Notes:

This story has been edited to conform to Fanfiction Net's guidelines. Cut scenes (about 3,000 words) can be found in the version posted on Archive of Our Own.

Additional Warning: Remember when Sherlock drugged John in Hound? More along that theme.

This story goes AU after Hound. (Well, actually, it goes AU one month before John is sent home.)

Many thanks go to

- morganoconner and miyatenaka for word warring with me until all our fingers (and wrists and arms) were hurting,
- a8c_sock for cheerleading and britpicking like a boss,
- radioprotector2 and kalliel for the Russian phrases.
- anonbach for mysterious betaing and boats.

This fic was written for the Sherlock Big Bang. It also serves as a fill for the homebrewbingo square "body modification".

Last, but definitely not least, ALL MY LOVE to chosenfire28 for your kind words about the fic and the art.

If you're reading this story, please take a look at the art she created and leave a comment for her. The link can be found in my profile.

Copy That

"Copy that down," Sherlock says as if John were his secretary, and turns away.

Shit, John thinks. And then: fuck. And then he doesn't think for a while because his body is busy turning itself inside out, while Sherlock stares at him. Stares and stares, and that isn't the look of Sherlock observing keenly; it's the look of someone absolutely bewildered by what is happening right in front of his eyes. (John sympathises. Oh does he ever.)

This, right now, John and Sherlock in Baker Street, evening, curtains drawn, is perhaps not the worst time. That doesn't make the situation any more bearable, though, all things considered.

He is lying prone on the ground, sand and tiny stones biting into his cheek and palms, stinging where they'd rubbed his skin open, but John barely notices — he is focussed entirely on his fingers and the strange hair (fur) they'd grown. Their shortness. Their lack of any characteristic that could be deemed human.

John whimpers involuntarily, and the sound that emerges is as animal as the rest of him. He does not want to look, does not, but he turns his head because John is nothing if not brave (foolhardy) or that's what he believed until the first mine exploded all but next to him, which was terrifying (exciting).

He looks, and mewls again because where he expected his back (sunburnt, wiry, in camouflage gear), there's only a furred sand-coloured body, feline tail (fuck, tail) bristling.

There is nothing left of John Watson.

The first thing he does is to try and forget it ever happened. Difficult because there are questions, asked by his superiors, and he doesn't have an answer for where he's been and what he's been doing — an answer that makes sense and doesn't get him sent home on account of mental instability, at least.

He lies — what else could he do? (Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I got lost.) — and is consequently known as John-couldn't-find-his-own-arse-with-a-map-Watson. It's fine; it's all fine as long as no one suspects he was running around Helmand province thinking he was a caracal.

It's all bloody fine until it happens again, and this time he knows it must be real and not heatstroke, drugs, or a psychotic break because there's no way in hell that Bill would go along with it, would treat him like a ferret if John didn't appear to beone. (Bill hadn't seen the transformation, had left the tent a bare second before the seizing really got started and John could no longer suppress his groans and whimpers.)

He returns to his own form much more quickly this time, though. Human contact, or maybe there's a trigger for this, too, like there (probably) is for the change. (He rather suspects he knows what it is.) It makes sense as much as anything in this makes sense. But he can't figure out what that trigger is, and figuring it out would be of little help anyway because John suspects that it's a word and he can't produce human sound with animal lips and vocal chords.

He needs to put a stop to this somehow.

The third time he turns into Bill, and it's Owen asking him where John is that gives him the solution to his previous question — and has him racing towards a nearby private spot to finish the change in peace. It's a little time later that John realises how lucky he is that his name is so common that even soldiers he barely knows (only overhears while crouching near them in the shape of a caracal) will drop it in idle conversation. Lucky, lucky John. (How utterly unamusing.)

The fourth time gets him sent home.

He has just finished changing, fingers longer, hair dark and wavy, when Sherlock utters his name in a tone so completely stunned that John would laugh were he not still reeling, pain keeping him immobile.

John hates him a little. One transformation is excruciating and taxing, two right after one another make him want to faint with pain and exhaustion.

The only bright side is that he didn't turn into a different species; that would have been beyond endurable.

"Shut up," he rasps. "For god's sake, don't speak." And to his utter surprise, Sherlock actually listens to him.

And then helps him to the sofa, to lie down.

John wants nothing more than to sleep for the next fifteen or sixteen hours; only he can't because while Sherlock isn't speaking he's boring holes into John's skull with his eyes, and John can hear the questions piling up inside him, barely kept in by tightly pressed lips. John will either have to permit him to speak or watch an explosion.

