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The dead body was the least of their worries. Sherlock being Sherlock, of course he'd already worked out the likely culprit. Their concern now was finding the bastard. John took one final look down at the mangled corpse of what he supposed had once been a very beautiful young woman, now barely recognisable as human. Her face slashed to ribbons, throat torn out and chest ripped open with enough force to shatter the ribs. Their main concern was the man they were seeking (husband killing his wife after discovereing her affair), or more importantly what he was. Shape-shifters, while still fairly rare, were a lot more real than people liked to believe. Judging by the disfigured woman at their feet, this particular shifter was some sort of large predator; a large species of wolf Sherlock had predicted based on the spacing between claws. So far, the exact identity of either victim or suspect was unknown; they would have to wait for the lab results from the blood that spattered the alley to confirm the former before they could work out the identity of the latter.
"You boys may as well head off back home. There's nothing more we can do until the results get back. I'll text you as soon as we get anything new." Lestrade sighed. He hated having to wait around whenever there was a particularly brutal killer on the loose. Sherlock turned around with a huff of annoyance and stormed off, John jogging to keep up.
Just before rounding the corner into Baker Street, Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John almost walked right into him. "Christ, Sherlock, a bit of warning would have been - !" Sherlock shushed him, just in time for John to make out a low, threatening growl that seemed to be coming from the alley not 10 feet from where they stood. John froze, unable to move as the source of the noise made itself visible. It couldn't be a wolf, sure it looked like one, but he was pretty sure that wolves didn't have red eyes or grow that big.
"Sherlock," John was not in the slightest bit surprised to hear his voice shaking. "What, the hell, is that?" For a second, he thought Sherlock wouldn't answer him, until he replied in his usual calm voice.
"Fascinating. Mythical creatures are so rare in the shape-shifter population that they are almost considered a legend." For some reason, Sherlock began to remove his scarf and coat. "And here we are with two in the same place."
"The same place? What are you talking about Sherlock? For God's sake he's going to attack us at any minute!" Only then did John see Sherlock's eyes. No longer were they their usual grey/blue/green, and instead had turned a brilliant orange, with slit, reptilian pupils.
"You may want to ssstand back, John."Sherlock hissed, actually hissed at him. John was about to cry out a warning as the wolf prepared to spring, and was struck dumb by a mixture of wonder and terror as his friend crouched down and began to grow at an alarming rate, scales erupting all over his body as a pair of wings burst from between his shoulder blades. Before their attacker even finished his leap, a 50 foot dragon stood in front of John. With a single blow the wolf was knocked out of the air, pinned down by the creature's front feet, each sporting dangerous-looking claws. Letting out a hot jet of air from his nostrils, the dragon opened its mouth and spoke with that same, deep voice that John knew so well, only with the slight hiss caused by the forked tongue.
"Unless you want to what it feels like to be burnt alive, I seriously suggest that you lose the fur coat. Or maybe I'll simply rip your throat out like you did to your wife when you found out about the affair" The wolf was trembling, and slowly the hair receded and John found himself staring down at a young man, pale as a sheet and completely willing to cooperate as John pulled out his mobile.
"What affair? Please, what's happening? One minute I wake up in bed, then I black out and when I come too there's a bloody dragon on my chest." He turned his head to speak to John. "Please, call off your friend here. I'll go quietly, I swear." John dialled a number and called.
"Hey, Lestrade, it's John. Looks like we've caught your guy. We're at the junction between Baker Street and Melcombe Street. I'll explain when you get here." He hung up and turned to face his friend.
"Sherlock, are you planning on letting half the Yard know you can turn into a dragon or are you going to turn back? Given how quickly you can transform, he won't be trying anything."
The dragon reluctantly backed off, and within a matter of seconds John was once again looking at Sherlock Holmes, hair slightly dishevelled and suit a little creased but, other than that, completely normal. John handed Sherlock back his coat.
"Once this is over we need to talk."
"Do we, John? There isn't really anything else to say. I'm a shape-shifter and for some reason I can take the form of a dragon. Other than you and Mycroft, only Molly, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are aware of the fact and I'd very much like to keep it that way." The sound of approaching sirens cut off anything John was about to say, and soon there were two policed cars parked in front of them and a the man was being read his rights and hauled into the back of the waiting car.
"Lestrade, I have strong reason to believe that our killer is suffering from a form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Going by his clothing and hair cut, I would say that he's some form of ex-military. The army has for many years been trying to turn shape-shifters that can morph into predatory species into weapons. There are marks of repeated injections on his neck, not exactly where you would shoot up if he were using drugs. There are restraint marks around his wrists, but not as obvious on his right wrist: indicating that he often handcuffed himself to his bed at night. He had no knowledge of the affair; instead he was asleep with his wife when he had a PTSD attack and, mistaking his wife for one of the scientists that had been performing the tests on him, transformed and killed her. I'm sure a quick search of his flat will support what I've just told you."
John was immediately reminded of their case in Dartmoor, and the drug had caused Henry Knight to lose his mind every time he transformed, turning a gentle labrador into a rabid monster. Could this have been the same drug trials?
Once Lestrade had got his head round what Sherlock was saying, he radioed back to the Yard for a forensics team at the man's flat.
"It's late, so I need you at the station first thing tomorrow to get your statements. Are we clear?" This last bit clearly aimed at Sherlock and his distaste of "tedious" paperwork.
"Perfectly clear. We'll see you in the morning." John replied, before pulling Sherlock into 221B.
"Right." He said, sitting down in his chair and crossing his arms. "First things first: why did you never tell me that you were a shifter? And don't give me all of that 'It wasn't important' crap."
Sherlock sighed. "Well, I rather enjoy having you around and, given that the general population isn't all too keen on my kind, I thought that it would cause you to leave." John was a bit taken aback by this.
"You hide it very well. I knew a couple of shifters in the army, a fox and a hawk, and they both could never entirely shake off their other form. One had ginger streaks in his hair and pointed teeth, and the other always had a few feathers on his arms. And yet there isn't a scale on you."
Sherlock turned slightly red. "That, err, isn't entirely true. I have some scales around my crotch area, and then there is also this." He reached up and parted his hair, revealing the start of a pair of horns almost the same colour as his curls.
"Well, you don't have to worry about me leaving. What's one more thing to add to the list of mental stuff that goes on in my life?"
Sherlock smiled. "You have no idea how happy I am to hear that, John."
The End