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Being a lycanthrope in the war was rather… unique. Both in terms of being rare and also not at all a simple feat. The origins of the ‘disease’ were said to have spawned sometime around Ancient Rome,
most likely deriving from the myth of Romulus and Remus. From there, it slowly spread throughout the globe, making its way to the United Kingdom just before the Black Plague hit in the mid-1300s. During that time, it was believed that Lycans were just another animal capable of spreading the plague - similar to the beliefs of rats, cats, and dogs. This caused the culling and ostracisation of Lycans in most major cities, forcing them to seek shelter in the north and other countryside towns. Due to the thinning of their numbers, it is now far rarer to meet a full Lycan in the modern day - even if you did, they may not disclose it to you.The superstition around Lycans had not entirely faded from modern beliefs, causing somewhat of a stigma to form around them; ‘Dirty, unhygienic, and aggressive’ was the most popular opinion. The one thing that the media never seemed to get right though was which parts of the wolf mentality would transfer over into the human body, and how little of the human mind would be lost when in lupine form.
Doctor John Watson was many things (a medic, a soldier,
a son) but, currently, he was a rather large dusky-blond wolf stalking the perimeter of his regiment's camp. He knew how to be kind, he knew how to behave like a normal human and, most importantly, he knew how important it was that he protected his brothers in arms - his ‘pack’ . They had accepted him despite his differences, which was more than he could say for almost anyone back at home. The only notable exception was Stamford ( ‘Stammo’ as he insisted his friends call him), and yet that was only because his cousins were also Lycans. Still, better than nothing John supposed. Being an only child with a single mum was never going to be easy, but this was only made more evident when his father - Harry Watson - was KIA. His dad was his only full-Lycan relative and he was killed before he could ever teach John how to cope with the other half of himself.Lycan heritage worked like any other phenotype, John presumed. Two Lycans would have a child that was also a full Lycan; A Lycan and a human would have a half-Lycan, and the chance of producing a full Lycan just deteriorated. The primary difference between a Lycan and a half-Lycan was the transformation. Half-Lycans got it significantly easier - only gaining the enhanced senses and heightened aggression levels on full moons - whereas Lycans went through the shift to lupine form. This process could be delayed or mitigated so that no physical change would occur, but this was only possible for a couple of months before a forced shift would take place.John hadn’t missed a shift since he was young, the first full moon without his dad. It was always a bonding activity for them and doing it without him felt wrong and made his skin crawl. The wolf mourned for the loss of their father, but John would not let himself shift. It wasn’t until around three cycles later when young John was taken ill in the run-up to the full moon; a fever, a cough, and the worst muscle cramps he had ever dealt with. By the time the moon began to rise, John seriously considered asking his mum to take him to the hospital. Before he could crawl his way out of bed, he felt it: the slow grinding shifting of his skeleton trying to rearrange itself inside of his skin. The transformation . He tried his best to stop it, to hold it back, but he had prolonged the wait for too long already and the wolf wanted out .So lost in reminiscing, John had failed to sense the presence approaching him until a cold hand fell upon his flank. In an instant he spun to meet the threat - teeth bared and hackles raised, ready to pounce until the sight of a familiar uniform caught his eye.
