"Sherlock, who is he?" Greg Lestrade asked. They were sitting in the waiting room of Bart's Hospital. Frankly, Greg was surprised when he found Sherlock in that basement giving his coat to an unknown man. John, he said. The young man had looked terrified, and leaned into Sherlock as he limped up the stairs to wait for the ambulance.
"His captive. I did some digging. His name is John Watson, retired Army medical assistant, injured in action. Disappeared six months ago from his small flat outside London." Sherlock checked off the facts as if reading a grocery list. Lestrade was cut off from further questioning when a nurse called for Sherlock. He met with the doctor outside John's room.
"Sir, Mr. Watson refuses to speak to anyone other to ask for you. We've assessed his condition. Multiple contusions and lacerations, three fractured ribs, minor concussion, and slight dehydration and malnutrition." The doctor checked his record. "He ah, has no immediate family or emergency contacts listed in his files."
"He doesn't have any immediate family." Sherlock said shortly. "He's been asking for me."
"Yes, he has. You can go inside, he's awake." Sherlock brushed past the doctor and swept into the room. John's face relaxed at the sight of his familiar face. Sherlock scared him somewhat, he was so powerful. He had subdued his former master, binding his power so the police could arrest him. Then he had noticed John was back in human form, and shivering. The man's coat was draped over the chair in the corner.
"John." Sherlock said in greeting. "Feeling better?"
"I suppose. I want to get out of here. I don't like it here." John said quietly, avoiding Sherlock's gaze. The other man didn't like it when he made eye contact.
"Then I'll sign you out. Not much the doctors can really do for you besides prescribe painkillers." Sherlock said. "I can do more for you when we get out of here. I've regained my strength enough."
John's eye widened and unbidden tears crept in. Sherlock stepped forward uncertainly. "Why are you doing that? What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I'm fine." John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I just...I don't have anywhere to go, any clothes, any money-"
"John, don't be dull. You can stay with me." Sherlock said dismissively. John's mouth dropped open. "My flat has another room upstairs, and I think my landlady would like you."
"But you don't anything about me." John said. Sherlock started to say he knew John's life story, but decided against it.
"Ok, then tell me something about yourself." Sherlock sat in the chair beside the bed and clasped his hands under his chin. John sat still for awhile, trying to decided what to say.
"When...when I was ten, my mother told me what I was and I ran away because I was scared." John studied the blanket covering him. "I shifted forms for the first time and couldn't change back for three days." John met Sherlock's icy stare with his deep blue one. "Will you tell me something about you? Please?"
Sherlock paused, unsure. He was trying to be, well, not himself. He doesn't do "comforting" very often, only when trying to get information from people. But John looks hopeful for the first time, so he decides to oblige. Just this once.
"When my powers first manifested themselves, I set my room on fire." Sherlock saw the corners of John's lips twitch as if he wants to laugh. "Not on purpose, of course. Though I will always treasure the look on my brother's face when I told him what happened. Does that little anecdote satisfy you?"
John nodded silently.
"Good. I will call my brother. He owes me a few favors and he can get the hospital to let you out." Sherlock pulled out his cellphone.
John looked around at the room he would staying in. It had a bed with some spare blankets from Mrs. Hudson until he got some of his own. A chest of drawers was in the corner, empty, and a lamp on the bedside table. John ran his hands over the clothes that Sherlock had put on the bed for him, plain cotton pajamas that looked like they had never been worn. A gift from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock had said, a silly one since he rarely slept.
John walked back downstairs to where Sherlock sitting watching TV. He was yelling at the host about the results of a paternity test or something. He tore his gaze from the screen to look at John, hair still wet from the long shower he had taken, wearing the blue pajamas that were large on him, making him look even younger.
"Come here, I'll heal you." Sherlock stood and gestured for him to sit. John hesitantly made his way over, taking the seat Sherlock had just vacated. "Removed your shirt, please."
John carefully unbuttoned and removed it, wincing when he ribs hurt. The doctor had certainly been unhappy to let him out. He wondered just who Sherlock's brother was to have such power. Sherlock reached out, his hands hovering over the two largest bruises on John's ribs.
