#wolf john

Hi so I went a little crazy with this

Imagine little Vampire Sherlock turning into a little bat so he can follow Werewolf John about during the day and spy on him~

John whined and tossed in his sleep, clutching at the blankets as voices echoed in his ears, shouting, panicked voices, and then a gunshot and John bolted upright, panting and eyes darting around the place. His human body was covered in sweat and he groaned, the echoes of pain shooting through his left shoulder, but he ignored it. The pain in his shoulder was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.

Flopping back onto the bed, John breathed deeply, covering his eyes with his forearm and his breath came out as a whine. He hated these nightmares. He hated that Sherlock wasn’t here to soothe him with kind words and gentle pets as he used to do when John had had nightmares as a pup.

The peace and content between him and Sherlock had lasted until John was twenty and Sherlock was twenty one. Then John’s curious nature had come between them. Sherlock normally hadn’t minded John’s curious nature – if anything, he encouraged John to explore and learn everything he could under the human’s warm supervision. But, this time, he’d gotten curious about something that Sherlock hadn’t liked. War. He was curious about war. He’d started collecting pamphlets and brochures and tucking them under the mattress in their flat. When Sherlock had found out, he’d been furious, and had punished John, making him sleep on the floor for the first time in years and refusing him kisses for an entire month. He’d pleaded and begged and apologised – he always hated upsetting Sherlock – but Sherlock had been determined and told him if he saw any more about the war from John, he would kick John out. John had steered clear of anything related to the war for the next two months before his curiosity became unbearable and he started collecting and reading up on it once more

John was interested to find that he would be able to join the war. Sherlock had made John a fake identity years ago. When Sherlock found out a month later, he’d quietly taken the things John had collected, calmly burnt them in the fireplace and ordered John out. John had shrunk back in the face of the calmness in Sherlock’s demeanour and the fierceness in his eyes and tried to explain, but Sherlock hadn’t wanted to listen. He collected all of John’s things, stuffed them into a duffel bag and threw them out the door and then turned back to John and pointed out the door silently.

Upset, John had gone, hopefully lingering on the doorstep and asking quietly, anxiously, “How long?”

Sherlock had shut the door and didn’t reply.

John had lingered outside the flat for months on end, but Sherlock never once called for him or looked for him.

He never did manage to bring himself to go to the war.

Shaking himself out from his depressing thoughts, John sighed and sat up. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep now. He was back in London, in a tiny, crappy flat, wishing he’d never even heard of war.

Swinging himself out of bed, glancing distastefully at the cane that he didn’t need for his gun wound but more for the limp that plagued him – PTSD, his therapist (something else he’d been forced to go to and had attended one session before never going back) had said, probably from the gunshot. No, it wasn’t from the wound. He knew that.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, John glanced out the window. It was light. He should go for a walk, get some fresh air. Grabbing his cane, he heaved himself up and walked out the door.

*.*.*.

An hour later, and he was walking into a lab with Mike Stamford (a bloke that had been nice to him and taken him in for a while after Sherlock had kicked him out) and looking around, making a joke about how it was different from his day – when Mike had shown him around here once or twice even though John hadn’t enjoyed it because it reminded him of Sherlock too much – and then froze in place, head swivelling to find the source the of scent the man that he still loved, even after all this time.

Sherlock. Sherlock was here. John’s heart pounded and his head whirled. He had conflicting overwhelming urges of running over to Sherlock and running away from him. But, wasn’t this why he was here in London? The chance to finding Sherlock?

Sherlock glanced at him, and then back to his experiment. The dismissal hurt, and John averted his gaze for a moment before taking a deep breath and straightening his back.

“Afghanistan, or Iraq?” Sherlock murmured the question, not looking up. His real question was obvious to John – to which country had he abandoned Sherlock for?

“Afghanistan,” John responded to the question. “How-?” he started, before cutting himself short and glancing at Mike. How did Sherlock act as if he didn’t know John, was what he wanted to ask. John was barely managing to stay upright.

Sherlock glanced at him and straightened, stalking forward. John trembled slightly, but stayed perfectly still. “Tan-line, obviously,” he said, and then walked over to Mike, holding out a hand, “Can I borrow your phone?

Tan-line? Oh. Sherlock was answering his cut-off question, but had misinterpreted.

“Sorry, it’s in my other coat,” Mike said with a shrug, and Sherlock sighed.

John’s hand was down in his pocket, gripping his phone and holding it out before he’d had time to realise that he’d done so, the words tumbling from his mouth, “Take mine.”

He wanted some recognition from Sherlock, some sign that he still loved John, or even liked him.

Sherlock looked at him and took the phone, but stilled for a spit-second in his typing, eyes widening minutely.

John held down a grin. Sherlock recognised the phone! It was the phone Sherlock had given him years ago, with the inscription:

To: John

From: Sherlock

Forever. x

John glanced away to hide his joy. Maybe there was even a chance that Sherlock still liked him? Still loved him maybe?

John knew he would never stop loving Sherlock. Even though he’d disobeyed Sherlock and been kicked out, John would never stop loving Sherlock, not ever. He’d sworn to stay with Sherlock forever and would love him always, and even if Sherlock didn’t let him stay, he would always love Sherlock. Nothing could stop that.

