Sherlock sighed happily as he released his tail and ears from their bindings. He normally had to keep them hidden, not wanting anyone else to know he was a hybrid. But right now, John was on a date and Mrs. Hudson was visiting her family. He had the flat to himself for a few hours and he wanted to enjoy it. He took out his contacts that hid his cat like eyes and went back to the sitting room. He sighed contentedly and purred softly as he laid down in a warm patch of sun and closed his eyes, not paying attention as the door opened and closed.
John had brought home another girlfriend. Sherlock hated this. The shapeshifter normally just glared at the women and then ignored John for the rest of the night, refusing to talk to him. But tonight was different. Tonight, John had brought home a woman who was determined to make Sherlock like her. He currently hid under John's chair in cat form while the woman tried to coax him out. Finally, he darted out and plopped himself onto John's lap, which the woman took as encouragement and tried to pet him. He'd finally had enough and swatted at her with his paw.
John had been captured almost two years ago when he’d gotten into a fight and accidentally revealed his wings. Anyone close by had realised he was one of the angels still stuck on earth after the war between humans and angels. Before he could escape, his wings were bound and he was pushed into a large trailer. Since then, he’d been forced to do shows alongside other creatures that had endured the same fate. Every evening, he was led out of his cage to a platform and his wings were freed. He’d learned to stay on the platform, remaining silent as people stared and young children poked and toyed with his sandy brown wings. Tonight was no different as he took his place, extending his wings and stretching as they were freed. A tall man with dark brown curls caught John’s eye. The man didn’t stare like the others and, while John was grateful for it, he wondered why. He quickly averted his eyes as the stranger approached him. ((Replies don’t have to be this long!))
Greg noses his way out from under the duvet, drops to the floor on all fours and has a long luxurious stretch from the tips of his dark paws ending in a shudder down his tail. He un-shifts en-route to the bathroom, clicking his neck from side to side and mentally reminding himself yet again, to buy a new bed. Sleeping in animal form has its advantages in terms of sleeping on an unsound mattress, but it also reminds him that he has no pack to bring home.
For once there are no messages from the yard, and mysteriously, there is one instead from the withheld number that typically messages him from Mycroft’s office. It reads:
‘Due to technical difficulties, now would be an opportune time for you to visit the office. Please bring the following from-“ Listed after that is some kind of florescent lamp and an address.
Lestrade puzzles at it, but as there’s no ignoring it, he showers, dresses and makes his way to the address. It’s a specialist lighting store and the finds himself the bemused owner of a large heat lamp. Still questioning his life, he lugs it to the innocuous looking building where Mycroft keeps his offices.
He inhales out of habit upon passing through the door; but there’s nothing of any note. Sherlock evidently hasn’t been here, nor John or there’d be a darn slight higher level of Shift stress about the place. For somewhere government run and concerning national security, they noticeably lack a lot of top-of-the-food chain predators.
Either that or they’re so stupendous at keeping their shifts under control that he can’t sense them and they aren’t at all perturbed by other people’s shifts either. Anthea greets him at the front desk, which takes the form of her merely looking at him and announcing, “You need a new bed.”
“Um, yeah,” Greg replies, thrown.
“You’ve got fur on your shirt.” She tells him. He rubs at the fabric and can’t find it.
“So what’s going on? I’ve got your lamp.”
“Thank you, I’d noticed,” Anthea replies. “You can take it through.”
Lestrade is more confused than ever. He’s never owned one personally, but he’s seen lamps like this before in people’s houses. Typically in nurseries where the child can’t control their shift yet and the animal form is something fragile or exotic. More rarely, it’s used as a form of therapy for reptilian shifts, who usually spend all their time in human form but still stuffer from heat-withdrawal and a need to reach certain temperatures before they can focus.
Maybe Mycroft has visitors.
He doesn’t strike Lestrade as a snake-shift or anything, for all his coldness. Lestrade’s run across one or two and they automatically make the hair on the back of his neck rise. An innate reaction based on his animal originating from places where reptiles pose a significant threat.
Anthea leaves him at the door, with the cryptic final comment of “He’ll be under his desk.”