"John? May I?" Sherlock asked. John was confused for a moment until he remembered Sherlock's earlier promise. He nodded quickly. Sherlock's warm hands rested on his ribs, and a warm feeling spread throughout John's body. His bones healed, bruises losing their sting and his skin knit itself back together. Finally John felt Sherlock's hands move away and he stretched to feel all of his muscles working properly again.
"Thank you."
"Can I ask you a question John?" Sherlock didn't wait for John to answer. "When you take the form of a dog, what happens to the clothes you're wearing?"
"I don't know, they're just there when I change back. Part of my familiar magic." John said slowly, no one had ever asked him about that before. Sherlock looked thoughtful.
"Interesting. And which form do you prefer, if you don't mind me asking?"
"I like them both, I guess. I have heightened senses as a dog, but I can't speak. And my thoughts are far simpler, a dog's thoughts. But I can communicate mentally with my master if I am bonded to him. But I can more places as a man. But even when I'm in this form, I exhibit traits of a dog. And it kind of feels like, sometimes when I've been in one form for a long time I just have to change. Like a itch that won't go away." John babbled. Sherlock sat in the other chair, studying john intently.
"Explain what you mean by canine traits."
"I have better senses than humans. I can hear things from far away, smell things no one else can, the usual." John paused. "Um...you know, pack mentality. I need to have an alpha." John mumbled.
"Really?" Sherlock looked intrigued.
"But familiars choose their masters. We trust them to care of us, and to let us take of them. It's supposed to be mutual." John bit his lip. "I have a choice, I can choose to have a master or not. That's why it hurts so much to have a one-sided bond."
Sherlock felt anger stirring. He wanted to go to John and comfort him, but he wasn't sure how.
"John, for the record, I will never force you to do anything." Sherlock said, leaning forward in his chair. "I may be an unpleasant bastard, but not that kind."
John smiled, the first Sherlock had seen. It was small, and hesitant, but it was there.
"Do you...do you mind if I change forms? My mast- he, told me to stay in human form and I couldn't disobey him. I've been in this form for weeks." John looked at Sherlock. "I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. I'm a bit more...affectionate as a dog. Breed trait."
"It's alright John. I'm a sorcerer. I know what familiars do." Sherlock answered. John crumpled in relief. And then there he was, the brown Australian Shepard dog. It- He, Sherlock reminded himself, he looked at Sherlock with those blue eyes, floppy ears twitching. He laid down, resting his head on his furry white paws, drifting to sleep. Sherlock watched him for awhile and then decided to check on his experiments in the kitchen. "Would you like something eat, John?"
John's ears pricked up, fully alert now. He hopped down from the chair and trotted over to the kitchen. Sherlock regarded the contents of the refrigerator and decided he needed to tell Mrs. Hudson to go shopping.
"I think the best I can do is eggs and toast. Is that alright with you?" Sherlock asked John, feeling only slightly silly talking to a dog. But John's eyes were still so human it was easy to forget about the fur. John's tail wagged and Sherlock took that as a yes. As Sherlock prepared the food, he decided that perhaps he should consider convincing John to stay for awhile.
It was nice change from the constant loneliness.
John was laying on his side, full of wonderful yellow eggs and buttery toast, warm and safe for the first time in a long time. Sherlock was making relaxing music with his instrument in the corner, and John's ear twitched lazily as he listened. His eyes drifted closed, the sounds fading away. When he opened them some time later, Sherlock was gone. John sniffed the air, moving towards the largest concentration of Sherlock's smell. He noticed other smells as well: old tea, lingering traces of toast and eggs, decaying flesh, Mrs. Hudson's perfume, formaldehyde, among others he's never smelled before.
Sherlock was his his room, sprawled across his bed. It seemed that all of the magic he had used had tired him out more than he let on. John approached the bed and jumped up, spinning around until he laid down at Sherlock's feet. He was safe here.
Sherlock was here.
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