There was a clearing of the throat, and John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him intensely, the phone extended in his hand, and John took it, carefully letting his fingers brush against Sherlock’s as Sherlock murmured, “Thank you.”

John’s heart pounded, and his head dipped instinctively as he always had when he wanted a pat. He couldn’t help it, he’d been doing it his entire life, and he hardly noticed he was doing so. When there was no hand in his hair after a moment as usually happened when he did so, John realised what he was doing and cleared his throat in embarrassment, glancing up to see a  smile flash across Sherlock’s face before it was gone once more.

“Right, I have to be go. Left my riding crop in the morgue,” Sherlock said, striding away and paused at the door, winking at John before disappearing.

John stared after him in silent longing. There was no call of his name for him to follow, or a snap of Sherlock’s long fingers. Disheartened, John glanced at Mike who smiled at him and shrugged. “I’ve got to go to. I’ll see you out,” Mike said, and started walking towards the door, glancing back at John before he reached it.

Mentally shaking himself, John forced a small smile and nodded, walking forward and keeping pace with Mike. The human’s pace was slow, more an amble than anything, and John missed keeping a pace behind Sherlock’s quick stride. Forcing himself not to dwell on the past, even though the scent of Sherlock hung thick in the air from where he had strode through moments earlier, taunting him with the desire to chase after Sherlock and catch up.

But, he had to resist. If he chased after Sherlock, he would surely be mad with John.  Despite everything, it was still deeply ingrained in John to not do anything that might upset Sherlock. He’d only ever disobeyed Sherlock three times, and every time afterwards he’d always regretted it and wished he’d that he hadn’t done it.

Especially that last time. The first time he’d started collecting the brochures and pamphlets, he hadn’t known that he was doing something wrong – Sherlock had, after all, always encouraged his learning of new things that John found when they were out walking or when he sent John to the shops to get food.

And, even after he’d been punished and kicked out because of his interest in the war, he hadn’t joined, the pain of not being with Sherlock consuming him completely.

*.*.*.

Later that night as John sat on his bed, cane resting against the bed near his bedside table with a mug of tea and an apple on top of it – which he likely wouldn’t eat (he hadn’t eaten much since he’d left Sherlock and he’d lost a lot of weight) – he was staring at the wall, thinking, when his phone pinged with a text. Surprised – not a lot of people had his number, only Sherlock and Mike actually – John blinked himself out of his thoughts and dug his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it.

His heart pounded as he saw that the message was from Sherlock, set out in the familiar format from when Sherlock had used to text him instructions back before he’d been kicked out.

John.

221B Baker Street. 7pm tomorrow.

SH

John’s mouth was dry and he reached for his mug, taking a large gulp, eyes never leaving the screen. Sherlock had texted him. Sherlock wanted to meet him somewhere. A flat, probably. It wasn’t their old flat. Sherlock had probably moved out of there after John had given up and went off.

Did that mean Sherlock could forgive him? That they could live together once more and Sherlock could, once more, be his pack leader – his Alpha? Even though Sherlock was all that he could remember, his wolf side instinctively recognised Sherlock as the leader of their pack. It had taken him years to recognise what his instincts were telling him and even longer that he found the proper name for it.

Realising that it had been five minutes and he’d just been staring at the text, he jolted forward slightly, upright and on his feet, not sure what he was going to do, and then cursed as his leg crumbled underneath him and he fell to the floor. Pressing his head into the floor, he breathed deeply and with trembling arms lifted himself up into a sitting position and positioned his leg into a correct position where it didn’t hurt so much.

I’ll be there.

JW

He sent the text and leant back against the side of his bed, closing his eyes and waiting for either a response or for sleep and the nightmares to claim him.

Just as he was about to slip into sleep, his phone pinged and he peeked open his eyes to read it, before he fell asleep with a small smile on his face.

I know.

SH

*.*.*.

John walked (limped) into the flat, behind Sherlock, gaze fixed on Sherlock, hardly aware of the presence of the landlady. When Sherlock had invited him to the flat, he hadn’t thought that it was a place that Sherlock was looking at buying. Did that mean that Sherlock was inviting him to move in with him once again? He knew that it was unlikely that Sherlock had forgiven him just yet.

“It’s very nice,” John managed to get out as he rested his leg in the middle of the room, leaning on the cane and lifting his foot from the ground slightly to relieve the pressure on it.

Mrs Hudson asked, “Will you be needing two bedrooms?”

John looked at Sherlock, instinctively, wanting to instantly say no, but he knew it wasn’t his choice. Sherlock turned away to tidy up after a moment, but John had caught the flicker in his facial feature. Sherlock didn’t want them to have two bedrooms.

“No, thank you,” John told Mrs Hudson with a slight smile.

If Sherlock wouldn’t let him sleep in his room, it was likely John would be out in the living room. Either way, he’d be closer to Sherlock than he had been in nearly four years.

*.*.*.

Later, after the exhilarating chase after a cab and then back to Baker Street, after the drugs bust, when Sherlock had dashed off without John, and Lestrade had given his little speech about Sherlock becoming a good man, John paced the flat.

Where had Sherlock gone? He’d been acting odd before he left, and John had refreshed the search, and now he ran his hand through his hair. Darting over instantly as the computer beeped, John stared. It was moving.