"Give me a piece of paper."

It's surreal, really. John on the sofa, while Sherlock jumps to fetch pen and paper. Neither of which is far from hand; John could probably reach if he could convince his body to move, just slightly, and stretch his arm.

Sherlock thrusts the items at him, almost vibrating with tension as John takes them from his hand.

"Whatever you do," John says, writing words with shaking fingers, "Do notsay these words." He holds up the paper. Sherlock squints at the writing and curls his lip. John huffs quietly. His handwriting is barely legible at the best of times admittedly, but allowances should be made considering his current state. He frowns at Sherlock, who ignores him. Of course.

"Those were the words I said to you before...before." Sherlock raises his hand, gesturing at nothing and everything.

It's not a questions. It's Sherlock stating the obvious. John replies anyway. "Yeah."

"They trigger—"

"Yeah," John says again.

Sherlock presses his hands together underneath his chin and turns his head slightly, gaze travelling towards his violin, but he doesn't move from the spot, standing over John like a hawk whose eyes have seized upon some hapless mouse.

"Your name reverses it."

John doesn't answer, doesn't need to. "I'm surprised you accept that it has happened," he says instead. 'Especially after Baskerville and the hound that was nothing more than a figment of an addled imagination,' he doesn't say.

Sherlock picks up on it anyway. "I had considered it." He hesitates."I don't think you'd play along if someone had drugged me."

And John himself would not have drugged Sherlock, of course. John isn't the type to make his flatmate go loopy and consider triggering his transformation right in the middle of a secret experimental lab where he'd end up in a cage himself for the rest of his short and miserable life.

Sherlock grimaces, and John hopes it's because some of his thoughts have been clear on his face and not because Sherlock is getting impatient because John has, so far, not given him any kind of explanation for this impossibility.

"I don't know why or how," he says, and hides a smile when Sherlock blinks before he replies, switching mental tracks.

"You must have some idea."

"Nope."

Sherlock frowns at John as if he suspects that John is being deliberately obtuse just to spite him. "How long?" he demands finally.

"About one month before I got shot," John says with a sigh. His eyes are drifting close on their own accord. "I was on patrol. Got separated." He's slurring his words by now, tongue moving sluggishly, and finally slips into sleep.

If Sherlock tries to wake him, John doesn't notice.

"Ten hours, John."

Sherlock is sulking. It's the first thing John notices upon waking. Well, no. The first thing he notices is that Sherlock is sitting in his armchair by the window, the light is shining brightly outside, and Sherlock is plucking at the strings of his violin while wearing an expression that could best be described as thunderous. So, actually, yes. It is the first thing John notices.

"Your fault," John rasps. He needs water — and the loo — rather desperately.

"You got separated. Then what?"

John struggles into an upright position, swinging his legs over the side of the sofa and standing cautiously. He feels woozy, dehydrated. "Bath. Breakfast. Then answers."

The violin gives a god almighty screech. John ignores it and shuffles towards the bathroom.

He didn't expect to be able to have breakfast in peace, of course. John has barely started the electric kettle when Sherlock stalks into the kitchen, trying to intimidate John into speaking by towering over him. Now that John doesn't feel quite as much like shit any longer, he's starting to find this funny; actually, he's downright enjoying himself. He waits for the water to boil before reaching for the cardboard box of PG Tips, fishing out a teabag and depositing it in his old RAMC mug. The water gurgles pleasantly as he pours it over the bag.

"John."

He adds milk before carrying the mug over to the table. "Fetch me a plate and the jam, will you, Sherlock."

It's a miracle that neither the jar of jam nor the plate crack as Sherlock thumps them down on the table with more force than anyone would consider necessary. The bread, a knife (a little too close to his fingers for comfort, but thrilling), and butter follows before Sherlock lets himself fall into the chair opposite, arms crossed and lips pursed.

John takes a sip of his tea, partly for effect, partly because he's just that thirsty. It's too hot and he burns his lips and tongue.

"I got separated near the Helmand River. There was an ambush and—," he stops. Not important. "Never mind. I don't know what happened. One moment, I was running through the Afghan hinterlands, dodging bullets and talking on the transmitter; the next, I was lying flat on my stomach, shaking from cramps and god I don't even know what and thinking I was about to die."

He reaches for butter, knife and bread, frowning to himself. "I don't know what set it off. I tried to find out, but I got shot before I had the chance to retrace my steps."

"Unsatisfactory."

