Hi all! Thanks for all the reviews, not least because you made me aware that some serious editing was needed! I've been rewriting this chapter to more thoroughly explain John's motives in doing what he does... as best I can. I've realised in retrospect that Sherlock and John haven't always co-operated with me, they're determined to do their own thing, if that makes sense!
Warning: a bit of violence (albeit in a dream). And I get ridiculously heavy-handed with the morality, so sorry in advance.
John barely noticed how cold he was becoming as stars appeared overhead and the griffin lay trembling before him – more from fear than cold, he guessed. The griffin was a beautiful animal, and he felt sorry for the creature, hurt and afraid and alone.
Waiting alone with the captive, John's mind wandered back to Sherlock and his dual existence. He had forgotten that Sherlock and the beast were one and the same when the griffin was hunting them – and it would be ignoble of him to forget the way Sherlock had tried to protect him from the creature. John could recall the feel of Sherlock's arms twined about him perfectly, as the man had shielded him with his lanky frame.
The man, not the beast. John wrapped his own arms about himself as he contemplated his and Sherlock's actions that evening. He had not hesitated in warning Sherlock about the griffin, or in working with him to subdue it. John realised with genuine astonishment that he did actually believe in Sherlock's humanity. Cornered and in danger, he hadn't hesitated in trusting Sherlock to keep him safe from the creature.
What simultaneously worried him and gave him cause for hope was that Sherlock hadn't seen any difference between the griffin's action, done for the sake of survival, and his – the monster's – done to manipulate and intimidate him into staying here. It was worrisome because Sherlock appeared to have no idea of what he'd done wrong (or at least what John considered wrong). Though on the other hand, Sherlock acting out of ignorance rather than genuine malice was easier for him to stomach in a way.
That their moral compasses pointed in wildly different directions was evident, assuming Sherlock actually had one. John sighed. Was he doing the right thing in helping the man end his curse after all?
More urgently, he was going to have to decide on a strategy for dealing with his discovery of the true nature of Sherlock's curse, and do it fast. Should he have it out with Sherlock, demand the truth from him? The idea was a tempting one, not least because deception made John very uncomfortable (and he was rubbish at it). But he had no way of gauging Sherlock's reaction to the news – would he be angry? Humiliated? What might he do if John confronted him – rant and rave, throw John out of the mansion perhaps?
Funny, but the idea of being flung out didn't appeal as much as John thought it would.
But neither did the idea of feigning ignorance. It felt too much like letting Sherlock get away with all the hurt and misery he'd caused, too much like letting him off the hook. He ought to admit what he'd done was wrong, at the very least. If John confronted him with his cruelty and deception, perhaps he could shame the other man into letting him go...
John frowned to himself as something occurred to him. He had learned Sherlock's secret thanks to the owl statue and the secret passage... thanks to a funny series of coincidences that had not really been coincidences. Because something had prompted his discovery, had trapped him in the passage, had shown him which way to go, where to look.
If some mysterious force was at work here, surely it could have found a way to let Sherlock know of John's new understanding – if it wanted. But it had wanted John to remain hidden, had not wanted Sherlock to know that John knew.
It wanted John to keep quiet.
'What the hell is it, when it's at home?' John muttered to no-one in particular, though the prone griffin gave him a funny look.
John's musings were broken in on by the sound of Sherlock returning and bringing Mrs Hudson with him, and making a heck of a noise doing it. Mrs Hudson was alternately scolding him and fussing over him, and Sherlock was answering her moodily, sounding remarkably like a child caught sneaking sweets between meals. It made John smile despite his internal conflict.
They emerged from between the trees, Sherlock laden down with various items, including a bowl of warm water, and Mrs Hudson burdened with still more. 'Right,' Mrs Hudson announced decidedly before John had a chance to say anything. 'Light some torches Sherlock, and let's get you and John sorted before we tend to the griffin.' John felt a light touch on his shoulder and realised that his damp clothes had dried themselves instantly.
'Thank you, Mrs Hudson,' he said. A second later one of his jumpers landed on his head, and Sherlock snickered.
'Put that on and keep warm, young man,' Mrs Hudson ordered him. 'I'll bring some blankets up if I get a chance, I don't want you catching cold. Now, do see to Sherlock's feet, he's cut them to ribbons in this wood.'