Oh. Oh! No, no, no! Sherlock had gone after the killer by himself! What an idiot! Why would he do that? Why not let John know? Whining in anxiousness, John paced for a moment, waited for the dot to settle, zoomed in on it, and dashed out the door. Once he was out in the streets, he darted into an alley way and transformed. He had to pause for a few moments, head whirling as he fought to control himself and his instincts.

Focus! Sherlock was in danger!

Taking a deep breath, he dashed through dark alley ways to stay out of sight, running through a park. Sherlock had memorised London by the time he was seventeen, so John had been forced to learn it as well to keep up with him and not lose him.

The dot’s position focused in his mind, it only took him two minutes to reach it. Sniffing about, he caught the scent of a gun and poison, and whined, following the scent of the gun into a building. It was odd, there were three people here. Sherlock’s went into the other building, as did the scent of poison, but the gun scent was older. It had clearly come here before this. This was a set up.

Hackles raised, ears pricked, he heard Sherlock and an elderly male talk in the other building, goading Sherlock into taking a pill. John rushed through the halls, pausing as he located the scent of the gun. It was a sniper, ducked down low with the barrel of the gun just barely out the window, trained on Sherlock.

John glanced out the window and panicked as he caught sight of Sherlock raising the pill to his lips. John snarled as he saw the finger tighten around the trigger, and lunged, knocking the sniper to the ground as the shot fired. He spared a moment to listen, to hear Sherlock’s continued breathing and the laboured breathing of the elderly man, and quickly and cleanly snapped the neck of the sniper before dragging him and the gun out the back of the building to dispose of it.

Once that was done, he phoned the officer Lestrade and then made his way around the building, giving the police enough time to get there before he ventured onto the scene, eyes finding Sherlock wrapped in a shock blanket and unable to supress his smile of amusement.

He watched and listened as Sherlock started describing the sniper, and watched as Sherlock’s gaze fell on him then swept over him, taking in his raggard appearance, the dirt under his nails and the way some of his shirt was still untucked, and paused in speaking.

John watched as Sherlock strode over to him and stared down at him for a moment.

“Is it gone?” Sherlock questioned in a low voice.

“Completely,” John answered, gazing up at Sherlock’s face. He had so much that he wanted to say to Sherlock, and most of all he wanted to tell Sherlock that he was sorry and that he would always love him. Forever, he’d promised when Sherlock was eight and John seven.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment more, a small smile twitching on his lips, before he turned and started walking, saying, “Come, John. We’ve much to discuss.”

Finally, John thought with a grin as he caught up to Sherlock and stayed a step behind him as he always did.

*.*.*.

Back in the – their – flat, Sherlock shut the door behind them so Mrs Hudson wouldn’t hear and faced John, who was waiting in the middle of the room, cane long since discarded.

“Wolf,” Sherlock commanded, “I need to catalogue the changes.”

John hesitated a moment, well aware of what his wolf form now looked like, but before Sherlock could reprimand him or demand again, John transformed. He stood, head bent and eyes closed. Before Sherlock had kicked him out, changing into his wolf form had simply been shifting into his other skin, but now it was different. Now, he had to struggle to control himself and had to fight with his instincts.

His fur was rugged and unkempt, dirty and tangled. The gunshot wound on his left shoulder had no fur covering it, and his fur was longer than Sherlock had previously kept it at.

John closed his eyes, not wanting to see Sherlock’s face as he took him in. He’d used to look clean and good and fierce, now he just looked wild and pathetic. John hated it. But he couldn’t exactly trim his own fur.

A finger gently pressed against the gunshot wound, and John didn’t flinch, staying still as he felt Sherlock bend to inspect it. “It was done in this form,” Sherlock murmured, “But how is that possible? You were in Afghanistan, in the army. They wouldn’t have let you return if they knew you were a werewolf. And why is your fur in such a state? It’s disgusting, John. You need a bath. And a trim.” A finger traced over one of his ribs, “And feeding.”

Sherlock circled him, muttering to himself, before he finally snapped his fingers and John transformed back an instant later, sitting on the floor and finally looked up at Sherlock, who was frowning down at him.

“How did you get that if you went to war?” Sherlock questioned sternly.

John shook his head. “I didn’t go to war,” John told Sherlock.

Sherlock’s frown deepened. “But you went to Afghanistan.”

“Yes, I did,” John agreed, not really wanting to talk about it, and glanced down at his feet.

“John,” the tone was stern and familiar and John looked up automatically, “Tell me what happened.”

John sighed, and gazed at Sherlock’s face as he spoke. “I stuck around for quite a few months, hoping desperately that you’d take me back in. But, it looked like you were never going to. And, that. Well, it broke something inside of me, I guess,” John admitted, glaze flickering down, only to be drawn back up by Sherlock’s finger under his chin.

“To put it simply, I went feral. Hence the state of my fur. I reverted back to that of an average wolf. All I knew where base instincts and who you were and the knowledge that my own Alpha had kicked me out sent me wild. So, I fled to the first place I had been thinking about last – Afghanistan. I hunted animals or something. I can’t quite remember. Then, hunters found me. Wolf hunters. They tracked me for weeks, and then ambushed me in the night, tried to capture me in nets, and shot around randomly to spook me – which worked – and I fled and escaped, managing to get away with only a shot to the shoulder. My limp had slowed me down. The therapist Mike forced me to go to said it was because of the wound. But it wasn’t. I had it before then. It was because you kicked me out that I started limping,” John finished, watching the expressions pass over Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock was quiet for a few minutes, before he finally spoke. It wasn’t an apology nor was it words of pity or anger. Instead, Sherlock said simply, “Come. Let’s get you washed and fed and trimmed.” And then Sherlock stood, snapping his fingers as he headed towards the bathroom.

