Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Watson didn’t know what he would do about his flatmate. Utterly impossible, he is. Sherlock had once again refused to go shopping for groceries, including, but not limited to, the milk.

It wasn’t just that. John was accustomed to the consulting detective’s dismissal of everyday tasks, but it was, quite frankly, the last of a series of recent events that left him extremely cross. There hadn’t been a case for weeks, and Sherlock had woken John up the past couple of nights by alternatingly shooting the wall with John’s (illegal) service revolver and sawing away at his blasted violin at way past the acceptable hour or volume. Then, earlier that morning, John had gone to fix himself some tea and found that his favorite mug was no longer in the cupboard. Upon further investigation, he discovered it, or what was left of it, in the rubbish bin, being steadily consumed by acid.

Another one of Sherlock’s bloody experiments, thought John, as he pushed his shopping cart into the refrigerated section at the back of the store and glared witheringly at the milk. He supposed he’d have to replace the bloody bin, too.

The absolute nerve of his flatmate to make him go out again to buy groceries had set him off, and he’d begun a shouting match with Sherlock. Or, rather, he’d shouted at Sherlock that he was an insufferable git and various other derogatory names while Sherlock just stared at him, fingers steepled under his chin as though he was off in another world. John had shaken his head disapprovingly and, grabbing his jacket, wallet, and phone, stormed out of the flat to get the groceries.

Having collected the milk and several quick and easy meal ingredients (anything could happen at 221B, so it was better not to leave a complex meal unfinished in the kitchen), John made his way into the coffee and tea aisle, where his spirits were briefly lifted to find a sale on tea in bulk. They were brought crashing down to Earth abruptly by the sound of his phone chiming. Sighing, he pulled it out, knowing it was useless to ignore it if it was who he thought it was. His worst fears were confirmed.

Come back to the flat if convenient. -SH

John rolled his eyes, knowing exactly what was coming next.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

You know what? John thought, I don’t think I will. I’m going to take my goddamn time. Why I should drop everything and rush to your side when you won’t even get the bloody groceries is beyond me. The appearance of a third text was unexpected, especially once John read it.

John. I need you. NOW. -SH

“Oh, for the love of…” John muttered and hustled through the checkout line in a frenzy. He would have just dropped everything and run to the flat, but something told him he would need those twelve boxes of tea he had picked up. Once out of the grocery store, he hailed a cab. He thrust a wad of pound notes at the driver and said tersely, “221B Baker Street, as fast as you can.”

The cabbie obliged, and soon, they were rocketing through the streets of London, with John’s mind going a million miles a minute.

Sherlock never says he needs people unless it’s an emergency. What’s he done now? Did he blow up the flat? Dammit, is he on drugs? I thought I got rid of it all…

He texted Sherlock.

What’ve you done this time? -JW

He saw the three little dots that showed that Sherlock was typing something out, and then they vanished abruptly. John started panicking, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest.

I’m on my way. Don’t move, and don’t do anything stupid. -JW

Okay, so it wasn’t drugs if he’s texting coherently, John thought, so he’s either destroyed the flat or… oh God, he’s not hurt, is he?

His musings were interrupted by the cabbie screeching to a halt in front of Baker Street. A muttered “thanks,” and John was racing through the door and up the stairs to the flat, yelling, “SHERLOCK?!”

He burst into the flat and was relieved to see that the living room was fully intact. However, there was no sociopathic flatmate to be found. He checked the kitchen and was almost not surprised to see that it looked like an elephant with a couple of small explosives strapped to it that had had a romp in it. There were scorch marks on the walls, and shards of scientific equipment and dishware were everywhere. The refrigerator and the pantry, as well as most of the major appliances, seemed to be reasonably intact, however. There was no sign of Sherlock in the kitchen, either.

“Sherlock, where are you?!” John yelled.

“In here, John,” came Sherlock’s voice from the bathroom. There was something different about it that John couldn’t quite pick up right away. He rushed into the loo to find a cat sitting on the sink, staring at itself in the mirror, and a pile of Sherlock’s charred clothes on the floor.

Odd, thought John. He pulled back the shower curtain. Sherlock wasn’t there. So, where was the voice coming from?

“Over here, John.” came Sherlock’s voice, sounding resigned, yet irritated, from the other side of the bathroom, where the- oh…fuck.

John whipped his head around to stare at the cat. “Sherlock?” John asked, hoping against hope that his flatmate hadn’t just done what he thought he had.

“It appears I’ve made a mistake,” the cat said in Sherlock’s unmistakable baritone.

Chapter Text

The ex-army doctor squeezed his eyes shut and opened them several times, each time expecting the cat to have suddenly vanished and the tall consulting detective appeared in its place. John Watson felt there should be a special ‘Stages of Grief' procedure for hijinx involving Sherlock Holmes: ‘Stages of Sherlock Giving me Grief.’ He was currently in the ‘denial’ stage and steadily progressing into the ‘confusion’ stage.

“How… why…?” John was visibly shaking, a blown-up flat he could deal with, yes, but HIS FLATMATE WAS A CAT.

Sherlock, in the meantime, was conflicted. This was not what he had expected from his experiment, and the results were undoubtedly interesting, but this would certainly put a wrinkle in his consulting. Unconsciously, he flicked his tail, annoyed at this prospect, but then turned around and stared at it. “Fascinating…” he whispered, but then glanced at John in the mirror and saw that he was white as a sheet.

Panic attack, most likely. Body tremors, palms beginning to sweat, widened eyes, tensed shoulders… must calm him down.

“John, stop panicking,” Sherlock commanded.

Stop panicking? STOP BLOODY PANICKING????? MY FLATMATE IS A BLOODY CAT!!!! John screamed in his head.

“JOHN!” Sherlock yowled, sensing the continued torrent of confused and frightened thoughts flooding his partner’s head, knowing he’d have to snap the doctor out of it before he passed out.

John stopped shaking, startled by the sound. Okay, it was okay, nothing lethal to his friend had actually occurred, this was just strange and contradicted everything John had previously known about how science worked. That was fine. Science is ever-changing, John knew, but he didn’t expect it to change this drastically. Despite this all still not making sense, the older man could at least focus more on the fact that Sherlock was miraculously not dead if the state of the kitchen was any indication. John would come to know this as the ‘grateful’ stage, the stage that didn’t last long because it reminded him that…

“YOU COULD HAVE BLOODY DIED, WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?!”

“John, I can explain,” Sherlock stated in a measured tone.

“WELL, IT BETTER BE GOOD BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE AT LEAST FIVE BOMBS WENT OFF IN THE KITCHEN!” John gestured wildly towards the doorway and the aforementioned war zone and stopped to take in a gulp of air.

