Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Watsons were an old shifter family, their blood transcending far back into the Middle Ages.  Their familiars were avian, common songbirds found across England.  From the mid-15^th to 18^th century, shifters across Britain were hunted down and exterminated.  The Watsons were one of the few families that survived the Purge.

Thereafter, shifter families kept to themselves as much as possible, their abilities kept secret and only known to a select few.  The Watsons remained nondescript throughout the years, their avian familiars giving them a greater amount of freedom compared to other shifter families.

The younger generation of Watsons, Harriet and John, were undeniably different from the norm; they had birds of prey as familiars, something so shockingly disparate from the usual songbirds the Watsons had for centuries.  It didn’t stop Harry or John from taking pride in their familiars, though.  The siblings would fly across the fields of England side by side, a Kestrel and a Sparrowhawk chasing each other’s drafts.

They weren’t exactly reckless, but they had their fair share of adventures.  John loved the adrenaline rush, the thrill of the unknown.  It made him feel alive, free.  Racing Harry across the sky was one of his favorite pastimes.  An accident was bound to happen, however, since their father never supervised their outings, choosing alcohol over his family, despite the fact that they were young, gangly, and awkward in their avian forms.

Neither particularly cared, until John one day found himself caught in a thorny bush after an overzealous tackle Harry had managed to dodge.  John had tumbled headfirst into the bush, the branches mostly helping to break his fall.  His wings, however, were trapped in an awkward angle, flapping feebly as John tried to right himself, the thorns tearing at his feathers and skin. 

Harry was perched nearby, distressed, as John weakly struggled against the branches.  Their father will be furious when he finds out, John is certain.

What should I do? Harry asked, frightened.

I don’t know.  He struggled a bit and let out a small screech in pain.  Go home and get Mum?  He suggested.  But try not to tell Dad.

I can’t leave you here! she protested.

You have to, he implored.  I don’t think there’s another way.

She puffed her feathers out, indignant.  You’re an idiot.  I’ll shift back and get you out myself.

And walk home? he asked, incredulously.  We flew too far and you know it.

She looked at him and if birds could pout, she would most definitely be pouting.  Can you shift?

John shook his head apologetically, No, my wing is stuck.  Sorry.

What if we –

The rustling of leaves cut her off, and they both stiffened in fear.  Go! he told her and she did, thankfully not questioning him.

John wriggled uncomfortably as the footsteps drew closer, hoping that whoever was approaching was friendly.  A few moments later, a young boy with dark curly hair emerged from the thicket.  His eyes – green?  Blue? – scanned his surroundings then landed on John.

“Oh,” he breathed softly then padded over to the bush.  His eyebrows furrowed, “A Sparrowhawk, young; the only way you could’ve gotten stuck in there was if your trajectory was . . . ” he trailed off, looking up into the sky.  “Hmm.”  He turned back to John, and John wondered who this boy was.  He made observations so quickly and spoke with intelligence far beyond his years.  John twitched and made a plaintive noise when a thorn dug viciously into his wing.

The boy hesitated then sighed.  He silently reached for John and the boy managed to extricate John out of the bush with little mishap and cradled him close to his thin chest.  Though John was incredibly wary of where the boy was taking him and what he was going to do, he had little choice in the matter; his wing was in no shape for flight.  He’d have to place his trust in this strange boy and hope for the best.

John closed his eyes and allowed the boy’s heartbeat to comfort him.  He only stirred when another voice drifted into his consciousness.

“Sherlock, I’ve been looking for you.  It’s nearly time for supper.”

The boy – Sherlock – replied, “I’m not hungry.”

John opened a bleary eye and scrutinized the other boy standing in front of Sherlock.  He was older by several years with a regal and perceptive air about him.  His hair was neatly parted to one side and he wore a crisp three-piece suit.  Strange, John thought, when the boy looked to be only in his early-teens.  He was standing on the porch of an impressive mansion and John, if he were in his human form, would be staring slack-jawed in awe. 

The older boy glanced over Sherlock and his eyes rested a moment longer on John.  He saw a nearly imperceptible eyebrow raise and a small twitch of the lips.  “Sherlock.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock replied defiantly.  The two boys stared at each other and John watched their silent conversation with interest.

“All right,” Mycroft said after a few long moments, the curve of his lips slightly more noticeable.  “I’ll join you shortly.”  He turned and made his way into the mansion, Sherlock following behind.  Mycroft continued past the staircase and down the corridor, while Sherlock proceeded up the stairs, clutching John snugly against his chest.  John wouldn’t want to admit it, but despite how odd his situation was, how vulnerable, he felt safe.

Sherlock opened the third door on the left and kicked it closed behind him.  He flicked on the lights with one hand then moved forward to place John gently on the bedspread.  John shifted awkwardly, trying to find the least painful position to settle in.  He glanced up and met inquisitive pale eyes, brow furrowed slightly in concentration.  John wondered vaguely what Sherlock was thinking.  Then he realized: he wasn’t acting like a typical injured and wild Sparrowhawk fledgling.  Sherlock, though young, was sure to pick up on the discrepancy; his youth belied a sharp intellect, he was sure.

“You’re not really a Sparrowhawk, are you?” Sherlock said.

John looked at him balefully, and shook his head minutely.  No point in denying it.

His eyes lit up.  “I knew it.  They do exist, don't they?  Shifters?  Mycroft told me the stories but Mummy and Father don’t believe them.”

John gave him a look that he hoped looked pleading; the only human he’s ever communicated with while in avian form was his mother, and she had an innate ability to simply know despite not being a shifter herself.  “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”  He paused, “I don’t suppose I can convince you to change back into a human?”

John squawked, indignant.  “Fine,” Sherlock huffed, pouting. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something further, but the door opened and closed softly, admitting Mycroft into the room.  He held a small medical kit and a small tray of food with a glass of water.  John shifted uneasily.  Mycroft glanced between John and Sherlock, and John had a sneaky suspicion that Mycroft was just as observant – if not more so – than Sherlock.

He padded over to the bed, placed the kit next to Sherlock and said, “The maids won’t bother you until morning.  I trust you’ll have everything sorted by then.”  Mycroft slid the food and water onto the bedside table.  “I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

Sherlock nodded curtly and Mycroft took his leave.  John glanced at Sherlock curiously as the boy opened the box and rifled through its contents.  Sherlock obviously respected Mycroft, but their relationship seemed strained, almost forced, and Mycroft cared for Sherlock deeply.  Family, then.  Brothers, perhaps?

“This might sting,” Sherlock said before he started to dab at the shallow punctures wounds the thorns left behind.  John flinched but stayed as still as he could while Sherlock tended to his injuries.  His mind wandered, and he wondered if Harry had made it home safely.  He wished he had a way of telling his family that he was fine, that he was being cared for, but he couldn’t fly for at least another day and he refused to shift back into his human form in the presence of humans who weren’t family.

Knowing that shifters existed was one thing, but personally knowing a human who was a shifter was another.  And despite the fact that Sherlock seemed reasonable enough – or as reasonable as a young, incredibly intelligent boy could be – John couldn’t take that risk.

“There,” Sherlock announced a few minutes later.  “You should be able to fly in a day or two.”

John leaned forward and gently nipped Sherlock’s finger in thanks.  Sherlock put away the gauze and disinfectant, snapped the kit shut and slid it under his bed.  He crossed his legs on the mattress and eyed John curiously, hands steepled under his chin.  John stared back.

After long moments, and just when John was starting to feel uncomfortable, Sherlock sighed and crawled closer.  He picked John up gently and set him on one of the pillows.  “Eat if you want,” he gestured to the tray distractedly.  Sherlock jumped off the bed and ambled to the desk in the corner, picking up a large book and coming back to lie back on the sheets.  He opened the book and started to read, eyes darting across the page with alacrity.

John eyed him for a moment longer, then waddled over to the bedside and hopped onto the table.  He didn’t feel too hungry, but he knew that should eat at least a little bit, so he started to nibble on the random assortment of food.  After a few bites, he started to feel better, more relaxed.

“It’s frustrating, not being able to deduce anything about you,” Sherlock spoke up.

John looked up from his food and tilted his head to the side.  Sherlock had an annoyed expression, eyebrows furrowed in consternation; his book lay forgotten on his lap.  John took another sip of water then hopped back onto the bed, shuffling over to Sherlock.  He settled himself next to Sherlock’s thigh.  Glancing over to the book in the boy’s lap, he saw that Sherlock had actually been reading old myths and fairy tales about shifters.  Most were inaccurate, of course, but some stories were true.  John lifted his gaze and gave Sherlock a look.  He was willing to sate Sherlock’s curiosity a bit, as long as his questions weren’t too personal or debilitating to the shifter community.

