A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, followed & favoured. I'm keeping track, I promise!

This one might be less funny than the others are (hopefully) going to be – I'm setting up some tension & beginning of background information – that's the plan anyway, she says with a shrug.

2. The Hex You Say

"The cat's really among the pixies now." Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

Several Days Later

It started out simply enough.

A case that involved a stolen piece of jewelry and a nice murder.

An easily caught criminal who managed, somehow, to escape.

A chase through the streets of London.

A gun pulled out at the last minute and a shot fired. A body slumped forward that landed heavily to the ground.

A cry from someone coming up behind, a fraction of a second too late.

A criminal suddenly slipped on nothing and landed on his back, hitting his head rather hard against the pavement. He was knocked out.

John rushed up to where Sherlock lay on the ground, fear radiating from every pour. He hadn't even thought when he flung the hex. Pure instinct. He hadn't done anything that uncontrolled since adolescences.

He ignored the second slumped figure and concentrated on the first. He quickly assessed the unconscious form and gently rolled him over.

Oh thank god!

The bullet had grazed the temple and rendered Sherlock unconscious. The cut was bleeding heavily, but there didn't appear to be any other damaged and even as he took the detective's pulse he could see Sherlock was coming around. He heard footsteps coming up behind.

"Oh Christ, what the hell happened?" asked Lestrade. "Is he alright?"

"Yes," said John shortly, "he will be."

"What happened to Jenkins?" he chin pointed in the direction of the other unconscious figure.

"He slipped," was the only answer forth coming. At that moment Sherlock's eyes fluttered open so he didn't see Lestrade mouth the words 'he slipped'. He didn't pay any attention as Lestrade wandered over to where Jenkins lay on the ground.

John held him down in place preventing him from immediately sitting up. "You are not moving. Don't even try. And you are going to the hospital if I have to knock you out myself to get you there."

Sherlock's eyes tried to focus on John but he couldn't seem to get them to work as a team just yet. He slurred something to the effect of, "Dnt redic you cn stich yrslf."

"I'm sorry," John said, relief evident in his tone along side humour, "I don't speak imbecile."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to be cooperating more and his colour was improving. He tried again speaking slowly and enunciating. He must have been feeling better because there was definite sarcasm in his inflection.

"I said, 'Don't be ridiculous. You can stitch me up yourself.' Did you lose your hearing when Jenkins fired that gun?"

"No you daft git, but you could have lost your head. What were you thinking running after him like that?"

Sherlock struggled to sit up. John helped him. He was using a clean handkerchief to stem the blood flow.

"I was thinking I would catch him. Did you punch him John? No you didn't. No marks on your hands. What happened to him?'

Knowing Sherlock was fine because he automatically started deducting as well as being a dick, John looked Sherlock straight in the eye, "He slipped." He didn't blink. Not once.

Sherlock frowned, "On what? There appears to be no oil on the ground. It hasn't rained in a week so there's not water nor has it been cold enough for ice to form even if there were water. His shoes have rubber soles and don't tie. It is inconceivable that he simply slipped."

"I do not think it means what you think it means."

"What are you rambling on about now?"

"Inconceivable. Of course it's conceivable. I saw him do it."

"John. You are hiding something from me. Why? Why are you not telling me what happened?"

John looked thoughtful for a moment and then said the thing that had been gnawing at him for days now, the thing he had wanted to address but didn't quite know how to.

"I'll tell you what happened when you confess to being a cat."

oOo

An Hour Later

John finished cleaning up the gauze and other materials he'd required to stitch Sherlock up. He went into the bathroom to wash his hands.

The detective had been quiet during the ride home. Both men had spent the journey half glancing at the other in such a way that they kept missing making eye contact. John had refused to say anything further to Sherlock about what had happened and about the bold statement he had made. He decided that he could indeed fix Sherlock up at the flat. His reasoning hadn't been altruistic or for convenience sake. It had been in the hopes of getting a confession.

It didn't look like that was forth coming.

John finished washing his hands and dried them on a towel. He chucked the towel in with the rest of the laundry and walked back out to the living room. Sherlock, who had changed into pajamas, had curled up on the couch, his body all loose and long. He couldn't have looked more feline if he tried.

John sat in his chair and cleared his throat.

"Are we going to talk about this?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Sherlock?"

A hand unwrapped itself from the lump on the couch and waved lazily through the air.

"What John? That you are delusional? That you are lying to me? Is there anything else we should be talking about?"

John leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees and shook his head back and forth.

"No, Sherlock. I am not delusional. I know what I saw and I know what it means. I know a whole lot more than you think I do."