John instantly transformed back into wolf form and trotted after Sherlock.

They spent the rest of the night getting John’s fur back into the perfect state that it always was when Sherlock looked after it. Then Sherlock got John to transform back, eat two servings of a large dinner (even if Sherlock didn’t eat, he always had made sure that John ate enough).

It was around two in the morning by the time they trailed into the bedroom, weary, and John lingered by the end of the bed as Sherlock stripped and curled under the blankets.

“End of the bed,” Sherlock instructed in a murmur, and John nodded, curling up on the end of the bed (he hadn’t gotten changed after his bath so he was still nude).

Content, it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep.

*.*.*.

John bolted upright, sweating and whining in panic, hand scrambling at his injured shoulder as he panted heavily, practically gasping for air.

There was a rustle behind him, then strong arms were wrapping around him and pulling him close, one long arm around his back and the other cradling his head, pressing his face into the pale neck. John inhaled the familiar comforting scent, clutching at Sherlock and pressing his eyes closed as Sherlock gently lay them back down and pulled the sheets over the both of them and began stroking his hair.

“You won’t have any more nightmares,” Sherlock said firmly. “I am here. You are here with me. You have nothing to fear.”

“Don’t leave,” John whimpered.

“Never again. Those four years were hell for both of us. I shan’t ever let you go,” Sherlock promised, and John relaxed.

He nodded slightly against Sherlock’s neck. Pulling back from John, Sherlock looked down at him, and then pressed their lips together gently. John pressed eagerly into the kiss, opening his mouth for Sherlock to plunge his tongue inside, which he did.

This was familiar, and comforting, and John relaxed further, making a soft noise as Sherlock continued stroking his hair. Finally, Sherlock pulled back and pressed a kiss to John’s forehead and murmured softly, “Sleep,” before tucking John’s head back under his chin.

John was a werewolf, but he had been born as a wolf with wolf parents and a wolf pack. Of course, his name hadn’t been John, then. It had been Sand, named after the colour of his fur. He hadn’t gotten the name John for another three years. He could understand both human and wolf languages, and the first time he had transformed into human, he was three years old. His mother had nearly killed him when she’d come back from her hunting trip and found the toddler in amongst her litter, playing, until John had started whining happily at her and telling her what they’d been up to. He would never remember the look of horror in his mother’s eyes as she stared at him as a human boy. He hadn’t understood – not back then – why his mother had looked at him like that. He’d transformed back within the hour and was playing happily when his father came, and he gave a happy yip, trotting up to the dark-brown wolf and tumbling around his paws. His mother slipped into the den and curled around the rest of her litter, not looking as his father picked him up gently by the scruff of his neck and started walking away. He whined, asking where they were going, but his father never replied. John grew anxious the further they went from the Den and he told his father as such, but all he got in reply was a low rumble. After that, John stayed quiet, slipping into a near-doze. He woke when his father set him down, and he shook out his thick fur and sat up, looking around excitedly. He doubted any of his littermates had ever gone this far away from the Den before! He yapped happily, bouncing around his father’s paws, and his father nosed his forehead gently, before he licked John’s back and pushed him in the direction on the tree line, and John happily bounded in that direction, and when he looked back, his father was gone. Confused and scared, he whined anxiously, tail pressing between his legs and he crouched into the ground, wishing his father would return and find him. John gave a high-pitched whine, panting in terror. Where had his father gone? Why had he left him here?

“Come!” A soft, persistent and demanding voice called.

John’s fuzzy ears pricked, and his head swivelled in that direction. It was an unfamiliar voice, and John crawled his way over to it, poking his head out from under a bush, curious. There was a young human boy, with piercing multi-coloured eyes, pale skin and a mop of curly black hair. He was just sitting on the ground with his legs crossed. John wagged his tail and gave a whine of greeting, but stayed in the safety of the bushes just in case. The boy turned his head to face him and gave a small smile, beckoning with his hand. “Come,” he repeated, softer this time, eyes trained totally on John.

John, unable to resist the call, scurried out of his hiding place and trotted over, ears pricked and panting softly, and gave another soft whine of greeting.

The boy smiled softly and reached out a hand, and John nuzzled into it gently. He gave a whine of distress as he was picked up in a both hands, but the boy shushed him softly yet firmly, and stroked a hand down his back with surprising gentleness. John was at least half the size of the boy, but he curled up in the boy’s lap anyway, nuzzling into his chest and inhaling his scent. He smelt nice, comforting, and John closed his eyes, rumbling in content as a hand continued to stroke down his back, his tail wagging happily.

John’s ears pricked, body tensing slightly as a voice called out sternly, “Sherlock! Time for lunch!”

John gave a soft whine, tail and ears drooping. Would the boy leave him all alone now? He didn’t want that. He looked up at Sherlock with anxious and pleading eyes. Sherlock stared down at him for a few moments with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Promise,” Sherlock reassured him softly, scratching lightly behind John’s ears.