"I am aware," John snaps. "Christ, don't you think I haven't been trying to figure this out? There's nothing that's happened prior to it that would explain what's going on or why it's happening. It's like my body suddenly decided it wanted to star in Doctor Who!"

"What's happening is perfectly clear, John, albeit scientifically impossible." Sherlock continues before John can do more than open his mouth. He is pointing the knife at Sherlock's face, he notices. "The reasonI will be able to figure out once you've given me enough data to work with." There is a light shining in his eyes as he's leaning forward towards John, ignoring the knife entirely.

And suddenly John deflates because that is Sherlock in a nutshell. Confident in his own abilities even in the face of the impossible. So excited about puzzles that John is drawn along, half submerged in the wave that is Sherlock's glee.

He should feel annoyed, but what is stirring inside his breast is the same excitement — and the surety that, of course, Sherlock will be able to solve this.

He's solved everything else so far.

Sherlock wants to go to Afghanistan. It makes sense, but Sherlock wants to go to Afghanistan.

"No," John says. "Seriously, no."

John agrees to experiments, which is the second best course of action, he knows, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. Third best is research, which Sherlock is not doing yet because it would involve asking Mycroft for access to secret government research. It must be science, Sherlock has decided. It could not possibly be magic. John thinks of bunnies that glow in the dark and privately concludes that that's still a far cry from shape changing, but he's a medical man, a man of science and if there is a scientific explanation he'll grab it with both hands because otherwise...otherwise his brain might just explode. Or Sherlock's. And no one wants that.

In any case, John agrees to suffer through Sherlock running several tests. It doesn't mean he'll acquiesce to allof them.

"Are you tryingto kill me? I'm just asking because there are about three billion better and faster ways."

"Don't be absurd."

Sherlock could, John knows, entirely ignore his wishes and have him transform at any time that Sherlock pleases, into almost anything that Sherlock pleases. It makes his gut twist a little with excitement and a minuscule amount of fear, but not more than that because Sherlock wouldn't do that.

He thinks.

He's almost certain — certain enough to share the trigger phrase with him, though Sherlock would have figured it out sooner rather than later anyway.

"I need at least an hour between transformations. Okay, okay, alright. Between two successive transformation provided I stay human." He crosses his arms, glaring at Sherlock from his armchair.

"Animal," Sherlock begins, stops, clears his throat. "Half an hour between single ones, animal or human."

"Forty-five minutes between animal ones, and when I'm calling a break, I'm getting a break for however long I deem necessary."

A huff. "Fine. Moving on then," Sherlock grumbles and shoves a picture of Prince Charles underneath John's nose. "Copy that."

When John has finished changing, Sherlock steeples his fingers and asks, "I keep wondering if you're taking on certain... attributes when—"

"No," John replies tiredly, picking at the sleeves of the exact replica of Sherlock's dressing gown. "I'm not suddenly as smart as you."

"Pity." Sherlock's face is all arrogant beauty.

John bites his tongue and rises. "I'll be in the kitchen, making tea." He strides off, taking some twisted delight in the fact that he's doing it as efficiently and dramatically as Sherlock.

"Really, John. Afghanistan."

"Really, Sherlock. No."

"It would help," Sherlock says some five days after the Incident, "if you were more forthcoming about what exactly was happening."

"It would not," John replies, because it bears no importance to the matter at hand and, more importantly, because John would be forced to remember and he doesn't want that.

"You're afraid."

"Sherlock, it's a war there." And Sherlock looks at him with an expression that says 'I can't believe you just tried to prevaricate with thatas your flimsy excuse.'

John tries to put him off because while, he's afraid, It's more than that. He feels ashamed because he was being so fucking stupid. Of course, Sherlock is by far the most stubborn person John knows.

It's beautiful, so breathtakingly beautiful that for a moment John forgets everything around him. Later, he will rail at himself for losing concentration, for not paying attention for however long he was staring at the goddamn landscape. Later, when bullets are flying around his ears, and his unit is suddenly over there, far, far from easy reach, and John runs and runs forwards, away, towards the rainbow, the light drizzle dogging his every step, and the sun blinding him, and he stumbles, goes down, rolls. Blinks, because the rainbow is now behind him when he could have sworn it was right in front, but the bullets are still coming from that direction, so John scrambles up again, dives behind a rock, startled when he almost drops on top of a caracal that's crouching next to him, frozen in terror. For a moment they stare at each other. Then the cat takes flight.

"Will cover you. Regroup at last checkpoint," a tinny voice says in his ear, and then he's waiting for an explosion from a hand grenade, the signal to move, move, move.