“Woah, woah, Watson! Sorry to startle you mate, but it's the end of your watch.” One of John's comrades, of course, who else would it be? He dipped his head low and butted against the man's thigh in apology before trotting back off to his tent. ‘Not a great look for you mate, snapping at your team.’ John thought to himself as he padded onto his cot, ‘You don’t want to give them any more reasons not to trust you.’ As the dew shone on the grass and a low fog settled in the air come morning, the regiment began to move out. John was left scrambling to get his kit back on whilst only half awake from the previous night. ‘God,’ he thought, ‘I really am getting too old to be doing this shit all the time.’ A sentiment he had held since the first time he shifted during deployment. The toll that the shift took on a Lycan’s body could take them anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of weeks to recover from. For John, it mainly resulted in bad muscle aches which were easily able to be brushed off as general army strain.The explosion was true devastation. Pain. Blinding pain shot through every limb. The wolf screamed along with him. Somebody help them. Please. Help him.When John awoke an unknown amount of time later, it was to the clinical sounds, smells, and sights of a hospital. With how raw all of his senses were, it was overwhelming. He struggled to hold down the bile that was trying to creep up through his throat. He had always hated going to hospitals, not because he was ‘too tough’ to get treated - his dad had taught him better than that - but because of the sheer overstimulation they caused him with his heightened senses. The lights were too bright and they buzzed; everything smelt of bleach; alarms were going off everywhere all the time and never in harmony. You might wonder why he became a doctor if hospitals affected John so violently. Well, for one, army and field hospitals are infinitely less overstimulating. Far less equipment means far less noise, and there’s not much you can do to sanitise a war ground, especially not bleaching the floors. The primary reason, though, was John’s inability to stand by and watch others get hurt. He was a very empathetic man and it showed in his actions.The next couple of months whilst John recovered were horrific. Not only was he in pain from the injuries, but he was also honourably discharged from the army, he had to deal with the nurses and their endless pitying gazes, his long-time girlfriend broke it off with him, and all of this whilst repressing the urge to shift in a bloody hospital. To say John Watson was stressed was an understatement of grand proportions.When the day came that he was finally released from the hospital, a whole new wave of issues came to the forefront. Now that he was single, he was no longer living with his ex, meaning he needed to find somewhere to stay and fast . The other thing on his mind was that John Watson, ex-captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was in desperate need of a pint. All of this stress had been piling up for almost three months at this point and the only cure was going to be a pint or three down at the Volunteer - doctor’s orders (it’s him. He’s the doctor. It’s his orders).As he entered the pub, John was hit with a wall of noise - ‘The footie must be on…’ he thought, ‘wonder if it’s Swindon.’ His lack of usual enthusiasm over his favourite team could most likely be attributed to having spent the past however long in Ukraine, followed by being blown up, followed by three mind-numbing months in the hospital. However, just as he was scouting for somewhere to sit, a pair of eyes locked with him and a booming voice met his ears with an excitable “Watson!”Stammo, right there in the flesh, just as he was about to resort to drinking his solace away. “Ayy, Stammo! What’re you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? Mate, what’re you doing here? I thought you were off fighting in Ukraine?” Stammo pushed his way over and clapped John on the shoulder. It hurt, but he managed to not let it show too badly.John really didn’t want to rehash any of the past few months, “Well, I’m not anymore, walking wounded nowadays. Currently crashing on Lukas’ couch but I’d much rather find a place to stay on an Army pension - a cheap flashare or something, but it’s turning out to be impossible. Plus, y’know, I’ve got more than enough reasons for people to not want me as a flatmate.”
“Oh really? Actually, mate, you’re the second person to say that to me today; I reckon you two might be perfect for flatmates,” he says casually as if he hadn’t just dropped a massive bomb on John’s head. Well, at least this one wasn’t real…“What? Like, another…” John gives Stamford a look, being a Lycan is still not really something you want to admit to, especially not in a pub.“Well… Why don’t you meet him, c’mon, I’ll take you there.” Little did John know that this would be the starting point for a whole new him.“Sherls?” John shouted across the flat. It’d been almost a whole month since 221B had become his new home and John had never been happier. Not only did he gain two new friends in Sherlock and Mariana, but he also had a safe place to live and a new job that he loved. Currently, John was harassing Sherlock to get ready as they were supposed to be heading out to the moors - investigating a so-called ‘hound’ in the middle of the night during the cold winter was not exactly something John was looking forward to, but this was going to pay their bills for months.“I’m not going, Watson. This case is not worth our time, especially not for your podcast.” The detective was sprawled across the sofa under his weighted blanket looking rather reminiscent of a sickly Victorian child. Sherlock had been rather unimpressed with this case since its conception. ‘Why would we go all that way, Watson, when it is simply the delusions of a man.’ John thought that sounded rather insensitive, but Sherlock never had been one to save face over opinions.“C’mon Sherls, if it’s really that simple, we won’t even have to spend the night.” He had wandered back into their sitting room, attempting to bodily move the limp detective from his nest. “I don’t particularly want to go either, but we can’t leave a man in that state without even trying to help him.” John’s legs had been aching throughout the past couple of days, and he thought he might have been coming down with a fever that morning but it seemed to have passed.