The morning was cool, crisp, and smelled delightfully watered down. John nearly smiled as he stepped out of the building that housed his depressing bedsit, and looked about, careful not to let his nostrils flare too wide when anyone was looking.
It was still an odd sensation, taking things in via scent first and foremost. He wasn't sure he'd ever adjust to it.
He gripped his cane and limped to the curb, signalling for a taxi. It took nearly three minutes, but finally one stopped and picked him up. He rattled off the address to his therapist's office, and settled back, closing his eyes.
"How's your blog going?"
That would be her first question. It always was, right after the pleasantries of Hello, how are you, dreary weather we're having, isn't it?
And he'd answer with something meaningless, Fine, good, great. She wouldn't believe him, and he'd smile at her. The smile would be as meaningless as his assurances.
She'd do her best to chastise him gently, but she'd be disappointed. She was always disappointed. And John always showed her how little he cared about that.
Then they'd move on to talking about his leg, and his shoulder, and just why did he have a psychosomatic limp? Was the tremor in his left hand a result of the gunshot, or something else? How was he sleeping? Were the nightmares going away?
And the worst of all: had he been taking his medication?
The truthful answers to these questions were remarkably simple: The limp wasn't entirely psychosomatic, he'd broken it. The tremor in his left hand was a result of silver burning through his body and doing mild damage to his nerves, which manifested as a tremor. He wasn't sleeping much at all, and the nightmares were definitely not going away.
And no, of course he wasn't taking his medication. There was no point - his metabolism was too much for it now.
But he'd sit there and tell her he forgot, rather than that he'd flushed it all away. Or he'd tell her he took them, but they weren't working for him. He'd suggest that he just stop taking them - he's a doctor, he knows how bad it can be to take medication that doesn't work for you.
She'll have none of it, of course.
The cab stops, and he hands the driver the fare plus what tip he can afford. A grunt and a nod, and John steps out, leaning on his cane as he shifts around to close the door.
He looks up at the building and sighs heavily. Forty-five minutes of dancing around the truth, here he comes.
When he stepped back out of Ella's office, he took in a deep breath. It was drying up a bit now, but there was still a slight chill in the air as he started down the street. He grimaced as he walked, but he was determined to prove her wrong.
All in his head. No. It wasn't all in his head. He knew that because he still remembered the pain of it, the agony of knowing that he was healing, and that he was healing wrong, and being utterly unable to do anything about it.
Traffic - both vehicular and pedestrian - seemed light as he walked, which was a small mercy, and before long he was stepping into a park. It was familiar, comforting, like the sound of your favourite lullaby or the warm scent of clean sheets as you lay down to sleep.
He stopped at an empty bench and sat down, looking out over a tiny lake. Young children were feeding ducks, their parents chatting with coffees in their hands and smiles on their faces.
He closed his eyes and ran his right hand over his thigh, letting out a minute groan at the ache.
The fall should have killed him. Would have killed him, if he'd been human.
He'd been running - which had become code between him and McMath, meaning they were in their wolf form - and he'd slipped. Miscalculated one simple thing.
He was still MIA, still presumed captured by the enemy. His shoulder was almost entirely better now, the poison of the silver vacant from his body and the nerves mostly functioning. It was, in the end, those few dead nerves - the ones that still twitched intermittently down into his left hand - that had been his downfall as he'd jumped from one rocky outcropping to another.
He'd fallen farther than he could ever have imagined. He was lucky he hadn't broken his back, or worse, his neck. But no, it had been his right leg that had cracked, buckling under his weight and an awkward angle. He'd nearly screamed, managing only a distressed yelp as he tried to limp to safety, but it had been nearly futile. He was in no position to move.
So he shifted.
The thing he learnt about shifting in that moment was that it was a rather lovely way of speeding along the healing process. Not so good, however, when your leg hasn't yet been set.
And so when he shifted into human form, he'd inadvertently set his leg wrong. And it began to heal that way.
He'd scrambled back to his cave, his safety, as carefully as he could, trying not to put his weight on his bad leg.
Then he'd shifted back to wolf, and howled.
An hour later, McMath was there, looking around frantically. "Watson?"
"Here." John grit his teeth and waved his hand in a patch of light. He was breathing hard and gripping his thigh. "My leg. I fell."
"Shit." McMath was at his side in an instant, fingers tentative and gentle as they felt along John's thigh. "Hell, you really did a number on it, Watson."
John nodded. "You have to re-break it. And then set it properly."