Sherlock seemed to understand John’s invitation and spoke, “Can you communicate with other shifters while you’re in animal form?”  Yes.  “Did you have to learn how to fly?”  Yes.  “Do both parents have to be shifters in order to have shifter children?”  No.

The questions continued, and John answered what he could, and sometimes he didn’t answer at all.  Whenever Sherlock failed to phrase the question into a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ format, John would nip him on the finger.

When John started to nod off, Sherlock ceased his queries and scooped John back onto the pillow.  John fell asleep surprisingly quick, feeling completely at ease in the presence of a young, curious, incredibly intelligent boy whom he’s only known for a few hours.

That in itself should have scared John; his father, though an incompetent alcoholic, knew the lore and history of the shifters inside and out, and warned both John and Harry about putting their trust in non-shifters.  Times have changed drastically since the Purge, but there was much more to lose now as well as more to gain on both sides.

Yet, John slept peacefully that night.

And even though he’d get the harshest punishment from his father when he returned home, he’d never forget Sherlock and their brief acquaintance.

~* =

More than twenty-five years later and John would have never expected to meet Sherlock again.  After medical school, the army, and two tours in Afghanistan, here he was at Bart’s in front of the boy – no, man – who was so fascinated with shifter lore.  He was just as intelligent as John remembered him.  A bit more callous, maybe, but life happens.

“That’s it then?  We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat.”  He tried to sound as incredulous as possible.  Sherlock didn’t know who he was, that they had met each other before.

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment then started to rattle off information about his army career, his strained relationship with his sister (whom Sherlock assumed was John’s brother), and his psychosomatic limp.  And John, despite knowing how observant Sherlock was from all those years ago, could only stare, dumbstruck.

It was amazing.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”  And he’s out the door.

John looked over to Mike Stamford and he says, “Yeah.  He’s always like that.”

And John, God help him, wants to jump headfirst into the hurricane life of Sherlock Holmes.

He didn’t expect, however, to be kidnapped.

After meeting Sherlock at Baker Street, and after visiting a crime scene with him, he was mysteriously herded – threatened? – into a discreet black car off a busy street in Brixton.

Once he got out of the car and started limping towards the man leaning placidly on an umbrella, he knew whom he was meeting with.

“You know, I’ve got a phone.  Very clever and all that, but you could just phone me.  On my phone.”

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place.”  The man gestured with his umbrella at the empty warehouse.

“All right, what do you want, then?”  Mycroft.  It had to be.

He gave him a look, and John refused to be cowed.  “The bravery of a soldier.  Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”  John didn’t answer.  “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one.  I barely know him.  I met him yesterday,” he lied.

“Come now, Doctor Watson.  There is no point in skirting the issue.”  Mycroft ran his gaze up and down John, scrutinizing, “I know what you are, though very few in the government know of the shifter’s existence.”

John stiffened, “How – ”

“Your secret is safe with me, Doctor Watson, rest assured.”

John narrowed his eyes.  “Why should I believe you?”

His phone chirped and Mycroft watched him pull it out and check the message.  Baker Street.  Come at once if convenient.  SH

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, amused.  “You are the same Sparrowhawk all those years ago, aren’t you?” he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.  “And now you’ve moved in with Sherlock at Baker Street.  I can only assume that you are seeking to repay his kindness and, I suppose to an extent, mine.”

John frowned, “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Ah, you remembered my name.  I’m flattered.”

“Don't be.”

Mycroft smiled; a small, demeaning smile.  “Though our acquaintance was brief, I assume you know that I worry about Sherlock.  Constantly.”

“Is that so,” John deadpanned.

“Let me know what he’s up to.  I’m willing to pay a reasonable amount of money to help ease your way.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not a wealthy man.”

“And?”

His phone chirped again.  If inconvenient, come anyway.  SH

Mycroft paused and changed the subject entirely.  “I knew the moment Sherlock came home with you in his arms that you weren’t an ordinary Sparrowhawk.  He’d hate to admit it, but Sherlock also knew that I knew.  His pride will be the death of him.”

John frowned.  “Why are you telling me this?”

“No reason.  Just preparing you for living with my brother.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

Mycroft stared at him for a moment longer before conceding, “I can see that you’ll refuse my offer.”  John let out a small laugh and Mycroft raised an eyebrow, curious.  “All I can do is warn you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been getting a lot of those lately,” he said, recalling Sally Donovan’s parting words.

“You might not like what you find in Sherlock Holmes.”

John pursed his lips.  “I’ll decide that for myself, thanks.”

“I suppose you will,” said Mycroft, giving him a grim smile.

Mycroft leaves and John’s phone chirps again.  Could be dangerous.  SH

And later that night, John shoots a cabbie to save Sherlock’s life.

~* =

John moves in and they settle in somewhat of a routine.  If one could call it a routine.  More likely than not, the day would consist of either Sherlock shooting at the wall in boredom, Sherlock dashing out of the flat in excitement over a new case, or Sherlock annoying John with his various experiments.  And John would respond in frustration, anger, or amusement. 

He wasn’t sure when his life seemed more like a fiction, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Ever since he moved in with Sherlock, his life was far from boring.  He stopped going to his therapist, his limp completely gone.  His relationship with Harry, though still strained, was amicable.  And Mycroft occasionally dropped by to “check up” on him; he didn’t appreciate the visits much but he was polite enough.

On most nights when Sherlock wasn’t dragging John behind him after a serial killer, John would shift into his avian form in the (relative) safety of his room to stretch his wings.  After his injury in Afghanistan, he hadn’t quite been able to fly properly.  And it wasn’t as if he could go to someone for therapy or advice – it was kind of ironic, actually, being a doctor himself.

He made do, though.  John could fly short distances without his shoulder acting up, and that was enough to keep his wings decently fit.  It wasn’t like he could – or wanted to – fly further.  He couldn’t risk Sherlock picking his lock and barging into an empty room with the window flung open.  He’d get suspicious, if he weren’t already.

John knew that Sherlock would figure it out eventually.  But his shifter status was a secret John wanted to keep for as long as he could.  Besides, he wanted to know how long it would take for Sherlock to realize what he was.  Maybe not who – he didn’t particularly want Sherlock to know that he was that same Sparrowhawk from over two decades ago – just what.

On top of John periodically chasing after Sherlock along the dark alleyways of London, John spent time in Bart’s labs with Molly and was an on-call GP at the nearby surgery.  And right after he was hired at the surgery, Sherlock pulled him into a case sent to the detective by an old acquaintance, Sebastian Wilkes.  John hated the man once he laid eyes on him, and John was not the type to use ‘hate’ lightly.

The case quickly became more complex, involving more people than just those at Wilkes’ bank.  And John, despite Sherlock’s antics and Sherlock crashing his date with Sarah Sawyer, enjoyed the rush of adventure and danger.

When Sherlock tumbled out from behind the curtains and John immediately jumped in to save him, John felt a twinge in his chest, as if something had gripped his ribcage and tugged firmly.  It wasn’t just the fact that the other man had kicked him in the chest; it was something internal.  The feeling left him breathless for a moment, but he recovered quickly only to watch Sarah impressively beat Sherlock’s attacker with a wooden stick.

They fled the scene, but John couldn’t quite shake the odd sensation that had immobilized him for just a few moments.

~* =

After the banker case, Mycroft whisked John away again.  Sometimes he wondered if Mycroft did it just to piss Sherlock off but somehow it didn’t seem likely.

Though it certainly pissed John off.

“Don’t you think it might be just a little bit easier if you just picked up your bloody phone to call me?”

“Our conversations must remain private and secret, John,” he replied blithely.  “Can’t take the chance of someone overhearing us.”

John rolled his eyes, “Like you don’t do the same.”

Mycroft stared at him, silently assessing, and John refused to squirm under the scrutiny.  “I admit that I am rather surprised you’ve stayed with him this long,” he said, completely changing the subject.

John blinked, startled, but replied dryly, “That must be a first.”

“Not at all,” he said, and John – again – was taken aback at Mycroft’s frankness.  Mycroft’s lip twitched, whether in amusement or exasperation John wasn’t sure.  They were silent for long moments, and John mulled over those three simple yet heavy words that Mycroft uttered so easily.

What did he mean, exactly?

“Soo Lin Yao was a shifter,” Mycroft said, cutting into John’s musings.

John frowned, “How do you know?”  Mycroft gave him a look and John pursed his lips.  Right, of course.  Stupid question.  “So what does this have to do with me?”

“I’ve noticed that shifters have been appearing more often as of late.  In groups.  And I have yet to notice a pattern.”

“And you think that I’d notice one?” he asked incredulously.

“You are one of them, after all.”

“Doesn’t mean I know what they’re planning.”

“No, but there have also been more sightings of shifters shifting in public places.  I know enough about shifter lore that that is practically unheard of.”

John’s brows furrowed.  “Yes, that is odd.”  He licked his lips, “But why are you really telling me this?  Sherlock – your brother – is the detective, I’m sure he’d be able to make more of it than I could.”

