Disclaimer: nothing mine still. Back to John's point of view.
Waking up in Sherlock's bed wouldn't have been a problem. Waking up in Sherlock's bed after some erotic dreams that starred him (dreams, surely, not memories; I never remembered the wolf's activities...unless he was taunting me? Could he?) and with a raging erection as a consequence of them was decidedly awkward and uncomfortable.
Thank God that my friend was asleep still and hence unaware of my plight. I toyed for all of fifteen long seconds with the idea to wake him up and come onto him, pretending to still be my wildest self. But the man beside me, still half asleep or not, was the most observant in Europe (at least) and there was no way that the wolf had no tells. He'd see through me, then I would have to move out out of shame, and my hard on really wasn't worth the hassle.
Angry at myself for even considering the project, I got up and slipped in the bathroom for a cold shower (I wasn't about to indulge my stubborn body after what I'd almost done). I vowed to spend the day as normal as I could be, and as friendly, hoping that after getting his way the werecreature in me would fall asleep for a while. And even if I myself had not much hope that things would go like this, it turned out to actually be true. Maybe Sherlock had worn the wolf out (and I really didn't want to ruminate on what this implied).
Since the very start of my new condition, I had hated my change and all his implications. A week later, though, I suddenly discovered that being a werewolf could offer some advantages.
Mycroft had brought us a case, and for once Sherlock hadn't pretended to not want it. After the silly things he'd amused himself with while he was concentrated on my condition (not quite Bluebell rank, but close), he must have been gagging for a proper case. To be honest, I was, too. A bit. (Only to feel useful instead than a problem for my friend, of course.)
So we had agreed to look into who was leaking data that really should never have been leaked. And not to Wikileaks (which would have been embarrassing enough), but to some not very nice people who might have used said data to cause havoc Mycroft really didn't want to have to deal with.
My friend teased his brother about the low quality of their people hiring, and the eldest replied that, contrarily to Sherlock himself, he didn't need to pick only one person and statistically these things were bound to happen. Mummy would be so disappointed in her youngest for not realizing this.
I had left Sherlock at home metaphorically – and not – connecting the dots to go buy something I could maybe coax him into eating despite it being mid case ( I know him, and know how to tempt him by now). I thought he would be safe. I thought wrong.
When I went back, there was no Sherlock home. And it was evident that he hadn't left of his own accord. If only because the case related web of strings on the wall had been destroyed and he wouldn't bother with it until the criminals had been apprehended.
My bag fell forgotten to the floor, and I inhaled sharply in shock. That's when I noticed it. My sense of smell had become much sharper (and that, with some of Sherlock's experiments was a right pain) and now I could smell the intruders who dared to do this. I growled ferally to the empty room.
I needed to get Sherlock back, but how could I? Before I dragged Mycroft here to work his own bloody case, or called Lestrade, or even the bloody army to deal with this, I suddenly realized that I could.
Give Sherlock a speck of dirt and he'll find you an address. I wasn't Sherlock, but I was a goddamned dog, and the mix of smells in my enemies' scent tracks did give me a hint about the places they must have been. Hopefully their base. So I applied Sherlock's methods – well, my own version of it – and in the end, if I didn't have an exact address, I was confident to have identified at least a general area, not too wide either.
I took my gun and left, taking a cab. I thought about warning Mycroft, or someone, but even if the eldest Holmes knew about me, I wasn't sure how to explain to his minions, if he gave me some as backup, that I would smell people out. And anyway, there was no time to lose.
So there I went, and once in the general area I started patrolling, in the hope to pick up either Sherlock's or the criminals' trail. Almost immediately I caught Sherlock's scent. It was mixed with the metallic tang of blood, and once again I growled, sprinting towards the warehouse it came from.
I busted in, shooting down two people who tried to stop me. Seeing my friend (mate, the wolf growled inside me – and for once, I heard him) chained and bleeding – they were filming what happened, the bastards – my inner beast took the lead.
The gun forgotten, I leapt against Sherlock's attackers, I leapt against Sherlock's aggressors, and disabled them in hand to hand combat, breaking their bones most satisfyingly, and leaving them whining on the floor. All the while, I was growling and snarling, and missing my fangs to open their throat with.
For once, my human self hadn't blacked out when the wolf was in control. Rather, I was observing my deeds, as odd as that sounds, with a wild and grim sort of satisfaction. I hadn't dished out anything that these people didn't amply deserve after all.
When I went to unchain Sherlock, he told me, "You've already saved me. Let's go home."
"I know," I replied simply.
"You know?" he echoed, raising a puzzled brow. "But the one who did it...wasn't it..."
"The wolf, yes," I cut in, "and you're right, he was in control for quite a while. For once, though, he let me be aware of what was happening."
"And you didn't protest his taking control?" my friend queried. Sensible question, given my distaste for that new part of me.
I decided to answer honestly. "Given the occasion, I was cheering him on."
Sherlock smiled softly at me. Only t9o remark, a moment later, surprised, "Mycroft's driver didn't wait for us? That's one fired man."
"I didn't contact Mycroft. And I didn't tell the cabbie to wait because I honestly didn't know how long it'd take me to find you," I replied, a little bashful. I should have anticipated what happened.
"You didn't involve Mycroft? And how did you find me? Lestrade wouldn't have left you go in alone...or he'd have soon followed at least," Sherlock reasoned.
"I might be more of a dog than we expected. I kinda tracked the scents," I revealed, willing myself not to blush in shame at my canine traits showing, even if I' d been so grateful for them a short while ago.
"That's amazing," my friend replied, and the reversal didn't feel like a mockery. He seemed really awed. "Then I'll leave the kidnapping cases to you from now on, shall I?"
"Don't joke," I grumbled.
He only smiled at me. In the meantime, we'd managed to attract a cab, and soon we were back home, where I could satisfyingly patch him up. Luckily, it looked worse than it actually was.
"They said that they were going to send the video to Mycroft to teach him they were not to be messed with. That's why we pretend to hate each other – so people won't think such things will work – but this time our ruse utterly failed. He won't like that," Sherlock huffed.
"Pretend to hate?" I echoed, amused. It was surely a thorough guise.
"Yeah, well, he'll always be a pompous, meddling git, but I don't despise him quite as much as I affect to," my friend confessed.
"And are your brother's stalker tendencies a front, too?" I quipped.
"I'm afraid that they're perfectly genuine," Sherlock bit back with a smirk. We shared a laugh.
"By the way, we should let Mycroft know to collect the people you incapacitated, before they run away," my friend said conversationally.
"I sent him a text with the address in the cab," I replied. Sherlock kept his eyes closed then, so he hadn't noticed.
"Perfect assistant you are, John. I'm sure that Mycroft wishes he'd found you first," my detective remarked. I preened a bit at the praise. Mentally, of course.
"Mycroft and I? That would never work," I pointed out casually. "He looks boring."
I had used that adjective on purpose, and as I expected, it garnered a delighted chuckle from my friend. I loved that sound, and I loved being the one to cause it. But anyone would have, right?
"I'm telling my brother you said that," Sherlock said merrily.
"Feel free to. I'm not particularly after his favour," I replied with a shrug. No, I already had won the approval of the only Holmes I cared about. (Maybe too much?)
