Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Happy Birthday, Chrwythyn, love! Hope you enjoy this little sequel to the Were!Watson verse that developed during the December challenge(chapters 12 and 28). I just couldn't let things alone. ;D

Also, I know, I know, this is a very poor offer – but the boys completely hijacked my plans, and my Muse wanted to curl up and sleep, after December, even against cattle prods. ^^''' More coming in a while, I swear.

The morning after

Watson stirred, yawning and stretching out, the blanket riding down his chest. "Good morning," he said, noticing Holmes in his armchair, eyes fixed on him, "haven't you slept at all?"

That seemed to startle his friend out of his reverie. "You had to know I wouldn't," Holmes huffed.

"Yes, till I changed back. But I thought you would after, if only to be able to pretend it was all a very weird dream." His Boswell smiled.

"Is that what you want? To pretend..." Holmes wished it could be just as easy. Watson being...that wasn't, evidently, something to worry over. But if werewolves existed, what next? Ghosts? Vampires? Hellhounds? Could he have found himself facing an actual monster at Baskerville, one he couldn't protect Sir Henry from? Should he consider magic as murder method, and what clues would that even leave? He'd been mulling these and other questions for hours. Could he just sweep it all under the proverbial rug?

"What I want," Watson replied, "is breakfast. Hopefully rich in bacon, sausages, or any other meat Mrs. Hudson has you clearly need, my dear Holmes, is plenty of coffee. Why would I want to dissemble what happened yesterday, when I was the one who invited you?" He looked down at himself. "Maybe you could be so kind as to go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson for it, while I go get dressed, hmm?"

The detective had always been careful before. Smart. You didn't take these risks, unless you wanted to bet your freedom, and possibly life. But Watson's nature was much scarier – just because he acted playful as a canine, Holmes had no doubt his friend couldn't have torn someone apart, if so inclined – and he'd shared it freely, as soon as it'd become relevant. It didn't feel right to keep something that concerned both from him. It wasn't a fully-formed reasoning, but a burst of sentiment that made him reply, "Or I could go downstairs...afterwards."

"Fine by me." Watson moved towards his room – and the closet in it – abandoning the blanket on the settee. Midway on the stairs, he half-turned around, asking, "You don't mind, do you? I run hot, from the day I've been changed."

Holmes vehemently shook his head. He didn't expect his awkward attempt at flirting (in his defence, it was the first time he did so without acting at the same time) to have such spectacular results. His mouth was as dry as sand, at being – allowed to stare. Maybe Watson had missed his tone, and the man's lack of modesty was born from his army days. He doubted that property was high on their scale of priorities. Oh, damn. His Boswell had reached his room; he should really go downstairs and ask Mrs. Hudson. He could continue fretting there.

Their esteemed landlady promised breakfast would be up in moments, "and of course I have plenty of meat at hand; I'd be a poor housekeeper if I couldn't track the habits of you both."

That she had noticed (even if she didn't know the reason behind it, or at least so Holmes assumed – or maybe Watson had considered it relevant to her duties in the kitchen?) made him want to give up any claim to being called observant. (Not that he'd let the Yarders know. He could be the blindest person in 221B, and still leagues above most inspectors.) He thanked her, and went back to their flat.

Watson was waiting for him – in pyjamas and dressing gown. "I know what I said," he anticipated any question Holmes may have, "but if you were finally in the mood to acknowledge...you know what, I thought something easier to get out of woud be a better option. Actually, why now? Do you have an undisclosed penchant for fur, or what?" His smile was crooked.

"You knew." Holmes flushed, his voice hoarse. He thought he'd been unreadable. That he was good at disguising his feelings just as much as his features. Was Watson humouring him, like a child all along?

"I cannot exactly un-smell things," his companion replied, between bites – large bites, not that Holmes would have found it odd before; he'd just assume that the over-night patient had been taxing work. "And you," Watson continued, "are ignoring your coffee."

The detective – if he was even worth the title anymore – automatically sipped from his cup. It didn't change the situation, but his brain thanked him for it. He even...accidentally, he'd say, followed that up with starting to dig into his own breakfast. His body might not have experienced mystical changes, but all the gleeful running of past night burned energies that clamoured to be replenished. There was no case or mystery, after all. Chaos, yes, embarrassment, aplenty, the low thrum of arousal, inevitable. At which point would Watson sniff him out? Had he already? But no puzzle that Watson wouldn't be ready to clarify for him.

They finished breakfast in companionable quiet, or at least, companionable on Watson's side. If someone peeked in, they wouldn't have seen anything different from hundreds of other mornings. Holmes' mind still bounced between questions, fears and hopes, while his body acted almost without conscious input to dig into Mrs. Hudson's rich cooking.

When their plates were empty, Watson grinned at him. "You never answered. Why start flirting now? Because you're sure I'll be a good boy?"

"As you said yourself, you're no pet," Holmes replied. How could the man joke about such things? Then again, it was understandable if the law didn't scare him. A month maximum, and no jail guard would be equipped to deal with him.

"If you want wild, I can deliver." There was the shadow of a growl in his Boswell's voice, and Holmes shivered.

"I've always known that." It was part of what attracted him in the first place. Not the entirety of it – he could have talked for hours about all he admired and loved in his partner – soon to be fully so; Watson might have the potential to be feral, but he didn't go for humiliating mocking. He wouldn't have teased him if he didn't intend to, in his words, deliver.

"Then?" The man tilted his head, just like when he'd been in his furred self.

Holmes laughed self-deprecatingly. "A secret for a secret, I thought."

He didn't expect mirth to leave room to eagerness in Watson's face. "Thank you, my dear." The doctor rose and locked the door, before turning to him. "Please, let me know how I can show you my gratitude."