“John, before you start carrying on again, I can assure you that it was neither my intention to mostly destroy the kitchen nor to become a domestic feline. Believe it or not, I didn’t anticipate the results to be quite so… violent. You had just stormed off right in the middle of me apologizing to you, although that might have been in my head, which explains why you left in such a hurry, and I got bored waiting for you to come back and mixed a couple of harmless chemicals together, which should have resulted in a cake. Unfortunately, I either misread the instructions or got distracted by something far more exciting in my Mind Palace, and then the entire kitchen just sort of… blew up. I found myself on the floor and dragged myself into the bathroom.”

John looked at Sherlock in astonishment. “You were baking a cake?!”

“Well, apologizing in my mind didn’t work, did it?” The cat seemed to smirk.

“Okay, okay, so you tried to make a cake, and it blew up, destroying the kitchen. You were knocked back by the explosion and crawled to the bathroom, but how did you text me? You couldn’t’ve gotten your mobile to open up with your paws.”

“I managed to send out the first two texts before anything started happening, but then when I was feeling pain everywhere, and there were no discernable injuries, I thought something might happen, so I texted you again. Right after I sent the text, I felt my entire body compressing. I believe I passed out from the pain and then woke up to find myself like this.” Sherlock jumped from the sink, attempting to land on the back of the toilet, but fell on the floor instead.

“Take it easy, Sherlock. You don’t have any practice on four legs. I imagine it’ll take some time to get used to,” John said, bending down to ensure he didn’t injure himself in the fall.

“I don’t have time to get used to this, John,” the feline scoffed, staggering to his feet and struggling to make his way toward the door. “I have to figure out a way to reverse this so I don’t miss the one exciting case that will likely come while I’ve got a tail. Do you really think Lestrade will let me on the crime scene looking like this?”

“Yes, Sherlock, yes I do. Lestrade’s known you longer than I have, and I imagine he’s put up with your antics for long enough that he’s used to it by now. Or at least, as close to it as you can get. Now, you’re going to get some rest while I work out how to convince Mrs. Hudson not to murder us.” John rubbed his eyes wearily, knowing he’ll have to pay for the damages because Sherlock can’t be bothered.

“I don’t need rest, John, I need answers.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, attempting to take another step towards the door and falling over.

John sighed. “Sherlock, you just shifted your entire anatomy, which should be scientifically impossible and possibly put a strain on your body. You’re taking a nap whether you like it or not.” He glared pointedly at the lump of black fur collapsed on the ground, hands on his hips while the cat groaned.

“Fine, I’ll take your ineffectual rest, not that it’ll solve anything. There is, however, one small obstacle,” Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to the utter humiliation that would soon follow.

“And what’s that?” John asked, impatient to get Sherlock to bed so he could finally sort everything out.

“Isn’t it obvious, John? I can’t walk. You’re going to have to carry me.”

The doctor laughed in spite of himself. “You do realize that I have absolutely no idea how to carry a cat?”

“I’m well aware.”

Chapter Text

After ten minutes of fussing and trying to get Sherlock comfortably into his arms, John finally tried lifting him up by the armpits and settling his chest against his left shoulder, wrapping the same arm around the cat’s back and his right hand supporting his rear (which thoroughly embarrassed the both of them, although Sherlock wasn’t obvious about it). This seemed to be physically comfortable for both parties involved, which was the fundamental goal, so John set off towards Sherlock’s bedroom to set him down awkwardly on the bed.

“Don’t you dare come out of there until dinner’s ready,” John ordered, knowing full well that Sherlock didn’t care about rest and recovery at all unless the situation was drastic. “Although, if you want to sleep longer, I won’t stop you.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Sherlock snarked, attempting to make a salute, but he didn’t have quite the same limb dexterity as a cat, so it just looked like he was slapping his face. Giving up, he collapsed on the bed and immediately started snoring.

John shook his head. Clearly, the detective hadn’t slept in days, and combined with the apparent strain turning into a small furry mammal took on his body, he must have been secretly exhausted. Why couldn’t he take care of himself for once in a while?

He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Despite what he had told Sherlock, he had absolutely no intention of pondering negotiations with Mrs. Hudson, at least not right then. Mrs. Hudson was away on holiday for the weekend, and that whole mess could be sorted out later. In the meantime, John knew there was only one thing to do, and with Sherlock unconscious in his bedroom, he could do it without any interference from the high-functioning sociopath. However, he was spared the trouble when his phone started ringing in his pocket. He answered it without a glance at the caller ID.

“Mycroft, thank God, I was just about to call you.”

“What did the experiment do to him?” Mycroft sighed, cutting right to the chase.

John didn’t even bother being surprised. He knew Mycroft had surveillance cameras placed inconspicuously all over the flat. He thought for a while before settling on his response. “I think you’ll need to see it for yourself.”

“The idiot didn’t blow himself up, did he?” John detected a hard edge in Mycroft’s voice that only came out when Sherlock was in danger. He suspected that Mycroft cared more than he let on.

“No, no, nothing like that. He’s perfectly fine, but…”

“I’m on my way.” Mycroft cut him off, hanging up.

John sighed. Sherlock was not going to be happy about this. Hell, he wasn’t happy about this. Mycroft didn’t exactly provide the most joyful of presences. Yet, John still appreciated that it was a challenge to keep track of, let alone care for, the usually human detective now sleeping in his bedroom. And the fact that the older Holmes was ready to drop everything to rush to his younger brother’s side did count for something, John supposed as he sat down in his armchair to phone Greg. John dialed his number and waited for the Detective Inspector to pick up.

“Hello, John, haven’t seen you in a while. Sherlock’s probably driving you mad, not having a case and all. Has he shot the wall again?”

“Yeah, Greg, he shot the wall, but that’s not what I’m calling you about,” John stalled, wondering just how to tell the Scotland Yard officer the unbelievable news.

“Bloody hell, did he get his hands on cocaine again? I thought you’d thrown it all out!”

“No, it’s not drugs, it’s worse, actually. He’s not hurt,” John rushed to assure him. “I think you’d better come down. Mycroft’s already on his way here to assess the situation.”

“It’s that serious?”

“Afraid so.” John heard some muffled swearing on the phone, and then Lestrade came back on the line.

“It’s not urgent, is it?”

“No, although Sherlock would disagree.”

“Alright, then. I’ll need to finish this mountain of paperwork, but I’ll be down as soon as I’m done. See you then,” Greg said, puzzled.

“See you then,” John repeated, ending the call.

Chapter Text

John was busy attempting to tidy what was left of the kitchen when he heard a knock at the door. Mycroft, he thought, brushing off a bit of the ash and debris that had collected on his jumper. He opened the door and saw the bureaucratic Holmes, just as he expected, although clutching his signature umbrella tighter than usual.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, as though he had just happened to be in the same place as John and had not raced across half of London to see him. His beady eyes swept the room. “Where is my dear brother? He’s usually lying in wait to hurl insults at me.”

