(no subject)

[heartofbakerst]

Just as a fair warning, please be careful out on the streets today. On my way to the surgery, I noticed some packs of feral dogs that may or may not be very, very sick. At the very least, they're quite aggressive, as one bit me on the arm, completely unprovoked. That would be why the surgery opened late this morning, since I had to go to the hospital to get a rabies shot. I apologise to those who may have had their schedules disrupted because of it. If you do happen to be bitten by them, wash the wound with antibacterial soap and apply pressure with a clean, dry cloth and come see me or a doctor at the hospital immediately.

Private to Sherlock
Feeling rather cross with this stupid bite. Shall we get steak for dinner? I think it'll make me feel better.

Comments

[worldsonly]

That's wonderful. Let me look at it anyway.

[heartofbakerst]

Why? Do you know something I don't?

[worldsonly]

I'm not allowed to want to confirm for my own eyes that my best friend's injuries aren't serious?

[heartofbakerst]

Fine. But will you tell me what's going on? It's just a dog bite.

[worldsonly]

Increased government employee activity downtown, followed by a flood of feral animals? Striking you as suspicious at all?

[heartofbakerst]

You hadn't mentioned that part... I'm concerned now, certainly. Have you got any theories yet?

[worldsonly]

Six. Too soon to tell.

[heartofbakerst]

Right. Would you like a blood sample as well? God knows what diseases these damned things have.

[worldsonly]

Fantastic. Do hurry home.

[action]

[heartofbakerst]

[ And he does hurry home. With apologies, he closes the surgery early, as soon as his final appointment has left at around 3 pm. By the time he returns to the flat with his steak, he's already beginning to get a little irritable and short with people on the street and even with Sherlock when he takes his samples.

The day creeps on, and the sun sinks further toward the horizon, and John is pacing about the flat, unable to keep himself still or occupied with much for longer than a couple of minutes. Anxious somehow. And then the sun goes down.

The setting of the sun has somehow made the flat hotter, stuffier, though Sherlock doesn't seem particularly bothered by it. In his frustration, John moves to the window to open it. ]

Can we please get some bloody air in here? For Christ's sake, I'm going to suffocate like thi-

[ The light of the rising moon has hit John, and he freezes, but only for a moment until he doubles over, looking very much like he's about to be sick. ]

[worldsonly]

[ After having taken the sample, Sherlock commits himself to pretty thoroughly to not answering any of John's remarks -- not ignoring him, precisely, since he might be ill and Sherlock needs to keep an eye on that, but tuning out his snappish words in favour of observing his behaviour while Sherlock examines his samples. There are a number of pathogens and viruses that can contribute to short-temperedness and irritability as a symptom, after all.

Though... none of them look like the tiny things Sherlock is frowning at on the slide under his microscope, so he chooses not to share any of his observations until he can have something more concrete.

In the way of all things, his desire is fulfilled in the most horrible of ways -- when the moonlight enters the room through the opened curtain, the blood in the slide begins to warp and writhe like a whole living animal, and Sherlock jerks back from the eyepiece with a startled gasp, casting his gaze towards John to make sure -- oh. What --? Alarmed: ]

John!?

[heartofbakerst]

[ Whatever is happening to John, it certainly isn't friendly. His whole body is shaking, and growing, morphing, and by the sound of his bones creaking and shifting position inside him and his screaming to match, it isn't a particularly pleasant feeling. ]

What's- Sherlock! Sherlock Help!

[ He isn't able to get much else out before another scream takes him over. His clothes tear at their seams, revealing the new peppery fur underneath. He watches in horror as his hands shift and morph into enormous paws, and he claws at his face, trying to stop the itching under his skin and in his mouth that comes with the growth of new and strange teeth and the birth of a new mouth entirely. The cartilage of his face creaks and groans as it stretches forth, and his ears move upward on his head, growing into large, pointed things.

And finally, the horror stills, and leaves a monstrous grey wolf bathing in the moonlight, looking as if it is trying exceptionally hard to catch its breath. ]

[worldsonly]

[ Uncomfortably torn between both shock and curiosity, Sherlock starts forward before the full change occurs, but falls back again, hitting the floor hard, and can do nothing but stare. Then silence falls just as abruptly as it had been broken, leaving only the sound of each of them breathing hard.

Very aware that his position on the floor -- bare throat, belly up -- can either make him read as downed prey or submissive non-threat to a wild canine, Sherlock makes the decision to trust that John retains enough self-awareness to avoid disemboweling him, and remains still.

Keeping his voice even and quiet to avoid any startling, Sherlock hedges carefully: ] That was unexpected.

