Chapter Three
Diving Right In

"Alright you two, what's going on?"

Two animals stared up at him guiltily. Lestrade's eyes widened as he took in the scene before him; the injured German Shepherd that Sherlock had brought with him was lying on the floor, facing the TV and the black cat that had been riding on John's shoulder was sitting on the table in front of a book, a page suspended in midair by his tail.

"What the…?"

They turned to look at each other. They seemed to have a silent conversation, and then the dog gave a loud, rumbling sigh and put its good foreleg over its eyes. The black cat turned and jumped gracefully onto the chair, and Sherlock looked imperiously at Lestrade.

The D.I bit his tongue, turned around, closed the door, and turned back again.

"Explain."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John." It was a command. The dog sighed again, sat up and suddenly John Watson was sitting cross-legged on the floor. He raised his hand in a sheepish greeting. Greg clenched his jaw.

"That's not explaining anything," he said tersely. It was that, or run away screaming. John rose to his feet and went into the kitchen. The sounds of tea being made were comforting and Lestrade edged cautiously into the room to sit on the couch. John brought out two mugs, gave one to Greg and retreated to his chair.

"Sherlock?"
"Really, John? You want me to do this?"
"Never mind."
"Exactly."

John sighed and dropped his shoulders.

"Ever since I can remember, I've been able to shift."

Greg opened his mouth, but John held up a hand.

"Please. When I'm done, you can ask questions." He ran a hand through his hair, took a sip of tea to fortify himself, and continued. "It wasn't always a German Shepherd. I used to be able to change into whatever I liked, although I always tended towards dogs. I think I subconsciously chose a specific breed when I went through the army; whenever I saw dogs being used, they were German Shepherds." He paused, took another sip of tea. "I don't really understand it. Not everyone is able to do it, obviously, but it's as natural as walking to me. I was invalided home because I was shot in the left shoulder. As a dog, that entire leg is useless to me, but it's surprisingly easy to walk on three legs. My right hind leg used to drag behind me, because of my limp, but after Sherlock cured that, it was fine. We recognised each other for what we were straight away, but we never talked mentioned it until about a month ago. When I first came back after Afghanistan, I didn't like shifting in front of other people because I didn't want anyone to see what it had to my animal, even if they didn't actually know it was me. I think Sherlock figured it out, because he never got me to talk about it. One day I was coming home from work or Tesco's, I don't really remember-"
"Tesco's."
"Thanks. Anyway, Sherlock must have been thinking about something harder than usual because he didn't hear me coming up the stairs. When I opened the door I found a black cat lying on the couch, tailing flicking around all over the place. Since then, we've been more open with it and I don't mind as much about the leg. I can still run quickly, after all; faster than Sherlock when he shifts, at least."
"Just."
"Still. And that's about it, I think."

Silence reigned. Lestrade blinked. He turned to Sherlock.

"Have you always been able to do it?"
"Yes."
"Oh."

John looked closely at him.

"Are you alright?"

He tilted his head, put the mug on the coffee table and placed his hands on his knees. He was breathing heavily. Sherlock made a frustrated noise.

"He's having a bit of trouble comprehending our existence."
"Shut up, Sherlock."

Lestrade gave a wheezing laugh and held up a hand.

"I'm fine."
"Are you sure? Do you want something to eat?"

He shook his head.

"No, thank you, I'm really fine."

Silence picked up its crown, dusted it off, threw itself back in its throne, and continued reigning.

"So."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood.

"John?"
"Wha - oh! Does he…?"
"He's too polite to ask."

John nodded, they grinned at each other, and then the animals were back. The dog huffed and wagged its tail. The cat jumped elegantly onto the dog's back and flicked its tail haughtily. Lestrade gave another almost hysterical laugh. He reached out a hand. The cat's eyes narrowed warningly and its tail thrashed even more, but the dog stepped forward to place its head under Greg's palm. The fur was surprisingly smooth. The cat opened its mouth and hissed softly and Lestrade retracted his hand, unsure of whether it would actually attack him and deciding not to risk it.

The animals returned to their original positions and took up the activities they had been in the middle of before they were interrupted. Greg recognised a dismissal when he saw one (he'd seen enough; both from his superiors at work and Sherlock himself) and stood. He cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of how to leave. Sherlock – the cat – threw him an amused look and twitched an ear.

"Right, well. Bye, then," he offered, and left before he received a response.

He practically ran down the stairs and out of 221 entirely.

Upstairs, in 221B, John Watson fairly howled with laughter, still lying on the floor while Sherlock leant against the back of the chair, his deep chuckles mixing with John's high-pitched giggles.

"Oh, my God, did you see his face?"

Sherlock mimicked him and sent John into another fit of laughter.

"He had no idea whether to run or not, you could see it in his eyes."
"And you changed and just waved at him!"
"I nearly lost it then, that's why I had to go make tea!"

They continued until John was hiccupping and holding his stomach and Sherlock was wiping the corners of his eyes.

"Can we please turn up at the next crime scene like that and see what his face does?"

Sherlock's request made John choke and another round of giggles exploded from his chest.