“Actually, he doesn’t know you’re here. I managed to get him to bed so I could phone you without… you know...”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, and John could have sworn there was a flash of a small, if sarcastic, smile. “You’re learning.” He brushed past the doctor and strode purposefully toward the sleeping genius's bedroom, leaving his umbrella by the door as he did so. He opened the door with absolute silence that shouldn’t be humanly possible (but then, it was Mycroft, after all) and peeked inside. John watched, slightly amused, as his spine grew rigid. Turning on his heel, he closed the door and walked back to the living room, sitting down slowly on the sofa and crossing his right leg over his left.

“This shouldn’t be scientifically possible,” was all Mycroft managed to say calmly before he lapsed into silence. John was shocked at his response. Yes, Mycroft was almost completely unflappable, but his brother had just turned into a cat, for goodness sake. John wondered what other things Sherlock had gotten himself into to gain this level of acceptance to such an extreme scenario.

After about ten minutes of silent contemplation, Mycroft abruptly rose.

“Keep as few people informed as possible. If the general public were to hear of this, some of Sherlock’s enemies might be… incensed, let’s say, at the prospect of having my dear brother in such a vulnerable position. I’ll be watching.” He made his way gracefully across the flat towards the door.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, what is it?” The taller man asked impatiently.

“Do you think it can be reversed?” John couldn’t begin to imagine Sherlock living his entire life as a cat.

Mycroft sighed. “My brother is a brilliant, if incredibly stupid, man, so when he’s distracted, he can wreak unspeakable havoc. I’ll get my best men on it, but we must be prepared for the possibility that it may be permanent.” Unbeknownst to John, Mycroft’s mind was whirling, trying to sort it all out and imagining explaining to his parents that Sherlock had become a cat. He involuntarily shivered. Becoming aware of the sudden emotional movement he had just displayed, he swept out of the flat without another word, arm shooting out gracefully to snag the umbrella from its place.

The doctor closed the door behind him and then returned to bagging the broken items in the kitchen. He had to wear gloves and safety goggles because God knew what sort of chemicals Sherlock had been messing around with recently. He’d bring the bags out to the dumpster on Monday, he supposed. That acid-eaten bin was becoming a problem.

Once finished, he cleaned every kitchen surface and checked to ensure nothing in the cupboards, fridge, or pantry was contaminated. All the food, utensils, and major cookware seemed to be fine, but their plates and bowls would have to be replaced, along with their cups and glasses. John added that to his mental to-do list as well. He’d have to get someone to fix the oven and the dishwasher, and consult with Mrs. Hudson about repainting the walls (which was a common enough occurrence already), but other than that, the kitchen had been salvaged. By now, it was about 17:00.

John heard his phone buzz. It was a text from Lestrade.

Done with paperwork. Be over soon. -GL

John went downstairs to use Mrs. Hudson’s kettle (she’d given him a spare key just in case of this eventuality) and brought it up along with three mugs once the water was done boiling. He was surprised that Sherlock wasn’t up yet. The transformation must have done a number on him, John thought, shaking his head as he set the kettle down and put two of the mugs near his chair and the sofa. As soon as he brought over the milk and sugar from the newly rescued kitchen, he heard the second knocking of the afternoon. He opened the door to see Greg, his hair sticking up everywhere, and his outfit clearly rumpled from rushing out of NSY and into a cab.

“Where’s he at, then?” The Detective Inspector asked John. Despite him telling Lestrade that Sherlock wasn’t hurt, he could see that Greg was still worried, and unlike Mycroft, he wasn’t bothering to hide it.

“He’s in his room. Finally got him to rest, I don’t think he’s had a minute of sleep for a week.” Both men shared a look of fond chagrin.

“So what happened?” Lestrade questioned, as they both took their seats, John serving him tea just the way the Scotland Yard officer liked it.

“Well, Sherlock was being… Sherlock these last couple days…” The doctor began, recapping the frustrations Sherlock had put him through, then showing Greg the texts.

“I got home and the kitchen was a bloody mess. Worse than usual. I started calling for Sherlock, and then I found him in the bathroom, and…” John paused, trying to figure out if it was best to just say it.

“Go on, then, what happened?” Lestrade asked, leaning forward.

“Well, he’s turned into a cat,” John said hesitantly.

“Pardon?”

At that moment, a series of crashes and thumps sounded. The two men looked at each other, then dashed for Sherlock’s bedroom.

Chapter Text

Sherlock had been awoken by blinding pain. Forgetting he was no longer bipedal, he tried to roll out of bed and onto his feet, which just resulted in him falling off the bed, and onto a pile of books on various subjects, which promptly collapsed.

Sherlock immediately went into his Mind Palace to assess his symptoms.

Hurting everywhere. No direct cause of the pain besides falling. Must be as a result of the experiment. Have to call John.

“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled.

“Sherlock, we’re coming, don’t move!” John answered, and the detective could hear him and another set of footsteps pounding upstairs to his room. He was about to try and deduce whose it was when his body was wracked with tremors of large proportions. He heard the door burst open, and then immediately blacked out.

John, entering the room, immediately noticed the pile of upturned books on the floor, along with a writhing black cat. Lestrade, coming in behind him, gasped. “Holy…”

Watson dropped to the floor beside him. “Sherlock? Can you hear me?” He turned to Greg. “He’s unconscious. We need to get any objects that might hurt him out of the way.”

The pair immediately scooped the various knicknacks beside the bed and all but hurled them to the other side of the room. They turned back to the prone figure and gasped. Sherlock was human again, and had somehow retained his briefs. As he was shaking, he was shifting rapidly back and forth from human to cat, and making the most horrible noises.

“I’m going to call 999,” Lestrade declared, reaching for his phone. John grabbed his hand, the fear that he felt completely consuming him. The only other time he’d felt it was… suddenly he was back in the window of a strange building, breathing heavily, knowing he might not be in time, trying to keep the revolver steady…

“NO, DON’T!” he screamed, panicked.

The detective inspector looked confused. “Why the bloody hell not?!”

“Well for one thing, they might send Sherlock off to Baskerville! And if they don’t, his enemies will think he’s vulnerable and attack him! If it was anything else, I absolutely would, but as it is, my best friend may be dying and I have no idea what’s going on!” Suddenly, the seizing stopped, leaving Sherlock in human form, curled up on the floor and breathing heavily, although still unconscious, John noted.

“I think he’s stabilized,” he said in a shaky voice.

“Is it safe to move him?” Greg croaked, still trying to process just what the hell was going on.

“With a normal patient, no. With… Sherlock, I need him in a place where I can make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“The sofa, then?” John nodded, and together they lifted the still body up and carried him downstairs and put him in a (hopefully) comfortable position on the sofa. Lestrade grunted as they set him down. “For a bloke that doesn’t eat, he weighs a ton.” He paused, adding hopefully. “You think he can still come in? After he’s recovered, that is.”