“You care far too much for your own good, Watson.” Ouch. That hurt. But he wasn’t wrong. “Fine, we’ll go, just so it can clear your conscience. Don’t expect anything too interesting, if I were you, I wouldn’t even bring the mic.” Well, it was as good as he was going to get. John hummed in agreement and went back to trying to get his shoes on without hurting his legs any more than they already were.“Why are you so insistent that we go if you’re clearly in pain? Aren’t you always the one making sure I don’t exacerbate any injuries?” Any hope of hiding these things from the detective truly was futile. Some small wince or twitch of his facial muscles must have given him away.“Because, Sherlock, all I have is some sore muscles - practically nothing compared to the stress-induced frenzy that Henry was in when we were introduced.” With slightly more effort than was usually needed, John rose from tying his shoes and headed for the door. “Now c’mon, Sherls, we’ve got a train to catch!”As much as John didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock may have been right when he said not to bother with this case; it had been nothing but dull so far. Now, despite the setting sun, they were both still out following Mr Baskerville around his estate as he pointed out the prints of what looked to be any large dog.“Do you have a groundskeeper, Mr Baskerville?” Sherlock probed, although considering he had his ear defenders on, he most likely wouldn’t hear the reply.“Just- Just Henry’s fine, Mr Holmes.” The poor man had been trying to convince Sherlock to call him Henry pretty much since we arrived at his front door. Not sure why he was still trying to do so, but I had to give the man props for his persistence.“That doesn’t answer my question, Mr Baskerville.”Henry let out a rather large sigh, “Yes, Mr Holmes, I do have a groundskeeper. But!” He exclaimed, which I thought might have been the most passionate he’d sounded all evening, “My groundsman doesn’t keep a dog this big, just his beagle, Maxwell.”“Yes. Quite.” Sherlock looked displeased, “I could’ve guessed that by all of the racket it makes.”“As I was going to ask, are you aware of the genetic traits of your staff, especially the groundsman?” What the bloody hell was this madman getting at now? Did he forget that Henry is a billionaire, not a biologist?“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, Sherlock,” he gave a hum in recognition, “but why on Earth would Mr Baskerville know that? God, why would the staff themselves even know that!” As the question left my mouth I was secretly hoping that Sherlock would have some big, convoluted answer; partially so I could witness those amazing deductions again, but mainly so I wasn’t made to look a fool… again.Sherlock gives me a look, the one he always uses when something should have been ‘obvious’, “Because, Watson, some of the people in Mr Baskerville’s employ may well be Lycans .” Fuck. “Well, if they are, we should be able to find this mystery hound by the night's end if my calendar is correct.” Fuck. Sherlock’s calendar is always correct. Sherlock’s everything is always correct.Fuck. Shit. Bollocks. He forgot, he can’t believe he forgot.The full moon, the most important day of every month for his entire life and he forgot. This month marks the third in a row of him not shifting - longer than he’d let it get before, longer than doctors would recommend. Now not only did he have a new roommate who he’d known for less than a month, but he also had no idea how said roommate would react to the knowledge that John was a Lycan.It’s fine. It’s all fine. He’ll simply not change this month either and deal with the consequences once they’re back at Baker Street with his own room and a door that locks. Simple. All John has to do is pretend that he’s human and not even consider the option that he might be forced to change regardless of his wants.Oh God, why did he have to think about that?So what if he changes unwillingly? They’re already out in the middle of nowhere, surely he can manage to sneak away without anyone - mainly Sherlock - noticing. He’ll just hide out in the moors until the morning before heading back to the Baskerville estate. Simple.Simple? Yeah right. This investigation was turning out to be anything but simple.It was now approaching midnight and Sherlock still had them out in the grounds looking for traces of Lycan activity. “It shouldn’t take too long, Watson. If you’re that bored, you can head back now and I’ll continue on my own.” Now, if you were any sane, normal person in John’s situation, you would have seized that opportunity with both hands and left to find somewhere secluded for your transformation. However, as John Watson was more protective than any man his size had a right to be, he refused to leave Sherlock alone in the middle of nowhere when there could be an enemy around any corner.Lycans can be classed as “Humans, but with a bit extra.” according to John. They had all the same features and behaviours as humans, just with some additional Lupine ones. This meant that you could still get serial killers, drug lords, and other assorted criminals within Lycan communities.
Knowing that, there was no way that John’s pack instincts would allow him to leave Sherlock unguarded with a possibly dangerous Lycan on the loose. That didn’t mean that John perceived Sherlock as unable to defend himself, no - he had seen the man’s boxing skills, he believed he was capable - but Lycans had an undeniable advantage when transformed. Their teeth could render flesh from bone, true predators at heart. So, John stayed.Now that John understood what was happening, he didn’t understand how he missed the signs earlier: the fever, the aching muscles, the sore legs. They were all the same signs he experienced when he was younger, the month after his father passed. With the moon beginning to gleam over the tops of the trees, John could feel the beginnings of his transformation taking over. As Sherlock was busy listing off deductions faster than John could string a coherent thought together, he managed to slip a hand out of his jacket pocket, only to see that his claws were growing and a layer of fur was spreading down to his hand from under the jacket sleeve. This was not good. He needed to find a way to hide his transformation from Sherlock whilst also ensuring the lanky man’s safety.