“He could if he cared.  This particular case, I’m sure, will not hold his interest.”

John opened his mouth to reply but decided against it.  He cared enough all those years ago, he was going to say.  But that was just it, wasn’t it?  It was over two decades ago and not once did John get the feeling that Sherlock was still fascinated in shifter lore.

“He’s likely deleted it or perhaps it’s so buried under everything else he deems more important that he hasn’t thought of it for years,” Mycroft said, his eyes knowing and sympathetic.

“And you don’t want to remind him of it?” he asked, eyebrow raised.  John shook his head; he’ll never understand the rationality of the Holmes’ brothers, and it was probably for the better.  “All right,” he said, not waiting for an answer.   “What do you want me to do about it?”

“There’s a private and top-secret archive in Parliament that very few are privy to, for various and obvious reasons.  I can extend my influence to allow you access, if you so desire to accept.”

“Accept what, exactly?” he asked, suspicious.

“This is a highly delicate matter, John.  I would be allowing you access to the deepest secrets of the British government.  I’ve been through the archives and I don’t think you will like everything you find.”

“Then why are you still offering?”

“Because despite the knowledge we have on shifter lore, it is incomplete.  I am not asking you to reveal anything more to me or anyone else,” he added when John was about to protest.  “Simply to make your own observations, come to your own conclusions, and if you deem it necessary, tell me anything you are willing to disclose.”

“And what do you think is happening, then?”

“A revolution, of sorts,” he said, grim.  “One that may be well-deserved.”

John let out a humorless chuckle.  “Ah, yes.  The atrocities of Church and Crown.”

“Some are more recent than you realize, John.”

“How am I not surprised?” he said, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Do remember that I am on your side, John, regardless of what you may think of me or the government.”

John sighed, defeated.  “Yes, I know.  And what a pair we make.”

~* =

John accepted Mycroft’s offer of allowing him unlimited access to the private archives.  And he decided to start from the beginning, the very beginning, of recorded shifter history.

Relations between non-shifters and shifters were mostly amicable in the beginning of the Middle Ages, but tension rose between the two communities in the early 1400s.  Non-shifters blamed the shifters for their failed crops, disease, and famine.  They accused them of spying.  And they believed that they were plotting against the already unstable crown.  Their squabbling resulted in the Purge, and then the records were pretty stagnant thereafter until the turn of the 20^th century.

John was about to start sifting through the folders on the Great War when Sherlock pulled him into a new case that would take most of his time and energy, effectively distracting him.

And in hindsight, the arrival of that pink phone changed everything.

Instead, John watched as Sherlock became more and more excited about the case, became more attracted to the enigmatic bomber, and it made him uneasy.  Sherlock, of course, brushed him off, too wrapped up in the game.

Then he sent John to Mycroft, allegedly to gather more information on the Bruce-Partington Plans.  John was torn between secretly tailing Sherlock to ensure his safety and making headway on the missing flash drive.  He ended up meeting with Mycroft anyway, and the elder Holmes was unimpressed.

“He’s being childish and selfish,” Mycroft said in disdain.

“Well, he wouldn’t be Sherlock if he wasn’t,” John replied.

“I fear that Sherlock may be in over his head with this new case of his,” Mycroft said.

“What?” John asked, startled.

“This game he’s playing,” Mycroft continued, “With an unknown entity.  Surely you feel the same.”

“What of it?”

“Your time spent in the archives,” he said conversationally, crossing his arms in front of his chest and frowning at the opposite wall.  “I assume they’ve been enlightening.”

“Mycroft,” John snapped.  “What are you getting at?”

“What I’m getting at, John, is to keep your eyes open.”  Mycroft returned his gaze to John’s.  “Observe.  There may be more shifters around you than you realize.”

Like Soo Lin Yao.  Like Zhi Zhu.  “And you’re telling me this because –”

“Of Sherlock.  Of this mysterious bomber.”

“Right, of course,” John said, sarcastic.  “And you can’t tell him all of this yourself, why?”  Mycroft looked away with a slight roll of his eyes.   “Oh, don’t tell me.”

“Too much history between us, John,” he said, with just a touch of regret and sadness in his voice.  “Old scores, resentments.”

“What’d you do, nick all his Smurfs?” he joked.  “Broke his action man?”  Mycroft gave him a withering look and John just laughed.  “Are we done?”

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh.  “Yes, I suppose we are.”

~* =

John was running on very little sleep, and Sherlock just got more and more excited as he solved one case after another.  Carl Powers, Ian Monkford, and Connie Prince all in quick succession.

But when Sherlock started to praise the bomber, John very nearly lost his temper.

“I hope you’ll be very happy together,” he said, managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Sorry, what?”

“There are lives at stake!” he exploded.  “Actual human lives.  Just so I know, do you care about that at all?”

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock shot back.

“No,” he said, almost reluctantly.

“Then I’ll continue to not make that mistake.”

“And you find that easy, do you?”

“Yes, very.”  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Is that news to you?”

John paused for a split second before lying, “No.”  I suppose not.  He didn’t want to believe that Sherlock didn’t care.  After all, he had cared enough all those years ago to aid an injured Sparrowhawk fledgling with no benefit to him.

Or maybe that wasn’t completely true.  Maybe John just wanted to believe that Sherlock was a better man than he really was.  A shifter was a minority, a rarity, and perhaps Sherlock had known from the moment he saw John in that thorny bush that he was a shifter.  What better opportunity would he have had to interrogate an anomaly, a creature that many thought were mere myth or legend?

“Don’t make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock said in exasperation, giving John an almost pitying look.  Pity?  Why?  “Heroes don’t exist and if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”

And as much as the evidence seemed to point towards Sherlock truly being that apathetic towards those around him, John wanted to think otherwise.

So John would help him despite John’s misgivings, despite Sherlock’s apparent misanthropy, and because John wanted to believe Sherlock could be a good man.

~* =

It was dark, a cloth strapped over his eyes, and his hands were tied securely behind his back.  He twisted his wrists, testing the security of his bonds – tight; too tight to wriggle free.

John should really add ‘getting kidnapped’ to his CV.  Not that he liked getting kidnapped, but the clause seemed to be somewhere in the fine print when he became Sherlock Holmes’ friend.

He took stock of what he could.  John was woozy with a light headache – drugs.  He was sitting on a stiff chair, his limbs only slightly achy – he must have been unconscious for a few hours.  He couldn’t hear anything, only a soft echoing drip drip of water – a warehouse?  The sewers?

Surprisingly, he wasn’t gagged.  Perhaps his kidnapper thought he wouldn’t call for help, or maybe he was in such a secluded place that it wouldn’t have mattered.  John licked his lips uncertainly, straining against his bonds.  Whatever the case may be, a kidnapping was never a good thing.  Well, unless it was Mycroft, he supposed.  But that was a double-edged sword John really didn’t want to inspect any further.

The sound of footsteps came from behind him and John stiffened.

“Well, well,” a high, singsong voice said.  “John Watson.  As ordinary and boring as you look, I truly didn’t expect you to be something so rare at the same time.”

John remained silent, clenching his fists.  Surely he didn’t mean . . .?  But how?

“A shifter,” the man whispered conspiratorially, mocking, and John’s suspicions were confirmed.  “I’m actually impressed, Johnny boy.  You’ve managed to keep your secret for this long while living with Sherlock Holmes and he is much cleverer than you.”

John felt a presence come up behind him and his body tensed; who was this man?

The cloth around his eyes slipped away, and John squinted and blinked in the sudden brightness.  A man was lingering in his peripheral then came to stand in front of him.  He was wearing a tailored suit, slender, and well groomed; he looked familiar.

John narrowed his eyes, “You’re . . . ” he trailed off, then his memory clicked.  “You’re Jim.  From IT.”

“Bingo!” Jim grinned.  “Jim Moriarty.  Hiii!”

“You’re Moriarty?”

“Don’t look like much, do I?” he said, smirking.  “But then again, neither do you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, Johnny boy.”  His smile dropped and his face twisted into a scowl, “Don’t you think it’s unfair when someone so ordinary gets the luck of the draw and gets to be something so extraordinary?”  He pins John with a look of distaste, “I mean, you, a shifter.  I couldn’t believe it at first.  Thought for sure that Sherlock would be one but alas, the Holmes family tree, in only that sense, is so utterly boring.”

“How did you find out?” John gritted out.

“I have eyes everywhere, Johnny.  I have my ways.  Just like Big Brother Mycroft, even your precious Sherlock.  See,” he pauses, rocking back on his heels, contempt dripping from his words, “This is why it’s such a waste that you’re a shifter.  Can’t even see what’s right under your very nose.”

“Neither did Sherlock,” he retorted.