“Maybe.” The doctor sighed as he draped a blanket over the pale figure. “He could turn back into a cat, or have another episode.”

“I can get him in as a cat. Shouldn’t be a problem, as long as we don’t broadcast it, and if he has an episode we can hide him. Not exactly the safest thing, but if I know Sherlock, he’ll make it to a crime scene if he has to break all the bones in his body to do it.” Lestrade said wearily, running his hand through his silver-grey hair. The pair looked at the sleeping detective on the sofa, inky black curls splayed across the cushion, looking almost peaceful. Greg broke the silence. “I should probably go. Let him get some rest.”

John nodded. “I’ll tell him the news when he wakes up.” After seeing the DI out, Watson began preparing a freezer pizza, checking in every so often on the oddity that was Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

Black. Far as the eye can see. Sherlock’s experienced this before, with the drugs, waking up inside his unconsciousness, just him and the infinite void around him. It’s probably why he does it, to escape from the thoughts constantly swirling around in his head, always trying to focus on everything.  

But this time, it’s different. He feels a presence. The detective looks around, and sees a cat, somehow not invisible despite its inky black color matching the space around him.

It shouldn’t be here. Why? Is this related to my experiment? The cat looks at him, and Sherlock understands. There’s no getting rid of this. It’s going to be a part of me for the rest of my life. I have to control it.

He sits in the void, cross-legged, in front of the cat, steeples his fingers under his chin and begins to think.

Chapter Text

John woke up in his armchair with a horrible crick in his neck. He’d been meaning to keep an eye on Sherlock the whole night, but the stress of the day must have worn him out, and after finishing two slices of frozen pizza, he had settled in the armchair, and promptly fell asleep. Wincing at the ache in his neck, he looked over, bleary eyed at Sherlock.

The detective seemed mostly unaffected by the events of last night; he was sitting up on the sofa in his usual Mind Palace pose, eyes staring off into the distance. However, he had bags under his eyes, making John suspect that he had not slept much. He took the opportunity of Sherlock’s distraction to check his condition.

Slightly pale, but not much more than usual. Not shaking. He’s wearing one of his suits, he must have gotten up to get dressed; no mobility issues, then. I would take his pulse, but God knows what he’d do about that. For having a seizure just last night, he looks fine. He gave a slight smile. Deductions were his job, too.

As John realized that Mrs. Hudson got back today, and that he’d have to tell her about her kitchen (Sherlock obviously wasn’t going to), he caught movement out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock appeared to have gotten up and was on his way to the bathroom. Good, he’s moving, thought John. He tends to do that when he leaves the Mind Palace . The detective disappeared from his field of vision, and John waited for him to come back so they could talk. He heard a thump that sounded vaguely like somebody kicking a sink pipe, and then a muffled swear. Then came the sound of stomping feet, and Sherlock came into the room looking annoyed. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw John.

“Hello,” he said briskly, and the doctor knew Sherlock was attempting to conceal his awkwardness by trying to normalize the situation. On another occasion, John might have indulged him, but he had almost died last night, so he thought it best to follow up on what he’d been doing.

“You should be resting. There is no possible way you could have recovered this quickly,” he commanded in his best I-am-a-doctor-sit-your-bloody-arse-down voice.

The detective waved it off. “I’m fine . The problem is that I can’t facilitate the transformation myself. I was looking in the mirror to observe my progress.” He eyed the knife on the mantel, as if debating whether or not to use it to pin a picture of a cat to the surface.

John widened his eyes. “No. Absolutely not.” He could not imagine anyone, even his flatmate, who was somehow able to ignore most physical pain, taking the chance of going into a life-threatening seizure.

“I will admit that the experience was far from pleasant, but like it or not, the condition is permanent. If I’m going to live with it, I have to control it.” Sherlock’s words had an undertone of resolve to them, a sign that moving him from his intended path of travel was impossible. Then again, John could be stubborn, too.

“How do you know it’s permanent?” The sandy-haired man folded his arms and raised an eyebrow at his taller companion.

“Call it an instinct.” The sentence sounded vague, and coming from anyone else, John would have assumed they were desperately grasping at straws to appease him. But when he looked into his friend’s piercing blue eyes, Watson found sincere discomfort. When Sherlock looked at him like this, he knew it was a private matter that he shouldn’t press on, especially if the discomfort was genuine.

He sighed. “Alright. Just be careful.  

Sherlock smirked. “Careful is boring. When have I ever been boring?”

John rolled his eyes, but smiled.

Chapter Text

The most logical idea, Sherlock thought, was that the transformation required meditation. However, Sherlock’s idea of meditation was thinking, which presented a problem.

“No, Sherlock, you have to empty your mind. I’ve done this with my therapist. Just focus on your breathing, close your eyes, and think only of the feeling of being a cat.” John said impatiently, standing over the detective who was sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of the living room.

“This is ridiculous.”

John sighed. “It does feel a bit weird the first time you do it, but it’s actually really relaxing. Now shut your mouth. And your eyes.”

Fine, he thought, and closed his eyes. Scattered bits of memory and experiments rapidly swarmed his brain the moment his lids dropped. No, there’s too much. Got to clear it out. Fog. Think of fog obscuring the streets of London, the perfect weather for a chase. Clouds rolled into his mind, obscuring everything. His heart rate began to slow. The same serenity that came from being swaddled by the void crept up his body, starting from his toes and collecting in his heart. He sat like this, just breathing into the mist for a while, then he shook himself and got down to business. He called upon the image and feeling of the cat. The warm tufts of fur against his skin. The heightened senses of smell and hearing. Laser-focused vision. A creature of shadow.

He felt a rippling in his body. A slight twinge of heat. Then Sherlock’s bones were compressing, but somehow it felt easier, more natural this time. Far more like taking off a coat than changing form. Then, he heard the door open downstairs, and his body slammed brutally into existence, collapsing to the ground.

“Did it work?” He asked, groaning and opening his eyes. He looked at his hands. They were still hands.

“You got close, mate,” John said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You started vibrating, and then shrinking. You were taking the shape of the cat when… oh hell. That was the door that distracted you, wasn’t it?” Sherlock detected a hint of panic in his flatmate’s voice.

“What?”

“Mrs. Hudson comes back today.”

“That explains why there hasn’t been any trace of loud soap operas from downstairs.”

As John laughed in spite of himself, there was a knock on their door, and Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray of biscuits with a big smile on her face. “Hello, boys!” As they stared at each other in silent panic, she shrugged to herself and went to the kitchen to put the biscuits on the table. John saw her heading that way and scrambled to his feet to stop her, but it was too late. She had already seen the clearly broken oven and dishwasher. A scream tore out of her throat, and she dropped the biscuits, where they rolled to every corner of the kitchen. “SHERLOCK, WHAT THE &%%#!* DID YOU DO?!”

