Treat for Lupa_Lunae: Monster of the Week
Jun. 21st, 2023 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle:Monster of the Week
Recipient:LupaLunae
Author:acorn_squash
Verse: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, minor characters
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Needles & blood in a vampire context; non-consensual transformations
Notes: Title credit goes to my beta. I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this; it probably qualifies as crackfic of some sort.
Summary: After a peculiar incident involving Irene Adler, Sherlock and John have a very strange week.
At first John thought he was dreaming when he found a horse in his bedroom.
A horse! In his bedroom! How had it gotten up the stairs? For that matter, how had it gotten into the flat?
‘Mrs Hudson will be terribly put out’, John said. He was fairly sure their lease specified no animals.
The horse neighed in apparent agreement. John wasn’t exactly an equestrian, but he supposed this was a fine enough sample of the species: a black stallion, with powerful muscles and a glossy coat.
John sighed. ‘Yeah, me too, mate.’ He walked up and rested a hand on the horse’s flank. It was only then, somehow, that he noticed the horse was wearing That Hat.
He honestly wasn’t sure Sherlock would mind if his hat was eaten by a random equine. Still, he plucked the hat off the horse’s head, if only to help him narrow down whether this was some sort of prank and, if so, who was playing it on him.
With the hat in hand, he finally got a clear look at the animal’s head. When he did, he saw something that made him stop in his tracks. Between black ears grew a curved horn, gleaming with an iridescent shine.
‘You do know I’m not a virgin, right’, John said. It was the only thing he could think to say.
The unicorn, surprisingly, nodded.
‘Right.’ He looked more closely at the creature. ‘May I…’ He stretched out a hand.
Again, the unicorn nodded, and John inspected the horn more closely. It was real horn, insofar as he could determine from such a brief inspection. It wasn’t a plastic horn glued to some more stallion’s forehead. And, furthermore, it was definitely attached to the animal’s body.
‘Two possibilities’, John said. ‘One, someone got a kick out of some unethical cosmetic surgery involving a horse and some narwal horn. Two, you’re an actual unicorn.’
The unicorn thumped the ground twice with his hoof. Option 2 it was, then.
‘You know’, John said, ‘Sherlock’s always nattering on about eliminating the impossible.’ (At this, the unicorn sort of snorted. John was not previously aware that a magical creature could sound so derisive.) ‘But I’m starting to think you really are a unicorn.’ He scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘Do you want anything? Apple, sugar lump, oats?’
A headshake.
‘All right, then. Just… let me know if you need something, I guess.’ John considered how the unicorn might be able to do this, and added, ‘I feel silly asking this, but do you know Morse code or anything?’
The unicorn tapped out - . - - / . / . . . with his hoof.
‘That’s a yes, then. Okay. I learned Morse code in the army’ — actually, he’d learnt it in secondary school in a particularly embarrassing attempt at coolness, but he saw no reason to tell the unicorn this — ‘so just get my attention first and go slow, and I should be able to understand you.’
The unicorn tapped out, at a particularly mocking snail’s pace, ‘Will do.’ John didn’t know how, but he got the sense that the unicorn had heard what John hadn’t said. Not telepathy, just… figuring things out somehow. The way Sherlock always did.
John shook his head, impatient with himself. He had met an actual unicorn, and he kept thinking about Sherlock? God, he was obsessed.
Maybe it was the hat. And the colour. The unicorn’s mane was the deep black of Sherlock’s hair, while the coat was the lighter black that John suspected he’d forever associate with The Coat. There was even a slight marking around the animal’s shoulders that looked, in a strange way, like a scarf.
John was officially losing it. He sighed, and pulled out his mobile to see if anyone he knew had any tips on equine husbandry.
Greg didn’t know anything. He’d been around horses before, but had mainly tried his best to stay out of kicking range. He highly recommended the approach.
John explained that he was unable to do this, as his bedroom was of insufficient size.
This resulted in a number of all-caps replies, which John ignored.
Next, John tried Mycroft. Unfortunately, Mycroft replied tersely that he was in a meeting, although he was able to recommend a few volumes on the subject. John looked up one of the books. Even the blurb was too dense.