Sherlock, lighting some torches with fallen pine branches that gave off a lovely smell as they burned, huffed indignantly but Mrs Hudson was not to be resisted. She sat him down on a rock and John did his best with Sherlock's feet, which were bruised and scraped but not in tatters. Sherlock made the process difficult by squirming nonstop, despite John's admonitions.
'Your hands are very hot,' Sherlock protested at one point. John just rolled his eyes and carried on washing Sherlock's feet. Some ointment and light bandages sorted Sherlock out and John turned his attention to the complex problem of the griffin.
'It would be best if it were unconscious,' he reflected out loud. 'It's harmless enough as long as Sherlock keeps it trapped, but what I need to do will hurt.'
'Don't worry, dear, I brought up some of my concoctions,' came Mrs Hudson's voice. 'Herbal remedies and so forth. I'll give it a sleeping draught so you can get to work.'
John watched, fascinated, as a bottle floated over towards the griffin, which eyed it warily. Then Mrs Hudson started speaking to the creature, but for the life of him John could not make out what was being said. It was fast and full of short syllables and rhythmic, and whatever was being said made the griffin relax. The bottle was uncorked and a measurement of the sleeping draught poured into the creature's mouth, and it swallowed without hesitation or protest, lying down and closing its eyes peaceably.
'What did you do, Mrs Hudson?' John asked in awe.
'A little bit of bird-speech, young man,' she answered, putting the cork back in the bottle. 'Not griffin-language of course, but close enough that she could understand me and know what I was giving her.'
'Where on earth did you learn that?' Sherlock asked with unflattering incredulity.
'From your lady mother, of course,' Mrs Hudson answered quietly. Sherlock said nothing more, remaining sitting where he was. A moment later his hand went to cover his shoulder and John guessed Mrs Hudson was standing next to him. He turned back to the griffin, feeling it was the most tactful thing to do.
He had a look at the leg wound first, which was long and quite deep and must be terribly painful for the griffin. John cleaned it up as best he could before getting to work stitching it with some strong thread supplied by Mrs Hudson. Shaving the fur around the wound first would have been preferable, but John decided time was of the essence in getting the creature patched up. He bandaged it once finished to prevent the griffin picking at the stitches – though hopefully the animal was bright enough to let the wound alone.
The wing was trickier – the long bone nearest the shoulder was broken and John had to enlist Sherlock's help in setting it before he could splint it. John knew that birds with broken wings seldom recovered and were often killed by predators, and he hoped that the griffin would survive the injury.
'Right,' he said at last, after an hour's work. 'I think that's all I can do – all any of us can do. All that remains now is to keep an eye on it and see what happens.'
'Her, my dear,' Mrs Hudson corrected. 'It's a female.'
John smiled. 'All right, keep an eye on her. If Sherlock leaves the knot spell in place, I'll sit with her and watch her.'
'I'll stay for a little while too,' Mrs Hudson announced. 'Just in case she wakes, though she told me she was very tired indeed, so I think she'll sleep through the night.'
Sherlock, who had been fidgeting for several minutes, shook his head when John glanced over at him. 'I intend to go and read up about griffins, my knowledge of magical beasts is somewhat patchy,' he informed them both. 'Besides, this is your endeavour, John. I have no intention of sacrificing time that could be spent in research for the sake of something that tried to kill me.'
Sherlock stalked off through the trees, John staring after him, bemused. 'Odd,' he thought out loud. 'Why does he keep dashing off like that? He never spends too long doing research with me either – despite always going on about how important it is.'
'I was wondering when you'd ask that,' Mrs Hudson sighed in response. 'It's a part of the curse, dear. Sherlock can't spend too much time with you, the curse prevents him. I'm sure he'd love to be with you more often, but that's not possible. The purpose of the curse was to cut him off as much as possible from humanity.'
John's newfound knowledge of magic and curses assisted him in putting the pieces together this time. Sherlock must only be able to be human for a short time each day – he would be a monster the rest of the time. 'That's why you're invisible, isn't it?' he asked softly. 'So he feels more alone, so he can't see what impact he's having on others.'
'Exactly, my dear,' Mrs Hudson told him. 'That's why you being here is so important. I've noticed that you don't let him get away with anything – you always stand up to him. It's doing him good, he's not been in one of his moods since that second evening, and that one was much shorter than usual.'