McMath stared at him. "I… I can't do that, I'm not a medic-"
"You fixed my shoulder. Saved my life. Now I need you to save my leg."
McMath blew out a long breath, then nodded. "Alright. You… You got anything to bear down on?"
John grabbed his teeshirt and nodded, biting onto it.
McMath felt along his leg again, then looked up into his eyes. John wiped at the sweat slipping into his eyes.
"On my count of three."
John nodded, teeshirt still clenched between his teeth.
"One."
CRACK.
John screamed against the teeshirt, thrashing and nearly biting straight through the rolled up fabric..
"Two."
John felt the bone slide back together correctly. Tears were leaking from the sides of his eyes, which were squeezed tight shut.
He felt fabric against his leg, and cracked his eyes open to see McMath using his own shirt to bind John's leg. When he was done, McMath looked up at him with a soft, sad smile.
"Three."
John's head fell back against the ground, and he yanked his teeshirt from his mouth, panting and crying and suddenly remembering that he was both filthy and naked.
Well. As if this day couldn't get any better.
John opened his eyes and gasped, leaning forward. He ignored the people walking around him, ignored everything that didn't involve deep, non-panicked breaths and a blessedly clear mind.
When he looked up again, a breeze came up from the lake, rushing over his heated skin and helping to ground him in reality.
He had to give Ella this - she was at least right about the PTSD. Just not for the reasons she believed.
He leaned back, looking up at the sky. It was mostly blue, with a few grey clouds here and there. John wasn't certain if it was just from the earlier rain, or if it was trying to rain again. Both, most likely. That was London, it seemed.
He settled his face into what he hoped was a determined expression, grabber dip his cane, and gingerly levered himself off of the bench. Right. Enough reminiscing. Time to figure out… something. Anything. Find a job. Get a girlfriend. Don't tell anyone he was a werewolf. Simple. Easy.
And perhaps, while he was at it, he could hit the lottery and be set for the remainder of what, McMath had assured him, would likely be a very long life, barring things such as hunters or madness.
Madness. There was something John was sure he had already. After all, he was a werewolf limping through London. It was downright laughable.
He was just about halfway through the park now, the irritatingly normal sound of his cane kuh-clinking along with every other step, when he heard someone say his name.
"John!"
No. There must be loads of Johns in London. Hell, there were probably a dozen other Johns in this park alone, at least. No, couldn't have been meant-
"John Watson!"
No.
No, who… who would…
"It's me, Stamford. Mike Stamford."
Mike. Oh. Oh. "Yes, sorry."
"Yeah, I know, I got fat."
"No." What? Why did he say no. Mike wasn't wrong.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at, what happened?"
The smile. The earnest look, the curiosity. Mike. I remember you. We studied together. We ordered crap pizza and drank horrible beer and I couldn't believe it when we made it through our classes. You had a girlfriend named Karen who tried to sleep with me. I never told you that, I should have told you that.
Smile. Glance at the cane. "I got shot."
Mike's smile faltered. John kept smiling.
John was about to take his leave - it was easy, when he mentioned his injury. People never wanted to know about it. They were sympathetic, they were understanding, and they gave no fucks whatsoever about how or why it had happened. He was in the army. What did he expect? They may as well have said, "You know, going out there, dressed like that, you were asking for it."
"Oh. God, I'm… Christ, John, are you alright? Oh, stupid question." Mike's eyes darted back and forth between the cane and John's eyes. "Can I… buy you a coffee?"
John was taken aback. He nodded slowly. "Alright. Where's… good? I haven't, well…"
Mike grinned. "The Criterion's still nearby."
John smiled. It was soft and not very deep, but it was at least real. "God, haven't been there in ages."
"It's gotten better." Mike walked back to the bench he'd been having his lunch at, and grabbed up the paper bag and newspaper. "They have decent food now, too."
"Wonder how they managed that."
Mike laughed, and they walked together comfortably.
The Criterion had, indeed, changed for the better. John smiled at the girl working the register, even flirted a bit as he asked her about the menus options. In the end, he settled for a simple medium coffee, no room for sugar and milk. Mike grabbed the same, with room for milk in his, and they made their way back outside and into the park.
Topics of conversation started safely enough. The weather (dreadful), overpriced coffee (dreadful), overpriced movies (dreadful), John's dismal dating life (dreadful and depressing), Mike's wife starting a new job (wonderful), Mike's current job…
"So, you're still at Bart's, then?"