Finally, John texted Molly. It turned out that she had gone through a horse-girl stage (‘ok, several horse-girl stages :P’) and knew everything. Once she found out the details, she immediately asked to come over.
And that was how John found himself providing amateur care to a sarcastic unicorn alongside an enthusiastic mortician. It was, surprisingly, not the weirdest thing he’d ever done.
He wished Sherlock was there.
The rest of the day went pretty smoothly. Molly was excited to see a unicorn and asked a lot of questions, although the unicorn got impatient with John’s slow translations of the Morse code. Eventually John staggered off to bed, giving the unicorn a blanket and Molly a sleeping bag and a toothbrush — she’d decided to sleep on the couch in case any more creatures showed up.
When John woke up, Molly was already in the kitchen, her eyes bright and her hair messy. ‘I made tea’, she said.
John muttered a ‘thank-you’ and gulped the tea.
‘The unicorn’s gone’, she said, once John had finished the mug. ‘I stayed up pretty late, just, you know, reading on my mobile. And the unicorn was just kind of standing in the corner, since he couldn’t really talk to me — I did make him a letter board, but he wouldn’t use it. And then, at the stroke of midnight, according to my mobile at least, he turned into a bat! And flew off!’
‘Flew off where?’ John asked, blearily.
‘Well, uh, I generally like to sleep with the window open, so —’
John waved her off. ‘Yeah, yeah, got it. So he just turned into a bat? Why didn’t he do that before? I mean, if he can shape-shift, why did he spend the whole day as a unicorn?’
‘What I want to know is’, Molly said, ‘where did he go?’
Throughout John’s day, that question buzzed around in his head.
When he came home, the Sun was low in the sky. He headed in, piped a podcast through the speakers, and started heating up dinner. He told himself the open window was just for ventilation. When a little brown bat soared in through the window, he felt secretly, immensely relieved.
The bat, oddly enough, didn’t seem attracted to the kitchen light, or anything like that. It simply glanced around, and then settled down on Sherlock’s chair. And then something happened. The shadows shifted. The bat seemed to grow to an enormous size, waxing like the Moon. And then, there was Sherlock, sitting down with his ankles crossed. He was wearing his usual clothes, but his teeth seemed longer than usual.
‘What the Hell, Sherlock?’ John shouted.
Sherlock, as always, ignored him. ‘I’m starving. I’ve had to stay in a coffin all day. You haven’t eaten any garlic lately, have you?’
‘I — no.’ He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Sherlock. ‘How did you even get in? I thought you had to be invited.’
‘It’s my own home’, Sherlock said. ‘Now, about that meal…’
John suppressed a sigh. He really wanted a proper explanation, but Sherlock was making puppy-dog eyes, and John had never been able to resist the puppy-dog eyes. ‘You know I’m not eligible to donate blood, right?’ he said, more as a delaying tactic than anything else. It wasn’t something he’d ever talked about with Sherlock, but Sherlock knew, didn’t he? He always knew.
Confirming John’s suspicions, Sherlock just nodded. ‘I’m not the bloody Red Cross, John. I know that you get tested regularly, and I know that your tests always come back negative, and I don’t care about the rest.’
‘All right.’ John breathed out. He didn’t ask how Sherlock knew all that. John supposed it was, in its own way, obvious. ‘I’m not letting you bite me, though. You have sterile needles somewhere, right?’
Sherlock gestured to his current chemistry experiment, which was in violation of their lease.
‘Yeah, okay.’ John found what he was looking for and prepared it appropriately. He’d always had good veins. The needle went in. Sherlock eyed him hungrily.
After the syringe was full, he tossed it over to Sherlock, who slurped the contents down. John cleaned up and then got himself a glass of juice. ‘Not that I mind being your personal blood bank, but what’s going on?’
‘I’m cursed’, Sherlock said, licking his lips.
‘You’re what now?’
‘Cursed’, Sherlock repeated. ‘I turn into a different magical creature every midnight. It’s not a very strong curse — Mrs Hudson says it should only last a week.’
