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Chapter Text

It was an unusually warm day in London, and as a result John Watson, former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and a doctor, was more irritable than usual. The teller at the store had been an absolute wanker when he was ringing up his toiletries, putting John in an even blacker mood. Anyway, as he was walking down the alley that led to his flat, a sort of smart-arse meow came from his left, and he turned to find a sleek blue-black cat with cold, steel-blue eyes that were sort of gold-ish in the center. They were hypnotic almost, and John found himself reaching out to pet it. 'Him,' he corrected, upon seeing the cat's gender. He crouched down awkwardly, stretching out his bad leg and resting on his cane to stroke the soft fur of the cat's head. He purred and lifted his front paws onto John's knee, rubbing his head into his hand and kneading his paws. "You're rather well-kept for a street cat, aren't you, boy? No collar?" John felt the cat's neck to find a strip of dark blue fabric, but no tags. "Hmm. I'd take you in, but I can't really afford the place I'm in now, much less a bag of cat food." He stood up and shrugged. "See you later, then."
John hadn't gotten far when he felt something rub against his shin. Looking down, he found the cat from before looking up at him almost judgementally. 'Why would you just leave me like that?' His meow seemed to say. "Sorry, but I can't. Run along now." John kept limping toward his flat, but the cat continued to get under his feet, making it hard going. John stopped and huffed, "Cat, you're going to make me trip and then we'll both get hurt. Can't you see I'm disabled?"
The cat sat there regally just flicking his tail. Rolling his eyes exasperatedly, John stomped off toward home, unaware that the cat was still following him until he got into the lift and the cat sauntered in after him, causing him to throw his hands in the air in irritability and rub his temples with his fingers. He ignored the "arsehole" cat and pushed the button to his floor. Once there, he walked to his room and quickly closed the door before the cat could come in after him. He put away his toiletries and was about to lay in bed when he heard a scratch at the door, and then a deep, agitated meow. He sighed. "I can't take you in!" He yelled. "I'm sorry!"
More scratching, then silence. John went up to the door and hesitated a moment before opening it and looking around. The cat was gone. Sighing once more, he went back to bed, rolled over to face the wall and closed his eyes. He was alone.

^

Either by fate or by chance, John ran into his old friend Stamford at the park he was taking a walk through a few days later. He happened to mention that he needed a flatshare, and Stamford smiled and said that he was the second person to say that to him today. John nodded and said who it was who needed one, making Stanford smile wider and told him to come with him.

Where he led him to was St. Bart's hospital, the science lab. There was only one other person in there; a tall, pale man with dark, curly hair, a dark purple button-up shirt, and grey-blue eyes. John frowned a little; he seemed familiar somehow, but he didn't get to think on it much before the man began talking in this deep baritone voice that shocked him out of his mind.
They went through this thing where the man told him everything about him but nothing about himself other than that he played the violin and sometimes didn't talk for days on end. John came to realise that he wanted them to be flatmates. "Is that it then? We just met and now we're going to look at a flat together? I don't even know your name or where it is."
The man stopped at the door and turned around. Upon seeing the dark blue scarf and a better view of his eyes, John suddenly came to the realisation that the man, Sherlock Holmes was his name, reminded him a lot of that cat. With a wink, the man was gone. John turned to Stamford who nodded, "Yeah, he's always like that."

Chapter Text

John arrived at the address sort of surprised; the flat building discussed was in a relatively nice part of London next to a sweets shop. He got out of the cab and made his way up to the door, intervened halfway by Sherlock. "Oh, Mr. Holmes!" He exclaimed, raising his hand to shake the one Sherlock had up.
"Sherlock, please." Sherlock corrected with a smile. Using his long legs, he went ahead of John to open it for him, then decided to not use them as he seemed to stride slower up the stairs as if waiting for John, though he still made it up first to hold the door to the flat. They then proceeded to have a very awkward situation where John accidentally insulted Sherlock's mess of a sitting room, resulting in him dashing around to clean up. John sat down in a chair and watched Sherlock interact with Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, and this guy, asking him if he was coming to a crime scene or something. That man turned out to be Gregory Lestrade, the Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard. After John had another awkward conversation with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock came back and asked John, in a roundabout way, if he wanted to come with him to the crime scene. For some reason, John accepted. There was just something about Sherlock that made him want to go along with whatever he said.

So they did. Sherlock told him even more about him (just from his phone!) and John felt like he hadn't in years. At the crime scene, Sherlock exchanged words with Sargeant Donovan, who asked, "Colleague? How did you get a... colleague did he follow you home?"
Sherlock smirked a little, and John was reminded of the cat who followed him home yesterday. They were let in, met DI Lestrade, and led upstairs to where a woman in all pink lay dead.
As Sherlock deducted impossible things about the pink woman, John could've sworn Sherlock's features turning more feline the more he spoke. But after he blinked a few times, it went away.
Minutes later, Sherlock disappeared. John had to catch a cab back to his apartment, but when he got there that black-blue cat with the dark blue fabric collar was sitting outside. For some reason, John was happy to see him. "Hello, cat. You remind me of my new flatmate," He bent at the waist and scratched the cat behind the ears, "or he reminds me of you." Straightening, he opened his flat door and let the cat in first, following closely after. He sat next to the cat on the bed and petted his head down to his tail and back, saying, "I think that's what I'll name you; Sherlock. Funny name, isn't it? Do you like it?"
Sherlock the cat pushed his head into John's hand and blinked slowly. John took that as a yes.