For the first time since he'd arrived at the mansion, John had some conception of what life must be like for Sherlock, cut off from humanity in its entirety, forced to look like and live like a beast, unable to see himself and who he was reflected in anyone else's eyes – save John's own, now. But what was one person when you were imprisoned here, hidden from the world and all it held?
Mentally thrusting aside a pity that would do Sherlock no good and would infuriate him should he learn of it, John made his way over to Mrs Hudson and sat down with his back to a tree, where he could still keep a close eye on the griffin.
'I'm guessing he wasn't Mr. Sociable even before the curse,' he remarked to Mrs Hudson. 'But that does seem hard. No wonder he gets in those moods, as you call them.'
'It has been hard,' Mrs Hudson admitted softly. 'But you've brought us hope, dear, and that's what we've been sorely lacking these past five years.'
John shrugged, feeling a little uncomfortable at the profound turn the conversation had taken. 'We haven't made much progress with the research to be honest, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's read every book in that library well before now.'
'I don't think that the answer lies in books or research, whatever Sherlock may believe,' Mrs Hudson replied, so quietly that John had to strain to hear her. A little breeze blew through the forest, catching her words and scattering them into the night, leaving only silence behind.
John, sitting in the flickering half-light cast by the torches, a mythical beast lying asleep before him, both of them in an alternate dimension created by a magician that was in turn situated in the dwelling of an enchanted man-monster, had the eerie sensation that he was inhabiting a dream or a story, that he wasn't real, that he was part of a hallucination that would vanish when the dreamer or madman awoke.
He quivered deep in his soul, and wrapped his arms around himself yet again, trying to reassure himself. He was real, surely – yet he had believed griffins to be only a story, and he was sitting in the middle of a dimension created by magic. What was true and what not? What right did he have to condemn Sherlock based on his own mundane notions of good and evil? And yet, and yet...
Hurting people because of a game, because of a rivalry, because of the desire to manipulate and deceive and win in the eternal one-upmanship that existed between arch-enemies, could never be right, he was certain.
John had once heard a man, older and wiser than him, say that nearly all evil stemmed from self-loathing. People who hated themselves lashed out at the world as a substitute. Was that what lay behind Sherlock's harming Greg, behind imprisoning him here? Did his companion despise himself, and so was immune to notions of honour, loyalty and liking?
John did not know. He put up a hand to his head as his mind threatened to rock free from its foundations and go hurtling wildly – somewhere that wasn't where it usually resided. He couldn't think of an appropriate figure of speech, not with his entire brain caught up in pondering the dichotomy of good and evil and various other things.
'Are you all right, dear?' he heard Mrs Hudson ask anxiously. 'You look very pale.'
'My mind's whirling,' he confessed, too tired and confused to formulate any kind of soothing response. 'I don't know or understand half of what goes on here, and Sherlock – he's – I don't know. I find myself liking him and then he'll say something that makes me want to hit him, and all the while I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing in working with him. And yet I keep doing it.'
A second later, he jumped as he felt invisible arms wrap themselves around him. He stiffened for a moment, remembering the secret that Mrs Hudson had helped keep from him, but she held onto him, and at last he leaned against her, his hand going from his head to clasp one of her arms.
'You are doing the right thing, my dear, I'm certain of it,' Mrs Hudson sighed, somehow sounding both wistful and decided. 'The more I see of you and Sherlock together, the more I just know you were meant to come here. Violet would have been so happy to see you both – she always wanted a friend for Sherlock.'
John smiled, even though Mrs Hudson probably couldn't see it. One thing he felt sure of now; Mrs Hudson at least wasn't evil. He had met evil people before now, but the motherly woman who cared for him and Sherlock was not among them, he was positive.
'You said that you learned to talk to birds from Sherlock's mother?' he asked, sensing the opportunity to learn more about the Holmes family.
'I did,' Mrs Hudson confirmed. 'Violet's magic centred round nature, around birds and trees in particular. She loved birds – would chat with them at every opportunity, and quite often they would keep an eye on the boys for her. She taught me what she could, but I never quite had her knack for it.'
'She sounds like an amazing woman,' John commented, remembering the portrait in the gallery he had been so taken with.