"Copy that," John gasps out. A bullet ricochets off the rock, and John's body spasms, and fuck, fuck. His head turns slowly, downward, to check for the entry wound, but there's nothing there, no blood that John can see, and then his body starts to seize in earnest, and John's too busy gritting his teeth against the pain to find out where it's coming from.

John does his best to suppress the urge to squirm, and is more than just a little grateful when Sherlock doesn't remark on his stupidity. (Then again, it really doesn't need to be stated out loud.)

Instead, Sherlock frowns and focuses on something else, namely that, "this is incredibly unhelpful. Aside from your fall, there's nothing strange about this." He flows out of his chair in one smooth motion, pacing towards the kitchen and back again. "Could it be a gas? No, something on the ground that seeped into your skin. Did you notice something different about your hands?"

"You mean other than the fur?"

"Discoloration? Itchiness? A peculiar scent?"

"I spent the next two days as an Afghan cat, Sherlock. If there ever was such a thing, it was gone by the time I turned ba— what are you doing?" Sherlock grabs John's hand (for a second something hot is running down John's body, pooling at the base of his cock) and pours the vial he has just snatched from the living room table over it. It stings - and stinks.

"John."

Fuck.

"Copy that."

John is getting really sick of turning into Sherlock. Next time, he swears, he'll look at something different first. Maybe he could get a pet rat or something. On second thought, no.

"Gone." Sherlock is glaring at John's elongated fingers as if they have personally offended him. They lack the yellow stain they'd born just a minute before.

"I could have told you that," John grumbles. "Exact replica, Sherlock." He ignores Sherlock's scowl and gets up to wash his hands. Even if the stain is gone, his mind insists it must be there.

In the bathroom, John takes a moment to finally, really look at himself. (He's never done that before. At first, he didn't have the opportunity and then he just didn't think to do it.) The face that stares back at him from the mirror is Sherlock's, of course, but the expression is all John's. Sherlock never looks like that. John leans forward, gaze travelling over his (Sherlock's) eyebrows, his (Sherlock's) nose, (he's skipping the eyes; he doesn't know why but looking at himself with another person's eyes makes him beyond uncomfortable and he wasn't really calm about this to begin with), his (Sherlock's) cheekbones, his (Sherlock's) mouth. His attention lingers on his (Sherlock's) lips for a while before John notices what he's doing. He leans back. One of Sherlock's dark curls slips and obscures the vision in one eye. He brushes it away, runs his hand through the hair, feeling its texture, its warmth.

He's been in the bathroom too long.

He's also been touching Sherlock's body even if it isn't exactly Sherlock's body. Embarrassment hits. Grows worse as his (not entirely, but in this case very much) undisciplined mind begins to catalogue what else he can feel and what he can feel this things with. It doesn't help that Sherlock's pyjama bottoms are of a very fine make and feel deliciously smooth.

John turns on the taps and throws a handful of cold water in his face. He tries to think of his first ever autopsy (no good, that makes him think of Sherlock), then the time, he had to crawl through a gutter because this is how the murderer got away, John.

He dries off his face with a towel, takes a deep breath and returns to the sitting room. Sherlock is holding a knife in one hand and a swab in another. It's the former that interests John most. "It would be important to see if you also replicated wounds."

"I probably will," John mutters, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He plucks the (still wrapped up, hopefully sterile) swab from Sherlock's hand and sticking it in his mouth. He hands it back to Sherlock. "Fifteen minutes more."

"Two successive changes."

"Ten hours of sleep."

Sherlock glares at him as if John is being difficult on purpose. "Fine, one change. And another later on."

John nods.

If Sherlock notices John's flushed face (of course, he notices, John thinks, he must), he doesn't let on.

John's just stepping out of the shower, when the door bangs open and Sherlock waltzes in with a blue highlighter and a determined expression on his face. John reaches for the towel with all the coolness of a man so used to lack of privacy that even his quirky flatmate cannot faze him.

"Look at yourself in the mirror," Sherlock demands, blithely ignoring John's state of undress.

John unfolds the towel and begins to dry himself quickly and efficiently while Sherlock shifts from one foot to the other. He wraps it around his hips, and only then raises his eyes to the mirror, meeting his own gaze. "Okay, I'm looking. Now what?"

"Make sure this is the last thing you see. Now close your eyes."