“John?” the voice of the detective made him jump, unaware that the deductions had stopped and Sherlock was staring at him with concern.“Y-Yes? Sherlock?” John managed to choke out around a cough.“Are you…alright? You seem rather distracted. Do you need a high-five ?” Oh, the detective thought John was upset with still being out at night. In his rush to reassure him, John nearly went to acknowledge the gesture before remembering his partial transformation.“Oh, uh, yeah mate. I’m fine.” He tried to put on a genuine enough smile that Sherlock wouldn’t get too concerned. “Actually, I think I’m gonna go take a leak in the trees. Henry won’t mind… will he? I mean, animals probably piss in the trees all the time and there’s no way-”“It’s fine, Watson. Stop rambling before you have an accident.” Sherlock cut him off. “Do you want me to wait here, or will you catch up?”“I- uh, I’ll catch up, mate. No need to stop your investigation for me!” With that, John scampered away into the forest with as much dignity as you can have when you’ve just told your best friend that you’re going to go piss in the forest.After making sure that Sherlock had continued on his way, John made quick work of removing his top half of clothing: jacket, hoodie, shirt, and vest. Hey, don’t judge - you try being self-conscious about your body and living in the UK - cold times, man, cold times. It was clear from then that there would be no stopping this transformation, his claws were already fully formed, and the hair that he had spotted covering the backs of his hands was also covering his entire upper half and dipping down below his waistband. John was a pretty hairy guy to begin with, but there was a definite difference here and he was more than surprised that Sherlock hadn’t noticed it earlier.After stripping down, John stuffed his clothes into the backpack he had brought with him. As much as he didn’t like transforming out in public - especially not in the nude - he had no other choice if he wanted to have any clothes left to wear once the night was over. Once that was done, the night turned into a waiting game. The relationship between the human side and the lupine side was what dictated the length of time it took to fully transform; the better your relationship, the longer the transformation would take to cause the least amount of pain, but if you ignored the wolf, it would want to take hold as fast as possible. A bad relationship is usually found in those who undergo the transformation as little as possible - something that John is guilty of recently - so he was expecting this to be a short but painful next few minutes.He was correct, the next several minutes were complete agony for John, only managing to keep his groans and grunts at bay by sheer force of will. He couldn’t let Sherlock hear him, otherwise he’d come looking. By the time he could see straight again, he was back to that big dusky-blond wolf that hadn’t seen the light of the moon since they were back in Ukraine.
Both John and his wolf both shared the same pack devotion and fierce loyalty which was the main reason John didn’t have to put much effort in to convince the wolf to track Sherlock. They both recognised him as ‘pack’ and knew they needed to protect him if there was supposed to be another possibly dangerous Lycan on the loose.Catching back up to Sherlock was easy enough, the detective’s scent was well known to the both of them. It was only slightly disheartening to see that the detective didn’t appear to be worried at how long John had been gone for. John supposed he probably hadn’t noticed as Sherlock was prone to spending hours in his own head.A couple of hours passed like this, Sherlock looking for something seemingly only he knew, and John following behind in the treeline. Nothing terribly interesting happened, John even had time to let his wolf do some hunting of the local wildlife whilst the detective was thoroughly distracted - chasing deer, rabbits, and other small game. Once the wolf had taken its fill, it pushed John back to the forefront of their mind as they approached Sherlock once more.As they lazed about, waiting for the detective to move along, John heard a noise from the other copse of trees across from the detective. His ears immediately perked up and he was on high alert - this could be the Lycan they were looking for. Another noise and this time Sherlock was looking in that direction as well, good, hopefully he will get the hell out of there. If that Lycan has been terrorising Henry, then there’s nothing suggesting he wouldn’t possibly attack Sherlock as well.As expected, Sherlock did nothing of the sort and instead decided to approach the noise. How can the smartest man John had ever known also be so stupid? Now John was in a difficult situation: Stay where he is and keep his identity secret, hoping that the noise was just a stray squirrel; or charge over to the other side, scare away any potential threats, but risk Sherlock finding out about his Lycan nature.The choice was taken away from him - though there was never really any choice, it was clear which option he would choose - as a low warning growl emanated from that same area that the detective was approaching. Right, now or never, Watson. You’re not about to let someone ruin this life that you’ve only just made for yourself. So, without letting himself contemplate what the consequences might be, John lunged. He shot himself straight over the gap between the trees and prepared to bite down on the neck of whatever was getting ready to fight Sherlock.The aforementioned detective let out a rather loud yelp as Watson dove past him, but he had no time to take in anything else before his jaws clamped down tight on the scruff of- wait. This isn’t a scruff. Scruffs aren’t made of metal. So what is this? John dropped the metal contraption onto the floor and sniffed it. It smelled of nothing but his own saliva and the forest.