'She was, my dear,' Mrs Hudson continued gently. 'There's not a day go by when I don't think of her. Sherlock looks so like her, and then there's not a room in the mansion she didn't add something to. If there's a painting or a statue of a bird in the house, then it will have been Violet that put it there.'
John remembered the glimmer in the onyx eyes of the owl that had led him to the secret passage, and shivered again. The longer I stay here, the less I believe in coincidence, he thought. Something wanted me to know Sherlock's secret, but it wanted to hide my knowing from Sherlock. Why?
He was too tired and overwrought to consider the question. He laid his head against Mrs Hudson's shoulder and closed his eyes. She held him close as the stars grew sure and intense in the makeshift sky and as the griffin slept its healing slumber.
John drifted on the threshold between sleeping and waking, that vague formless world where boundaries grow as weak and insubstantial as mist and where dreams and reality mingle. And in his not-quite-sleep, he had a dream, a vision; a hallucination even.
He was peering through a doorway that was open just a little, just enough for him to see a room and its sole occupant quite clearly. It was Sherlock, human, staring into a mirror that hung before him. And the face and form that looked back at him was that of the monster that John had been so frightened by.
Suddenly, without warning, Sherlock whirled round and spied John looking in at him, and his face twisted in rage and shame. 'Get out, get out!' he shouted, grabbing some random item from a low table and hurling it at the startled John. 'Don't look!' His yells went unheeded by John, who stood as one stunned, and with a vicious snarl Sherlock turned and punched the mirror with a trembling fist, shattering it and the beastly reflection into a thousand tiny shards of sharp glass, blood staining each jagged piece...
Then John awoke abruptly, the shattering sound of the breaking mirror echoing in his mind. The pine torches had almost burnt themselves out, and their light had dimmed to a dusky orange. It was still night in the pocket dimension, and the griffin did not appear to have stirred, though John could see its sides moving as it breathed. He could feel Mrs Hudson pressed up against his side, and could tell from the heaviness of her slight frame that she was sleeping.
He could not see what had awoken him, but he knew what it was.
'I know you're there,' he called out quietly so as not to disturb Mrs Hudson and the griffin. 'Come out where I can see you, I want to talk to you.'
A long silence was the only response, and John was just beginning to think that he had slipped away when a hunched shape came just to the edge of the pool of light cast by the torches. John looked, and from what little he could perceive in the dark the creature appeared just as he remembered. The long furred limbs, the viciously curving claws, bent shoulders and spine and short muzzle with sharp teeth. The bandages he had applied to Sherlock's feet earlier were nowhere to be seen, but looking at the creature's huge elongated paws, John guessed they had been ripped off when Sherlock transformed. He could not see the icy blue eyes – the beast kept them averted, but John remembered them well.
He sent a prayer to whatever forces were listening that he could act well enough to hide what knowledge he had uncovered that day. 'I haven't seen you in a long time,' he started hesitantly.
'I am under orders not to come near you,' it rumbled, and though the voice was different the inflections were recognisable. 'My master sent me to watch over you, that is the only reason I am here now.' John studied Sherlock for a moment, trying to shape the questions he wanted to ask.
'I'm not afraid of you,' he said finally.
Sherlock huffed a noise that might have represented either amusement or scorn. 'No, but you hate me. It's all right, I feel the same way quite often.'
'I don't hate you – well, I did at first, but not so much now,' John answered. Sherlock turned what passed for his face a little further towards John at that, though he still did not look at him fully.
'Why not?' Sherlock grumbled, not without interest. John scrabbled for an answer that would not give away the fact that he had been spying.
'Because Mrs Hudson said that you need me,' he answered at last. 'Will breaking the curse set you free as well as Sherlock?'
'It will,' the beast answered, a distinct note of longing in its unmelodic voice. 'You cannot imagine how I long for that day. I came here when the curse descended, and not a day has passed when I do not desire my freedom.'
Then Sherlock's alter ego was the result of the curse, he had not been born a beast. A strange compassion stirred itself in John, for Sherlock's self-loathing, for the miserable existence he had been forced to lead, shaped like a monster, with a few brief hours in which to be human. Torture – had Sherlock's transformation been irrevocable, John guessed that he would have learned to accept it, but daily reminders of what it was to be human must have left him unable to attain any kind of peace.
'How much do you desire it?' John asked, very quietly. 'Would you have killed my friends if I refused to stay here?'
