenzy, and if he had to be honest with himself, it wasn't half bad, this life as animals. He hadn't forsaken the idea of turning back into a human, though, of course not-but they were really never bored. Sherlock's antics had gotten to be cuter when performed by an animal (even if the detective was still himself in character), and his attitude had become mellower, not to mention much less abrasive with John. If that wasn't a nice break, he didn't know what would be. But that's just what this had to be-a break. He found himself not particularly anxious to return to his original form, if it meant he could have this peace for just a bit longer. Had he spoken aloud to Sherlock about the peace, his friend would have laughed at him. Of course it won't last-you forget the Universal Theory of Chaos, John. Idiot. Think a little, why don't you? He would have said.

The next day, Day 3 of this experience that hadn't seemed too bad so far, was going to be known as The Day John Almost Became Food. And food for, of all people, one Mister Sherlock Holmes.

It'd been quick-John had tittered his little way into the lower cabinet to investigate any hope for food, knowing there was none, and backed out hastily the moment he caught sight of pale, chalky white bones.

"SHERLOCK!" He yelled, shocked, and tumbled onto his back, breath coming quickly in relieved gasps. His flatmate trotted over curiously, but his eyes were oddly unmoved.

"I see you found them. Finally." The otter remarked, surprisingly complacent, seating his long body before him. John narrowed his eyes, and stopped trying to roll over for just a moment, scrutinizing his partner in crime. "Social experiment," the detective explained tightly, saying nothing afterwards.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" The otter didn't respond, merely humming his weak reassurance as he .

What would Sherlock do to figure this one out…? John paused in thought as he very carefully rolled back onto his feet, having gotten his fair share of practice attempting to deal with stairs just the day before. Right-solve the case, figure it out.

Sherlock's eyes followed him closely, too closely to just be concerned. His body shifted slightly, lightly lashing his tail, as John oriented his own torso, watching him now.

"Sherlock?" The beady black eyes were far from Sherlock's original, piercing eyes, seeming only to keep a keen eye on him for that sole purpose of just watching.

Uh oh. John swallowed, and yawned, eyes still open slightly through this facade.

"Right, well. If you're not going to answer me, then I'm just going to go to sleep. Where's that cushion that I was using earlier?" He asked, pretending to be nonchalant about the strange behaviour, plodding off and away from the death trap of a kitchen.

Sherlock began to quiver as he edged after John unsteadily, taking stuttering, small steps after his smaller friend. A little growl became more apparent as John quickly led the otter out of the kitchen and into the sitting area, making way steadily for the cushion-which, conveniently for him, had been placed by John's chair, the gap under which was far too small for an otter to get under-but certainly not for a hedgehog, he mused smugly.

A snarl behind him suggested it was time to run, and now, so John did-he quickly swerved out of the way of a webbed, clawed paw slamming down near where he'd stood only moments before, hearing the feverish growls of Sherlock's bass voice and witnessing the little convulsions of his hungry stomach. John felt sudden sympathy for his friend, but quickly dove down under the chair, heart pounding and his senses blown into hyperactivity as the loud snapping of sharp teeth locking shut empty barely missed him.

Sherlock's snarling and growling as he pawed after the hedgehog made him shiver, and he squeaked once in panic when his other paw made contact with him, grabbing him firmly. He followed his instinct at once-he bit his companion's paw-in the webbing-and curled into a protective, spiny ball seconds after he was released. When the paw returned for him, it was met with searing, stabbing, awakening pain, having been too quickly introduced with the sharpness that came with John's spines. Sherlock's cry was far from human, although his human voice returned in full force, snarling curses that John would've been shocked to hear from his friend had they been under different circumstances.

"Are you back with me, Sherlock?" John demanded, hoarsely, quaking in apprehension. He hadn't uncurled his body, far too tense still to do so now. There was a long pause, during which no one spoke or even dared breathe.

Then, slowly, John saw the shuffling feet that now belonged to his friend as he lowered his head to the ground, brown eyes apologetic as Sherlock stared into John's.

"John," he croaked, miserably. "I think my body needs sustenance-the otter kind."

A startled laugh tumbled from John's throat as he limply unrolled, and lay still, trying to free himself of the effects of the adrenaline rush. "He thinks so," he muttered, and laughed humorlessly. "He THINKS SO."