Chapter Text

John immediately sent thanks to his previous self for getting such an obscenely large amount of tea. He rushed to Mrs. Hudson’s side, and said, “It’s all right, sit down, I’ll get you some tea.” While he boiled the water, Mrs. Hudson picked up the biscuits from the floor, set them on the tray, and then sat in a chair at the newly pristine table. Sherlock, however, had gotten up from the floor, and now was sitting in his chair.  

“Mrs. Hudson, there’s no need to get emotional-” he started in his matter-of-fact voice. John briefly considered making a run for it. However, despite their landlady’s advanced age, he knew too much about the kind of life she’d lived before and had the unsettling feeling that she’d manage to catch him.

“No need to get emotional! I spend every waking minute worrying about you boys and now the kitchen is clean so I know something dreadful must have happened!” This was true. Sherlock never bothered to clean the kitchen, and with John’s job and having to put up with Sherlock, he was usually too exhausted to do a thorough job of it if there was time.

“There’s an explanation for all of this, I promise,” John said. “Although you’re going to think I’m making this up.” He then proceeded to tell her about his shopping trip, the fact that Sherlock had tried to bake a cake (Mrs. Hudson laughed), and the ordeal he’d had to go through following his arrival at the flat. Of course, he left out the part about Mycroft.

The landlady did not look at all surprised that Sherlock had turned into a cat, rather the most astonishing thing about the whole debacle was that he had attempted to cook. As tears of laughter streamed down her cheeks, she told John not to worry, he’d done a splendid job tidying up the kitchen, and she’d have a man come by and fix the appliances. She even gave them a spare set of dishware to replace the broken ones.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young man. You’d best come to me for any baking tips, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson directed Sherlock as she finished her tea and bustled to the door.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. That will be all,” the lanky man decreed imperiously (and perhaps with even a bit of a blush).

A reprimanding, yet affectionate “Oh, you!” was heard from the hall, and the whirlwind that was Mrs. Hudson was gone.

As his gaze was still directed towards the door, Sherlock noticed something. A familiar imprint in  the floor. He got up and walked towards it, scowling. Small, circular. Too small to be a heel mark. It’s at a diagonal, as if someone leaned something against the wall… an umbrella. Shallow, must have happened recently, last night perhaps. Mycroft. The frown deepened. Of course he had to stick his pretentious nose into this. I thought I’d found all the cameras… He shook the raging thoughts off. Not now. I need to focus.

He strode back to the spot where Mrs. Hudson’s arrival had jarred him, and closed his eyes.

Avalanche of thoughts. Fog. Cat. Heat. Compression. Settling.

He opened his eyes. Yes! Sherlock was definitely smaller, and when he looked down, he saw that he had paws covered in black fur. “John!” He shouted excitedly.

He could just see John at the table, eating biscuits. The doctor looked over, and did a double take as he saw the cat in the middle of the living room. Clearly this was never going to get any less weird. “You did it,” he said softly, with a smile spreading across his face. He knew Sherlock wanted to make this work so badly, and as his ‘only friend,’ he wanted the best for him, no matter how many times he put brains in the nice dishware (that was now broken).

Sherlock flicked his tail and puffed out his chest with considerable pride. “This is going to make everything so much easier. Watson,” he declared, “The game is on!"

Chapter Text

After a brief celebration, John began to plan. The first thing to do, he thought, was contact Lestrade. Not that he’d say it to the detective’s face, but the doctor knew he must be worried about Sherlock. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock was dying for a case.

Sherlock’s recovered. Kind of shocking, really, but trust him to completely change anatomy in rapid succession multiple times and come out the other end looking like he’s just had a bad night’s sleep. -JW

Almost immediately he got a reply back.

Bloody git knows just how to get us worked up. -GL

I know what you mean. Speaking of, got any cases? I expect Sherlock will be on mine if there’s not a murder soon. -JW

Might have one, but I want to stop by and go over the precautions I discussed with you before he goes to any crime scenes if that’s alright. -GL

Perfect! Mrs. Hudson made biscuits. -JW

Be over in half an hour. -GL

John texted a thumbs-up and exited the chat. I should probably update Mycroft, otherwise he’ll make another appearance, and Sherlock really doesn’t need to be agitated. More than normal, that is.

He’s fully recovered. Says it’s permanent. Changed at will for the first time this afternoon. -JW

A minute passed. So precisely it seemed calculated.

I’ll be watching. -MH

John rolled his eyes. Mycroft was such a creep. He had repeatedly considered reporting the elder Holmes to the authorities, but then again, Mycroft WAS the authorities.

John was interrupted from his stew by a loud mewl in the living room. “John! Get me Lestrade! I need a case!”

He sighed and went over to Sherlock, who was perched imperiously on his favorite armchair. “He’ll be over in half an hour. We’ve already discussed the matter and we’ve agreed that you can go on cases like this-”

“Not like you could stop me,” Sherlock interjected boredly. John gave him a pointed look, one that said ‘Shut up, you git, and yes, I could stop you, nearly beat you to a pulp in front of Irene Adler’s house and I can do it again.’

“-just as long as you don’t, you know, in front of other people,” He finished.

“ Obviously ,” the curly-haired genius drawled, examining his claws.

“And we’re going to have to bring extra clothes along, unless you’ve figured out how to change without losing them.”

“Fine. What else?”

John swallowed uncomfortably. Sherlock was going to hate this one. “Well, I’ve been thinking that… if you have an episode again…”

“You’re going to hide me. Therefore, you want somebody accompanying me at all times. Out of the question. Next?” The detective deduced flawlessly.

Watson pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s a contingency. We need to make sure nobody sees you change, and if the criminal element finds out you’re vulnerable-”

Sherlock abruptly shifted to his human state and stood at his full height (miraculously dressed in his suit of the day), seeming almost to just appear right in front of John, icy eyes flashing. “I’m not vulnerable, Watson. I have the highest intellect in the world, am skilled in many forms of martial arts, can speak any language fluently, and now have enhanced agility and senses in the form of a cat who can go anywhere undetected. No information or man can escape my watch. I am not the vulnerable one in this scenario, Doctor .”

He swept out of the room, scattering a few loose papers in the wake of his departure, only acknowledging the movement with a casual, yet cold remark over his shoulder. “Inform me when Lestrade gets here.”