"Yeah, teaching now. Bright, young things like we used to be." John remembers all too well. "God, I hate them."
John gives a small chuckle, and sips his coffee.
And finally, the topic rolls around to the cost of living in London these days (especially dreadful).
"So…" Mike looked almost sad. "You're just… staying in London, until you get yourself sorted?"
John frowned. He felt like it had become his default facial expression anymore. "Can't afford London on an army pension."
"And, you couldn't bare to be anywhere else." Mike was grinning, like this was a big secret that John had simply forgotten - of course he wanted to stay in London. The problem was, he couldn't stay in London. "That's not the John Watson I remember-"
"Yeah well I'm not the John Watson…" John cut himself off. Stupid, stupid. His right hand grabbed his coffee as his left hand twinged, almost as though his body were rebuking him for saying anything at all about being different. Mike looked away, and for once, John actually appreciated his PTSD - a convenient excuse for his oddities now.
He thought about apologising, but Mike spoke again before he could. "Couldn't Harry help?"
John scoffed. "Yeah, like that's going to happen." Moving in with the alcoholic sister who'd just left her wife? Yes, good. Because that wouldn't stress him into shifting. Never mind the funny looks he'd get when he popped off for days at a time each month, with only the vaguest explanations. Yes. That would be simply perfect.
"I dunno… you could, get a flat share, or something?"
Huh. Mike was really trying to make this happen, wasn't he?
"Come on." John forced a closed-mouth smile. "Who'd want me for a flatmate?"
He looked away, certain his point had been made.
Instead, Mike laughed.
John's head whirled back, expression bewildered. "What?"
"Well you're the second person to say that to me today." Mike was grinning, looking for all the world as though he'd just won a prize.
John stared at him, a bit of trepidation creeping into his mind. "And who was the first?"
The first thing John notices as they walk into St. Bart's is the smell.
Everything - everything - smells as though it was dipped in bleach, then rinsed off with bleach, and finally given a nice rub down with some soothing bleach. And perhaps handed some bleach cologne to spritz on at leisure.
He closes his eyes and winces. It's too much, far too much for him now. "Mike, have you got a paracetamol? My head…"
"Oh yeah, just here."
Mike steps into a small office and tosses John a little white bottle of painkillers. John is grateful, because this way he can take as many as he needs without having to explain it. He shakes five pills into his hand and knocks them back, swallowing quickly. "Can I… just take a couple more? Just in case…"
Mike nods and grabs some folders from a cabinet. "Yeah, sure, no problem." John dumps several more into his hand, shoving them into his pocket. Mike turns around as John caps the bottle and hands it back. John notices Mike has taken off his coat and hung it over the back of his chair. He looks more relaxed, now that he's inside, in his element. He smiles brightly. "Want to come see the lab? I've got a few
The second thing John notices about St. Bart's is that, despite fresh paint and fresh linoleum and maybe even new doors on most of the rooms, it's still the same damn hospital he did his first exams in, his first vaccinations, his first so many things. It's comforting in minor ways and devastating in other, more important ways. He'd been human the last time he'd walked in here. He'd smelled the bleach then, but it hadn't assaulted his nose like it had today, burning away at his senses until his head felt like it might explode. At least the paracetamol was beginning to work. Rapid absorption and metabolism were another perk to being a werewolf. The dosage he'd taken should last him for about half an hour, forty-five minutes if he was lucky. Which should be plenty of time to get out of here.
The third, and perhaps most vital thing John noticed about St. Bart's, was that there was another werewolf in the lab Mike was bringing him to.
At first John felt a stab of panic - did Mike know? Why hadn't he said anything? Was he going to end up in a fight? God, he couldn't bear the idea of shifting here, in St. Bart's, in front of Mike. The scent was stronger, and John felt a pang as he realised he could smell the dominance of this other wolf. His breath got shallow and fast, yet he kept quiet, not wanting to alarm Mike.
But as they got closer and closer, his mind caught up and chastised him. Of course he wasn't going to end up fighting another wolf here. He'd be polite and courteous and he wouldn't issue a challenge. The other wolf should have no reason to challenge him - he wasn't here to take territory, he was just… trying to survive.
McMath's voice rang out in his ears. "You're even more than that." If he'd been a wolf, his ears would have perked up. Maybe… maybe he could get some answers. Maybe he could figure out just what McMath had meant.
"He should be in here."
"What?"