A while later, his phone vibrated. "Baker street. Come at once if convenient." The text read. John, clearly not amused, rolled his eyes and reached down to pet Sherlock, but the cat was nowhere to be found. Before John could feel lonely and somewhat abandoned at the sudden disappearance, another text came in; "If inconvenient, come anyway."
This guy! Calling for him as though John had been his best mate for years! Standing in the center of his crappy flat facing the window, John contemplated going, although he really shouldn't be seeing as how he barely knew the man. For the third time, his mobile vibrated on his bed. "Could be dangerous," it read. John grabbed his coat and headed out the door.

^

Apparently all Sherlock the human wanted was to use his phone. "Always a chance my number could be recognised, it's on the website," He said as he laid in his ratty dressing gown on the sofa. John had been upset, and then mad when he realised that Sherlock the psychopath-'or high-functioning sociopath, rather,' John mentally corrected-had had him text a serial murderer, the very same one who had killed the lady in pink and the others. And then Sherlock had taken him out to dinner, to wait for the cab who apparently had the murderer. They ended up chasing the wrong cab, scaring a newcomer to England, and wasting their time.
Until a cab showed up for Sherlock.
John followed it, of course, before leaving an anonymous tip to the police. He searched for Sherlock in the uni building, and was almost too late. Taking out his gun, he shot the cabbie and ran out of the building before anyone could see him. Although he knew he should be, he wasn't guilty for shooting the man; he'd done a good thing saving Sherlock, and he trusted him not to turn him in to the Yard. They discussed it, briefly, when Sherlock came over to him with his shock blanket, before they headed out to dinner at a Chinese place down the street.

Chapter Text

It was a week into John's stay at the new flat that Sherlock the cat appeared in his bed. It was night, he had just fallen asleep when the bed dipped barely and tiny paws walked up him to his chest, where a warm, furry bundle settled itself onto his chest. Frowning, John opened his eyes and lifted his head to find two pairs of glowing eyes staring at him. "Oh, hello, Sherlock. How'd you get in here?" He asked the cat as though expecting an answer. Of course, the cat didn't answer, merely continuing to stare at him with his tail flickering. "I don't know if Sherlock-you know, my flatshare-accepts pets, so you can't stay here until I ask, alright?"
Sherlock the feline blinked slowly, which John took as him showing his understanding.
The next morning, cat Sherlock was gone.

John didn't get a chance to ask Sherlock if he could keep a cat, as when he walked into the kitchen to get breakfast a day later, Sherlock was in his dressing gown as usual, but sticking out of his mess of dark curls were two black-blue cat ears, and moving about out of a hole in his gown was a long tail of the same colour. John was gobsmacked; for the longest time he stood there, staring, brain running a million miles a minute trying to process, until Sherlock turned around and stopped at the sight of his friend with eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "Oh, John. I didn't hear you come in." He said, showing a glimpse of two very sharp fangs. He held out a tray. "Coffee?"
John fainted.

When he awoke, Sherlock the cat was sitting in his lap, watching him. There was softness beneath him, so he guessed he was in his chair. Memory came rushing back, and he jumped in his chair, looking around for Sherlock the human. "Now, John, I wouldn't move about like that if I were you. You took quite a fall." Said the familiar deep voice. Except, John saw no consulting detective around. "Down here," It said. Slowly, John turned his head toward his lap, where the cat still sat watching him. His small mouth opened and he asked, "Is your head alright, John?"
John almost fainted again, eyes popping out of his head while his legs itched to remove the thing from his lap. "Y-you're talking you're a cat and you're talking." He whispered.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, a small indignant sound escaping his tiny cat throat. "Yes, and you're an Army doctor who fainted when you saw me half-transformed."
"You?" John furrowed his brows.
The cat began to grow. First into a larger cat, then into a black humanoid shape, then into a grey naked man with dark hair, then finally into the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes with cat ears, fangs, slit pupils, and a tail, wearing his lounging pants, t-shirt, and robe. "Yes, John, me."
John stared up at him, hands gripping the arms of the chair and leaning as far back as he could as his lap was full of... well, Sherlock. "Could you... get off of me? You're not as light as you look." He mumbled.
"You never minded before." Sherlock said obliviously and flatly.
"Yeah, that's when you were, you know, smaller, and less..." John waved his hand over him.
"... Right." Sherlock got off, allowing John to stand up.
"Now, please explain to me what in the hell you are." The shorter man demanded with practised calm and patience.
"Of course."
And that's how John Watson found out that Sherlock Holmes and his brother Mycroft were shapeshifters.

John sat at the kitchen table, teacup held by both hands, still trying to process what Sherlock was explaining to him. "Shapeshifters?" He exclaimed for the third time.
"Yes, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"What about your parents? Are they...?"
"No, but they carried the gene."
John leaned back in his chair. "Huh. Ok." Suddenly he became very serious. "Does anyone else know about this?"
"Only Lestrade, but other than him, no. Besides," Sherlock angrily stirred the mixture in his beaker. "Mycroft forbids it."
John laughed lightly at his friend's child-like pouting, and the feline features only made it more humorous.
Maybe this wasn't going to be so difficult.

But then he remembered something. "You slept in my bed!"