The monster that was Sherlock turned to look directly at him, though he kept his eyes lowered and avoided meeting John's frank gaze. 'If you had refused your service, then I daresay after I had imprisoned you all for a time in recompense for the violin you destroyed, then I would have flung you out into the woods and sent you back to the world,' he said harshly, claws scratching at the ground as he waited for John's reaction.
John stared at him in utter shock. 'You mean I promised to stay here always for – for nothing?' he exclaimed, remembering at the last moment to keep his voice low for fear of waking the still-sleeping Mrs Hudson and the griffin.
'No, John, not for nothing,' Sherlock answered, evidently giving into an impulse and raising his eyes to study John's face. 'Could you have lived with yourself afterwards, had you refused to save your friends? No, I think not. You are a man of honour and courage. Your cowardice would have eaten away at you, ruining every moment of happiness and safety you might have attained after your release. Eventually the day would have come when you could no longer bear to look at yourself in the mirror, because it would show the face of the man who valued his own pallid existence above the lives of those he liked and respected. And then... well, then I do not know what you would have done. But it would have been a miserable existence to lead, no doubt leading to a miserable end.'
John stared back at the icy blue gaze he was coming to know so well, knowing he must look like a man stunned, but unable to hide his emotions. 'How do you know that?' he stammered. 'Can you tell the future?'
'No, John. But I know you, know what sort of man you are,' Sherlock rumbled, eyes lacking the sparkle of triumph they usually held when he made one of his deductions, instead appearing almost sad. 'Is it not better you remained true to yourself and stayed here, instead of returning to a life of self-hate and self-castigation?'
'I'm not sure,' John managed to get out. 'I don't like being blackmailed or having my life threatened.'
Sherlock stared at him. His expression was hard to read on that face and in such dim light, but John thought that he looked confused. 'That – the griffin tried to kill you, earlier,' he said, gesturing vaguely at the sleeping creature. 'Yet you've helped it. I threatened you, fair enough, but why condemn me for it?'
John took at deep breath and looked the monster right in the eye. He had to make Sherlock see, somehow. Sherlock's knowledge of John's character and his moral guidelines meant that the man had some understanding of good and bad, what was right and wrong. And with that in mind, he spoke out.
'Because what the griffin did, it did for survival. You did what you did to manipulate me. Because you were angry and wanted revenge. You didn't attack us because you were hurt and starving, you did it just because you could.' John paused, but the beastly face was inscrutable. 'You're trapped here, and I'm sorry for it. But that doesn't give you the right to hurt other people – or to inflict the same fate on me. If we'd hurt you first, if you'd been starving like the griffin was, then I'd have stayed to help you. We would have owed you that. But you injured my friend and took my life from me for your own ends. There's a world of difference between you and the griffin, can't you see that?'
Silence you could have cut with a knife. John could feel it like a blade at his own throat. He waited, because there was nothing else to be done.
At last Sherlock spoke. 'I didn't see, John,' he said, in as close to a murmur as that low growling could get. 'But I – I do now and I'm sorry for what I did to you and your friend. I wasn't, but now I am, a little.'
John heard no insincerity in the rough voice. He smiled a touch. 'Just a little sorry?' he asked, almost playfully.
'I am sorry for my method of keeping you here, but I can't be sorry that you are here,' the beast answered, lowering its eyes once more. 'You are right, you're needed here. We're all glad you've stayed. You are a mystery, John Watson, and my master dearly loves a mystery to be solved.'
'So he's told me,' John said wryly, deciding that was as good an apology as he was going to get. 'Well, let him puzzle me out, I don't mind.'
The beast quirked it head to one side. 'I'll leave you now,' it rumbled, backing into the shadows as the torches burnt ever lower. 'You have given me much to think over. Sleep again, you'll be safe from the griffin – and myself.'
'I'm not afraid,' John replied, leaning his head back on what felt like Mrs Hudson's shoulder. 'Not anymore.'
'Then sleep well.'
John watched the hunched figure slink away, and let his eyes fall shut. He was almost asleep when he heard the two-note hoot of an owl somewhere in the little forest. It should have startled him awake, given that the forest had been devoid of birdsong throughout the evening and the night that followed, but instead it seemed to tip him over the edge between waking and sleeping, and he knew nothing more.
