Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, of course. A.N. Ok, this is the last fortnightly update, I swear. I have way too many forgotten stories to get to. I'll have to change to monthly from now on. Please don't hate me. ;D
Sherlock sat in his armchair, accepting the cup of tea with a smile. Perfect, no matter how upset his senses had been recently. Good. He sighed softly. Hopefully they could put the whole debacle behind them.
"You won't like what I have to say. But we would have to talk about it before the next full moon anyway, so we might as well do it right away. You got lucky tonight, but you can't always count on luck," John announced, sitting in front of him.
"What has the moon to do with anything? I mean, yes, it's when that burglar liked to work, but Hopkins will get him long before next time. And you obviously have no idea about him, so –. "
"Breathe first. The moon is involved – in a way that would have been really obvious to you if you'd been less of a scientist and more involved in pop culture. I always thought that your selective ignorance was a gift from my lucky star, but if you did watch a bit more normal shows, you wouldn't go after a fucking werewolf during the full moon."
"Ah ah." Sherlock's voice was completely flat. "I've been drugged, I didn't lose all my neurons, you know. You are usually funnier than this."
"Put your cup down."
The sleuth stared at his suddenly stern flatmate. That was a weird reaction to a failed joke.
"Put it down. I'm serious. I won't deal with you choking on top of whatever else will happen next."
The consulting detective instinctively obeyed. Damn, but when John went all Captain on him, it was...hard to deal with. His brain still wasn't alright, though. He'd never had intrusive thoughts before, his mind palace too ordered for them to sneak in. But now...intrusive thoughts would be weird enough. Intrusive whines? What the heck? At least he hoped it stayed enclosed in his mind, if he accidentally uttered such a sound he'd never live it down.
His brain wasn't the only one affected. His senses were screwed over still...or was it again? Because he couldn't see John anymore. No, what he saw was a massive...canid (he wasn't going to pick a breed just yet), its coat what he would have called silver beige if the beast looked anything like a poodle. He had a feeling that it would be mightily offended by being compared to a lapdog, though.
Or maybe not? It was coming closer, slowly, tail wagging softly. Sherlock stared, unmoving. If he was hallucinating, staying put was his best option. If he wasn't...but he had to be. Until a muzzle lay heavily on his knee. Golden eyes, flecked with blue, stared up at him. Damn. If this was madness, too many of his senses were affected to trust himself even a modicum. But werewolves didn't exist! ...Did they?
Sherlock shook his head. It worked last time. Not now. The creature was still there, only now it smirked. While one of its wickedly sharp, long fangs was exposed, he didn't perceive any threat. Asked to caption it, he would have said, "You won't get rid of me that easily."
A damp nose pushed against his hand. Oh, damn it – if his brain turned to mush, he might as well enjoy it. He curled up a bit, petting the soft fur. The creature might be big, but it was obviously friendly. The repetitive motion was almost hypnotic, and when – how long later he wouldn't have been able to say – it disengaged, pit-patting back to the kitchen, the sleuth promptly missed it. He didn't follow, though. Not even when it took his mug from the low table, carrying it delicately back to the kitchen. Chasing delusions never worked well.
Three minutes, and John was back, bringing him tea again. "Yours went cold, so."
Sherlock didn't take it. "If this is payback for Baskerville, you've utterly failed in the suggestion part. I wasn't terrified – not at all."
John dragged a hand over his face. It was a gesture Sherlock tended to elicit in people, true, but he hadn't done anything wrong this time. The tea slammed on the low table, splashing a bit around. "Payback for Baskerville? Drugs? Still? I thought you weren't one to stick to preconceived theories against hard data," his blogger...almost growled.
Sherlock didn't whimper. Aloud. Again. He was 97% sure. "The data don't match;" he insisted, "if you say he was a werewolf, never mind that these don't exist, he changed when he was hit by the full moon. If it's not drugs and you're hiding a mastiff of some sort, you should have thought better than bringing it out during the day. Are you really expecting me to believe that was you? Come on. Kudos for the prestidigitation, though."
"Must be a new werewolf, then. Or one who never bothered trying to control his transformation. Considering how stupid he was, it wouldn't surprise me. The moon is always there. The only time I can't change at will is on the new moon. First day of waning? There's plenty in the air to guarantee me a smooth change, if one knows where to find it."
"Prove it."
"Uh...Sherlock, I've just..."
"I might be slightly impaired right now, but I can follow a basic reasoning. If you're a werewolf, and I've survived a werewolf attack, this makes a me a were too. Teach me to change. If the conditions are as good as they can be, it shouldn't be too hard." There. Now John would have to admit his bluff. Or dose him again, with something stronger – but as a doctor, he should be against it.
Neither happened. The new teacup remained forgotten, and his blogger shrugged. "Fine. You'd have to, eventually, anyway. Just one thing before we start."
A-ha. Preemptive excuse coming, no doubt...because his friend knew failure was on its way. It had become too long a joke – pretty much before it started.
"You won't blame any damage you might inflict to floors, furniture or anything else to me. I've never caused trouble at home. That's part of why you didn't realise the truth first, I assume."
"Fine," he grumbled. So they were really going through with this, uh?