“SHERLOCK!” John yelled after him, but it was no use. The man was already up the stairs, probably going to have a sulk in his room. John kicked the displaced documents and sank into his armchair. Sherlock had completely missed the point. Of course, to him, vulnerability translated to helplessness. The shorter man cursed himself for forgetting it. He’d known as soon as it came out of his mouth that the words would be misinterpreted. Any man with an overbearing influence like Mycroft would. What he’d meant was that the detective would be exposed to danger, his abilities and their side effects broadcasted to the world.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’d have to talk to Sherlock after Greg’s visit. He’d do it now, but John knew that Sherlock needed some space. Already, he could hear the rich vibrato of a violin playing a mournful tune. As much as Sherlock liked to deny it, he did have emotions, he just found it hard to express them, but nonetheless, they came out in little moments like this. John had learned to watch for them, decode them, then respond to them. It took practice, certainly, and the signs weren’t always clear, but it made understanding the only consulting detective a little easier, and a little more rewarding, and a little more… 

John was snapped out of his thoughts, startled by every single word that had filled itself into that blank. Beautiful?! Intimate?! What the bloody hell is happening?

He thought of Sherlock as a good friend, his best friend, the one person who truly understood him when it mattered most, but what he was feeling now was pushing beyond the intimacy of friends. This was… no, it couldn’t be.

Immediately, his mind started playing back every memory of Sherlock that he had, accentuating the curve of his lips, focusing on the way he swirled his coat around before flinging it on, noting the grace with which he ran down criminals, eyes glinting with contagious adrenaline, the feeling of his hand in his own-

“John? John, are you alright?”

His eyes snapped into focus, and there was Sherlock, leaning over him, brow furrowed at the WORST POSSIBLE MOMENT. The fires in his cheeks reignited, and he scrambled to sit upright.

“Yeah, why?”

Blessedly, the detective was still confused. “There was a knock at the door, you didn’t even seem to notice it, and your face is inflamed, but you haven’t shown any signs of being sick…” he trailed off, then seemed to remember something unpleasant, then looked at John apologetically.

He must think it’s because he exploded earlier, or because I’m worried about him, the sandy-haired man realized with relief.

“It’s fine, mate, I just don’t want your ability broadcasted to the whole world. You’re my best friend, and best friends look out for each other. I know you can handle yourself, and I don’t think you’re weak, but it doesn’t stop me from worrying,” he recovered quickly.

“Oh.” Sherlock said simply, then went into a sort of trance that happened whenever John said that Sherlock was his best friend. They stared at each other in silence for another minute, then the aforementioned rap at the door resumed, although this time with more force. John snapped out of it first.

“That’ll be Greg,” John said as he got up to answer it. Sherlock cocked his head, very cat-like.

“Greg…?”

This last remark, out of nowhere brought an impromptu smile and laugh from John, which he quickly smothered and opened the door to meet his friend.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Lestrade,” he greeted apologetically. He ushered the Detective Inspector into the flat.

“Nah, s’alright mate,” Greg replied, raking his fingers through the front of his silvery hair.

“Ah, Lestrade!” Sherlock called from his armchair, as though the appearance of the DI was entirely by chance. John was pleased to note his joyful flair for the dramatic; it meant that Sherlock’s feelings weren’t hurt too badly. “What do you have for us?”

John almost laughed again. In fact, he might have let out a small snort. Only Sherlock could be this casual to a person who had just last night witnessed him in an anatomical seizure. Sherlock and Greg looked startled at John, who waved the sound off and smothered another grin. God, Sherlock was just so… free. So able to push aside in his mind a moment of weakness or embarrassment, and while it was one of his greatest faults, it was also one of his greatest strengths.

He watched Sherlock beckon Lestrade to the client chair with his long, clever fingers, and sit forward in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. The creases on his forehead became emphasized as he furrowed his brow, taking in the information Greg was providing him. His lips moved and he transitioned thinking poses into one that involved his index and middle finger pushed into his cheek, while his thumb cupped his angular chin and he rested on his elbow. He flicked a glance at John and oh, God, those eyes were piercing blue, melting him, searing into his soul, and-

“John?”

What is happening? The doctor flailed in his mind as he tried to rejoin the conversation. “Sorry?” he turned to Lestrade, the source of the voice that had addressed him. Thankfully, the DI didn’t seem to notice the scarlet blush creeping into his face. Sherlock, however, was examining John rather closely, so the doctor focused on Greg instead.

“I was just giving Sherlock the ground rules, and he agreed to be shadowed as long as it’s you, if you’re okay with it, that is.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the bewildered doctor made out. “But we do have to wait till I get off work at the clinic, all right?” He looked at Sherlock for confirmation, knowing that his boss would have a serious talk with him if he took any more sick days to stay with Sherlock. He nodded. “Then I will get the biscuits.” John made a quick exit to the kitchen, and gathered his composure.

All right, Watson, get a grip. You’ve been through a war and come out the other side. You can sort this out later. He shook himself, grabbed the tray of biscuits, and returned to the living room.

Chapter Text

The rest of the visit proved similarly productive. It was established that if Sherlock were to appear on a crime scene as a cat, his cover would be that he was an emotional support animal to John with the alias Nightshade. John agreed to it because it sounded like something plausible to name a black cat, yet still containing a bit of excitement with it. Sherlock, of course, liked it (and had suggested it) because of it being the nickname of the infamous poisonous plant, belladonna. To John’s surprise, Sherlock also (in his following 20 minute lecture on the plant, during which Lestrade looked like he would rather be anywhere else) mentioned that it had some medicinal properties, both details that had been very useful in some of his casework before John.

After John bid Lestrade a good morning and Sherlock, already lost in his mind palace, sort of grunted, the day progressed as every normal day at 221B Baker Street. Watson went out to do the errands he didn’t get to earlier in the weekend, while Sherlock stayed in and worked on cases and did the usual things he did when John was out: monitor his body part experiments, create flasks of deadly chemicals (some of which hadn’t even been discovered yet), and alternately sat in his armchair staring off into space or flopped down on the sofa staring off into space. Most of the day was spent with this last, the other activities vain attempts to distract him from something nagging at him.

John had been acting strangely today, Sherlock had observed. He’d been staring off into space multiple times during their meeting with Graham, which was very unlike him. Watson tended to be present and watchful during social interactions, Sherlock had noticed. That ability to be constantly alert and aware of what other people were doing was what had made him an excellent soldier and doctor during the war, and all of a sudden, he was withdrawing inside his own Mind Palace (well, maybe not a Palace , but the concept was the same). Sherlock would have written it off as lingering concern, but something told him it was more than that.

This was a challenge, one that Sherlock was determined to solve. This time, however, it felt like half the puzzle pieces were missing. He wrestled with the problem all afternoon, trying to get away from it by going about his experiments and cases, but it seemed too important. Finally, having exhausted all other avenues, he printed out a picture of John, stabbed it into the mantelpiece with a knife, and went to his room to play his violin.

When John arrived home, he, understandably, did not notice the knife pinning his picture to the mantle, and if he did, he saw only a sheet of paper from a distance. After getting himself settled after a long day, he wrote some meaningless dither about an uneventful few days on his blog, ate some dinner, and went to bed, the errands having temporarily distracted him from his confusion.