Sherlock gently pushed John from his lap and then stood, stretching his little arms above his head. “Come… John,” Sherlock ordered with a small smile, obviously pleased with the name he had chosen for the werewolf.

John’s ears pricked and he gave a happy bark, following Sherlock back to the huge house. There was a woman – Sherlock’s mother? – standing by the door, looking very tired. She frowned as she spotted John, and picked him up as Sherlock passed by her and into the house.  John whined anxiously, ears flattening and tail tucking between his legs. Sherlock didn’t seem to have noticed, and John whined again, this time louder and more high-pitched as Sherlock’s mother frowned at him and John could hear the heavy footsteps of Sherlock rushing towards him as John squirmed in the long-fingered grip, whining continuously.

“Mother!” Sherlock protested, and John caught a glimpse of him and saw that the young boy was frowning, “Give John back to me! He’s mine!”

“Yours?” Sherlock’s mother asked and trilled a cold laugh. “He’s a mutt, Sherlock, and I will not allow mutts inside this house!”

John stilled in fear, twisting to face Sherlock with a pleading expression. Sherlock would take care of him, wouldn’t he? “He’s not a mutt!” Sherlock protested vehemently, scowling, his expression suddenly dark, “he’s a wolf! A purebred!”

John kept his gaze on Sherlock, whining softly and his tail twitching slightly, anxious. Sherlock glanced at him, and his expression softened slightly, before hardening as he looked back to his mother.

John could sense Sherlock’s mother wavering, and finally she sighed and handed John off to Sherlock, who gripped him tight to his chest and turned without so much as another glance towards his mother. John nuzzled close, his nose pressing against Sherlock’s neck, just below his ear, and he whined softly, tail wagging and he licked Sherlock in thanks. Sherlock stroked a hand firmly down his back, and John relaxed against him. Walking into a room, Sherlock set John down and told him firmly, “Stay by my side, John. I won’t let anyone else try and take you away. Do you understand?”

John nodded, ears pricked and he wagged his tail once.

*.*.*.

The next morning, Sherlock began training John on how to be good. John tried his best, he really did, and John was completely devoted to Sherlock and did everything he could to please him. John would never forget, however, the first time Sherlock punished him.

It was only a month after Sherlock had started training him and John had broken Sherlock’s first rule – never go outside of the room without Sherlock. To be fair, Sherlock had left him alone in the room for only an hour, but John wanted to be sure that Sherlock was alright, and had gone to try and investigate. When he’d found Sherlock, safe and well, Sherlock had been absolutely furious. John understood that the Rules were there to protect him, but he had wanted to be sure that Sherlock was alright.

After taking him back to their room, Sherlock had firmly shut the door and ordered John to sit. Ears drooping, John had done so, giving a soft whine.

“John,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, walking over to John, “You disobeyed me. You know I have to punish you for that.”

John dipped his head, eyes on the floor. John listened to Sherlock approach, and he leant into the feel of Sherlock’s small, four-year old hand on his furry cheek, and John gave a yelp and was sent sprawling onto the floor as the hand slapped him with unexpected force. Whimpering softly, John looked up at Sherlock, and saw the boy coming over to him and crouching in front of him, gently stroking down his back in a now-familiar comforting manner.

“Now. You won’t do that again, will you, John?” Sherlock asked, and John forced himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze and shook his head and was rewarded with a smile.  “Good boy,” Sherlock praised and John’s heart lifted and his tail thumped against the floor. “The rules are there to protect you. By breaking them, you place yourself in danger and I don’t want that to happen.”

*.*.*.

It was four years later the first time John transformed in Sherlock’s house. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to show Sherlock that, it was merely that John had forgotten about it. He hadn’t even meant to transform. He’d curled up on the end of Sherlock’s bed (a privilege that he’d earned) in his wolf form while Sherlock went to school, and gone to sleep like he usually did.

When Sherlock burst in a few hours later, John woke with a start and lifted his head sleepily and he stretched out and realised with a start that he must have transformed while he slept.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded, striding over to him and looking around, a tinge of worry in his gaze, “Where’s John?”

“Sh-er-lo-ck,” John sounded out as he sat up, and then a pleased smile came over his face. “Sher-lock,” John said again, just because he could, and looked happily over at Sherlock, who was frowning.

“Who are you?” Sherlock repeated, more firmly, looking more confused now.

Slipping from the bed and standing, John walked in a loose circle, getting used to just two legs instead of four, and then pointed to him, pointing to his heart, and said, “Jo-hn. John.”

“John?” Sherlock repeated, a note of disbelief in his voice. “You’re John. My John?”

John nodded his head happily, and ducked his head like he always did when he wanted Sherlock to pat him. Sherlock’s hand came out and stroked through John’s soft blonde hair. “John,” Sherlock repeated in a murmur before stepping back and demanding, “Show me.”

John hesitated a moment before admitting, “Don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how to transform back?” Sherlock asked and John nodded.

“Sit,” Sherlock commanded, waving a hand towards the bed, and John obediently sat and watched as Sherlock paced, hands pressed together under his nose.

After some time, Sherlock strode over to John and he was smiling, a gleam in his eyes. “This is perfect!” Sherlock exclaimed, and flopped onto the bed beside him. John rolled over and cuddled up to his side, and Sherlock absently placed a hand in John’s hair and stroked gently. “Do you want to stay with me?” Sherlock asked and John instantly nodded, “Forever?” Sherlock clarified.