That startled a laugh from Moriarty.  “Ah, yes.  I suppose so.  He never did figure out that you’re a shifter, did he?  Too wrapped up in his own mind, in his puzzles, not realizing that he was sharing a flat with one of the greatest puzzles in history.”

“How do you know so much about us?”

“Why Johnny,” Moriarty grinned.  “Because I’m one, too.”

John bit down a noise of surprise.  “And what are you, then?” he managed to say.  “Something nasty, I presume.”  And John suddenly understood Mycroft’s warning, his suggestion to keep an eye out.  Anyone could be a shifter and though there was no way of knowing from outward appearances alone, they could be anywhere.

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed in anger, but his smile turned malicious.  “You’d like to know mine just as much as I’d like to know yours.  But really, Johnny, this isn’t the reason why you’re here.”

“Oh, it isn’t?” he said sarcastically.  “Fantastic, tell me more.”

“You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?  Didn’t expect that, either.”  Moriarty’s eyes sparkled with glee.  “Oh, I’m starting to see why Sherlock keeps you around.  I can’t wait to see his reaction when he shows up.”

“What?” John asked, tense.

“He thinks he’s got it all figured out.  I’ll enjoy proving him wrong.  But first,” Moriarty gestured to someone behind John and a sudden presence behind him made him clench his fists harder, his fingernails digging into his palms painfully.  “We have to prepare you for your grand entrance.”  And John felt his bounds cut and he flinched involuntarily.

John brought his hands in front of him and rubbed gingerly at the rope burns on his wrists.  “I’m the final pip.”

“Very good!”  Moriarty grinned.  “You are smarter than you let on, you know.”

John pursed his lips and didn’t say anything.  He had nothing to say.

And though he knew it was futile, John hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t come.

~* =

They escaped with barely a scratch on them.  John almost felt cheated at the anticlimactic turn of events.  Strapped to semtex, a sniper’s crosshairs trained on his heart, he was prepared for the worse.  But a phone call – a phone call – saved their lives.

John couldn’t quite believe it.

Mycroft had arrived moments after Moriarty disappeared and Sherlock told him off simply because he could.  Sherlock was agitated, relieved, and – damned if John mentioned it aloud – disappointed.  Mycroft easily reprimanded Sherlock with a few words and the detective scowled and stalked away, ignoring the proffered lift back to Baker Street.

Before John could follow Sherlock, Mycroft stopped him.  “My sources tell me that Moriarty is a shifter.”

He wasn’t surprised Mycroft knew; hell, he wouldn’t put it past the elder Holmes to know of most – if not all – the shifters in Britain.  “And how long have your sources known?” John asked, because John also wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to withhold important information simply because he could.  “He told me,” John said.  “Moriarty told me, told Sherlock, too.  He even told Sherlock about me.”  He pursed his lips.  “I honestly don’t know what to make of it.”

Mycroft looked mildly surprised.  “Sherlock knows?”  John nodded.  Mycroft frowned, “There must be a reason.”

“Yeah, well, if you find out, don’t hesitate to tell me your suspicions,” John said sarcastically.

“Any idea what his familiar is?” Mycroft asked, ignoring John, or simply sidestepping the accusation.  John sighed and shook his head, resigned.  He really hated the Holmes’ superiority complex and secrecy; it was incredibly annoying.  “I see.”  Mycroft frowned, idly toying with his ever-present umbrella.  “We have not seen the last of him.”

“No, I believe not.”

“I thought for sure he’d realize you are a shifter sooner.  He either refused to see or couldn’t, and that troubles me.”

“Why?” he asked.

Mycroft didn’t answer, giving him a tense smile and dismissing him silently, and John really shouldn’t have been surprised, though it certainly didn’t curb his anger.

When he made it back to Baker Street, John went straight to his room and locked the door, thankful that Sherlock was absent from the flat.  He put a chair under the knob for good measure; even if Sherlock knew of his shifter status, it didn’t mean he wanted to flaunt it.  Then he stalked over to the window, stripping his clothes off as he went, threw open the window, and Shifted.   It was early morning, the sun would be rising in a few hours, but he spread his wings and took off.  He flew across London for the first time since he came back from Afghanistan.  John soared over the Thames, across Richmond Park, and towards Surrey.  His shoulder didn’t hurt and he felt free for the first time in years.

He thought briefly about the pool.

Moriarty had spoken openly and arrogantly about the shifters before Sherlock’s arrival, claiming that he made contact with hundreds around the world.  The implication of the vastness of Moriarty’s influence was quite frankly terrifying.  John wasn’t completely sure what to make of it.  What was Moriarty’s endgame?

And John knew the only reason Moriarty revealed so much was because John wouldn’t tell another soul about any of it.  Shifters were naturally silent on the happenings within the community, fervently protecting their secrecy since the Purge.  He considered idly whether or not he should break the unwritten rule.  But whom could he really go to?  He didn’t really trust Mycroft, not completely anyway.  Sherlock would find it fascinating, but likely not in the way that was necessary.  Mrs. Hudson?  Lestrade?  Molly?  The more he thought about it, the more John realized that Moriarty was right in his assumption – John wouldn’t say a word to anyone.

And Sherlock knowing his secret certainly didn’t change anything.

Then he thought about the sensation he had felt when he had saved Sherlock from the Chinese assassins – harder and sharper than before, and it had almost felt like his heart was slowly getting ripped out of his chest – reappeared when he willingly jumped into the line of fire, urging Sherlock to run, save himself, leave John behind.  But he didn’t.  And Sherlock had been genuinely frightened, though he hid it well; his agitation had been apparent however, and seeing Sherlock’s mask fall for just a moment, to know that he, John, could make him lose control was humbling.

That feeling, that unease, that pain, John slotted in the back of his mind for later scrutiny, but for now, he willed himself to relax.  Willed the anger, the trepidation, and the adrenaline to roll off him as he drifted.  And his mind eventually cleared, his heart calmed, and he felt at peace.

He didn’t want to land, didn’t want his flight to end.  Because in the back of his mind, John knew that this would be the last time he’d fly this openly, this carefree again.

He didn't return to Baker Street until well after the sun rose.  And Sherlock, surprisingly, didn’t say a word about John and his shifter status.  It confused John, even made him a bit suspicious, but he decided to take it in stride and accept the silence.  They settled back into routine and though John left most of his worries scattered across the English countryside, he couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling in his gut whenever he thought of Jim Moriarty.

~* =

“You didn’t tell me you were a shifter.”

John paused in the doorway.  He’d just gotten home from the surgery and Sherlock was in his chair, hands steepled under his chin, staring intensely at John’s armchair across of him.

“Yes?” John said, confused.

“And I didn’t manage to figure it out.  Moriarty told me.”

“Okay, what’s this about?”  John stepped into the main room and sat himself in his chair.  He leaned forward, trying to catch Sherlock’s eye.

“I didn’t realize, John,” he said, frowning.  “I didn’t know, didn’t deduce.”

“There’s nothing physical that distinguishes a shifter from a non-shifter, Sherlock,” John said.  Sherlock was probably berating himself for not paying more attention, for failing in something he prided himself in – observation.

“I understand why you didn’t tell me, but I can’t figure out why Moriarty would reveal your secret.”

“He’s a shifter, too,” John said, the secret easily rolling off his tongue.

“Is he?” Sherlock asked, eyes brightening for a moment.  “Interesting.  How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“He could be lying.”

John shook his head, “He knew too much about shifters, our lore, our history.  Unless he has access to private, high-security archives,” he let out an ironic laugh, thinking about his own foray into Parliament’s archives.  He sure as hell hoped that Mycroft had a firm hold on the government’s security; otherwise the world would crumble around them.  “I doubt he was lying.”

“He could have access to archives.”

“Maybe,” he said.  The idea made him uneasy.  “But he was too proud.  And he despised the fact that I’m one, disappointed that you weren’t.  No, he wasn’t lying.”

Sherlock stared hard at John, his eyes narrowed.  “What’s your shifter form?”

John’s jaw dropped in shock – no one typically asked so bluntly, so straightforward.  But then again, he shouldn’t be surprised.  Sherlock wasn’t really the subtle type.  He mouth snapped shut and he frowned.  “Why?”

“Why not?”

“You don’t just ask a shifter what their familiar is,” he said.  “Hell, most people don’t even know shifters exist.”

“I know you, I know you’re a shifter, why can’t I know your familiar as well?” Sherlock asked, brows furrowed.

“It’s – ” John started, then snapped his jaw shut, shaking his head.  No point in arguing, Sherlock wouldn’t understand.  “It’s avian,” he relented.  “But I’m not giving you anything else.”

“Avian,” Sherlock breathed.  “You can fly.”

John’s lip twitched.  “Yeah.  I can.”

“Interesting.”  He was silent for a moment.  “And Moriarty?”