[heartofbakerst]

[ The dog's head turns slowly to look at Sherlock prone not feet from him. His eyes focus and his ears draw back as he gets to his feet, standing on all fours, much larger than any wild wolf or any creature from Baskerville. There's a low grumble in his throat and his footsteps toward him are slow and calculated, and if looked at carefully, a growing string of drool is drawing from his lips. John's not home anymore. ]

[worldsonly]

[ As John stands, so does Sherlock, his mind working lightning-quick, and his body fueled by a burst of adrenaline that sends his heart clamoring deafeningly in his ears at his conclusion (blood pathogens, inert during the day, activated by the only significant change in the room -- air pressure? air circulation shifted by the rustling curtain? ridiculous. street lamplight, sodium bulbs? moonlight? oh. oh.)

If submission isn't going to work, intimidation is another option -- but then, of course, that's a tactic recommended against regularly-sized wolves. His impressive height advantage over John clearly isn't going to translate well against... wolf John, so he keeps his body language small and restrained, the better to potentially appeal to making John believe he is a pack member or -- something. Perhaps John will smell himself in the flat or on Sherlock and calm down. ]

There's really no need to be so dramatic, I'll let you out if you want.

[ He reaches behind him to wrap his fingers around the microscope and bring slowly it to his side. It would be a tragic loss to have to throw the thing, and he doesn't want to hurt John with it besides, but if John manages to attack him, Sherlock knows John will never forgive himself whether it was his fault or not. ]

[heartofbakerst]

[ Such comfort of the senses would likely be well-received had John not been a starving, confused animal. He seems to take no notice of the heavy microscope in Sherlock's hand, but licks his lips, beginning to circle and draw nearer. He makes a short lunge for him, hungry jaws snapping at Sherlock's ankles and giving him a nice view of how big his teeth truly had gotten when his lips curl back in a vicious snarl.

He pauses, however, and catches the scent of something.. else. Something smaller. Perhaps easier to catch. Something fluffy and quaking underneath the sofa. Still with its yellow eyes sharp on Sherlock, the wolf draws back, slinking toward the sofa, which, from underneath, comes the hiss of a cat. ]

[worldsonly]

Oh, bad idea. I'm not sure which would alarm you more, eating me or the cat.

[ Sherlock backs away slowly as John does, groping behind him for the front door to fling it open and offer John a way out that won't involve getting brained with expensive lab equipment. But if that doesn't work -- well. Maybe with Elizabeth hissing hysterically from one side of the room, if Sherlock makes enough noise and seems intimidating enough, it'll startled John into fleeing. ]

[heartofbakerst]

[ John has nearly reached the couch when the sound of the door swinging open catches his attention. Suddenly, a flood of new smells overwhelms him, and he can't say that he doesn't recognise an exit when he sees one. No longer wishing to be confined in a strange, small room, he makes a dash for the hall, pausing only briefly to consider eating the tall, slender man or taking his chances finding something more substantial outside. ]

[worldsonly]

[ as the John-wolf makes his bolt for the door, Sherlock allows himself the selfishness of an unguarded expression, looking after him with undisguised distress. what is there to disguise himself from, after all? then when John appears indecisive, Sherlock steels himself for the risk of confrontation and bursts out with incoherent shouting, drawing himself up and spreading his arms wide to give the impression of being larger and more frightening than he is. whether the tactic works on formerly-human wolves is hardly scientifically proven, but it's worth the shot. probably. ]

[heartofbakerst]

[ The action certainly does seem to surprise the John-wolf, pausing just as he's passed him, his ears back and eyes wide. Unfortunately, this action does little more than to make him more curious about him. He tilts his head and lowers closer to the ground, his nose twitching as it sniffs the air around the lean, bizarre, noisy thing. He growls again, lips pulling back. Is this thing challenging him? ]

[worldsonly]

[ startled at John's apparent bewilderment, as opposed to the expected retreat, Sherlock drops his arms and stops immediately. well, all right, just because intimidation works on regular wolves, there may be a point in favor of the theory that it doesn't work on werewolves. this will be pertinent information for future investigations, in the event of a) more werewolves, and b) Sherlock's increasingly unlikely survival.

after a moment of silence, in which Sherlock's mind races along the corridors of his mental palace in search of an alternative escape, Sherlock finally says softly: ]

Please forgive me.

[ -- and flings the microscope, aiming intentionally for the shoulder that, on a human John, remains uninjured and therefore hopefully less likely to incur permanent damage. ]

[heartofbakerst]

[ John has no time to react before the heavy instrument is flung in his direction. He tries to dodge, but only succeeds in tripping over himself and getting hit anyway, which is announced with a nice dense THUMP and a sharp, pained yelp and whine. What was this thing that could hit him from so far? Confused, scared, hungry, and now injured, the wolf slinks backward toward the bedroom, keeping large, yellow eyes on his assailant and making some noise that comes out in a mix between pathetic whine and vicious growl. It isn't very intimidating. ]