Mike chuckled and looked back as they stepped up to the door. "I told you. The bloke who's looking for a flatmate."
John stared at him blankly for a second before nodding and feigning a smile. "Oh yes, right. Sorry." He gestured to his head. "Still just a bit…"
Mike nodded. "You're alright, right John?"
"Yes, of course." John made himself smile wider, keeping his lips together. Don't show teeth, sign of aggression. Don't stare too long, sign of aggression. "Well, don't keep me waiting too long. I want to see what's become of the place."
Mike smiled, and turned the handle.
He held the door for John as John stepped through, glancing around.
There was one other person in the room, who was positively reeking of dominant werewolf. He was staring at John out of the corner of his eyes. It was not a particularly friendly look, but John couldn't say it was unfriendly either.
This would take some getting used to. John avoided his gaze for the time being, trying to project an image of head down and tail tucked. No threat, nothing to see, move along.
"Bit different from my day."
Mike laughed. "Oh, you've no idea."
"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."
John raised his eyebrows at the tone. It actually sounded as though this - man, John was just going to call him a man and be done with it, honestly - as though this man was asking for something. The way he smelled, John was certain asking permission to use someone's phone was one of the last things on his mind normally.
Mike looked a bit put out. "And what's wrong with the land-line?"
The man's head gave a quick tilt, a strange approximation of a shrug as he spoke, his voice low and bored sounding. "I prefer to text."
Mike patted his pockets, then grimaced. "Sorry. It's in my coat."
Which he'd left in his office, draped on his chair, because John had been handing him back the painkillers. Right.
Well, what could the harm be in letting the man use his phone? It might help reinforce the idea that he wasn't a threat, wasn't a challenge.
"Uh, here." He reached into his pocket, looking back up. "Use mine."
"Oh." The man looked at him - no, he was staring. Staring at John as though he was the only thing in the room. "Thank you."
He stood up and walked towards John. John's mind raced as his eyes refused to move away from the other man's eyes. He stared at him and saw his wolf form there too, overlapping everything and somehow… somehow it still looked right.
The man took his phone and clicked it open, standing much closer than John would normally like. However, nothing about this man this moment, this situation even, was normal.
John wasn't paying attention - he was far too busy having the most exquisite filthy thoughts he'd even had in his life. In his mind, Mike was gone, there was no equipment on the desk, there was only him and this stranger, devoid of clothing and rutting against each other.
He could hear his name being gasped between those sinful lips. Could hear desperate pleas and genuine affection and promises he could scarcely believe from anyone, let alone a man he'd only just met.
Which was why what he actually heard was so surprising.
"Sorry?"
The man looked at him, eyes locking on his with an intensity that was staggering. "Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Af… ghanistan. Sorry, -"
"Ah, Molly, coffee."
John felt his phone shoved back into his hands, and he stood there for a moment as he felt the warmth of another person at his back. He hadn't smelled her, this… Molly. Hadn't smelled the coffee. Hadn't even heard the door open.
What was wrong with him?
The man was walking away now, saying something about a mouth being too small… his mouth? No. No, it… it was Molly's mouth.
Oh God, he was talking to him again. What was he saying?
"I'm sorry, what?" Yes, that should make an impression. Can't even pay enough bloody attention to hear him the first time. Twice. Well done, Watson.
"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmate's should know the worst about each other." The man smiles. John feels lightheaded, overwhelmed by the way that smile seems to mean there's not question that John will live with him…
John can't think of what to say. He looks at Mike, who's grinning. "You told him about me?" No, he couldn't have done, he'd never grabbed his mobile while they'd been out having coffee, he'd not so much as glanced at a land line. But then how…
Mike shook his head solemnly. "Not a word."
John frowns, shifts a bit. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did." The man's putting on his coat, shrugging into it with a practised ease born of constant repetition. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He smiles as he winds a scarf around his neck. John is simply proud of the fact that he hasn't started drooling, because he knows there's no way he's going to stop staring. "Wasn't a difficult leap."
"Yes, how did you know about Afghanistan?" John shifts again, looking down. Perhaps this is just how he reacts to an incredibly dominant wolf? He doesn't know, but he rather hopes he's not like this with the next one. If there is a next one.
"I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock." He was looking at his phone, a bit agitated - probably at the lack of signal. He finally looks up at John as he steps closer. "Sorry, got to dash - think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
He walks past and John wants to grab him, yank him back and kiss him, maybe shout at him for being so damn presumptuous, then kiss him again. He turns, glaring. "Is that it?" He doesn't even try to keep the bite out of his voice.