Sherlock moved just far away enough from John and Mrs Hudson to avoid disturbing the former again, and settled himself amongst the roots of a particularly gnarled pine. He had some serious thinking to do, but he was not in as much turmoil as he had been after his and John's previous discussions on morality. In fact, he felt oddly relieved, as though a burden of sorts had been lifted from him.
Ridiculous.
Sherlock was not unaware of what others considered good and evil, though he had seldom considered them in relation to himself and his actions. But it was true – his suffering didn't necessarily give him the right to inflict the same on others. Hurting Lestrade had not improved his situation or helped lift the curse. Sherlock had not considered the consequences of his actions at the time – when had he ever? Mycroft had often lectured him about his propensity for jumping headlong into situations without thinking things through. Sherlock had paid him scant attention.
But John's gentle reproaches had succeeded where Mycroft had failed. Sherlock knew now that there was a difference between what he had done and what the griffin had done. Actions for the sake of survival as opposed to his machinations, done to procure himself an assistant, a necessary component in his curse-breaking. To deprive a man of his home and freedom.
Except that John was no longer just a 'component' to him.
Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered at John's power over him. To make him see things anew, to make him consider the morality in his actions... It was irritating to a man in his position, who needed his intellect focused and uncluttered by trivialities such as what was necessary and what was only his own inclination but it was... intriguing, at the same time.
Disturbing, to think that he had inflicted the same fate on John as Moriarty had on him. Sherlock flinched as the alien thought manifested itself. It was true; he had taken a man's freedom as surely as he had been deprived of his own, just as John had pointed out.
He would never be as cruel towards John as Moriarty had been towards him. He would never make John suffer as he had. But there were parallels between Sherlock's actions and those of his archenemy that he was decidedly uncomfortable with.
But he could not bring himself to regret that John was here. With him.
Sherlock curled himself up as weariness manifested its presence within him. He would do everything in his power to ensure John's safety and happiness, something Moriarty would never have considered doing. John could be content to remain here, Sherlock was certain. He would just have to puzzle out what made John happy.
Yet another facet to the enigma that was John Watson.
Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling a little at the thought, and slept more deeply and serenely than he had done in a long, long while.
They all woke with the dawn, John and Mrs Hudson stiff and yawning, the griffin awakening quietly and lying still, awaiting its fate, Sherlock awakening in an instant, shifting back to human, taking John's bandages from his pocket and reapplying them to his feet, and proceeding to where the still-captive animal was being kept. It was displaying none of the ferocity of the previous evening, lying quite placid as Mrs Hudson spoke to it.
'I think it's safe to take the knot spell off now, dear,' Mrs Hudson informed Sherlock after a few moments. 'She's promised not to try and hurt anyone again, and I've told her I'll bring some breakfast in any case.'
Sherlock glared at her. 'John patches her up, you want to feed her – shall I just give up my bedroom while we're at it?'
'Sherlock, just remove the bloody spell,' John told him. 'You can grumble afterwards, I want to see what she does now.'
Sherlock untied the knots with deliberate sulkiness, though not before he made sure to insert himself between John and Mrs Hudson and the griffin, just in case the creature got any ideas about disembowelling and eating and so forth.
When the bindings were removed the griffin shook itself, staggered to its feet and lurched towards them – towards John. Sherlock stepped pointedly between them. The griffin looked at him for a second, then extended her head and nibbled at his shirt cuff with her sharp beak. Sherlock yanked his arm behind his back, and the griffin went for the other shirt cuff.
Sighing, John stepped to stand beside Sherlock. The griffin forgot its interest in Sherlock's haberdashery and with a little murmur, rubbed its head against his middle. Smiling, John stroked the soft feathers on its head. 'See, Sherlock?' he asked rhetorically. 'She just wants to say thank you.'
'More than that,' came Mrs Hudson's voice, and Sherlock could see the griffin's feathers ruffle where Mrs Hudson must be stroking it. 'She attacked you and you repaid her with kindness, when you had no reason to do so, and in return she wants to stay and look after you both – and me. She has no family to return to, poor girl – they were all killed, she says.'
'Wait just a damn minute – she wants to stay? Here in the mansion?' Sherlock sputtered. The griffin rubbed her head against him, and he glared at her, but decided not to shove her away. John would no doubt be cross with him for it.