‘She’s a witch now, is she?’
‘She dabbles’, Sherlock replied vaguely. ‘Her ex-husband was in a coven of some sort; I’ve never asked the details.’
John sighed. Typical. ‘And how did you get cursed, Sherlock?’
‘Insulted a witch.’
‘Oh my God, Sherlock. Did you make a proposition, is that what did it?’
Sherlock winced. ‘No, even I wouldn’t do that. Do you remember the scandal in Bohemia that we cleared up recently?’
‘Yes, of course’, John said. He had been quite put out with Sherlock’s decision to take the case, considering how badly Irene had been treated.
‘Well, it won’t surprise you to hear that Irene was, shall we say, none too happy with the client. Do you remember that photograph she left behind for her ex? Well, it was cursed, and I made the mistake of touching before he did.’
‘Right, that explains it.’ It did not particularly explain it, but it was probably the best John was going to get.
‘Also, I’m asexual.’
This came as more or less a complete non-sequitur to John. ‘And that made the curse more effective or something?’
‘No.’ He paused to consider it. ‘If anything, it should make it less effective. My client was known for being something of a libertine. But you suggested that I propositioned Irene for sex. I wouldn’t do that, even if I thought she might be interested, because I’m not interested in having sex.’
‘I… okay.’ This had been an evening of many revelations. ‘Thanks for coming out to me, I guess?’
‘You’re welcome’, Sherlock said. He smiled, the low light giving his skin a yellow glow. ‘You came out to me. I just wanted to return the favour.’
Oh, right. John had implied earlier that he’d had sex with men. ‘I suppose I should do it properly, then. I’m John Watson, and I’m bi.’
Sherlock stuck his hand out. ‘Sherlock Holmes, gay asexual consulting detective. Glad to meet you.’
The rest of the week went smoothly enough. Sherlock woke up the next morning as a merman and spent the rest of the day sulking in the bathtub. John brought him all of his meals. Experiments revealed that Sherlock was completely safe staying out of the water, although slightly uncomfortable, but with the tail, he had a tendency to crash into things. Plus, John didn’t want him dripping everywhere. The chemical experiments were bad enough. If he wrecked the hardwood floor, Mrs Hudson might actually raise the rent.
‘Are you going to trade your voice to a sea witch?’ John asked, bringing Sherlock sushi on a tray. He tried to avoid looking at Sherlock’s bare chest. It was bad enough that Sherlock had been turned into a merman — John didn’t want to be attracted to him on top of that.
Sherlock crammed a piece of nigiri into his mouth. ‘Nope. Lesson learned, witches are bad news.’
‘Better not say that in front of Mrs Hudson. She’ll put another curse on you.’
The next day, Sherlock was a griffin. He shed feathers everywhere, which John privately decided to use as stuffing for his next pillow. He also went out flying, and immediately received some very concerned texts from Mycroft.
‘Word gets around quickly, eh?’ John said, when Sherlock told him about this.
‘He received reports of a “large, mysterious creature in the sky” and concluded his brother must be up to something’, Sherlock commented dryly.
John understood Sherlock’s annoyance, but in his own way, he wished he had an older sibling like Mycroft. Harry had always enough on her plate without worrying about her little brother, and John understood that, but it would have been nice if she’d taken more of an interest. He imagined her teasing him about the crush he had on his flatmate. No, it was probably better that she didn’t care.
Sherlock woke up the next morning as a selkie. He took his seal skin off immediately and spent the day as an ordinary human. John stole the seal skin and curled up with it. Since it was still living, it gave off a warmth that surpassed even the best electric blanket.
‘Do you think this is why the woman’s husband in the fairy tale took her skin?’ he asked, huddled under his makeshift blanket. There was a strange intimacy to the situation. It wasn’t like Sherlock couldn’t take the skin back if he wanted to, but still, John had stolen his skin. Did that constitute a selkie marriage? Did John want anything like that with Sherlock?
‘It’s seeming more and more likely’, Sherlock agreed.
And John wondered which question Sherlock was answering.