John picked at the armrest if his chair, “I don’t know.”

Sherlock was silent, hands clasped under his chin, and John thought that the conversation was over.  He made to get up, but Sherlock suddenly spoke, “The question remains, however, why he revealed you as a shifter.  What is his purpose?”

John settled back down in his chair.  “Do you have a theory?”

“It must be connected somehow to his criminal web,” he said confidently.  “He mentioned them both frequently, and like you said, he’s very proud of his domain.  John,” Sherlock turned to him suddenly, eyes shining.  “Tell me more about shifter lore.”

“I – what?  No,” he blurted.  “I can’t.”

Sherlock frowned, “Why not?”

“I just can’t, Sherlock.”

“I met a shifter once,” he said, his lips twitched into a minute smile.  “A long time ago.  It answered some of my questions.”

John held his breath; there it was.  Sherlock remembered.  “Oh?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“I’m almost positive it was male, definitely young.  A sparrowhawk.”

“Sherlock.”

“If he can tell me, why can’t you?”

John pursed his lips, eyes narrowing.  “He was an idiot.  Young and reckless.”

Sherlock met his gaze.  “I think not.”

“Just because a sparrowhawk decided to reveal shifter secrets, doesn’t mean I have to,” John said, feeling guilt at his past idiocy roiling in his gut.

“I have no one else to cross reference the information, John,” Sherlock said plainly.

John scowled.  What a manipulative bastard.  “Fine, ask your questions.  But I may not answer.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock smirked, leaning forward.  “You had to learn how to fly, correct?”  John nodded, glaring.  Sherlock ignored him.  “Do shifter families have similar familiars?”

“Yes.”

“Then your family is avian.”  He nodded.  “Is it possible that the shifter from my childhood was one of yours?”

Bugger.  “Possibly,” he hedged.  “Can’t be sure of it though.  There may be few shifter families left in Britain, but it doesn’t mean that each family is exclusive to its familiar’s species.  There might be a handful of families that have avians as familiars."

“If two shifter families with different familiars mate, what of the children’s familiars?”

“What’s that got to do with Moriarty?”

“Data, John.  I need data.  Everything could be imperative.”

“Or nothing,” John muttered, simply to contradict.  He sighed, “It depends.  Sometimes the child takes the father’s familiar, sometimes the mother’s.  There doesn’t seem to be a set definition between which child gets which familiar.”

“I’m sure there is,” Sherlock refuted.

John rolled his eyes, “Yes, I’m sure there is, and I’m sure you could find it.  It’s likely just genetics, depending on which trait is dominant.”

“Hmm, yes, that’s plausible.  Good deduction, John.”

John eyed the other man warily.  Now that they were talking genetics, he had a sneaky feeling that Sherlock would want to examine his.  And being the imprudent human he is, Sherlock wouldn’t ask for a DNA sample, he’d just take it.  But it shouldn’t be too big of a deal right?  No, what’s he thinking; of course it’d be a big deal.  As far as John knew, no one has scientifically categorized the differences between shifter and non-shifter DNA.  That kind of knowledge was potentially dangerous and John hoped that when he got back to the archives in Parliament that he wouldn’t find records of inhumane testing on shifters.

“Can connections form between shifters and non-shifters?”

“What?” John asked, startled out of his thoughts.

“A connection.  Between shifters and non-shifters.  Is it possible?”

John frowned.  “What d’you mean ‘connection’?  They can still get married and have shifter children, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, no,” Sherlock shook his head.  “I meant,” he frowned, “Spiritually.”

“I – ” John stopped.  Oh.  Spiritual connections.  Soul connections.  Shit.  “I don’t know,” he lied.

Sherlock frowned.  “You’re lying.”

“What?”  John sighed and rubbed a tired hand over his face.  “I’m not,” he implored.  “I honestly don’t know, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave John the ‘I don’t believe you’ look but John ignored it.  “I’m knackered, I could use a kip.”  He got up and stretched.  Sherlock didn’t protest, but he didn’t take his eyes off John, either.  He refused to feel uncomfortable, and headed up the stairs as calmly as possible.

Once his bedroom door clicked shut, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Damn,” he cursed quietly.  Soul bonds; that’s what he has been feeling recently, each time he unthinkingly saved Sherlock’s life.  It was a rare occurrence, but sometimes a non-shifter and shifter unknowingly forge an unbreakable bond.  In all the stories, however, the non-shifter wasn’t aware of the bond and the shifter always gave more and more of his or her soul to protect or help the non-shifter.  Eventually, slowly but surely, the shifter would fade away.  John had never believed the stories, but now, it seemed that he was living one.

“Fuck.”

~* =

Irene Adler – The Woman – was a welcome distraction.  At least for a while.

John had never seen Sherlock so taken by anyone before, and John never thought he’d actually feel jealous about it.  But he did.  Just a little.  He chalked it up to the soul bond.

And from the moment John walked in on a nude Irene and a more-or-less composed Sherlock, he knew that the case would be far more than just a few incriminating photographs of the royal family, knew that Irene would test this bond between him and Sherlock.

Throughout the deception and flirtation – God, did he find it strange to watch the two flirt – John watched and waited.  Sherlock may sneer at John’s lack of attention to detail, but John was damned sure that even he noticed things that Sherlock didn’t.  Perhaps couldn’t.  The detective was one of the most emotionally stunted humans he had ever met, and he didn’t think it in a derogatory way, either.  Sherlock either didn’t understand emotions or didn’t care.  Or maybe he understands but dismisses them blithely.

Nevertheless, it was obvious that Sherlock was infatuated and didn’t seem to know what to do about it.  He was flailing and John could only watch and simmer silently.

When Irene turned up dead on Christmas, John didn’t know what to do.  What could he do for a self-proclaimed sociopath?

And when Irene turned up alive, John reacted in anger.

“Tell him you’re alive.”

“He’d come after me.”

“I’ll come after you if you don’t.”

“Oh, I believe you,” she said, teasing.

John suppressed a growl.  “What do you want?  How are you alive?”

“Maybe another time, Doctor Watson,” she said, a small smile on her lips.  “But for now, I need you to do me a favor.”

“And why would I do that?” he asked scathingly.

“For Sherlock’s safety.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t,” she said, amused.  Then she sobered, “Look, I made a mistake.  I entrusted Sherlock with something and I need it back.”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself,” he said, unmoving.  “You’ve texted him a lot.”

“And what would I say?”

“What do you normally say?” he shouted, frustrated and angry.

Irene shrugged, taking out her phone and scrolling through her texts.  “Let’s have dinner.  I like your funny hat.  I’m not hungry.  Let’s have dinner.”

“Of course you’d flirt with him through text, too.”

“At him,” she corrected.  “He never replies.”

“’Course he doesn’t,” he deadpans.

“You jealous?” she asked, a smirk on her lips.

“Why would I be?” he frowns, denial bubbling just below the surface.  “We’re not a couple.”

“Yes you are,” she responded easily, confidently.  “There,” she said, pushing buttons on her phone.  “I’m not dead.  Let’s have dinner.”

He sighs and shakes his head.  “What the hell was the point of this meeting?”

And Irene didn’t answer, simply gave him a small, secretive smile.

~* =

John had taken to spending most of his free time in the archives, picking up where he left off in the records before the Great War.

Apparently there had been a handful of shifters in Parliament in the early 20^th century.  Relations between shifter and non-shifter communities were warming for the first since the Purge.   Shifters, though few still knew of their existence, were ostracized less and less and were becoming friendlier to non-shifters.  During the Second World War, shifters were regaled as heroes in the government, but were widely unknown to the public.  Shifters were used extensively as spies due to their high success rate and their unique ability to evade capture.  In fact, there was no reported shifter spy who had been caught by the enemy.

Shifters were also imperative during the Cold War.  However, also during that era, distrust started to brew again between shifters and the government.  Parliament questioned the loyalty of shifters, and many were arrested and tortured for information.  It was just like the Purge during the 15^th – 18^th centuries, except this time the betrayal was more personal and it hit the shifter community hard.

After the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, Parliament released the shifters in their custody with a superficial apology, and the shifters retreated back into secrecy, bitter and angry.

John’s father had never told him or Harry about this particular slight in shifter history.  Despite being a drunkard, he wasn’t the type to disregard something as important as disrespect to the shifter community.  Maybe he hadn’t known?  But how did he not?  It didn’t make sense.

When he pulled out old records of the British shifters interrogated by Parliament during the Cold War, John felt resentment burn deep in his gut.  It was really no surprise that the shifters had slunk back into the shadows for the nearly two and a half decades.  And he supposed he should count himself lucky that Mycroft had never really threatened or manipulated him because of his heritage.

As he went through the archives, John started to notice a pattern.  Most of the interrogators and some of those tortured had died in the last ten years.  Almost all of them had either ‘unknown causes’ or ‘organ failure’ as their cause of death.  The more he studied the records, the more suspicious they looked.