Chapter Text

“You’re distracted,” Mycroft said testily after the fifth consecutive attempt at calling Sherlock. They both knew, however, that he wasn’t referring to the missed calls. That was typical.

“Hm?” Sherlock responded idly from his armchair on the other end of the line, throwing darts at the wall with one hand and holding his mobile to his ear with the other.

“It may have escaped your notice, brother mine, but your little consulting criminal friend is not any closer to being eliminated than he was, say, weeks ago?” 

“Oh, that,” Sherlock replied, knowing full well the entire time what and who Mycroft was referring to, that nothing could currently be done about the situation, and that Mycroft was aware of this, “I’ve been a bit busy, in case it has escaped yours.”

“With what, I wonder? I noticed you’ve decorated your mantlepiece.”

Sherlock said nothing but was inwardly fuming at the cameras out of sight, filming his every move. His face expressionless, he propelled another dart at the smiley face spray painted on the wall, where it lodged, perfectly centered, in the doodle’s eye.

“I’m disappointed in you. It’s quite obvious. Even some of your goldfish have picked up on some of your little clues.” Mycroft said, enjoying every minute of the conversation. He’d seen it almost since the beginning. Pathetic, really, how obvious it was.

The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Sherlock’s mind was reeling. John’s limp. Bomb vest. Blushing. Gun. Window. Panic. Pool. Only time I was ever afraid. “We’re not a couple.” I saw but I did not observe. Blog. John. John screaming over me. I remember. How did I not see? It’s both of us… how… I shouldn’t… not right… don’t show emotion… he felt a rending inside him and knew the change was coming. He couldn’t stop it, he was out of control. He was just able to press the end call button before he shifted, suddenly and painfully, into a cat and promptly passed out.

On the other end of the line, Mycroft was already moving. He hadn’t meant for it to go that far. It was bad enough his brother had uncontrollably shifted, but what was worse was that the spasms were back. And it was because of him.

Cross-referencing the cameras, he found what he needed. Keeping just enough presence of mind not to sprint out of his office, he walked, casually and (to all appearances) calmly to his car. Telling his driver in an imperceptibly (to the average observer) shaking tone that he wanted to go out for a drive, he took the keys from the astonished chauffeur, smoothly, but speedily ducked into the car, and shot off, gas pedal much lower than was really advisable, to the one person who could fix this entire situation.

Chapter Text

Blessedly, Watson was on break when his mobile rang. Half looking over at his phone as he sat at a table in a café eating a buttermilk scone and drinking tea, he had to do a double take. Something must be very wrong if Mycroft was calling him.

“Hello?” 

“Dr. Watson, my brother’s having an episode,” John heard the elder Holmes make out in a tone of barely contained panic and felt his own heart sink like a stone. “Look across the street. Get in the car.”

Abandoning his tea and scone, John, clutching his phone and medical bag in a death grip, raced outside. Parked at the curb, slightly askew, was Mycroft’s sleek black car with its windows tinted nearly black. Watson sprinted across the street, flung open the door, and hurled himself into the backseat. As soon as he sat up and closed the door, the car jolted forward at a speed that was probably not legal on any street in London.

Hurriedly putting on his seatbelt and grabbing the safety handle, John’s eyes shot to the driver’s seat, wondering who in the hell thought they could drive like this. His eyes widened when he saw who was there.

“Surprised, Dr. Watson?” Mycroft asked in a hardened tone. His eyes were fixed to the road, flicking up only momentarily to the rearview mirror to make eye contact with John, and his hands were clenched, white-knuckled, on the wheel.

If John had planned on responding, he would have been cut short by the gut-wrenching turns the vehicle made as it flew around corners and weaved around other cars. Mycroft, however, seemed unconcerned with his method of driving, darting into gaps that a more cautious driver would have avoided. After two horrifying minutes (which felt like two horrifying hours), they screeched to a halt in front of 221 Baker Street. Doors were flung open and two pairs of feet thundered up to the door, through it, and up the stairs to the door that led to 221B.

Not even bothering to unlock the door, the former army doctor raised a foot and, with one swift kick, broke it in. Scanning the room, John almost immediately found what he was looking for. In the middle of the living room lay Sherlock, shifting back and forth from cat to human in an almost blur and screaming . Sherlock was screaming . “JOHN! DON’T- PLEASE- JOHN!”

Immediately, John ran to his side, Mycroft starting towards Sherlock, but stopping at John’s frantic gesture to stay back. “Sherlock! Sherlock! I’m here! I’m here! It’s okay!” The shifting seemed to ease, slowing down further and further until it paused altogether, stalling on Sherlock’s unconscious cat form. Instinctively, John checked for a heartbeat to see if he was stable. His heart was still beating rapidly, but not at an unusual pace for a human that had just had a seizure. Watson didn’t know what the normal beats per minute for this situation was for a cat, but Sherlock’s breathing seemed not to be erratic, so he decided it was safe to say the danger had passed.

“He’s stable, Mycroft. I’m going to move him to his bedroom so he’ll be comfortable.” 

Mycroft nodded, moving from where he had stopped just out of the doorframe, closing the door behind him and settling himself into Sherlock’s armchair. John frowned instinctively, but decided it wasn’t worth arguing it this time. Instead, he scooped the small, black cat into his arms and carried the limp form to his bedroom, where he laid Sherlock onto the bed, covering him with a blanket.

Descending the stairs, he expected Mycroft to be gone, or at the very least preparing to leave, but to his surprise, Mycroft was still in Sherlock’s armchair looking very uncomfortable. Sherlock would love to see the expression on his face, John thought to himself, but the thought brought him minimal joy. “What is it?” John asked tiredly, sitting down in his own armchair.

“I-ah, we need to talk.” Mycroft said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“About what just happened? We haven’t really-”

Mycroft waved his hand, becoming more at ease. “Yes, I know you don’t know why it happens. I, however, have an idea. My brother’s changes seem to be instinctually triggered when it comes to situations of high emotion, which is somewhat ironic, given his nature. But then, he’s always been the sentimental one.” He gave John a meaningful look.

“You think he had some sort of panic attack? I thought this was just the experiment messing with him again.”

The politician internally sighed. “No, I’m quite certain. Perhaps the first time, when his body was still adjusting, but this time was different.”

John was getting suspicious now. “How do you know?”

Mycroft braced himself, preparing for the inevitable. “Because I accidentally triggered it.”

Chapter Text

“You BASTARD!” John shouted as he leaped from the chair, almost flying across the room, where he landed in front of Mycroft and promptly swung his fist into the other man’s face. Mycroft winced. He thought his nose might be broken. He didn’t have time to register much beyond that before another fist flew at him, hitting his jaw. Before John could hit him again, Mycroft grabbed his umbrella from the floor and opened it, creating a sort of shield. John paused, and Mycroft, still hiding behind the umbrella, saw this as his opportunity. He thought, given the spark in the doctor’s eyes, it might be prudent to speak as quickly as possible while he still had the ability to breathe.