This is not what Lestrade was expecting. He’s seen Mycroft’s office before; it’s rather severe painted walls, the portrait of the queen and the big old desk with its red telephone. There’s a painted screen to one corner which, usually folded, has been furled out to provide a discrete corner. There other is the lack of Mycroft; or at least, the lack of the man.
Lestrade’s used to finding him at his desk, looking stern and buttoned up to his chin. Today there is nothing but a discarded heap of blanket under the desk.
“Hello?” Lestrade says, putting the box he’s carrying down. The heap doesn’t move. Slowly he approaches it. It smells of animal; not strongly but his shift has a good sense of smell and he can pick it up and it’s nothing like anything he’s smelt before. He lifts the corner of the blanket and finds nothing but coarse black and white hair.
“Uh,” he says in surprise and then backs off as the heap stirs. A limb with claws pokes free and Lestrade is further astounded by the shape of it. What’s more, it appears to be wearing a jumper made of bright red acrylic. Clumsily the most ridiculous creature Lestrade has ever seen struggles free from the blanket.
The body is swathed in thick black hair, except where the colour is cut through which white and grey in sparse stripes, and where it’s not covered by the ugliest oversized jumper imaginable. The body itself is thick and muscular; inelegant. It rises over the ribs to a crest and the animal would look weirdly short if it weren’t for the nose and the tail. Each is about the same length as the body itself and the tail is an enormous flat brush that bristles up in irritation. The face is inexpressive although somehow it manages to look pained, the eyes squinting. The nose curves towards the floor, darkest at the tip. The claws scrape the floor as it makes a surprisingly fast get away towards the screen for something that walks on its knuckles.
“Mycroft?” Lestrade asks, too stunned to even laugh. The tail disappears behind the screen and a moment later, Mycroft’s voice echoes out.
“What are you doing here, Lestrade?”
“I got a text to come and bring this.” Lestrade taps the box, and then, rather gleeful, approaches the desk.
“You’re an anteater!”
“You’re a dog,” Mycroft throws back caustically.
“I’m a painted dog,” Lestrade replies. “I’m not any old mutt, thanks. What were you doing?”
“I was thinking,” Mycroft answers. There’s a flump as the hideous jumper appears over the top of the screen, and Lestrade can hear him pulling on his clothes.
“You were napping, more like.”
“Oh do shut up.”
“Nice jumper,” Lestrade grins. “Who got you that?”
The screen sighs. “Mummy. You can go, you know.”
“I know,” Lestrade answers, taking a seat and hanging onto the box. He can’t stop grinning. This is the best thing he’s ever learnt. Mycroft Holmes is a giant, novelty-sweater wearing hose-nose. “It’s very cute.”
“It’s the only damn thing in my size,” Mycroft complains, emerging now more respectably attired in his suit. “No one here knits for Myrmecophaga.”
“Not too common, no,” Lestrade agrees.
“I’m the only one in the country.” Mycroft takes a seat.
“Really?” This interests Lestrade. Plenty of people have non-native Shifts and even the likes of Sherlock Holmes can’t say they’re the only example of their type. There are other big cats.
“Yes. Should I want to meet another, I’d have to go to either South America or I believe there’s a small community in India.” Mycroft looks annoyed by this, as though the others have conspired to be born in significantly warmer countries.
“Do you often shift at work?” Lestrade can’t restrain his curiosity.
Mycroft sighs, exasperated. “It helps me think. Anteater minds are quiet and focused. May I take my lamp now.”
Lestrade relents and passes the box over. “I’d have thought you’d have one.”
“I did. It broke.”
“The claws are a bit…” Lestrade comments, miming with his hands. “How do you walk?”
“Funnily enough, I do believe they evolved to be walked on,” Mycroft says frowning. “They’re for digging through termite mounds. I assume you’ve seen my brother’s shift.”
“Yeah, big black cat thing.”
“Yes, most ferocious,” Mycroft says with a trace of sarcasm. “In the wild, anteaters are capable of killing predators with those claws.”
“Right. Well. Not looking to fight you,” Lestrade answers carefully. “Especially not wearing that jumper; that’d be a terrifying way to go.” The thought occurs to him just then that when Mycroft shifted back, he would have been wearing nothing but the jumper behind that screen. Indiscreetly, this thought must show on his face.