"Couldn't you have waited five minutes," he grumbles but does obey. Cut off from his sight as he is, Sherlock's and his own breathing are suddenly quite loud in the small room. As are Sherlock's footsteps that indicate that he's coming closer. A moment later, John feels Sherlock's warm body all but plastered to his side. There's the plopping sound of a highlighter's cap being pulled off before Sherlock presses the tip of the pen against the skin of John's chest. A hand on his shoulder blade keeps him from flinching away as Sherlock begins to draw something on him, the felt tip tickles and John is glad for the hand on his back that stays his involuntary flinch even as he's cursing it and the pen and Sherlock's bloody breathing and his eau-de-cologne and everything elsethat has his dick suddenly stir to life.

Then Sherlock's hand and the highlighter are gone, and Sherlock is saying, "copy that."
John's expecting the sudden lurch of course; what he's not prepared for is the brief itch on the right side of his chest and the lack of anything else. He waits a few more second, but no. There's nothing.

"As I thought."

"As you thought what?" John asks, finally opening his eyes.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Are you recovered enough to change back immediately?"

"I guess?" He does feel fine. John's gaze strays to his chest, noting the lack of coloured lines — which immediately begin to morph into existence when Sherlock says his name. (It tickles again.)

"Obviously," Sherlock murmurs to himself, turning on his heel and leaving John standing in the bathroom with an oversized bee drawn on his chest.

Right.

"It's still your DNA." They're in the lab at St. Barts. Molly is getting them a coffee. "Of course, that might be because you've changed back in the meantime, though I don't see how your DNA sample would have known that."

John knows what's coming next, so he speaks up before Sherlock asks. "And whose form should I stay in then for the next two days?"

"Something relatively small."

"I'm sorry," John says, because he can't have heard that right.

"John, remaining a person," Sherlock states with the conviction of a man who believes himself to be infallible, "is too fraught with danger." He rattles off his arguments, all logical, all making sense, and by the end John should agree.

John does not want to agree because John does not want to spend two days as an animal. Been there, done that. Didn't enjoy it for a moment.

"Irrational," Sherlock proclaims when John tells him that there is just no way he'll agree to that.

"Fuck you," John replies just as Molly returns, balancing three paper cups of coffee. Sherlock gives him a look that John interprets, quite rightfully, as 'this isn't finished'.

"I don't know how you drink yours, John. I hope black is alright?" Molly smiles at him as he takes one of the cups. She deposits another one next to Sherlock's hand where it rests on a desk (Molly's. John can tell by the pictures of her cat.). Sherlock ignores her.

"And if my brother visits?"

Of course. Mycroft would notice if something's off. Then there's the CCTV, and... damn him. "Fine," John says. "Fucking fine. Okay."

Bullets flying, people shouting, screaming, screaming for help, in pain, and John smack in the middle, hands around Davis (barely conscious), dragging him to safety (dead man walking, probably won't make it, but John has to try). And then some fucker shouts, "copy that" and suddenly John is trying to recall what he's been looking at last, and oh, ohthat's not good.

The cramps start. John screams, "John!" at the top of his voice, hoping to hear himself over the din, hoping this is, in fact, the right phrase (it is but he wasn't entirely certain at that point), hoping it will stop the transformation (it doesn't). He changes, hair darker, eyes and skin, too. Gone is his uniform, and everything else that marks him as a doctor, a soldier, a British citizen.

Someone on his own side of this war.

Instead he's looking down at the body of an Afghan man (around fifty years of age if he's any judge), who's bleeding horrifically from an arterial wound in his thigh (the pain of it is not immediate; it waits for the dawning horror to settle first; when it comes, though, it hurts as much as such a wound should). There's a groan; someone's saying, "fuck," and John thinks it must be him, but then there's the sound of movement and at the edge of his vision he can see a gun aimed at him, held by Davis's hand.

"Davis," John gasps, "it's me. John Watson."

The bullet hits his left shoulder at the same moment that the cramping starts again. John loses consciousness, and doesn't wake until much later.

Unbelievable. No, not unbelievable. Simply typically Sherlock.

'When I said fine, that wasn't meant to imply that I wanted to be turned into a bleeding guinea pig,' John bellows, or tries to bellow. What emerges from between his overly large teeth are a series of shrill whistles instead. 'Why a guinea pig? A dog would have been fine. A dog would have been great.' No, no. On second thought, not. Not least because that only brings up memories of Moriarty taunting him, but also because, John realises, it would mean that Sherlock would have to take him out for walkies.

A hawk then. Or a cat. He's experienced in being a cat. Something that isn't kept in a cage.