'It's not like you don't have room, Sherlock,' John said absently, as he rubbed her neck. The griffin nuzzled his hand, evidently liking having the back of her head scratched.
'She's a griffin – she won't like living indoors or in woodland,' Sherlock snapped. The griffin went for his cuffs again, looking up at him pleadingly – or at least as pleadingly as possible, considering she was the size of a tiger, twice as strong and could flatten him with one blow of her paw.
Sherlock ignored the gaze for the sake of their mutual audience. It was true that space in the mansion was not a problem, but what would happen should the griffin encounter him in beast form? In all likelihood the outcome would be unpleasant for both of them. On the other hand, she would be another welcome diversion in his miserable existence (well, bearable existence, now John was here). And not to mention John evidently wanted her to stay, which for some reason was the deciding factor.
Sherlock had no intention of capitulating without some show of resistance, however. He had a reputation to uphold.
'Oh, she won't mind where she lives, indoors or out, not so long as she has company,' Mrs Hudson proclaimed happily, breaking into his thoughts. 'Griffins are very adaptable animals. She'll be quite content here, I should think. And she'll be company for me when you boys are busy with your research.'
Sherlock scowled as the griffin pulled at his shirt. This was going to be hell on his already highly abused wardrobe. 'No. I don't fancy having an overgrown eiderdown wandering the halls. She'll have to go and find some other griffins to live with.'
'Sherlock, she's injured and it will take her a while to recover,' John pointed out with infuriating reasonableness, and Sherlock lessened his frown just a little in response. Encouraged, John carried on. 'She'll have to stay for a little time, at least. Besides, Mrs Hudson says she has nowhere to go – why shouldn't she stay, if she's willing to live alongside us? We've got plenty of room, as I just said. You needn't see her at all if you don't want to.'
Sherlock heaved a sigh, one that hopefully conveyed the impression that I-think-you're-both-idiots-and-am-only-doing-this-for-the-sake-of-peace. 'All right, she can stay. But she doesn't go anywhere near my rooms and she leaves us strictly alone when we're working. And no hunting except in the woods!'
John beamed, and Sherlock felt that increasingly-familiar hitch in his breathing at the sight. 'Brilliant,' John remarked. 'Now that's settled, I think breakfast sounds like a really good idea. Could you find some meat for our new friend, Mrs Hudson?'
'Plenty!' Mrs Hudson announced cheerily. 'Raw meat for her, and a nice fry-up for the rest of us. It's been a long night, I want to make sure you boys eat properly today.'
Sherlock snorted indelicately, and was immediately head-butted in reproach by the griffin. He shot her a haughty look, but she merely lashed her tail innocently. John laughed at their antics, and suddenly Sherlock wouldn't have minded if an entire griffin colony had taken up residence in the mansion.
Grumbling for the sake of show, Sherlock led the way to the door, the griffin limping behind him, Mrs Hudson chattering away next to her, John lingering a little to look at the forest as the sun made its presence felt. They reached the doorway, which was much too small for the griffin, but she merely sang out another high-pitched note and the door suddenly widened itself enough to accommodate her.
Sherlock was impressed despite himself. He glanced at the griffin and was surprised to receive a wink.
Mrs Hudson and the creature passed through the doorway, which immediately reverted to its old size, and Sherlock turned back to look for John, who was lingering to admire the pocket dimension. But his shoulders were most uncharacteristically slumped in weariness, and Sherlock, also uncharacteristically, reached to take hold of his arm.
John jumped at the physical contact, but offered no resistance as Sherlock linked their arms and led him through the door, back into the corridor and towards Mrs Hudson's kitchen. They strolled slowly through the house, Sherlock feeling curiously at ease, as though he had done this many times before. Perhaps in a past life they had done this, walked along together, arm in arm, before returning home to food and company.
Absurd notion, of course.
Author's Notes: I was once lucky enough to be at a book signing/Q and A with Gregory Maguire, author of Wicked. When asked why he thought people were evil, he said he thought that evil stemmed from self-hatred - people who despised themselves lashed out at the world as substitute. Whilst I'm not sure I wholly agree, it struck me that it might be at the root of Sherlock's less-than-nice behaviour in this story. His self-loathing is going to cause problems, for him and for John. Wait and see what I mean...