One time Sherlock dragged him to Bart’s, he asked Molly on her opinion of the curious string of deaths.  She said that there was nothing out of the ordinary in the autopsies and John eventually gave up trying to find a connection.

When he questioned Mycroft, he admitted that it was a piece of information that was either lost or very well hidden, and he had been hoping that John would be able to shed some light on him.  Again, he wondered why Mycroft didn’t just go to Sherlock for this; John was not the one to ask too look for nearly imperceptible connections.  But, he supposed if Mycroft couldn’t find them, then surely Sherlock wouldn’t, either.

So John pushed the mystery to the back of his mind and went on with his whirlwind life with Sherlock Holmes.  But regardless of what he did, the records were a constant weight on his consciousness, a riddle begging to be solved.

~* =

John shouldn’t have been surprised when Irene suddenly shows up at Baker Street and requests his and Sherlock’s help personally.  He also shouldn’t have been surprised at her endgame, her manipulation of Sherlock (even Mycroft).

And he certainly wasn’t surprised when he followed Sherlock to the airport then to Mycroft’s office and perched outside in his Sparrowhawk form, eavesdropping, and overheard that Irene was an acquaintance of Moriarty.  Of course she was; she had played the Holmes brothers almost too perfectly.

When Sherlock left and Irene was taken away, John tapped on the window to get Mycroft’s attention.  Mycroft, though there was a brief flicker of surprise in his eyes, let John in without hesitation.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, John?”  John gave Mycroft as withering a look as possible; his avian form could only express so much emotion.  Mycroft sighed and relented.  “Miss Adler will remain in custody for the time being.  I cannot promise anything else.”

John nodded then glanced at the doorway.  Neither made any attempt for further communication, and John was more than happy to remain silent.

~* =

John was tired.  No, exhausted.  And it wasn’t a type of fatigue that John could just sleep away.  His spirit felt weakened, worn.  With all the dashing about London and saving Sherlock’s life countless times, John gave more and more of himself to the eccentric man who essentially – unknowingly – held his life in his hands.

He should be afraid, giving so much of his soul to another person, but it didn’t.  It had at first, but John realized that he’d rather give Sherlock what he could than watch the detective get hurt.    And he did get hurt, quite often.  But John would take the brunt of it; prevent those injuries from being fatal.  Anything to protect.

The bond he and Sherlock forged over the year and a half was strong, albeit rather one-sided.  But John continued to give everything he could.

And after the fiasco at Baskerville, John needed a well-deserved break.

So he took a day off from the surgery and planned to stay home and rest.  What he didn’t expect when he entered his room was Sherlock rifling through his drawers, throwing his things everywhere.

“What the hell are you doing?” he blurted, surprised and angry.

“Ah, John!” Sherlock turned, eyes bright with enthusiasm.  “I realized at Baskerville that the government could very well be splicing shifter DNA.  It could be fantastic, just think of it, John!

“The shifters have been perceived as legend and myth for centuries, imagine what would happen if shifters were suddenly revealed as fact.  The question is, however, why and how?”  He started to pace, his hands steepled under his chin.

“I’ve been going through my mind palace and remembered what you told me about the possibilities of differentiating shifters from non-shifters through their DNA.”

“Yes, and?” he said tiredly.

“And,” he emphasized, how he usually did when he thought John was being particularly slow.  “Think of what could happen if we could tell who was a shifter or a non-shifter by just a glance.”

Oh, bugger.  “You think Moriarty’s a part of this?”

“It’s highly probable.”

John sighed.  “Sherlock,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Can this wait?  I’m knackered.”  John really didn’t feel like talking about anything right now.  He just wanted to sleep.

“John!  This is imperative, it may be the greatest case yet!”

“What?  You serious?” he asked, incredulous.  “It doesn’t even involve a body count.”

“Oh, but it could, John, don’t you see?”  John opened his mouth to answer, but Sherlock plowed on.  “No of course you don’t.  If scientists manage to figure out the mechanics behind the shifters just think about all the possibilities, what they could do with that knowledge, and not just being able to identify shifters from non-shfiters.”  Sherlock was practically vibrating with suppressed glee and excitement.  “Create genetically mutated shifters from scratch, genetically alter a non-shifters so they could birth shifter children, the potential of it all, John!”

And right then, it clicked.  “Oh my God,” John whispered.  That’s it.  That was it.  That was Moriarty’s plan.  If Moriarty was researching shifter DNA – and surely he was; even Sherlock was positive he was – it wasn’t to genetically create shifters; it was to eradicate everyone else.

He was planning genocide.  And Sherlock was right, at least partially: the body count would be astronomically high.  John didn’t know how Moriarty was going to do it, but he was damn sure that Moriarty had everything prepared.  That’s why he had been so smug at the pool.  It must have been why he let John and Sherlock walk away so easily, alive.

And the records, the mysterious deaths of government officials and shifters in the past decade, it had to have been Moriarty.  Already, he had been picking off those who had disrespected the shifter community.  But why kill the shifters?

“What?” Sherlock cut into his racing thoughts.  “What is it?  You’ve figured something out.”  He was giving John a look, almost putout at the fact that John had realized something before he did.

“Nothing,” he breathed, lying blatantly.  “I just – I have to go.”

“What?  Where?  Why?”  Sherlock approached him, brows furrowed, eyes darting over John’s face in an attempt to deduce his epiphany.

John shook his head, eyes wide, speechless.  Sherlock stood rather awkwardly in the middle of the room, looking rather ridiculous with all of John’s clothing littered around his feet.  He had a puzzled, frustrated, expression and if it were a different situation, John might have laughed.  “Moriarty,” he breathed.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “What about him?”

“It’s him.  Do you see?”

Sherlock’s frown deepened, peeved that John understood something and he didn’t.  For the first time, John was one step ahead of the detective and it inexplicably made it him feel good about himself.

“I have to talk to Mycroft,” John said.

“What?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste.  “Mycroft?”

John lip twitched in light amusement, “Yes, Mycroft.  Your brother.  I need to tell him something.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  “I knew you were sneaking out more often – ”

“Hang on, I haven’t been sneaking,” John said, taking offense.  “In all honesty, I’m actually surprised you never followed me.”

“So is that where you’ve been, then?” he sneered.  “With Mycroft.”

John rolled his eyes; Gods it was like having a row with a cat or perhaps a jealous child.  “Yes and no.  I’ve been reading up on the history of the shifters and British government.”

“And why would he have you do that?” he asked, scrutinizing John.  “He thinks you may know something only the shifters know, something they’ve managed to keep secret even from the government and the secret service.”  His eyes darted over his body, observing, cataloguing.  “You took a day from the surgery.  You’re exhausted.  But it’s not just from the research you’ve been doing; it’s something deeper.”

“Sherlock,” John said, exasperated.

“I’ve been observing you closely since Moriarty revealed that you are a shifter, but there’s no discerning trait that would distinguish you as a shifter, like you said.  That obviously means that there are likely shifters where we least expect.  And I have yet to see you in your shifter form.”

“Sherlock, I’m not – ”

“You said you were an avian.  Something small enough to fit through your window so you can come and go, but definitely something rather large since it’s always flung open completely.  That rules out songbirds.  A raptor, then.”

“Sherlock!” John shouted.  The detective snapped his mouth shut mid-rant and stared at John with a look of mild surprise.  “Jesus Christ, just shut up, would you?”  He rubbed his temples; he was too tired for this.  “Yes, Mycroft asked me to look into the history of shifters and the British government to see if I can make connections with shifter lore.  Yes, I took a day from the surgery, yes I’m bloody exhausted.”  He paused and debated for a moment whether or not to tell Sherlock about their accidental soul bond but quickly decided against it.  The detective must have noticed his hesitation, because his eyes narrowed suspiciously.  John quickly started speaking again to prevent further inquiries.  “No, there is nothing physical that distinguishes shifters from non-shifters; only our genetics, like I said.  Yes, there are more shifters around us than either of us probably realize.  And yes, my shifter form is a raptor.  You’ve figured out that much, I’m sure you’ll be able to come to a conclusion soon.”

Sherlock frowned, “Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Sherlock, I really need to go; it’s important.”

“Then tell me what you are!”  John blinked, taken aback at Sherlock’s urgency.  “Or I’m coming with you.”

John smirked, “You can’t follow me if I fly there.”

“You’re going to Mycroft’s, obviously.  There’s only five, no three, places he’d willingly meet you without being overheard, and it’s certainly not his office in Parliament.”

“Why are you suddenly so interested?”

“Because if this has to do with Moriarty and shifters, it has to do with you.”

John’s jaw dropped slightly.  “What?”

“Don’t be daft, John,” Sherlock snapped.

“I – what?” he asked again, confused.