The man pauses and turns, hands going to his pockets. "Is that what?"
John gives a humourless snicker. "We've only just met, and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"
The man looks back at Mike, as though he's not sure what Mike was thinking in bringing John here. His eyes track back to John, and he smirks. "Problem?"
John regards him coolly. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."
And yet, John was still having rather vivid imaginings of some extremely sordid moments between the two.
The man's gaze went distant and calculating as he glanced John over. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him - possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" At which point the stranger spun away and stalked towards the door.
John had felt sicker and sicker as the man had rattled off bits of John's life like it was common knowledge. Coupled with the distracting and frankly alarming need to become more carnally acquainted with him, and it was enough to have John nearly trembling.
The man stopped just as he was stepping through the door, and popped his head back in. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." He winked rather cheekily. "Afternoon." And then he was gone.
John stared after him in disbelief, then at Mike.
"Yeah." Mike looked positively gleeful at having sprung this Sherlock Holmes on an unsuspecting John. "He's always like that."
John stood there, staring at the door again.
Well, this would likely end badly for him.
[If brother has green ladder, arrest brother. -SH]
John was still staring at his phone, despite now sitting in front of his computer again. He turned it over in his hands, trying to understand. He glanced back at his computer screen, setting his phone down and resigning himself to the ever classic Google search.
After an hour, he'd turned up Sherlock's website - The Science of Deduction - and little else. A mention of him as a consultant in a few police cases, but only just the mentions. No photos anywhere, no description of just what he was consulted for. The near-absolute lack of information seemed terribly at odds with someone who spouted out facts - most of which he had no right nor reason to know - in a near constant stream. It was all a bit maddening for John, who was feeling both more curious and more frustrated by the whole thing.
Dinner was pasta, one of the only things John could really afford in the quantity he tended to eat, and cheap beer that did little to help him relax. He glared at the bottle in his hands as he sat on his bed, staring at the wall. He'd need the rest of this pack, plus another pack or two, before he could get drunk.
Damn this whole thing. Werewolf metabolism might be a blessing in regards to his waistline, but it was hell in other ways. He sighed and finished the bottle, chucking it into the trash and stripping out of his shirt and trousers. He grabbed the pyjamas he was most fond of, slipping them on and closing his eyes. He took three long, deep breaths, breathing in and out slowly.
He made his way carefully to the bathroom, brushing his teeth and washing his face. He grabbed a small plastic cup and rinsed his mouth, then took a small drink of water. His bed was comfortable enough when he lay down on it again, and he went back to focusing on his breathing.
Routines. Everything in his life boiled down to routines, it seemed. Perhaps that was why the day had seemed so… interesting.
John stared up at the ceiling, his emotions so scattered and confused he wasn't sure what he was feeling. This was the part where Ella would tell him to find one and focus on it, let it draw him into the next, and so on. She'd want him to close his eyes, take more calming breaths, and talk about it.
John was not good at talking about it. John was very good at ignoring it completely. And apparently, that was wrong.
John scrubbed his hands over his face. "Alright. I should talk. So here I am. Talking. To myself."
He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes.
"I've never fancied a bloke before. Well… once, but I was very drunk and when I sobered up I was… well, I was horrified." He rolled his shoulders a bit as he lay there. "He was good looking, I suppose, but… the idea of being with another man was… not a turn on."
He rolled his eyes. "I can't believe I'm doing this. Ella would probably be thrilled that I'm talking and absolutely furious that it wasn't her I was talking to."
He focused on the ceiling again, heaving a harsh breath through his nose. "So, never been into blokes before. And now…"
He tipped his chin up, as though through sheer willfulness he could stop the images he'd had in his head since meeting Sherlock Holmes.
"Now I think I might never look at anyone else ever again." His voice was soft, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't… I don't even know him, but he's there, in my head, and… and Christ but I sound mental now, talkin' about some other bloke in my head. I do, don't I?" He opened his eyes again.
The ceiling said nothing. To its credit, though, the silence was entirely non-judgemental.
John closed his eyes again and shook his head. "I didn't think I'd ever… I mean, I…" He puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "I know that if I woke up tomorrow and heard it had all been a dream… I'd be disappointed."
He rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders. "Alright. I've shared. That's enough for the next year or so, don't you think?" He reached out and clicked off the light.
The ceiling remained quiet. And for once, John didn't mind in the least.