“For-ev-er,” John repeated happily.

“Good,” Sherlock said, sounding immensely satisfied.

*.*.*.

From then on, Sherlock taught John in both forms, even figuring out how to get John to transform between them. In human, Sherlock taught him how to speak and write in English, as well as how to fight and do mathematics. In wolf, Sherlock continued with his training on how to be good, and it was implied that John needed to follow these no matter which form he was in, and taught John how to fight.

Every now and then, Sherlock would grant him rewards for being good and not breaking any of his rules. Sometimes it would be a simple pat on the head, or a ‘good boy, John’ and he was even allowed to sleep at Sherlock’s side in the bed. John was completely devoted to Sherlock. He’d do anything Sherlock asked.

Once, when John was in human form, a few years later when Sherlock was twelve, Sherlock ordered John to sit on the edge of the bed. John, well used to Sherlock’s orders that didn’t seem to have any purpose, sat without hesitation or question on the edge of the bed, eyes focussed completely on Sherlock as the twelve year old paced, hands folded in the now-familiar position.

It was a few minutes of silence before Sherlock ordered him, “Close your eyes, John.”

Immediately complying, John knew better than to question Sherlock. He felt breath waft over him, and resisted the urge to look or ask a question, and after a few moments, John felt a gentle, soft pressure against his lips. A surprised sound escaped him, and he leant forward into the sensation slightly. It felt nice.

“Open your eyes,” Sherlock whispered, his breath wafting over John and he inhaled, loving the scent as he opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock with a small smile.

“M-my heart,” John said softly in confusion, reaching a hand to rub against his chest, “It feels funny. Warm. Is this… normal?”

Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face, and then he smiled. “I feel it too,” Sherlock murmured softly, “It’s love, John.”

John tilted his head to the side. “Love? Like… like parents love each other?” John asked, blinking.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John. Would you do anything for me?”

“Anything at all. I’d die for you, Sherlock,” John told Sherlock honestly.

“And you care for me?”

“More than anything – much more than myself. I swear it.”

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction, but it turned into a scowl as there was a knock at the door and Sherlock’s brother appeared.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded, drawing himself up to his full height and glaring at his older sibling.

Mycroft ignored him, and his gaze strayed to John instead. John blinked in surprise, and his gaze turned to Sherlock.

“You know,” Mycroft said coolly, “Mummy would hate to see you with a mere commoner.”

Sherlock visibly bristled and laid a hand on John’s hair, stroking his hair and John leant into the touch, eyes half-closing.

“John is not a commoner, Mycroft. He is the furthest thing from common, and you will never know why, Mycroft,” Sherlock said coldly, eyes hard as they gazed at his brother.

“It would be a … shame if Mummy found out about your pet, brother,” Mycroft said, glancing down at his feet with disdain before back up at Sherlock.

Sherlock’s grip tightened before he released John’s hair completely. “Do what you will, Mycroft. You cannot keep us apart. Neither John nor I will let that happen. Right, John?” Sherlock said, looking down at John.

“Never. I’d rather die,” John vowed, gaze locked on Sherlock.

There was a soft huff, before the door closed and Mycroft was gone. “Good boy, John,” Sherlock praised him, and John smiled happily.

*.*.*.

It was only a mere week later before It happened. John was in wolf form, napping on Sherlock’s bed, when he heard Sherlock’s voice raised in outrage with a slight hint of fear and panic. Instantly awake and on alert, John’s ears pricked.

“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled loudly, and John could hear muffled thumps and his blood boiled. Someone dared try to harm his Sherlock? “COME, JOHN!”

Without another thought, John leapt off of the bed and bent his head, ramming the bedroom door with the flat of his forehead, breaking it cleanly off of its hinges, and, breathing in a deep breath, raced along the halls and down a flight of stairs before he found Sherlock in the living room, Sherlock’s mother, father and Mycroft watching as men restrained Sherlock forcibly.

Growling low in his throat, hackles raised, he stalked into the room, eyes darting around. Sherlock visibly relaxed when he saw John. “Release me or I’ll have John kill you!” Sherlock threatened.

Sherlock’s father snorted and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Take him out and to the car,” Sherlock’s father ordered.

“John!” Sherlock commanded, and John didn’t need any further instructions.

Leaping from where he stood, teeth bared in a fearsome snarl and claws extended, he leapt onto one of the people restraining Sherlock, taking care to avoid the tween who had taken care of him and loved him and taught him so much, and knocked him to the floor, ripping into him with his claws, not caring about the blood that gushed and oozed from the man as he weakly tried to push John off. He would not be stopped! Sherlock had given him an order, and John would fulfil it. John leant down and tore a chunk out of the man’s throat, spitting it to the side away from Sherlock and snarling in his face before the man died and John looked up, blood staining his fur and claws and dripping from his jaw. Everyone was staring at him in horror except for Sherlock, who was looking at him with approval. John warmed at the look, pleased.

The other thug was still holding Sherlock, a look of horror on his now-pale face, and John’s eyes went to the thugs beefy hands on Sherlock’s thin arm, pressing in hard and John growled threateningly, stalking towards him, ears flattened.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, eyes wide as John’s ear flicked at the sound of movement and he spun around, tackling another thug to the ground, snarling and he hardly flinched as a knife struck into his shoulder.

