When John Watson comes home from the war in Afghanistan, he does so with a bullet wound to his left shoulder, a, "mysterious," limp in his right leg that he knows isn't really so strange as his therapist thinks it is, and an infection that changes everything about him, right down to his very humanity.

In short, he comes home as a werewolf.

One would think that being a werewolf would get him his ticket home. But no. At least, not directly. Being a werewolf was what got him shot. And getting shot was what made him a werewolf.

It was all a bit confusing, really, and John had never liked thinking about any of it. Which was why, on this cold, rainy January morning at half two, his subconscious took control and forced the images through his mind.

It started as it usually did - flashes of the desert, his squad, laughter and jokes and then… then came the gunshots, the explosions. They were scattered to the winds, hiding under large bushes with their hands over their heads like more flesh would stop armour piercing rounds.

And then they waited.

It took forever, the waiting. It always did, because you never really knew if you were done or not. Sometimes you'd pop up and hear nothing. Other times, you'd pop up and get shot at, or watch a friend fall under a hail of bullets.

Sometimes you felt like all you were doing was just waiting to die.

That time, death had not come for John. No, that time it had been a man.

He was British, tall and gritty and smiling like the sight of his fellow patriots cowering in the brush was the best thing he'd ever seen.

John had been hauled off, taken prisoner. In his dreams, he still felt the man's hands on his biceps, felt the blows he landed and the blows that landed on him. Felt himself being outclassed and out-fought.

The punch that took his consciousness away still felt like a hammer crashing into the side of his head. He'd vaguely thought this was a very bad thing - your brain wasn't meant to short circuit like that, it was dangerous, no matter how long or short it lasted.

Thankfully for him, it had lasted only long enough for his wrists to be secured behind his back. He'd blinked himself awake to feel rough sand on his cheek, a throbbing ache in his temple, and the pressure of zip-ties on his wrists.

He remembers being hauled to his feet and forced to march. The dream is always fuzzy about this, but when he's awake he can remember it in it's entirety.

What the dream never leaves out is the chair. The chair he's sat in, completely starkers, duct tape wound about his wrists and ankles to keep him in place. He knows it'll hurt to take it all off but even when he's awake, he doesn't remember the pain.

He can see the man. The man is staring at him and grinning. "Did you know, Cap'n, that I have great respect for you?"

John had glared. The man had laughed. "I do! Oh, where are my manners." The man salutes him - it's a proper salute, a good salute. John keeps glaring. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service, sir!"

The man nearly falls over laughing then. "Not that I think you're goin' to care much in a few minutes."

"That so?" John leans forward a few inches - all he's got, with his hands taped to the chair.

The man - Moran - smirks. "It is." He picks up a pistol from a long, thin table against the wall in front of John, looking it over. "See, I'm a hunter. And lately I've been bored of it all, stalking tigers and lions and everything else I've been able to find over three continents." He snickers. "Not the same wild animals you've chased over three continents, but I suspect I've had just as much fun as you have."

John refuses to blush. After all, he had enjoyed himself immensely.

"But lately… I've been chasing a rumour. A myth, even." Moran turned, eyes flashing. "Turns out, it's not so much rumour and myth as it is fact."

John frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Moran leaned against the table, gun still in his hand. "Werewolves."

John stared at him, silent for several moments. Moran watched him in return, gaze level. This was one of the clearest parts in the dream, because this was the moment that John's life really, truly changed.

"You're barking."

Moran's eyes narrowed, but he didn't laugh. "Fine choice of words. But you'll think differently soon. Because you'll know I'm right."

John shook his head. "So you want me to believe you've got a werewolf? What, is it stashed in your bedroom?" John snickered. "Been wetting the carpet? Can't seem to house-train it?" He laughed loudly.

Moran smiled in return, then rapped his knuckles against the wall.

The answering snarl sobered John in an instant.

"Look, you don't… you don't have to prove it, I… I believe you."

Moran watched him.

"What do you even want to show it to me for, anyway?"

And then, Moran laughed.

"Who said I was trying to show you anything?" Moran stalked forward, leaning over until his face was inches from John's. "I told you, Cap'n. I respect you. And what better way to show you what you mean to me, than by giving you this… gift." Moran grinned, predatory and dangerous. "And then hunting one of the only animals who can actually think like a human being?"

Moran straightened then, and John heard it again - a snarling, menacing growl just on the other side of the door.

And that was when he woke up, because after that…

He shivered, breathing hard, and fell back onto the pillow.

He hated to think about it. Hated remembering it. Hated having to keep it all to himself.