"It's only for two days," Sherlock says, carrying John's cage up to John's room. From down below John can hear the — other— guinea pig trilling; the one that Sherlock had shoved in his face.

'Two days I'm spending as a ridiculous rodent! In a cage. A cage, Sherlock!'

"I know you don't think the cage is necessary, but it really is. And I can't keep a larger animal around here; someone would notice." Sherlock puts him down on the bed. "This way no one steps on you, and nothing will accidentally fall on you."

Sherlock turns, heading towards the stairs. "You'll be fine, you'll see," he murmurs before closing the door behind him.

'I will not!' John rages, grabbing a (tiny) fistful of hay or straw or whatever with his front paw and throwing it at the bars of his cage. It never hits, floating down gently halfway towards its goal. He's seething; anger is exhausting however, and, John decides once he has calmed a little, far better spent doing something constructive, like checking if the cage is John-proof. (Likely, this is Sherlock. Still.)

When a thorough investigation of the premises leads him to conclude that it is, indeed, John-proof, John sets out to enact plan B: establish communication. He eyes the contents of the cage, noting the guinea pig food in the corner. Nothing more useful presents itself. It should be enough.

When Sherlock returns what must be two hours later (John does not have access to his watch, of course, and he can't see his alarm clock from this angle), John has used the time and available resources to spell LET ME OUT. It's short and should get his point across pretty well. (He's rearranged the message several times. Spelling U FUCKING PRICK was, admittedly, satisfying but not really helpful.

"It is safer, really," Sherlock mutters, sounding put-upon as if all this is a great big inconvenience Sherlock suffers for John.

John whistles at him, and Sherlock crosses his arms. If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock were radiating concern for him. (He knows better; actually, what he knows is that Sherlock really does worry about him and, in his twisted, terrible brain, this all probably makes a great deal of sense. John does know this. It doesn't mean that he can't be furious with him.) John turns back to his food. He's just started on the second word ('incompetent'; the first one was 'not') when Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs.

"Oh, fine."

The good thing about being a guinea pig, John reflects, is that Sherlock has a hard time reading his body language and is thus entirely unprepared and unsuspecting when, upon opening the door of the cage, John buries his ginormous teeth in Sherlock's right index finger.

The bad thing about being a guinea pig is that he's fucking small and that if Sherlock hadn't reacted as competently as he had, John might have killed himself with this stunt because Sherlock naturally jerks his hand back while John is still clinging to him. Sherlock stops the motion as his hand reached the edge of the bed for which John is incredibly grateful because a second later he loses his grip and drops, gently, on top of the bed (and not the floor).

The whole thing rather proves Sherlock's point (though this actually wouldn't have happened if John hadn't been in a cage in the first place), but Sherlock doesn't say so. Eyes hard and expression grim, he reaches for John with his left hand and picks him up.

They move downstairs (Sherlock moves, John is moved) and Sherlock settles him on the sofa, then vanishes out of sight. John can hear him though, opening a cabinet (bathroom probably) and moving things around inside (searching for plaster, most likely). He looks around; the (other) guinea pig is gone, taken back to wherever Sherlock got it from in the first place, most likely. The rest of Baker Street looks the same as ever, albeit bigger. John scuttles towards the edge of the sofa. The ground is a bit far from where he is; no way he's getting off the sofa without breaking something. He wheezes, frustrated.

Movement to his left catches his eye and he turns his head to see Sherlock pass him by, heading straight for his laptop. He picks it up and settles next to John on the sofa. There's silence for a while as Sherlock boots up his laptop and starts to (John moves closer, sitting up on his hindlegs, frontpaws on Sherlock's leg for balance) browse the local news section of the London Times. John tries to read along, but Sherlock mostly clicks through too fast for John to read more than the first two sentences. Also, the light of the screen is giving him a headache. He withdraws his paws to lie on his stomach. The past several hours have tired him out and he begins to slip into the kind of stupor he usually reaches only after 30 hours awake and finally succumbs to sleep.

He thinks, though he's not entirely certain, that he feels Sherlock's fingers stroking along his fur before sleep claims him entirely.

Two days after John's unfortunate transformation into a pet rodent find John and Sherlock sulking (Sherlock is sulking; John is making his displeasure — now reduced to merely mild irritation as opposed to fuming rage - known by ignoring Sherlock's existence) in the kitchen and the living room respectively. Sherlock is also picking at the plaster wrapped around his finger.

Into this vaguely tense atmosphere Lestrade bursts with a case about smuggling that John suspects (and Sherlock knows) will lead them deep into the territory of the Russian mafia (John suspected mafia; Sherlock deduced they were Russian).