“Watson!” Sherlock cried. Bollocks, now he was trying to call for backup, probably mistaking John for the mystery Lycan. So John had no choice other than to take off once more.“Watson! Wat- John! ” Sherlock was giving chase, how funny it was that finally Sherlock was the one trailing behind John for a change. If only it was under better circumstances.John continued running, jumping over fallen trees and trying to take refuge in small spaces. None of it worked. Sure, it slowed the detective down a bit, but he would not relent. Even when John had managed to find a new hiding spot, Sherlock was still slowly approaching, calling for backup the whole time.“John, please!” Sherlock sounded… distressed? Was he finally realising just how long John had been gone since answering nature’s call? “I know it’s you, John! I know you’re the wolf!” Bollocks. Shit fuck bollocks and piss. How had John given himself away? Had Sherlock circled back during his transformation and seen him? No, the wolf was too smart to get them caught like that.Seeing no other option, and hating the distress in the detective’s voice, John slowly emerged from his newest hiding spot and plodded back over to Sherlock. His head was hung low, his expectations were even lower.“There you are, Watson! Why on Earth did you run?” The detective was panting, evidently exhausted from the chase. “You silly wolf, are you hurt?” Sherlock approached John, arms reaching towards him with open palms. John shook his head, it would have to do for communication until he changed back in an hour's time.
“That’s good, well, at least you managed to solve the case!” John’s ears perked up. Him? Solve the case? But all he did was sit by whilst Sherlock was deducing.“I can see the disbelief in your eyes, but you did! I had a suspicion that you may have been a Lycan ever since you became shifty once I mentioned the idea to Mr Baskerville-” I huffed at him, “Ugh, fine, since I mentioned the idea to Henry . Better?” I nodded in approval.“Then it was simple really, once you left for your supposed toilet break, I continued down the path and noticed many paw print tracks from the ‘hound’ which were certainly too big for most domestic dogs. The issue was that I had never met a Lycan in person before, and information about them is rather scarce so, once I deduced that you were a Lycan, I figured I would wait until you re-emerged to use you for reference.” John was sure that he probably shouldn’t feel so amazed when he had just been told that his one secret had been exposed far before he wanted it to be, but he just couldn’t help it. The detective- no, Sherlock was just so brilliant at what he did.“But before that could happen, you must have heard that growl coming from the bushes next to me. By the time I had heard them and turned to investigate, you were already pouncing upon the supposed threat. Which, in the end, turned out to be this .” Sherlock held out the metal box that John had chomped down on - you could still see the bite marks.“An reinforced portable speaker.” John visibly deflated. There was no danger afterall, although he supposed his secret was spilled even without that appearance. “Don’t look so down, John, you have thoroughly cemented your camaraderie with me, jumping to save me from danger without even a second thought.”John butted his head against Sherlock’s waist to encourage him to continue. “Yes, yes, Watson, I’m getting there. So, with the evidence mounting up, I could finally decipher the true culprit: nobody. Well, nobody with an intention to hurt Mr Baskerville.” John barked at him, astounded. “Let me finish, John. You see, once I saw you pounce at the speaker, I could see that your paws were far too big to make these prints. So then comes the question of what did make the prints? Well, if you look to the North-East of the Baskerville estate, you will find a sheep farm that Henry” he sneered at the name, “has given a portion of his land to. What does that have to do with this? Well, the most often companion of any farmer is a canine, a work dog. What do most working dogs have in common? Big paws. I’m going to guess based on size that the farmer owns an Irish Wolfhound, but I may be wrong.” Astounding as ever.“But then what about the speaker and the growling? Well, as the farm has livestock, there would need to be some defence against predators, hence the speaker. I bet that we would find several more of the same ones if we were to walk the rest of the perimeter. Evidently, the farmer forgot to mention to Henry that he was adding these features, therefore causing the man to get scared when hearing the growls.” John was practically bursting at the seams to shower praise on the detective, but without human form, it would have to wait until later. He butts against Sherlock again and begins heading back in the direction of the manor.
“Oh, and John?” He turned back to face the detective, “Your secret’s safe with me.”