A Monster

by: Ismira Daugene

A/N: This is a story based off the song Monster by Imagine Dragons as requested by morisnarky on Tumblr. If you listen to the song or look up the lyrics, you'll notice heavy usage of them in John's lines.

I own nothing and am making no money from this fic.

"If I told you what I was, would you turn your back on me?" John asked quietly. Silence filled the air after his question as dust motes drifted about lazily in the afternoon sun streaming in from the windows on the far wall.

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate curiously. His eyes drifted over the former soldier's body paying attention to the details such as how he was holding him self (rigid as though ready to fly at the slightest provocation), where he was looking (eyes pleadingly staring at Sherlock), his breathing pattern (irregular and at times being held back altogether), and his hands (clenched tightly in fists, not because he wanted to hit something, more like he's trying to hold himself together). Sherlock had learned over the course of living with John that the man's hands were the most telling of his current emotions. John's hands were steady and firm when he was supportive. They were clenched and shaking when angry. They were steady and sure when he was concentrating on difficult tasks. And they were loose and free when he was happy.

"What are you on about, John?" he asked slightly annoyed at being pulled from his mind palace, but realizing that his flatmate needed to speak with him.

"If I seemed dangerous, would you be scared?" the doctor asked instead of answering the question.

Sherlock scoffed at this. John? Scary? "Of course not," he voiced, sitting up, curious about where this was going.

John sighed and ran a hand down his face. Sherlock could tell he was struggling to decide whether he wanted to talk or not. Well it was too late for Sherlock. John had caught his attention and one way or another, Sherlock would come to understand what was distressing his flatmate so.

"Perhaps you should," John said, seeming to make up his mind. The shorter man took a few steps forward and sat down in his usual chair. Sherlock waited. John would speak when he was ready. "Look, there's something I've been wanting to tell you for a while now. I just haven't known how to say it," John said after an interminable length of time. "Ever since I could remember," he trailed off then started again. "Everything inside of me just wanted to fit in. I was never one for those who pretended to be someone they're not, but for me it was a necessity. However it seemed that everything I tried to be just wouldn't settle in. It didn't fit."

Sherlock nodded, his chin propped up on the tips of his fingers as though in prayer. His elbows rested on his trouser clad knees as he hunched over on the sofa. He made a soft sound indicating for John to continue.

"I'm honestly surprised you haven't figured it out before," he chuckled to himself. "I never wanted this burden; it found me though. I'm just a man, but I feel like I'm always struggling. Like there's only a candle to guide me through the darkness. I've tried to clear my conscience, but I'm different and everything I touch is dark." He sighed and took a moment to pull himself together.

Sherlock's attention was riveted to the doctor now, scanning him backwards and forwards and going through the room labeled 'John' in his mind palace to find some discrepancies that would point towards what John was trying to tell him.

"I'm telling you this because I'm trying to take a stand."

"What are you saying, John?"

Sherlock noted the way John's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Sherlock, I'm a monster."

Silence filled the room, only punctuated by the sound of cars outside in the late afternoon traffic. It didn't happen often, but Sherlock's brain had stopped for a second. How could John possibly think he was a monster? It made no sense! Unless he meant literally? Which made even less sense.

"I think it would be best if I showed you," John said standing up from his seat.

Sherlock watched as his friend slipped out of his shoes and pulled his oatmeal jumper off. A shiver stole through John's frame as he started to change. He traded his clothes for sandy fur. His ears grew to points and traveled up the side of his head. Hands and feet grew into giant paws with sharp claws on each toe. His mouth extended outward into a snout, filling with pointed teeth. When all was said and done, a giant wolf stood before Sherlock. His long furry tail swished back and forth slowly and his intense blue eyes were looking into his own. "John?" Sherlock asked uncertainly.

The wolf's ears laid back against his skull and he shrunk down so that he was laying on the floor. Sherlock slid off the sofa and scooted across the floor, uncaring of his tailored trousers. A tentative hand reached out and gently touched the course fur. The wolf didn't move an inch, but did let out a soft whine. Sherlock purposefully stroked the back of the canine reassuring him. After a while, John sat up and changed back into a human. "You' didn't run?" he said quietly.

Sherlock didn't say anything, only held the werewolf's eyes. "I'm a monster, Sherlock. I don't deserve your trust," he looked away.

"John, you are anything but," the consulting detective replied matter-of-factly.

"I've done things, Sherlock. Things that would make you cringe and run from me in terror."

Sherlock moved now, but not away. He reached out and placed a hand on John's leg, resting near his own. "Would I be correct in assuming that these things happened while you were deployed in Afghanistan?"

John looked up, startled, but then sighed and nodded.

"And would I also be correct in assuming that that is where you were changed? Where you first became a werewolf?" the word felt strange on Sherlock's tongue. Had anyone told him an hour ago that he would witness a werewolf transformation he would have scoffed and walked off.

"Yes, but that has nothing…"
"That has everything to do with it," Sherlock cut John off. "You are a different person than you were then, and a different wolf."

"How would you know?"

"Because, I imagine that all those times during the full moon when you've said you were spending the night at some date's house, you were actually running about on four legs. You've had ample opportunity to maim or kill me, and yet here we are."

John looked up at Sherlock, a kind of unbelieving quality to his eyes. "So you're not kicking me out then?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Be realistic, John. Where else could I find a flatemate who will make my tea the way I like it?" He smirked before standing up and offering a hand to the blond man still on the floor.

John stared at the pale hand for a moment before accepting it. He stood beside Sherlock taking inventory of himself for a moment. "You know, this has been my worst fear for the past few months. I was afraid that you would somehow find out or that when I eventually told you that you would run from me or shout at me to get out."

Sherlock shook his head, but didn't deign to comment on the idiocy of the statement. "Tea please, John," he said instead, heading back to the sofa. "And my mobile. Lestrade should be texting about those bodies in the paper soon."

John smiled and went into the kitchen to start the kettle boiling.