“I’ll call a cab,” and he was out the door, leaving John standing in his room with little clue of what the hell just happened.

~* =

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said stiffly.

Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow then glanced to John who shrugged in a ‘what can you do?’ way.  A small twitch of the lips then the elder Holmes was all business.  “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s Moriarty,” John said before Sherlock could say anything.  “I know what he’s up to.”

“How?” Mycroft asked.

“That doesn’t matter right now.  Just shut down Baskerville, shut down all of the laboratories you possibly can.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise, “What?  We can’t – ”

“Moriarty’s planning genocide,” John said.  His back straightened, fists clenched at his side.  “Tell me you didn’t know about this,” he said, suddenly suspicious.

“Of course not,” Mycroft said, affronted.

“Then there’s a breach in your security.  Someone, likely someone at Baskerville, has been feeding Moriarty information on shifter genetics.  He’s going to eradicate all non-shifters.  This is the revolution you were expecting.”

“Some revolution.”

“Why was I not informed of all of this?” Sherlock spoke up.

“Because you were busy.”

“Because it was of no concern of yours at the time.”

Mycroft and John glanced at each other and both smiled at their simultaneous answer.  Sherlock looked appalled that John had been collaborating with his brother and John had to bite back a laugh.

“This makes alarming sense now, John.  And I have something that supplements your theory.”

“It’s not a theory,” John protested.  “Moriarty told me that he has hundreds of connections to other shifters worldwide.  It suggests that he has quite a large following of other shifters who actually want and support this.”

“When did he tell you this?” Sherlock asked.

“At the pool.”

“What?”

John ignored him and turned back to Mycroft.  “What do you have?”

Mycroft pursed his lips.  “Miss Adler’s phone.  Many, if not all, of those she has blackmailed are either shifters or know of the shifter’s existence.  Obviously it can only mean one thing, since Miss Adler was working for Moriarty.”

“Coercion,” John said.

A phone’s shrill ringtone interrupted their conversation and the three of them paused and looked at each other.  “It’s mine,” John said, licking his lips.  He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile.  The number was blocked.  John glanced between the Holmes brothers then hit the ‘answer’ button and lifted the phone to his ear.  “Hello?”

“Very clever of you, Johnny boy.  I applaud you.”

John stiffened and shot a panicked look to Sherlock.  The detective caught it and narrowed his eyes, his lips mouthing the word ‘Moriarty’.  John nodded and licked his lips, uneasy.  “It’s not like you to personally contact someone.  Am I just special?”

He saw Sherlock make an aborted move to grab him – his arm, the phone, he didn’t know which – and John turned and walked a few steps away in a vain attempt for privacy.  The only thing he could really do was prevent them from overhearing Moriarty’s side of the conversation.

“Oh, don’t you know, Johnny?  You are special.  You’re a shifter, after all.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You know why.  You’ve been through the records.  Do you really want to stand by the ones, the humans, who have wronged us for centuries?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” Moriarty sighed theatrically.  “So I have an offer to make you, Johnny.  You and Sherlock.  Come to Bart’s rooftop in two hours.”  There was a distinctive click and John brought the phone down, fingers clenched around the plastic casing.

“What did he want?” Sherlock asked.

“Us,” John said, licking his lips.  He turned to face the Holmes brothers.  “You and me, on the roof of Bart’s in two hours.  He said he wants to make me – us? – an offer.”

“An offer of what, exactly?” Mycroft queried.

John shrugged, fiddling with the phone in his hands.  “He knows we’ve figured it out.  You might want to check for a security breach, by the way.”

Mycroft shot him a glare and Sherlock smirked.  “In any case, we don’t know what else he wants.”

“Me, likely,” John said.  “Raptors are relatively rare familiars.  He probably thinks I’m important for his plans.”

“How?”

“Or he’s just screwing with us,” John said lightly with a small humorless smile.  “Anyway,” he sobered.  “We can’t go without some sort of plan.”  His brows furrowed, “Mycroft, have you figured out what he is yet?”

“We’ve narrowed it down to a medium to small sized mammal.”

John nodded.  Useful, but how?  Maybe he could –

“How long have you known about John?”

John glanced between the brothers and rolled his eyes; Sherlock was bitter about not knowing before Mycroft.  He was such a child.  “Since the beginning, Sherlock,” he answered before Mycroft could.  “He knows some things about me you don’t.”

His attention whipped to John, “Like what?”

“What I am.  Who I am.  I didn’t tell him; he already knew.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, “Yet you still won’t tell me.”

“That isn’t exactly the most pertinent thing right now.”  Sherlock continued to glare at John and he sighed, looking over to Mycroft.  The elder Holmes simply raised an amused eyebrow.  John made an annoyed noise at the back of his throat.  “Later.  I’ll tell you later.”

Sherlock scowled, but relented.

“We should go.”

“What?”  John looked at his watch.  Only fifteen minutes had passed.

“We’ll think of something at Bart’s.”

John wanted to say No we won’t but held back.  Maybe they would.  But knowing Sherlock, he’d probably think of a plan, leave John out of it, and John would have to jump in to save him.  Again.  And knowing Moriarty, their rendezvous wouldn’t end nicely.  Regardless of what might happen though, John knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to throw his life on the line for Sherlock.  Soul bond or not, he was with Sherlock to the end.

~* =

John had a tentative plan.  It really depended on what Moriarty’s familiar was.  Even then, John didn’t expect to survive and he just hoped that afterwards, Sherlock would carry on and bring down Moriarty’s empire.  John had no doubt in his mind that Sherlock was capable.  The question was, though, if he would do it.

Sherlock hadn’t spoken a word since they had arrived at Bart’s and John didn’t pry; he was more than used to the detective’s silences and it wasn’t the first time he wondered what went on in that gigantic brain of his.

And when the time came, they both silently made their way to the staircase to the roof.  The quiet was soothing, and not in a depressing way – it was peaceful and hard to describe.

“John,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?”

“Tell me what you are.”

John blinked, taking the last stair and opening the rooftop door.  “Now?”  Sherlock nodded and followed him into the sunlight.  John licked his lips, brows furrowed.  Well, it couldn’t hurt, could it?  This may be the last time he’d be able to tell him.  He might not survive this encounter and a part of him wanted Sherlock to know.  “A sparrowhawk,” he said.  “I’m a sparrowhawk.”

“Oh,” he breathed softly.  John chanced a glance back and saw Sherlock’s eyes wide in wonder and understanding.  He gave Sherlock a small smile.  “You’re – ”

He nodded, “I am.”

They stared at each other for long moments, and John watched a multitude of emotions flash in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Hate to break up the staring contest,” a voice said.  “But we have business to attend to.”  John broke eye contact and instead met the gaze of Jim Moriarty.  “Hey there Sherlock,” he grinned.  “Johnny boy.”

John frowned.  “All right, Moriarty.  What do you want?”

Moriarty’s grin widened.  “Still as feisty as ever.  But I’m sure you know what I want, Johnny.  You’re the one who figured it out; not Sherlock, not Big Brother.”

“And what of it?”  John unconsciously stood before Sherlock, ready to make a move if he needed to.   Of course, it didn’t escape Sherlock or Moriarty’s attention.

“John,” Sherlock muttered.

“Oh, but this is very interesting,” Moriarty grinned maniacally.  “You still manage to surprise me, Johnny, despite how ordinary you are.  Not only are you a shifter, but you are one of the few shifters to – ”

“Stop it,” John said, cutting him off, tense.

“What, don’t want dear Sherlock to know?  Never has there been a non-shifter privy to this sort of information, right?  What could happen, I wonder?”

“John,” Sherlock said, tugging lightly on the back of John’s jacket, silently asking him what the hell Moriarty was on about.

“A soul bond,” Moriarty said, gleeful.  “That’s what you’ve done.  How very rare and intriguing.”  He started to circle John and Sherlock, and John had to force himself to remain still fists clenched at his sides.  “Now this changes everything.  Tell me, Johnny, how much time do you have left?”

John felt another tug at his jacket, a spasm from Sherlock’s fingers.

He shook his head minutely, willing Sherlock to not speak and Moriarty to not elaborate.

“Oh, but of course you wouldn’t tell him,” Moriarty said, laughing.  “That’s how all the stories are.  The shifter just giving and giving and giving until there’s nothing left of them to give.  A bit unfair, though, don’t you think?  And incredibly one-sided.  A soul bond, and the shifter is the one who wastes away?  They give everything for the non-shifter and get nothing in return.”

Moriarty came back around to face them.  “The shifter, who has been wronged throughout history.  The shifter, who is better than humans in every way.  Now Johnny,” he stepped up close, invading his personal space.  “Don’t you think we should do something about it?”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth.

Moriarty sighed dramatically, “I knew you’d say that.  So here’s my final offer – ”

“Oh, you’re still making an offer, are you?”