“Dr. Watson, while your aggression towards me is perfectly understandable, I did not intend to cause my brother’s panic attack. In fact, I had very little idea that my actions would lead to such an outcome. When I realized what had occurred, I immediately went to find you. I wish no harm towards my brother. Now, if you will please sit down, we can discuss the larger issue at hand instead of fighting like schoolchildren.” Silence reigned for a few moments, and Mycroft deemed it safe to close the umbrella once more. Thankfully, he hadn’t had cause to use some of its more… lethal features.

John was back in his armchair, breathing heavily, but still visibly angered, although he was doing his best to remain calm. “What did you do?” He ground out.

“My brother has not been very productive towards the Moriarty case. My call was intended to be directed towards resolving this lapse, but I saw another opportunity. For whatever reason, Sherlock has not picked up on a very important detail in another matter entirely and I saw it as my duty to inform him of it.” He paused, gathering himself for the topic he was dancing around. “I know about your infatuation with my brother.”

“But how-” John started, turning slightly pale. There was no point trying to lie about it.

“Oh please, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft interrupted, waving his hand. “Every person you come across automatically assumes you are dating, there’s the fact that you shot a man after barely over a day of knowing my brother, and, of course, you’ve dedicated your blog to your exploits in which you describe even his smallest movement in the most poetic way possible. It’s a miracle the newspapers haven’t published you in the gossip columns. Oh, that’s right, they DO.”

The doctor was blushing profusely now with embarrassment and horror. “And you- you told him?” He began to rise from his chair once more. “Mycroft, I swear to God-”

The older Holmes impatiently gestured from where he lounged in his junior’s chair. “Sit down, I haven’t finished. Yes, I told him, but he was about to find out regardless. Your signals have been becoming more blatant. He started to notice. He’s been puzzling over it for days and he’s even pinned your photo to the mantelpiece.”

Watson gritted his teeth, standing now. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why tell him? You don’t do anything unless it’s to your advantage, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” John recalled all the times he’d met Mycroft, whose every move was calculated, every word carefully placed to achieve maximum effect.

Mycroft stood as well. “Where my brother is involved, so too am I. And what you have failed to  notice is precisely the reason I decided to intervene.” He paused, again out of discomfort. “Sherlock is more… empathically attuned than he realizes. Despite considerable efforts to remove this weakness, I have been unsuccessful, though he did not appear to believe so. At least, until about fifteen minutes ago. It appears,” Mycroft continued, “as though my brother has… er… mutual feelings for you.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft had left an hour ago. It seemed like shorter. John didn’t know. After Mycroft’s revelation, he had awkwardly left, and John had sat in dazed silence for about fifteen minutes before robotically making himself a cup of tea and returning to his armchair. He didn’t drink the tea. It was moreso a force of habit. Problem? Make tea. Company? Make tea. If his therapist was to be believed, familiarity held a sense of comfort at times. Of course, John also thrived in the unfamiliar, but perhaps this was the balance asserting itself.

John wasn’t actually thinking about any of this, though. Instead, he was thinking about how the best thing in his life was going to be over, and all because he’d let himself get attached. Maybe Sherlock and Mycroft were right and he was far too sentimental. He knew how Sherlock was. He had barely any friends, and even those, he didn’t share everything with any one of them. The doctor had always, when picturing his future, envisioned himself waking up his future spouse with a good morning kiss, calling out a “See you tonight, love!” on his way out the door to work, or snuggling on the sofa while they watched some show or other on the telly. He didn’t know if Sherlock would want, much less allow , that kind of affection.

Then again, he supposed, he hadn’t really considered himself inclined towards others of his sex. Or, rather, he’d never allowed much thought to be given to that train of thought. He’d always tried to stay inside the lines of what society deemed ‘conventional,’ whether he agreed with society’s perception of what was considered ‘normal’ or not. He was the golden child of his family. He’d become a doctor, a nice, stable profession. He’d joined the military and saved lives, the cookie-cutter hero. He dated plenty of nice women (and plenty of not so nice women) within a respectable age range in relation to himself. While, of course, all of these endeavors had been rendered fruitless, some, Watson noted, by Sherlock’s hand, and he’d never properly settled down as so-called custom dictated, he’d lived an ‘acceptable’ life and never considered much else.

And yet, here he was, fantasizing about his roommate, about his best friend. How did his life get so bloody complicated? The blonde leaned back in the armchair and squeezed his eyes shut. What a mess it would be if he brought it up to Sherlock. He thought about what the fallout of such a conversation might look like. If…if I confessed…and he didn’t want to…what? Date? God, it sounds absurd just thinking about it…how would we go on living together? I’d have to find somewhere to live…well, I’m better off than I was back then…but still. And Sherlock…God knows what he would do left to his own devices. John knew Sherlock also had Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, Mycroft all looking after him, but none of them were there all the time . Who would help him if he had an episode? Who would be there to get him out of the dangerous situations he seems to always run headlong into, especially with Moriarty still at large? He shuddered a little, still remembering the weight of the vest, the humiliation, shame, and despair at being used to hurt his friend weighing a hundred times more.

That was another thing. If…if by some miracle, Sherlock wanted to…move forward with all this…it could put him in even more danger than he was with John just being his partner and friend. John had seen that hesitation in Sherlock’s face when he had stepped out from where he’d been ordered to stand by the pool. And he knew that if he noticed it, Moriarty damn well had, too.

No matter how much he wanted to be more than Sherlock’s only friend, no matter how much he desperately wanted those moments when Sherlock tugged him along by the black-gloved hand in times of discovery or excitement to transform into times ungloved and unremarkable, no matter how much he was now beginning to hear Sherlock’s smooth, deep voice utter those three simple, yet powerful words along with his full legal name, it couldn’t happen. For Sherlock’s safety and comfort, for himself to keep the precious circle of friends as well as his home , and, yes, for what the gossip columns in the papers might say, he would not breathe a word.

Sherlock might even prefer it that way. Since he didn’t know that John knew about the conversation with Mycroft, only that John…well…anyways, Sherlock would be free to pretend like the entire confrontation with Mycroft had been something trivial and shut himself away like he did eight times out of ten.

But…

If, by some strange whim, Sherlock decided to throw everything away for him…

John chuckled ruefully to himself, and tilted his head to the sky with pressed lips and an expression that people often make when they’re trying their best not to cry, he shook his head. Why should he be so lucky? With three quick gulps, he downed his now (unfortunately) room temperature tea and headed up to check on Sherlock, trying in vain not to think about every time those soul-rending eyes had ever met his for just an instant too long.