There was a long, injured silence-the whimper of the otter brought John back to earth, and he swung back onto his paws, warily making his way towards his friend who watched the slow procession with his newly obtained unusual patience. When he'd made it back within arm's reach, Sherlock very carefully, very slowly, reached under the chair, and pulled his friend out from under the seat. Tucking his quivering companion into his scarf, the detective made his way to the kitchen.

"You know-you know where everything is," he tentatively explained to his silent friend. His deep cocoa fur speckled with a spot of John's lighter gold color reflected back at him as he peered into the chrome of the refrigerator, grimacing slightly at himself as he climbed up and into the freezer that he pried open. "John."

"Hm? Oh, right, yes, right." The hedgehog broke out of his reverie, and shuffled free of Sherlock's scarf, onto the upper shelves his friend could not access. "Yes, there's fish here… Otters eat fish, right? Yeah…" He muttered as he made his way towards the four large fish he'd been saving for an occasion-one that was clearly not going to happen anytime soon.

"Sherlock! God forbid! Why are there toes IN THE FREEZER?" He swore as he shoved the plastic bag containing the offending digits aside, and shoved out one of the fish. Sherlock had the decency, for once, to look relatively ashamed, although it may have been from the earlier… event. However, John still couldn't tell.

He paused, paling at the thought of how exactly he was going to get this huge thing of meat to his flatmate waiting down below, and decided on a course of action quickly. He began to shiver slightly, the cold finally seeping into his fur.

"Okay, Sherlock-get ready to catch this; I'm going to drop it, and you'd best grab on with your teeth!" John warned. His friend grumbled something unintelligible, which he took to be an affirmative, and began nudging the thing over the edge of the shelf. With a slick sound, if slipped from the ledge of the shelf and down to his waiting friend.

There was a yelp and an "ouch!" followed distinctly by a hiss, and when John looked down at his friend again he found Sherlock on his back, fish lying across his face, and very much not in his mouth. The doctor resisted the urge to break down and laugh at the ridiculous sight, instead shimmying down the shelf onto a lower level.

"You're fine-get up, you git, and eat!" He called down, inching his way slowly back to the ground.

Sherlock grumbled quietly, but murmured an almost shy "thank you" before actually attempting to eat the thing. It didn't go well-if it wasn't fried, it seemed, Sherlock didn't know how to eat fish properly. He struggled with the tail end first, then attempted to pry the fish open that way. When that failed, he tried again with the head, whining impatiently as it bore no fruit.

The army doctor watched his pitiful attempts at picking apart the whole filet in silence as he finally returned to the ground, disbelief coloring his tiny hedgehog face. "Okay, okay, move over, apparently you need to see how it's done." The thing was surrendered to him in silence, and the hedgehog got to work with an almost surgical precision.

John took great care to saw apart the fish with his teeth and remove the spine and any extra bones, trying to make things easier on his starved flatmate. Even after he'd given him the now-trimmed piece of pure meat, it seemed the detective was still having issues eating, and was growing increasingly frustrated with it. They were both puzzled, until Sherlock had a sudden realization, his wide eyes catching John's, before quickly gathering the fish pieces and the soldier up with him, making way towards the sofa.

He flopped onto his back, and John almost flew into hysterics when Sherlock began eating again-this time with the ease an otter had in the water. It was only when the detective flinched continuously that John realized the sharp spines on his back had actually made Sherlock's paw bleed a little, and that the sting of the salty fish would not be a great remedy for that at all. Sheepishly, he crawled onto and curled up on his friend's belly apologetically-why Sherlock enjoyed his presence there, he'd never completely understand-but the detective waved his other paw in a vague gesture. "You did what you had to do," he reasoned, and that was that.

Shortly after collaboratively eating a pound and a half of fish, John having helped with a minimal portion of that weight, the two collapsed into silence, John's meditative, and Sherlock's almost… sluggish. When the doctor turned to examine his friend, he found paws enclosing over him, and barely resisted flinching as they descended gently around him. Upon scrutiny, he found a pleasant surprise-Sherlock was asleep. He was cuddling a hedgehog of all things, in his sleep.

I shouldn't have expected anything more, John mused wearily. He did talk to a skull more often than real people before I came around...

Deciding to let his friend sleep while he cleared the mess in the kitchen, John squirmed free of Sherlock's grip-or, more accurately, tried to, and failed. The paws were gentle, but tenacious, and held on raptly, as if life depended on it.

Resigned, the nocturnal creature allowed the breaths and slow rumbling sound of his friend's sleep to lull him into dozing off, and settled in for the afternoon, tucking his friend's injured paw away from his spines carefully.