The thug’s eyes widened in shock as he saw how John was obviously bleeding, but not even twitching, instead waiting for Sherlock’s command.

“Kill,” Sherlock’s voice was cold. “All of the hired goons.”

Tail flicking in acknowledgement, John went for the throat, and wrapped his jaws around the man’s throat, squeezing the life out of him, anger boiling through him. No one would threaten his Sherlock and get away with it. No one.

Then, he released the man and twisted his head and closed his jaws around the knife in his shoulder and tugged it out before spitting it onto the ground. The other thug released Sherlock and started backing away, but it was too late for him. John stalked across the room, snarling and baring his bloody teeth, and then leapt, tackling the man to the ground an ignoring his futile struggles and punches and crushed his throat like he’d done to the others.

Once the man was dead, John stepped off of him and sat down by Sherlock’s side, nuzzling him tenderly and checking to make sure that he wasn’t harmed, and making sure that none of the blood on his fur got on Sherlock. His shoulder was oozing blood, but John paid it no mind as Sherlock gently pet John’s head, glaring at his family. “I warned you to not try and force us apart,” Sherlock said, his anger evident in voice. “John is mine.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock’s mother said in a deceptively sweet voice, “John is a wolf. How can you be sure that he won’t turn on you?”

John bristled at the accusation. As if he would turn on Sherlock! He loved Sherlock. With all his heart.

“Forever, right, John?” Sherlock addressed him, and John nodded eagerly, pressing his nose gently to Sherlock’s cheek.

John, now eleven, was a fully grown wolf, and his shoulders came up to Sherlock’s cheekbones, and his head was above Sherlock’s height.

“He can’t understand you, dear. He reacts to tones,” Sherlock’s mother said softly.

John gave a short growl, but quietened instantly as Sherlock pet his head once more before sighing and saying, “John. Go get the ring finger from the thug that you attacked first from his right hand and place it in front of Mycroft’s left foot.”

John dipped his head and trotted over to the thug, tearing off his ring finger from the right beefy hand and went over to Mycroft, placing it in front of the older sibling’s left foot before retreating to Sherlock’s side and his tail wagged happily as Sherlock looked at him warmly. Love. That’s what Sherlock had said this feeling was.

Sherlock’s family was silent, and John saw their expressions of mixed horror and fear. Good. They should fear. John could smell it in the air, and he gave a vicious toothy, bloody grin. Sherlock’s mother flinched.

“We’re leaving. Come, John,” Sherlock commanded and turned, stalking off, but Sherlock’s father blocked the doorway, scowling.

“Father! NO!” Mycroft called out, sounding slightly panicked as Sherlock glared at him.

“I will give you one chance to move out of my way,” Sherlock said coldly, and John’s fur bristled, claws scratching gently on the wooden floor in warning.

“You wouldn’t kill your own father,” Sherlock’s father scoffed, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You will stay here, you will apologise and then you will get rid of your pet.”

Sherlock sighed, and clicked his fingers together gently. John leapt and knocked the man to the ground, holding him there and snarling in his face. “Apologise to John and I will spare your life,” Sherlock warned, and John growled loudly, ears flat.

“I will never-“ Sherlock’s father started before Sherlock sighed and said, “John.”

John wasted no time in capturing the man’s head in his jaws and twisting savagely, hearing the crunch of bones and feeling the life drain from the man under him. Sherlock didn’t spare his father another glance, instead stepping over him and carrying on towards their room with John following.

*.*.*.

Sherlock still held all of the money he had inherited, plus he got a third of what his father had left, so they were quite well off. At fifteen, they had moved into the middle of London, and were quite comfortable.

The first time they did anything sexual (besides kissing) was on John’s fifteenth birthday. It was a treat, Sherlock told him with a grin as he ordered John onto his knees. John felt a stir of excitement and anticipation roll through him. A treat! That was like a really good birthday present.

They were in their room, and Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, long locks falling in front of his face for a moment as he tugged off his trousers and pants. At Sherlock’s gesture, John crawled forward, eyes locked onto Sherlock’s hardening cock with curiosity. “Since it’s your birthday, you can explore,” Sherlock told him and smiled as John looked up at him with eagerness.

John shifted even closer, his hands resting on Sherlock’s thighs as he leant in close and nuzzled at the warm skin with his nose. Soft, but it was getting harder. Curious. Sherlock’s hands slipped into his hair, and John looked up to see Sherlock with a pleased expression on his face, so John continued. He licked at the head, tasting the small clear drop that had formed at the tip. It was salty, but it tasted nice.

Sherlock made a noise of pleasure, and John took that as encouragement as he licked up and down the shaft, tasting and measuring the feel of it. John took his time, savouring both the feel and taste as well as the fact that Sherlock was letting him take his time and do what he wished. After some time of exploring, Sherlock’s cock was hard and leaking, and John looked up for guidance, unsure what to do now. He’d explored, but he wanted to give Sherlock pleasure.

Sherlock’s face was flushed, but his hands were gentle as he stroked through John’s hair. “Take me in your mouth,” Sherlock ordered softly as he caught John’s look.