With that intriguing sentence, Sherlock lifted his head fractionally and stared at his blogger. "You know what more than I think you do?"

John just stared at him. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Are you sure you are feeling okay? That was not the most coherent sentence I've heard you utter." Sherlock said nothing. John sighed. He was becoming quite practiced at it since moving in with Sherlock.

"I will talk about it when you tell me the truth."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he huffed. He crossed his arms and threw himself around so his back was toward John. He shouted over his shoulder in John's general vicinity, "With holding information and using it to attempt to blackmail me will not entice me to tell you something outrageous John."

John just sighed. "Fine. You don't appear to have a concussion so I'm going to bed. When you are emotionally mature enough to have a civil conversation come and get me."

John left and walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He changed quickly and crawled under the covers. He turned his bedside light off and lay there, an arm over his eyes, thinking.

A few minutes later a quiet knock sounded against the door. A soft voice sounded on the other side, "John?"

John flipped the switch back on and called out, "Come on in Sherlock."

The door opened slowly and the tall detective was backlit by the light from the hallway, his shadow longer and thinner on the bedroom floor.

John sat up further and beckoned Sherlock to come in. Sherlock slunk in and curled up on the end of John's bed. His eyes were downcast. John was confused as to why the other man would be embarrassed.

Sherlock raised his eyes and for a second his eyes glowed like a cat's in the night, there was a definite slit to the pupils and then they shifted back to more human looking. John's breathing stopped and started momentarily.

"So it is true," he said almost under his breath.

Sherlock nodded, still seeming embarrassed.

"How and why are the first two questions I have."

Sherlock shrugged, "It's familial. It's more common than you think. And I'm not suppose to talk about it."

"Will you have to kill me now?"

Sherlock's sly grin made a return and he chuckled softly, "No John. But I will have to answer to The Family."

John could hear the capitals in the last two words. "The Family?" he asked.

"Yes. Unfortunately my own family is the head of The Family. That makes explaining to them even more tedious than it would normally be."

"I can't be the first human to have discovered this?'

Sherlock looked sharply at John. Was there a brief pause before he said 'human'.

"Alright John. You've heard my little secret. What's yours?"

John sat looking at Sherlock, deep in thought. Then for an answer he simply looked toward the open doorway and suddenly the door slammed shut. Sherlock's head whipped back and forth between the door and John, trying to see the trick.

"John. There's not suppose to be such a thing…"

"As people turning into cats?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "No potions, waving of arms? No chanting or silly spells?"

John shook his head. "Nope. It's science. I manipulate energy and in the case of organic material on the cellular level."

"Must make you an extraordinary doctor."

"It helps, but there's a limit of how much I can do and how long I can sustain it. The more energy I put out to manipulate things the more I spend. It doesn't take long to become exhausted. So I tend not to use it too much. Don't rely on it. It's much easier to do it without hocus pocus and it's more," he searched for the words, "morally correct, I guess."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. He was being handed a whole lot of intriguing information about his already fascinating flatmate.

"What about on yourself? Why didn't you simply repair the damage to your shoulder?"

John grimaced, "I can't. Can't work it on myself. Doesn't work."

Sherlock sat back, "And your shooting skills?"

"I'm a good shot. Doesn't take magic for that. Okay I've answered some of your questions, though lord knows you have a few thousand more and are already lining up experiments in that great brain of yours," John's asperity was tinged with fondness, "What about you?"

"What? You show me yours and I show you mine?"

John choked. "Sherlock, that is not what that means." He muttered something about bad enough people thought he was gay without his flatmate using colloquialisms incorrectly. He stopped muttering when his breath was sucked in. Instead of a skinny, spindly detective, the cat from the other night was lying on the end of his bed. Not unlike John's abilities it happened from one heartbeat to the next. The end of the cat's tail flicked in slight irritation, but the expression on his face was the same smugness from that night.

A blink and Sherlock was back. Because he was watching this time John could see a slight shimmer in the air. Sherlock came back with pajamas intact, something John was rather grateful for.

"So, so where do your clothes go and your, your mass for that matter."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, "Elsewhere." He thought for a moment. "The best answer I can give is a pocket in subspace. It's complicated."

John nodded still thinking.

Sherlock cleared his throat. He looked, not exactly uncomfortable, but more as if he were uncertain. It was not a look one saw very often upon the detective's face, "john, we have more of a problem than my family finding out I told you about me being a cat."

John looked up from his musings, "What? Your brother going to want to try and use me in the name of the British Government? Because that's not…"

"No John," and Sherlock's eyes gleamed once more and his pupils dilated. Hunting mode, thought John.

"He's not going to use you, but he may want to kill you."