He winced as he felt his shoulder twinge - phantom pain, PTSD, it wasn't real but his brain didn't care, it still sent the signals, just like it was supposed to. He stretched and rolled over.

After another hour, he decided to get up. He wasn't getting back to sleep, and he could at least check his email, make some tea. He grabbed an apple too, settled in. He opened the drawer on the desk, pulled out his laptop. He pointedly ignored the gun in the drawer. And he refused to think about the single bullet he had, stashed away in the back of the drawer. Just in case.

Email from Harry - nothing important, just saying that she missed him, and he should come 'round for dinner on Sunday. He closed it and moved on.

Email from… McMath. His eyes widened and he opened it, scanning through it quickly.

They had to be careful - no one else could know right now.

He clasped his hands in front of his face and read.

Watson :

How are you? How's the leg? And the shoulder? I've been worried about that infection you and I discussed, hope you've been treating it. They've been talking about letting me come home for a while, bit of leave to get my head back together since everything. Been hell here lately, more so than usual. If I come back, I'll ring you up, yeah? We could go for a run. Just like old times. Until then!

-McMath

John smiled slightly, and typed out a quick reply.

McMath:

They still let you use the computers? After last time, I was sure they were going to ban you permanently. Good to hear from you, though! Leg's… well, it could be better, of course. Shoulder too. Infection is being treated, not to worry. You better call me if you come home, I could use a night out with a friend - don't seem to have many of them these days. I do miss the runs we took - one of the only things to look forward to out there. Hope to hear from you soon!

-Watson

John let his mouse hover over the Reply button, then he clicked it before he could change his mind.

He sat back, closing his eyes.

He remembered Moran. Remembered the growling. He even remembered cream colored fur and snapping teeth.

He remembered pain.

When he'd woken up, he was lying on his side, gasping for breath. No, not gasping. Panting. He was panting. His tongue… it was hanging out the side of his mouth… no, muzzle. He… he had a muzzle.

He'd startled, sand kicking up all around him as he got to all fours and glanced around, ears flicking to and fro. Scanning for danger.

He crouched down, trying to hide, trying to be small and inconspicuous. Which was extremely difficult, seeing as he was a rather large, rather fuzzy wolf.

He shook his head, felt the ruff around his neck shift slightly.

And then he pointed his nose in the air and inhaled.

A scent. Friends. Safety. Move.

He started trotting along, trying to figure out what he was going to do when he got to the base. Obviously, they weren't about to let a dirty great wolf saunter in, tongue lolling out and canine grin plastered over his… muzzle.

Oh. That would take some adjusting to.

He kept on going, though, deciding he would worry about that when he came to it.

The sun was bright and blinding against the sand, and the wind was blowing bits of it into his face, but he kept up and soon, so soon it seemed, he was able to see the gates and fences of the base.

Which was when he heard the gunshot.

He heard it long before he felt it. It was loud and terrifying and he yelped and jumped as he saw it hit the sand in front of him, followed by blood.

His blood.

Another gunshot rang out, hitting just a foot to his left.

The pain blossomed then, finally. It felt hot, first. Hot, like someone had jabbed a heated needle straight through his body. And then it started to burn.

He ran, stumbled, yelped and cried, got back up. Gunshot - just behind him. His tail tucked between his hind legs and he snarled behind him, then limped as best he could out of the line of fire. He hurt, and ached, and the blood was still pumping and Christ but it hurt. It had gone from heat to burning to actual fire, fire racing through his veins.

He ran as far as he could, until there was no chance he could move again. He dropped, panting and whining and thinking that this was it, this was the end. The last thing that went through his mind as he lay there was that at least his family would be able to stop worrying about him, now…

Of course, it hadn't worked that way.

John opened his eyes, grabbed his coffee mug and drained it. Memories were potent things, especially now.

He grabbed his phone, turning it over and over in his hands as he sat back on his bed. It was dark here. Like that cave. That damned cave, the closest thing to home and comfort he'd been able to find out there, after…

He shook his head, placed his phone down on the table beside the mattress. He could see it - he could see the cave, all around him. It barely took any imagination.

He'd woken up naked and human, his shoulder throbbing, a dull ache rather than the all consuming pain of before. He looked around - his medical supply bag was there, not far from him. He felt sunburned and filthy and entirely unconcerned with any of it apart from discovering how he'd gotten to the cave, and more importantly, how he'd survived.

