Sherlock and John arrived at the flat around five in the morning, after six days of relentless prosecution of a children's kidnapper. Happily, they were able to find the children before they were sacrificed in the strange ritual the kidnapper was preparing when Sherlock and John barged in the crypt of the abandoned chapel.
There, surrounded by stone coffins, the abductor had buried a pentagram (the sigil of Baphomet, as Sherlock explained later), on the floor, and disposed black candles on its points. On a little old altar, about five years old, one of the kids was lying immobile due to the drug the abductor had injected him so that he could kill him as part of the invocation ritual. Five little vessels were prepared near the altar to keep the children's blood for the ceremony.
While John pinned the criminal to the floor, Sherlock checked the kids. They were shivering with cold, due to the low temperature of the crypt, but they seemed fine. The detective took out his beloved coat and covered the five with it, which made the kids giggle. Then, Sherlock approached the kidnapper and cuffed him with Lestrade's handcuffs while John slipped between the coffins before the Yards arrived.
When they did, Sherlock had to stand the DI's lecture about entering in private houses without waiting for the Yards, which could be considered forced entry by any picky judge, he ironized. While talking, he looked for John, who usually put a bit of rationality in the detective's head, but couldn't see him anywhere, though Lestrade was sure he had accompanied Sherlock. They were inseparable.
Fortunately, at that moment, Donovan and another officer took the kidnapper out of the crypt. The man laughed crazily, yelling nonsense about being caught wouldn't prevent his return, making Lestrade losing track of his thoughts for a moment.
Both Sherlock and John knew the DI would get angry for have been left behind, but, as that night, the moon was full, they couldn't let any of the Yards accompanied them.
It had been Sherlock's decision and, though John hesitated at first, it turned out to be the correct one. While they were waiting to enter the chapel, the clouds dissipated, the full moon shined in all its fullness, and John became the big greyish-sandy werewolf that jumped on the kidnapper, terrifying him.
It was somehow ironic, being short in his human form when John transformed himself, the resulting werewolf was gigantic, reaching almost eleven feet when standing on his hind legs.
So that was why only Sherlock was suffering Lestrade's anger. At the same time, John, hidden in the shadows, enjoyed the detective's evident efforts for not cutting the DI's address with one of his usual sharp retorts. Finally, with the firm promise that they will complete the paperwork in the afternoon, Lestrade let the detective go. He went out of the chapel, scanned the darkness around him with his sharp eyes, and finally walked towards the little cemetery that surrounded the chapel. Once there, he sat on the floor, with his back leaning on the werewolf's loin. John chuckled and licked the detective's nose playfully. Sherlock wrinkled his nose, annoyed.
"Don't do that."
"Oh, come on, you love it," John mocked, licking the detective's nose again.
When Sherlock tried to move away from him, John lifted and jumped on Sherlock, making him lie down. With one of his big claws pinned both Sherlock's wrists to the ground, with other his legs and repeatedly licked his nose, sharp cheeks, and chin, while Sherlock only could grunt in protest.
That was one of the things that John most enjoyed of being a werewolf, the fact that he became much faster, taller and stronger than the sleuth, and could play with him like a cat with a mouse, with that smug smirk on his jaws that Sherlock hated and adored at the same time.
So, after suppressing his protests poking his tongue in the detective's mouth, John let him free, and Sherlock stood up, muttering something about not being fair.
He took out his phone and looked for a Zipcar. Getting a cab with John transformed into a scaring werewolf was misplaced, so, when that happened, they opted for the electric cars. They found it, and when Sherlock unlocked it, John jumped in the back seat so that he could go unnoticed to any possible prying eyes.
Instead of going to Baker Street, Sherlock drove towards Sydenham Hill Woods, and parked nearby, so both got into the woodland.
While John's human nature was quiet and able to sit in his armchair for hours, the werewolf needed to run free until the dawn came. Meanwhile, Sherlock walked or simply rested on a tree, lost in his Mind Palace, organizing last case data.
They had walked a hundred meters when a wicked smirk appeared in the detective's face. Following his gaze, John spotted a large stick in the middle of the footpath.
"You are aware of where that stick will end if you dare to throw it, aren't you?"
