shift 2

[mekachu04]

The quiet that settled after had every right to be awkward and uncomfortable, but instead, Sherlock found it oddly companionable. After all, there was only so much one could gather from watching a man sleeping curled up on the floor of his closest -and most of those conclusions didn't correlate with this situation in the slightest.

Captivity overpowered most of useful information, malnutrition and a sensitivity to the natural light streaming into the room. Sherlock watched as the canisoid mentally take stock of the room; Watson's right leg was stiff as he wondered, a clear limp in his gait, but Sherlock had not seen any injury to it the day before. He wondered if it might be residual damage from the tazers.

 Or if instead, the canisoid's mind had taken to trying to ignore the agony that should be radiating from the improperly mended shoulder. Because while there was a clear stiffness in the arm's movements, there didn't seem to be pain. 

In the ring, the shoulder would of been a clear target. Likely, as a subconscious defense mechanism, the brain had switched the input from the nerves. The more abuse the shoulder took, the more the hind leg would hurt in its place. The mind would strive to keep the injury out off the line of attack, while keeping the attacker in the line of sight. Still a danger, and a grave one, but much more likely the outcome of survival.

If Watson noticed Sherlock’s intent stare, he didn’t comment on it. Or if he planned to, he never got the chance - because he opened his mouth to say something - before falling quiet, head cocked as if listening to a sound only he could hear.

And that was likely it, because moments later, the door downstairs to the street was opening, and it wasn’t Ms. Hudson’s gait in the foyer. Sherlock eased his way to the window to glance out the window: two vehicles, one clearly belonging to his brother, the other just as nondescript.

There were four men making their way up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat, the one leading the way clearly Mycroft; Sherlock grimaced once he realised that, turning to Watson to warn him that he was about to face the most dangerous man in the world. And while Watson was tense and as taunt as a newly strung bow, something in his face looked hopeful.

Mycroft Holmes let himself if, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, followed by two uniformed MP’s, and then a highly decorated officer. A lesser man would of never of noticed the way Watson lit up when the last man entered, but Sherlock was far from such a man. It was almost sickening, the joy radiating from the canisoid, as he hurried to salute, acknowledging the last man as “Major Sholto!”

The Major was a stoic, reserved man, with a harsh adornment of burns standing out sharply along the entirety of the left of his face. There was a softness to his eyes though as he regarded Sherlock’s guest, the salute returned, “Captain Watson, it’s good to have finally found you.”

Neither of the men seemed bothered by the fact Watson was still only wearing Sherlock’s dressing gown, 

 

He never expected the feral to come back. It wouldn't be the first timehe'd run someone off to be sure, but usually he'd done something to warrant it.

But then there was the door, and Mrs Hudson usurping up a client, and then Watson was in his living room once again

Sherlock half stood from his sulk in his chair, looking at his guest in surprise. In turn, Watson remained at parade rest in his door way, looking st his living space in bemusment, as if verifying to himself that the mess he rememberfrom his past visit was real, and not some poorly thought up delusion.

"soldier watson," he greated, fully standing, extending a hand. Watson accepted, "mr. Holmes"

"sherlock," he reminded him, and the two grinned at each other like old friends, instead of strangers who'd just met on the wrong side of a cage match.

Watson looked light years better than he'd left, a week of care, and food, had lightened the captive look he'd been sporting; his hair cut back short, face properly shaven for an officer. He still looked haunted, yes, but was no longer the lost hope walking corpse that had stepped between sherlock and thier once captors.

Because Sherlock could read that act now, could see it when compared to the feral before him. True, Watson was an honorable man who could not stand by to watch others suffer. But in the tiny confines of way had been a six month prison cell, the man didn't have a death wish so much as had list the wish to keep living.

In Sherlock, he'd seen an escape. Granted, his escape had been to pass on in death having given his last effort for the greater good. And Sherlock had delivered and more, Watson found himself still breathing in a realm he'd been sure he was leaving behind.

"Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Sherlock tookling in the faint tan to his skin, still present after months in the dark, the light coloring he knew the feral form had, the look of a man who knew combat.

"afganistan?" he pondered aloud, before amending with an "Or Iraq...."

John Watson did not sleep well. In those early days, sherlock would be roused from his thoughts to the sound of his new flatmate fighting of the terrors his mind was struggling to come to terms, instead of allowing him to simply sleep.

By weeks end, the man had given up, and the shifted beast instead curled himself up on the floor in front of their fireplace. The simpler mind wasn't troubled by such doubts and fears, and the body and mind was finally given a chance to recover.

The closest Sherlock had ever had to a 'pack mentality' was a mindless devotion to his brother when he'd been a small child. He'd quickly grown out of such a thing, and had dismissed it as a weakness.

He still felt that way, but had to marvel at it now that it was being directed at him. Weither John Watson knew it or not, he'd started to display clear pack behavoir with Sherlock. He jumped when Sherlock said jump, he backed down when Sherlock stepped up, and when Sherlock faltered, john was a steady and unwavering support.

He didn't cower, like Sherlock would have once expected a beta feral to do. If he truly felt Sherlock to be in the wrong, he would say so. In private, it could turn into an epic row, and the two could yell enough to rattle windows. Sherlock would never had believed the feral to be anything less than an Alpha.

Is was in public though, that Sherlock saw the pack behavior so blantent. John never publicly gave Sherlock a dressing down, and never questioned his seemingly random demands. Would go so far as snapping at those who questioned Sherlock. But- in the most strangest twist, when Sherlock crossed that line that in private would have them snarling at each other , john would fix him with a sharp look  would make sure he had sidekicks complete focus, and would -quietly, and quickly- tell him simply, "not good"

That's when Sherlock first realized. That night, as a feral John dozed at his feet on the sofa, Sherlock turns it over in his mind again and again.

For what ever reason, feral Canade John Watson-former sugeon and captain in the RAMC- had chosen self proclaimed consulting detective, feral Felidae Sherlock Holmes as not only his pack mate, but as his pack alpha.