Mycroft scoffs, the back of his neck turning red, and hastily sends him on his way. Lestrade goes, still brimming with amusement and curiosity, and with the intention of prodding Sherlock for more information.
____
It’s not till a few hours later, when Lestrade is holed up in his own office getting on with his work, that a package arrives for him.
He opens it, and the spill of wool that comes out of the paper is dark green and ornamented with elfish pompoms. It’s the right size for a dog, even though there’s no way Lestrade would be able to put it on while he’s shifted. Lestrade tries to look annoyed but it’s too good a joke and he looses it when he reads the card that comes with it
“For a more worthy opponent,” it says. “Or else to improve your thoughts.”
“Jesus,” says Lestrade, putting it aside with a laugh. One of these days he’s got to get Mycroft out of that office and into a restaurant with him.
Nonetheless, he takes the ugly jumper home and sleeps on it. It seems to improve the mattress.
You're now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
You both like vamplock, shifterlock, merlock, and werelock.
You: Sherlock? Please come back and let me explain. -JW
Stranger: How the hell are you going to explain /that/?! -SH
Stranger: Even I dont have an explination for that John! -SH
You: Sherlock please. -JW
You: I was born like this, I can't help it. -JW
Stranger: Born like what?! -SH
You: I'm a shape shifter, Sherlock. -JW
Stranger: So all this time you werent even John? Who the hell are you!? -SH
You: I am John. John Watson. I just... change my appearance. How you know me is how I normally am. Honest. I can't constantly keep another form and you would have noticed by now if I was. -JW
Stranger: How do I know youre not lying to me? -SH
You: You can always tell if I'm lying, Sherlock. -JW
Stranger: Not this time. -SH
You: Meet me back at the flat and I'll prove it. -JW
Stranger: Fine then. -JW
Stranger: *SH
You: Thank you. -JW
Stranger: Sherlock came back to the flat shakily and opened the door trying not to show any emotion on his face whatsoever and for the moment achiving just that. "Well," He began as he hung up his coat "Prove to me that you are who you say you are."
You: John sat in his chair and looked up at him. "This is my natural form. I can change into different forms but I revert to this one naturally." John explained and hugged his arms around his chest. He didn't like being stared at by his flatmate like that. It gave him the chills.
Stranger: Sherlock looked up and down John eyeing him carefully not letting his gaurd down for a second. "I want proof." He said coldly
You: "Fine!" John glared back and focused on changing his form into the wolf Sherlock had seen earlier, clothes hanging loose around his body and then he shifted back into them. He then immediately took on the form of Mycroft and then back to his own. He fidgeted with his clothes once he turned back into himself again. "Happy?" He muttered, looking down at the ground. John couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes.
Stranger: Sherlock looked at John and approached him cautiously before putting his hands on his shoulders warmly and looking and John softly "John look at me please."
You: John turned his head away to look at Skull before looking up at his flatmate. "What?"
Stranger: "Do us both a favor and never turn into Mycroft again I see him enough already." Sherlock said seriously before a grin spread across his face.
You: John snorted and turned away but a small smile appeared. "Don't like being him either. Just feels... wrong." John said.
Stranger: Sherlock chuckled and nodded then an idea came into his head. "John how long can you sustain those forms?"
You: "Depends on the form. People less than animals but for a few hours. Why?" John asked
Stranger: Sherlock grinned and clapped his hands together "Oh John you are brilliant!" He said happily thinking of all the possibilities
You: "Alright, don't get too excited. It take a lot of concentration to maintain a form like that. Why? What were you thinking?" He eyed Sherlock suspiciously.
Stranger: "This could do wonders for our cases!" He said smiling like a child on christmas.
You: "Oh, here we go." John said but couldn't help but smile at the look on Sherlock's face. "Let me guess, I'll be going as Lestrade in a lot of cases?"
Stranger: "No Anderson, Lestrade is tolerable at times but Anderson is just downright annoying." Sherlock said smiling
You: "You want to be seen with Anderson on a case?" John looked at Sherlock like he had gone mad.
Stranger: Sherlock nodded "It's the perfect way to get rid of him!"
You: John laughed and shook his head. "Only you would think of something like that." Though some ideas were coming to mind now.