Relieved to have a firm order, John opened his mouth and took in the head first, licking and suckling until Sherlock gently tugged on his hair, and John slid his mouth all the way down. Sherlock moaned loudly, and John felt pleased that he could give Sherlock such pleasure. The weight and the feel of it was amazing, and John found that he rather loved it. John slid his head back, flicking the slit with his tongue and tasting the saltiness once more, before sliding back down, making a questioning sound and looking up at Sherlock for approval. Sherlock’s eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily, and he gave a shiver, “Don’t stop,” Sherlock rasped, and John set back to work even more eagerly than before.

He loved being able to give pleasure to Sherlock in any form, and John rather loved doing this. It was an almost addicting feel. After a minute or two, Sherlock’s hips began twitching up into his mouth, and the feel of it was divine, and John gave an eager whine, opening his jaw wide in invitation. Sherlock started down at him, breathing heavily, and managed to get out, “It’s meant to be your present.”

John pulled off, and smiled softly up at Sherlock. “Your pleasure brings me pleasure. Please!” John said eagerly, shifting himself slightly closer and opening his mouth wide once again, eyes locked onto Sherlock, waiting.

Sherlock stared down at him for a moment, eyes dark with lust, and then thrust his hips hard into John’s mouth, John whining eagerly in encouragement as Sherlock stood, pounding into John’s warm inviting mouth eagerly. Experimentally swallowing as Sherlock thrust in, John watched as Sherlock moaned loudly, his grip on John’s hair tightening, but his eyes never closed, locked on John’s eager eyes staring up at him.

Not long passed before Sherlock gave a cry, and came hard into John’s mouth, shooting his seed down John’s throat, who swallowed the salty treat eagerly, licking every last drop up before pulling off. Sherlock had closed his eyes, and was panting heavily, his grip tight in John’s hair.

John stood and gently pushed Sherlock back onto the bed, lying him down and tugging Sherlock’s clothes off completely before tucking him under the covers and then snuggling close to Sherlock on top of them.

“Under, John. Join me,” Sherlock murmured, and John brightened, instantly snuggling under the covers and into Sherlock’s side, resting his head on Sherlock’s chest, half-covering Sherlock, and sighing happily.

Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his waist, and frowned slightly. “Clothes, off,” Sherlock ordered, tugging at John’s shirt.

John quickly obeyed the command, sitting up and tugging off his shirt and throwing it off the bed before tugging off his trousers and his pants, chucking them off as well before settling back down in his position and Sherlock’s arm wrapped back around his waist and sighed contentedly. The last thing John heard before falling asleep was a quiet, “Good boy, John. Good boy.”

*.*.*.

The first time John got the chance to protect Sherlock away from the Sherlock’s family, was at night, when they were on their way back home from a park (one of Sherlock and John’s favourite things to do at night, after everyone else had retreated to their beds, and John could transform and run around as he pleased). John had been in human, and holding Sherlock’s hand tightly, swinging slightly, and they were both grinning. Tonight, Sherlock had gone on John’s back as the werewolf raced about the park. John had noticed the presence of the men first, sneaking behind them, and he stiffened, gently shoving Sherlock up against the wall and pressing his back against Sherlock’s chest, a growl rumbling through him as he eyed the three men approaching. All of them looked to be in their 30’s, with sneers on their faces, and John’s eyes rapidly assessed them all, waiting for Sherlock’s command.

John’s arms were spread to either side, fingertips lightly brushing the wall to protect Sherlock and keep him away from the danger, a growl rumbling from his chest, eyes flickering between all three threats. “I think it would be best if you all left me and my love alone,” Sherlock warned quietly.

The three glanced between themselves in amusement, “Your love?” One sneered, “How old are you? Not even eighteen, I’d say. Your love is sure to leave you eventually.”

John snarled at the accusation, only quietening when Sherlock gently stroked a hand down his back, hand resting above John’s arse.

“He will never leave,” Sherlock said confidently, and another of the men sniggered as they gradually drew close.

“Keep back!” John snapped, his body tensing in preparation of a fight.

They put their hands up placatingly, and John caught the glimpse of a knife under the coat of one, but he still waited, murmuring in agitation, “Sherlock. Please.”

John tilted into Sherlock’s hand coming back up his back and gripping his hair, turning his head to the side pressing his lips wetly to John’s, making the werewolf shiver, and then pet his arse and whispered lovingly, “Go on. Kill.”

John let a grin creep across his face, and he waited until Sherlock let go of his hair and had ordered sharply, “Don’t let them hurt you!” before John lunged at them, using the skills Sherlock had taught him, and quickly snapped the neck of two in quick succession before turning on the third – the one with the knife.

Except, he was closer to Sherlock than John had thought he was, and darted forward as the other lunged towards Sherlock. John’s heart seemed to stop as Sherlock looked up and reacted, dislodging the knifed hand easily and punching the man in the face before stepping back as the man went sprawling and John tackled the man to the floor, slamming the man’s head back onto the floor and snarling in his face before coldly snapping his neck.

John’s body was shaking as he approached Sherlock, eyes darting rapidly over Sherlock, concerned. “I’m sorry,” John whimpered, his voice shaking and head lowered as he stopped just in front of Sherlock.

Sherlock studied him for what felt like forever, before smiling slightly and bringing John in for a gentle kiss. “Don’t be. You can’t watch all of them at once.”

Smiling in relief, John ducked his head like he always did when he wanted a pat, and Sherlock obligingly stroked a gentle hand through his hair, causing John to sigh happily and leant into his touch.