Sherlock laughed. He enjoyed teasing John, treating him like a little dog. But, of course, he had no intention of throwing it. Since they decided Sherlock could be on John's side when he was transformed into a werewolf, they had arranged several agreements to preserve Sherlock's physical integrity.
The first one was not to excite John's predatory instincts. Contrary to the general belief, werewolves didn't kill and devour humans in the darkness, but this could change if their chasing instincts awoke by throwing things or running in front of him.
But the most important rule was related to blood. They discovered it hard, after a case in which Sherlock had been wounded while chasing a criminal. Though the wound wasn't significant enough to send him to A&E, the smell of blood turned the amicable werewolf in a killing machine, and Sherlock found himself racing for his life at full speed, chased by a frenzied werewolf. Had he not been the only consulting detective in the world, the human would inevitably end in the wolf's jaws, but his massive brain allowed Sherlock to escape from the growling, lethal lycanthrope.
Soon the sleuth got tired of walking and leaned back a tree, as John disappeared in the woods, looking for the spot when he could join the others, as they did every full moon night.
There were about twenty male and female werewolves, all of them reunited in a foster glade.
Looking at them, John couldn't help feeling himself fortunate. The majority of the werewolves lead a solitary life, afraid of being discovered. Even the few who had a couple in their human form got abandoned when their partner found their true nature.
But with Sherlock, as always, things were different.
He was the first to notice John disappearing on full moon nights, and for days when the harvest moon was approaching. None of his family or his army mates had been able to see a pattern in John's nocturnal habits, but, of course, they hadn't gone unnoticed for Sherlock. And when he finally discovered John's secret, his scientific curiosity was powerful than his self-preservation and didn't hesitate to follow the werewolf and let him know he had found it.
For John, the fear of losing Sherlock's friendship hadn't been the worst part of being discovered. This fact tore down the last obstacle that preserved John to let Sherlock know that he was in love with him. Amazing as always, Sherlock didn't hesitate to confess back his true feelings to the sandy-greyish werewolf in front of him. Looking at his blue eyes, Sherlock could see the human he was in love with from the first moment they met.
Some minutes before dawn, the group of werewolves dissolved, none of them wanted to be caught after becoming human again, the moment of increased vulnerability for them.
John found Sherlock, and both walked towards the woodland exit. Sherlock stopped the car in front of Baker Street, and both went out of it. The detective opened the doors for John, returned to the car, parked it a couple of blocks away, and went back to the flat to find John lying on the bed, the clear duvet decorated with marks of his mud-covered claws.
Sherlock chuckled. John Watson, the soldier, would go mad at that vision, but John Watson, the werewolf, was clearly pride of his work of art.
"Tomorrow, you'll wash them," Sherlock mocked.
"I always wash them," replied John.
"I'm going to take a shower."
John's eyes shined.
"No, no way. Stay here and lick yourself clean".
"That's what cats do," John replied, clearly offended.
"Irrelevant."
Sherlock entered the bathroom and took his time taking a shower. He knew John was about to regain his human form, and he liked to do it privately. No matter how much the detective had begged, John had never allowed him to watch him turn into a human again, and even less metamorphosing in a werewolf. It was somehow a painful process, according to the grunts and whines that Sherlock could hear every time it happened. As John's negative had been really firm, Sherlock, for once, respected John's privacy, though he had to fight himself to avoid peeking through the door. Only when the flat went silent again, he turned off the water and, putting on a bathrobe, entered the bedroom.
John had fallen slept, snoring quietly, totally exhausted. Sherlock put on his pajama pants and cuddle with John, covering both of them with the duvet and fell asleep almost instantaneously.
______
The next day, they woke up in the afternoon. Ignoring Lestrade's yelling voice messages, they had lazy and quiet sleepy sex, enjoying each other bodies, moans, and pleasure cries before getting up and had a quick shower together. Finally, they leave Baker Street towards Scotland Yard.
The DI was fuming; in such a way, they were surprised about not seeing smoke emerging from his ears.
"Oh, thank you, your highness, for finally decided yourself to visit our humble dwelling." he groaned between clenched teeth.
"Come on, Lestrade, is only paperwork," retorted Sherlock.