He grinned, “An ultimatum.”

“Brilliant.”

“You know my plans, what I want to do.  So here’s your choice, Johnny – because you do have a choice.”  His eyes hardened and he locked gazes with him; John refused to flinch.  “Join me and you and Sherlock live, or stay and you both die.  You by the soul bond and Sherlock by my pandemic.  And trust me when I say that all the non-shifters will perish and it will be in the most painful way possible.  I’ll ensure it.”

“You can’t promise that,” John said.

Jim raised a carefully manicured brow, “Which part?”

“My and Sherlock’s life.”

Moriarty grinned, “Ah, you see.  If you come with me, Sherlock stays behind.  You can’t save him and give him your soul to protect him if you can’t be there to watch over him now can you?”

“And you honestly think I’d accept that offer?”  He felt another firm tug on his jacket but he ignored it.  “I refuse.”

“John.”

“Or Sherlock can come with me; he’d never be bored again, not with everything I have planned, all the crime cells I run.”

“You can’t prevent the pandemic from taking him.”

“Wrong again, Johnny.”

“You’re lying.  I still refuse.”

“John.”  The tug was more insistent, and John glanced back at Sherlock, frowning.  He met Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth to John, Moriarty, and the building opposite them.  His brows furrowed further in confusion, and John looked across the roof and then he saw a flash of light, a reflection.  Oh.

“This scheme of yours,” Sherlock spoke up.  “What purpose does it serve?”

“Purpose?”  Moriarty cocked his head to the side.  “Simply to cause worldwide panic and chaos, my dear.  Cleansing the world of non-shifters.”

“And all the shifters are okay with that?” John asked.

“All the ones that matter.”

“What are you, then?” Sherlock questioned, stepping forward, his grip still on John’s jacket.  “What’s your familiar?”

“You’d love to know, wouldn’t you?” Moriarty said, grinning.  “Just as much,” his gaze fell on John, “I’d like to know Johnny’s.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” John said, snarky.

“You first.”

John debated for a moment then decided to be reckless for the first time in a long time.  Besides, he wanted to know Moriarty’s familiar.  His plan – if he could even call it a plan – depended on what Moriarty’s shifter form was.

So John took a step away from Sherlock, the hand gripping John’s jacket falling to Sherlock’s side.  He caught Sherlock’s eye and gave him minute nod and Shifted.  It was the first time he ever shifted in front of somebody since he and Harry were kids.  It was an intimate moment, shifting in someone else’s presence, especially with those who weren’t family.  But John pushed the thought aside and focused instead on fumbling his way out of the pile of clothes he left crumpled on the rooftop.

When he looked back up at the two humans, Sherlock was trying to mask his awe and Moriarty was smirking.  Then he Shifted as well.  John waited while Moriarty shook his way out of his suit and there, standing before him, was a grey and white European wildcat.  If John didn’t know that the wildcat was Moriarty, he would have described him as beautiful.  Sleek, shiny fur and bright eyes.

A sparrowhawk! Moriarty said.  You surprise me once more, Johnny.

John glared and hissed, flaring his wings and snapping his beak.

Moriarty sat calmly on his haunches, scrutinizing John.  I never would have guessed your familiar be a raptor.

Don’t try to flatter me, John snapped.

The wildcat smirked.  Not at all.  Moriarty stood and stalked closer; John stood his ground.  I know you and Sherlock noticed my sniper in the opposite building, he said.  He won’t shoot unless ordered to.  But right now we should really sort out our little predicament.

John eyed him warily; Moriarty was larger than him, bulkier.  His half formed plan to throw him over the ledge probably wouldn’t work.  But really, there wasn’t another option he could see.  He knew Sherlock would duck out of sight of the sniper, and he knew that the sniper would have to run once his position is revealed, so John would only need to focus on bringing down Moriarty.  Sherlock and Mycroft could take care of the rest.  No, John said, and he lunged forward, managing to grab a chunk of Moriarty’s fur.

The sound of a gunshot pierced through the air, and he saw Sherlock duck to the ground out of the corner of his eye.  Then John launched himself in the air.  It was awkward, getting airborne from his position, but John managed it.  He climbed several meters high, before diving back down, aiming straight for the wildcat.  Moriarty was waiting for him, however, claws extended and teeth bared.  The wildcat swiped at his unprotected belly and John barely managed to dodge the attack, Moriarty’s claws digging in deep enough for John to bleed.  John screeched and managed to cuff Moriarty over the head with his wings.  Disoriented for a moment, John seized the opportunity and sunk his talons into the scruff of Moriarty’s neck.  Then he started to pull, dragging the hissing wildcat towards the ledge.

Just as he got to the ledge, another gunshot sounded and a sudden pain ran down his wing.  Moriarty managed to wriggle free and pounced on him, pinning him to the concrete.

How dare you! he hissed.

So close, he was so close to the ledge.  Maybe he could –

I can still take you, Johnny.  Take you away from your precious Sherlock and he’ll still die despite your heroism.

“John!”

No, he managed feebly.  I’ll take you with me.

And with a burst of energy, John gripped Moriarty’s underbelly with his talons and his ear with his beak and rolled; then they were freefalling down towards the pavement.  Moriarty released him out of shock and John flapped his wings painfully, weakly.  There was only a few seconds before they’d both hit the concrete and John thought for just a moment that everything was going to be okay.

Moriarty could be captured, his plans could be derailed, and John would have saved Sherlock for the umpteenth time.  And that was okay.

The last thing John heard was Sherlock screaming his name.

~* =

His head felt fuzzy, his body numb.  His mouth was dry and his tongue felt like it was choking him.  His eyes were clamped shut and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to open them.  He felt a hand on his – firm, reassuring.       

He frowned.  A hand?  He was in his human form?  And alive?  But the last thing he remembered was he and Moriarty falling, falling from Bart’s rooftop.

Slowly, he peeled his eyes open and made a quiet noise of discomfort.  The hand on his twitched, and he heard a sharp intake of breath.  He turned to see who it was.

It was Sherlock, and it looked like he hadn’t slept in days, weeks even.

“What – ?” he croaked, his throat scratchy from disuse, his voice a low rumble.

“John,” Sherlock breathed.  He looked . . . relieved.  His fingers were twitching against John’s as if he was holding himself back, trying desperately to hide his emotions behind his walls.  “You almost died.”

“I thought I did,” he said softly.  He licked his lips tentatively.  “How long?”

“Two weeks you were unconscious,” Sherlock answered.

John nodded, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he was alive.  “And how – ?”

“The soul bond Moriarty was talking about,” Sherlock explained.  “He said it was always one-sided.  I thought that maybe . . .” he trailed off, a faint blush on his cheeks, embarrassed.

John gaped at the detective, perplexed.  “You tethered me with your own soul?”

“I figured it could work both ways,” he said, his expression now petulant.

John let out a small, disbelieving laugh.  “That’s incredible.”

“It’s never happened before, has it?”  John shook his head tiredly.  “This . . . bond we share,” Sherlock said haltingly.  John nodded minutely, telling him wordlessly to continue.  “What happens, now?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted.  “Maybe now it’s a true soul bond.  Instead of me giving you everything, we balance each other out.”  John glanced at their hands, still touching.  He flipped his over so that they were palm to palm and gently wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s thin wrists.  “Thank you.”

“You probably shouldn’t be talking right now.  The nurses will likely throw a fit.”

John laughed, “Like that hasn’t happened before.”

Sherlock’s lip twitched in amusement, then he sobered.  “Are you all right?”

He sighed, “As good as I’ll ever be, I guess.”  John awkwardly shifted in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position.  He settled back into the pillows, and groaned.  He glanced at Sherlock, who watched him silently, carefully.  “Tell me what happened?”

So Sherlock did.

Mycroft had arrived just in time, Moriarty was captured, but the sniper escaped.  Mycroft set John up in the private wing of the hospital and found a fellow shifter as his doctor.

John had multiple fractures in his ribs, another bullet wound in his shoulder, and a couple of broken fingers, but he would recover.  His sparrowhawk wings, however, would need some physical therapy what with another shoulder wound.

He started to doze while Sherlock continued to ramble, and he was sure Sherlock was talking just for the sake of talking.  Because he could.  Because John was alive.  He smiled at the thought.

Sherlock would probably get in trouble for not alerting a doctor that John had regained consciousness, but Sherlock didn’t care, either.  He stayed by John’s side, complained about his boredom, annoyed by the inadequacy of Scotland Yard, and disgruntled over Mycroft’s overall existence.

And though they still had to unravel Moriarty’s web of lies and deceit, still had to destroy the terrorist cells and large-scale organizations, and still have so many loose ends to tie, for now John thought that everything was okay.  They were okay.  They were alive, they made it through together, and they’d remain together regardless of what may happen.  And that was good enough for him.