A noise near the mouth of the cave had him moving on instinct, rolling over and moving away, farther into the darkness. Pain bloomed and he felt his whole body contract, shift, lengthen. His bones broke and re-formed, his face shrunk and pulled out. His arms and legs changed, taking on grotesque shapes as fur sprouted everywhere. He tried to scream - It came out a howl.

The noise at the mouth of the cave stopped, and when John looked, he saw a familiar build.

McMath.

"Watson?" John growled. McMath stilled. "Oh. Shit."

John crouched, eyes narrowed and body ready to move if needed. But he really, really, hoped he didn't need to.

"Watson, listen to me."

John's ears swivelled forward but he made no sound. McMath took that as a good sign.

"You're safe."

John snorted. McMath laughed. "Alright. You're still in a war zone, and… you're a werewolf who seems to have found himself being hunted, and… seriously, I don't even know how you did that, because I'm fairly certain you weren't a wolf before."

John growled again.

"Didn't think so, mate. Listen. I need to look at your shoulder. I'm… shit, I'm not a doctor, not a medic, but I can help you, Watson. I just need you to… you know, not try to kill me right now."

John was silent.

"Please, Watson. I want to make sure you're alright."

McMath took a step forward.

John growled even louder.

"Watson, please."

John kept growling, hackles rising.

"Take a deep breath."

John stopped. He reared his head back at the strange order, but poked his nose into the air, snuffling.

And then he picked it up - a familiar undertone, something… off.

He sat up, head tilted as he watched McMath. He was…

John stood up, nails clicking softly as he crept forward. From his position, he could see McMath was smiling gently, lips tight together. No teeth. Teeth meant challenge.

John whined.

McMath startled slightly, head whipping around. "Jesus, that echo threw me off, couldn't actually figure out where you were."

John snorted again. McMath grinned.

"Shift back for me, let me check your shoulder." He took another step.

John growled, low and steady and menacing. McMath was one of… them. Him. A werewolf. John had only met one werewolf so far. It had not been a pleasant experience.

McMath stepped back, sighing.

"Watson, I can't… Oh. OH!" McMath nodded. "You think it was… It wasn't, I swear, Watson… I didn't do this to you."

And with that, McMath began stripping out of his clothes.

John barked, once.

"You had to have seen the wolf that did this. You'd know their scent anywhere. I'm going to shift, and prove it wasn't me."

John sat on his haunches and watched, curious.

When McMath was completely undressed, he crouched low. The change came swift, a gentle ripple accompanied by a few quiet grunts as things shifted like water.

Before John was a dark brown wolf, crouched with his tail tucked and ears low. He lay down, muzzle on his front paws, and let out a soft whine.

John began to pace. Slowly he moved forward, continued pacing. Forward some more, closer and closer, until at last he was nearly nose to nose with McMath, who whined once more.

John timidly reached out and sniffed at McMath's face, nudged the side of his head with his nose. McMath sighed, but subjected himself to the once over. John walked around him, sniffing everywhere.

Finally, John came back to sit in front of McMath. He tilted his head and let his tongue loll out in greeting. McMath sat up slowly, whining cautiously. John barked, a happy sound.

McMath looked at his clothes, then back at John. He whined softly, then crouched again. John backed away as the change rippled back over him again, and when it was through, he lay on the ground for several minutes, breathing rapidly.

John trotted over and grabbed his clothes, snagging them in his teeth. He stepped over and dropped them in front of McMath, then lay down and licked his face once.

McMath laughed, though it sounded more like a wheeze. "Shifting that… rapidly… back and forth… it's an energy… drain." He closed his eyes. "But… I need you… to shift… your shoulder… I need to… check it."

John huffed, but backed away. He closed his eyes, hunched down…

And nothing happened.

He realised, suddenly, he'd never done this on command. He'd woken up after God only knew how long, already in his wolf form. He'd been shot, passed out. And woken up in human form. McMath's breathing was slowing down, still deep and desperate but not quite so panicked.

John took a deep breath in through his nose, closed his eyes, and concentrated.

He felt a twinge, a slight ripple, and then… nothing. He opened his eyes, and he was no more human than he had been two minutes ago.

McMath was sitting up now, slipping his clothes back on gingerly. John howled quietly, and McMath looked up. "Watson?"

John whined again, and McMath crawled over to him.

"Trouble shifting?"

John nosed the side of McMath's face, and McMath scratched at his ruff. "Don't worry, it happens to most wolves of a certain age…"

John growled, and McMath laughed. "It's a joke, relax." He kept ruffling John's fur. "No, seriously, relax. That's the first step. Take a few breaths, think about being human, concentrate on being human, project that image outward. It'll be hard, but you just have to keep trying."