"Only paperwork?" the DI's jugular was pumping hard.
"Greg, calm down, or you'll get a heart attack" John tried to appease the DI. "We apologize for haven't come earlier" he threw a warning gaze to Sherlock, who opened his mouth to argue at the statement. "We do. We were exhausted for the case".
Greg sighed.
"OK, thanks. Sorry, John," he purposely avoided looking at the detective. "It's only that I'd have to stay here who knows until when to finish the case documentation."
"If we could help you in some way..." John offered, ignoring the annoyed gaze he got back from the detective.
"How are the kids?" asked Sherlock at the same moment, Donovan entered the DI's office.
"Like if you were concerned about them," she retorted.
"They are safe and sound," Lestrade's cut the argument. It was his turn to throw Donovan a reproachful gaze. "They are with their parents now. Our psychologists checked them, and it seems they wouldn't have psychological aftermaths. It was kind of luck they were drugged most of the time".
"And the killer?"
"A madman. He was trying to make some dead deity come to life again. He was following the Necronomicon ritual to revive dead people. He is waiting to be evaluated by psychiatry to determine if he is mentally ill."
"The Necronomicon..." started John.
"I know what the Necronomicon is, John." Sherlock snapped.
"Do you know the Necronomicon and not the Solar System?" mocked Sally.
Sherlock looked murderously to John.
"You realize what you did? They will use it as my epitaph."
John shrugged apologetically. Little did he imagined that his blog statement about Sherlock's ignorance of the Solar System would become something the whole world teased the detective about.
Scowling, Sherlock started working on the paperwork, ignoring the rest of them. One hour later, he had finished and stood up.
"Done. Have to go" he turned out and left the DI's office with his coat wafting after him. Surprised, John jogged after him.
"Where are we going?"
"Library, isn't it obvious?
John sighed, exasperated, and stopped in the middle of the street, making some walkers bump into him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"We are getting a copy of the Necronomicon."
"Seriously? You wouldn't find it in a public library".
"Nobody talked about a public one," a mischief smile dancing on his face.
John groaned. He knew exactly what that smile meant. Sherlock was planning to take the book from Mycroft's library, which would be granted a visit of the angry British Government complying with it.
Three hours later, John closed the door of Baker Street flat and sighed, leaning on the door. The battle between the Holmes brothers was anthological, but Sherlock finally managed to keep the book. John knew what bothered Mycroft wasn't his brother taking his books, but he could easily dodge the magnificent and obscenely expensive security system of Mycroft's house.
He sighed and turned on the telly, looking for a relaxing time before going out for dinner. He prepared two mugs of tea and put them on the coffee table. Then they sat on the couch. Quickly, Sherlock lied down next to him, his head on John's lap, while reading the stolen book.
"You could have borrowed it, you know," he sighed.
"And what would be the fun on it?"
"You are unbearable."
"And you love me for that."
"Touché," the doctor said, bending to kiss Sherlock's lips. The kiss started softly and became eager. Just when John began to unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, he felt the detective's body tense.
"What?"
"Shhhhh," Sherlock hissed and tilted his head, listening. "Can you hear that?"
John shook his head. Then he focused again in the silence of the night, this time set in his wolfish senses. He looked at Sherlock, amazed about his sense of hearing. He could hear it now, a distant chanting, rhythmical and repetitive, accompanied by big drums' rumble. Then, low voices joined to the drumbeat.
They both jumped on their feet and ran towards the window. A dense fog covering the streets prevented them from seeing anything. They were barely able to see their hands if they extended them into the mist.
Sherlock ran into the flat, took his binoculars, and came back to the window. He gasped and became blank.
"Impossible," he muttered.
"What?" repeated John in a hoarse voice, worried by Sherlock's expression.
Sherlock passed him the binoculars, pointing towards at the Northwest. At first, John couldn't see anything but some blurred shadows walking through the fog. Suddenly, the silhouettes become clearer, and he looked at the unmistakable figure wearing a Westwood suit that walked in the first line, his mad black eyes fixed on Baker Street, his head covered by blood.
They look at each other, shocked.
Moriarty had come back. From death. Surrounded by the cruelest and bloodthirsty criminals of all time.