The case is dull; the criminals are dull. The fact that Lestrade thinks they're bribing someone in the Yard is also dull, but explains why he came to Sherlock.

"I need to know," Lestrade says. "I need to know who I can trust." Aside from Sherlock, of course. It's the implied trust, John thinks, that has Sherlock agreeing to work on the case. Because so few people actually, really trust that brilliant madman. (And despite what has happened, John still does. The realisation has the muscles in his shoulders untense completely, at last.)

He waits for Lestrade to leave before turning to Sherlock, holds his breath for a moment before saying. "You're my best friend, but if you ever lock me in a cage again, I will punch you." Then he picks up Sherlock's scarf, offers it to him like an olive branch.

After a moment, Sherlock nods his head and takes the scarf from his hand. Their fingers brush slightly, and suddenly all but the bare minimum of breathable air leaves the room. Sherlock looks John in the eyes.

"Of course," he replies, and John thinks it sounds almost like Sherlock is just the tiniest bit short of breath as well.

The office (one office of many, John suspects) is on a ship, one of those big ones that transport cargo all over the world in giant containers. Sherlock doesn't believe he'll find out who the mole is by going through the papers in a Mafia owned office; no, Sherlock knows who the mole is already (three days of covert surveillance by the homeless network and Sherlock himself).

What has John and Sherlock skulking around at the harbour is the whisper of a name (the name) that serves as a Pavlovian trigger phrase for Sherlock. (John wonders idly if Sherlock could be conditioned to react to a different stimulus with the same amount of excited anticipation, and what kind of stimulus that should be, and then he stops thinking because this is not a place he wants his mind to go when a, Sherlock is nearby and b, John started out thinking about bloody Moriarty.)

Someone starts to cough close by. Someone else utters a string of Russian words, and John silently swears because there's no hiding place that they could reach easily without being seen and he can hear footsteps now, too.

Then suddenly Sherlock is pressing him against a nearby container as if that would make the criminals overlook them. John opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance because Sherlock's mouth is suddenly on his and they're kissing. It is, it is everything that John ever wanted and more, and he melts into it before his brain catches up. Stupid. Cover. Not real. (Enjoy it while it lasts.)

The criminals pass by them, ignoring them both.

"I believe," Sherlock says, once they're out of earshot, "that I get to take some liberties with your body considering the kind of liberties you wanted to take with mine."

John blinks at him (oh god, real? Real!), then splutters as he realises what Sherlock just said. "I didn't— I wasn't—" He gives up because he wanted, and Sherlock knows this as he knows everything, including that John wants to kiss him some more now that he isn't so surprised at what's happening (or slightly less surprised because he still can't quite believe that Sherlock wanted to take liberties with John's body.)

Sherlock's lips brush up against his again, and John melts into him, into this kiss. Sherlock teases him with his tongue, licking at his bottom lip before drawing it into his mouth, teeth grazing, biting down gently before withdrawing. "I should draw blood. It would only be fair."

"It would," John replies, "but then I'd have to lock you into a guinea pig cage and you're too big to fit."

"Too bad then," Sherlock murmurs before drawing back. John lets go of him reluctantly. They're here for a reason.

"Right." He clears his throat and turns towards the ship. "Let's see what we can find."

It takes Sherlock approximately five and a half days after they've kissed (and 18 hours after they've jerked each other off for the second time) to suggest that John change into Sherlock. (John almost comes from the thought alone.) Of course, before that happens, they almost die.

John shuffles sideways, mindful of nearly invisible objects in the dark. He lets his hands glide over the walls of the cargo container they're in (up down, up down), hoping against hope, there's something...something that he could...

...he doesn't know. Use as a weapon? Use to free them? Use to pry open the door?

A sigh from the back. "John." Useless; it's useless, Sherlock thinks, and John agrees with him. He slouches back to where Sherlock is sitting near the back and settles down next to him.

"When."

"Yes."

When they open the door again (ifthey do and John's not certain about that because it would be just as easy to let them die of dehydration), John and Sherlock will have to take their chance against several heavily armed men who had managed to overwhelm them once already. John tongues at his lip again. It's still throbbing, but the bleeding has stopped.

"How long."

"They'll want to be far enough from the coast not to attract attention. Unless."