He shifted away, and John huffed in irritation. Then he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. He thought about himself as a human, thought about his short blond hair and his brown-blue eyes and his short but strong arms with surgeon's hands, steady even in the battlefield. He thought about his legs and his feet and playing rugby in school. He thought about sex and drinking and laughing and kissing a pretty girl and clapping a friend on the back.

Then he felt it.

It was horrible and painful and when he came out the other end, he was screaming through abused vocal chords, hoarse and miserable. But he was human.

He fell over, gasping and looking around, disoriented. His eyes finally fell on McMath, who was also laying on the ground, face flat against the hard surface of the cave floor.

"Welcome back, Captain."

John wheezed. "At ease."

McMath chuckled. "Aye, sir."

John closed his eyes. "If you salute me while I'm buck-fucking-naked, I will have you on toilet detail for a month."

McMath snorted. "Duly noted. Clothes?"

"God yes."

McMath moved slowly, backing away and keeping his eyes averted. He returned moments later, holding out fatigues. "Sorry, you'll have to go commando, commando."

John groaned at the horrible joke, and sat up. "I'll forgive you if there's a shower in that bag."

"No such luck. But I might have smuggled a beer out."

"Bless you, my son."

McMath held out a hand and helped John up, then helped him manoeuvre his legs into the trousers, held him steady while he fastened them up. John looked up at him gratefully, and McMath again averted his eyes.

"Why do you do that?"

McMath glanced up, then away again. "You… you don't… oh, this is going to be fun."

John frowned, and McMath grabbed a beer from his bag, handing it over.

"Ta."

McMath nodded, then gestured at a spot near the bag. "Take a seat, lemme look at your shoulder."

John moved over, sat down, and opened the beer.

McMath grabbed a penlight, shining it over John's shoulder. John risked glancing at it - it wasn't pretty, but it was healing. "Shouldn't I be, I dunno… Superman or something?"

"The bullet was silver."

John gave him a bemused expression. "Silver? Really? Isn't that just… Hollywood, making things up?"

McMath glanced at him as he reached into the bag. "Where do you think they got it from?"

"Books, stories."

McMath grinned. "And where do the stories come from, I wonder?"

John's expression sobered, and he decided this was the perfect time to take a long drink.

"No silver - it's bad all around. Poisonous, especially when it's embedded in us."

John nodded thoughtfully, then looked down as McMath began cleaning off his shoulder. "Were you… I mean, you seem… well adjusted."

McMath paused, then went back to the task at hand. "I'm part of the London pack."

"There's an actual pack?"

McMath shrugged. "There's a lot of packs. Most major cities have one."

"Shut up, no."

McMath nodded. "We're more common than you think."

"Jesus."

"I know. It's a lot."

"It's more than a lot. So much fucking more than a lot."

McMath said nothing, but he crouched a little lower.

"Why are you doing that?"

McMath looked down at John's leg, then back up. "Submission."

John's eyes narrowed, then went wide. "What, you mean… like-"

"No. Not sex."

John let out a breath. "OK. Good. Then…what?"

McMath smiled softly. "Where do you think the BDSM style cultures got the idea of Dominant and Submissive? Animals. Animals have a hierarchy. We have a hierarchy."

John inhaled shakily. "Right. Alphas and… Betas, and…"

McMath gave him a half shrug. "Sort of. Each pack has one Alpha. And one Beta. And from there… the hierarchy is determined based on dominance. I… am not dominant."

John frowned. "What? But you're… you're so confident and… and outgoing, and…what?"

McMath bit his lower lip as he flashed the penlight over John's shoulder, and moved to the back to start the process over again. "Being outgoing and confident doesn't equal dominant. Being a dominant wolf makes you willing and ready to take on the responsibility of ruling a pack, even if you're not the Alpha."

"And… you can tell I'm… dominant?"

McMath stood up behind him, walking back to the bag and pulling out a few more items. He turned back to John and shook his head. "No. I can tell that you're even more than that."

Even now, sitting in another country, John still didn't have any idea what that meant. Four months into a life sentence, and he was no closer to understanding what McMath had said about him. He hadn't elaborated. Hadn't said anything else. Had simply said not to worry about it, that he'd send a message to the London Alpha and let him know about John.

John trusted him, but he'd been home for almost two weeks now, and he'd heard nothing from anyone but McMath on the subject of his new… status.

He went to the small kitchenette, fixed another cup of coffee, and sat back down at his computer.