Unless. Yeah. John closes his eyes, letting his head fall back to rest against the wall. The dark is stifling in its own way. John can't tell how much time has passed (his watch doesn't have a light — neither does Sherlock's — and his mobile is probably at the bottom of the North Sea). This makes him antsy for no reason that he can see. It's not like he won't be able to tell when the sun rises because the infinitesimal crack at the bottom of the container (where the door meets the floor) is just big enough, John thinks, to let in a tiny amount of light along with the draught and smell of the sea.

"It's funny," John says after a while. "I always thought I'd die in a desert, but I've been in quite a lot of mortal danger near a body of water twice now."

"Any preference?" Sherlock asks. There's an odd tone to his voice, which John struggles and fails to interpret.

"Well, no," he replies. "Dead is dead. It's the company you're with that makes the difference. So." So, he actually does have a preference. He wonders if he'll be brave enough to say so.

"Ah," Sherlock says, and it sounds like he's smiling. "I agree." And John thinks to hell with it, reaches for Sherlock's faces and kisses him. (Nose first because it's too fucking dark and John can't see, then mouth, and John's lip still troubles him but he ignores it.) Sherlock hums low in his throat.

John doesn't draw back to say something terribly sappy and stupid like, 'if these are our last hours on earth, I want to spend them in your arms.' Or: 'if we die, I don't want to regret not having had sex with you.'

That doesn't mean he doesn't feelthat way, though.

"I want," he breathes against Sherlock's lips and into his mouth, hands buried in Sherlock's hair, gripping it tight, so Sherlock cannot move away, "to take certain liberties with your body."

"Granted," Sherlock replies. His hands tug at John's jacket, and John acquiesces to lowering his arms and letting Sherlock slide his jacket from his shoulders down to his elbows, rather ineffectively trapping his arms. Still, his arms were partially restricted. Not enough that he couldn't easily free himself. Just enough to make his mouth run dry because he was at Sherlock's mercy. (And how different this was from the guinea pig cage, and yet similar. His cock takes a rather large interest in the proceedings. 'I'm screwed," John realises. 'Utterly screwed. I like this.') "But I get to take them first," Sherlock concludes.

John swallows, then nods, and then says, "yeah. Yeah." Because, of course, Sherlock can't see him nodding in the dark; his brain is too damn slow.

Sherlock moves on to John's belt. The buckle clinks as he opens it. He begins to pull at the belt, and the pressure and the feeling of fabric slowly rubbing over fabric, pressing down on John's skin is lovely and, above all, hot. Sherlock takes his time, running the belt through the hoops one at a time, and John, John wants him to go faster and yet doesn't. Confusion settles over his mind like a thick woolen blanket.

"Sherlock."

The fourth hoop. (John thinks it's the fourth; god, does it matter?) He repeats Sherlock's name, as Sherlock finally pulls the belt free, and is hushed. "Do you really want our illustrious captors to hear you?" Crying out my name as I make you come, is left unsaid. John groans.

"No."

"Do you want help then?" Sherlock asks, leaving John momentarily confused - until he smells the sharp tang of leather, feels the roughened surface pressed against his lower lip, which is still smarting from the rough treatment it had received earlier; but the pain is turning into something new, something almost like pleasure. Oh, fuck.

John hesitates only for a moment before he opens his mouth wider and tilts his head forward. He bites down on the belt, gagging himself willingly, and hears a sharp intake of breath, then a wheeze.

John's bound, he's gagged, he might as well be blindfolded for all he can see in this dark container, and Sherlockis the one now breathing so harshly it wouldn't surprise John if the whole ship could hear him.

"I estimate that we have four hours until dawn, and they won't want to let us out in the pitch dark." Sherlock pauses. "I plan to spend the time, all of it, well."

And that sounds like Sherlock wants to take even more. If removing his belt has already taken two minutes, at John's guess, then John wouldn't come for ages.

–

Sherlock isn't that cruel, however.

–

"There's still rather a long amount of time until—"

"Yes, but—"

"Resting would be better, yes." Even if Sherlock wouldn't sleep, John was still human enough to do better with than without, and a three-hour period was better than nothing. (Always sleep in multiples of three, the army had taught him. It would make him less tired upon waking.)

"I knew you wouldn't leave me hanging for four hours," John says.

Sherlock snorts and doesn't dignify that assertion with any other kind of reply.

"I wouldn't have lasted that long."

"I could have made you."

John stops short because even though this whole scenario would be pure torture, he can't deny that it is also incredibly hot. He weighs the pros and cons, and finally thinks, fuck, to hell with it. "Wanna bet?"

Yes, that is a challenge, and one that Sherlock, it seems, will gladly accept. "Certainly."