The next day, John found a note on the breakfast table. It was written very large in crayon and read simply: I am a troll. Spending the day under a bridge, hoping to catch up with the homeless network. Have my mobile with me but thumbs are too big to use it. SH
The next morning, John found a frog on the doormat. He was small, green, and looked very, very grumpy.
‘Hello there’, John said. ‘Croak twice if you’re poisonous.’
Frog Sherlock didn’t make a sound.
‘All right, then. Up you go!’ He picked up Sherlock and carried him inside. ‘I’ll call Mycroft’, he decided, looking down at his flatmate cradled in his hands. ‘He ought to know what frogs eat.’
Mycroft did, in fact, know what frogs ate, and furthermore, had all the necessary pet food on hand. Handing off a grocery bag to John, he said, cryptically, ’I’ve been anticipating something like this.’
‘What do you mean?’ John shouted at Mycroft, but Mycroft had already left.
There wasn’t much to do for the rest of the day. Sherlock croaked out in Morse code that he wanted to listen to an audiobook, so John set one up for him and hung around in case Sherlock needed anything. The audiobook was extremely gruesome, but Sherlock seemed to find it terribly compelling. Despite his better instincts, John was drawn in too.
At the end of the day, after giving Sherlock some food, John said, ‘Well, I’d better turn in now. Can’t wait to see you human again in the morning!’
Sherlock croaked out the Morse code for ‘me too.’
John slept fitfully, dreaming about witches and photographs. He woke up in the night in a cold sweat, and was relieved to see that his skin hadn’t turned green. In the morning, he padded downstairs, telling himself that it was all over.
A small green frog was sitting on the table.
‘Still?’ John said, in disbelief. ‘It’s never lasted past midnight before.’
Sherlock gave him a Look. ‘Clearly has now’, he croaked out in Morse.
‘Right, right. I’m going to find Mrs Hudson.’
With Sherlock in his pocket, John knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door. ‘Sherlock’s still a frog’, he said, without preamble, when she opened it.
She tutted. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I am? Nobody taught you boys manners, I see. Well, let me look at him.’
Sherlock reluctantly submitted to an examination, which seemed to consist mostly of Mrs Hudson waving her hand over him and muttering incantations. At one point, she burned some herbs that made John cough.
‘The curse that was making him turn into different creatures each night has worn off’, Mrs Hudson concluded. ‘But he seems to be stuck in his current state.’
‘I thought that he’d turn back to human once the curse wasn’t keeping him a frog anymore’, John said. He wished Sherlock had been stuck as a selkie or something instead. At least that way, he would have been able to go about as a human. Plus, John could have kept stealing his skin.
‘The curse isn’t keeping him a frog’, Mrs Hudson corrected. ‘It’s something else.’
‘What is it?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t say, sweetie. I’m no healer. You can ask Mrs Turner if you like — one of her tenants is a necromancer, I heard. Married, too.’
John turned down the offer, although he was starting to get curious about Mrs Turner. Instead, he plodded upstairs, set Sherlock down, and texted Molly about the situation.
Molly texted back almost immediately: Kiss him.
What? John replied.
He’s a frog. Kiss him.
John relayed this to Sherlock, who gave a froggish imitation of a shrug. At a loss, John brought Sherlock to his lips. He felt, at first, clamminess, and then spreading warmth. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock Holmes was in his arms, fully human.
‘So you were a frog prince after all’, John said, grinning foolishly.
‘I guess so’, Sherlock replied.
‘I really liked that’, John admitted.
‘Yeah’, Sherlock said. ‘I noticed.’ And he kissed John again.
Later, John asked, ‘Why do you think Irene did it? I mean, you said she’d meant the curse for her ex, right? So why did she want him to be a frog prince?’
‘Well’, Sherlock said, ‘turning someone you don’t like into a frog is a classic move for a witch. The series of transformations prior was probably part of a novelty curse; I doubt she created it herself, although she probably found it amusing. For her, the point was the final stage, where he would turn into a frog. I’m no witch, but I expect that curse could be lifted only by the victim’s true love. He did not love his new fiancée; therefore, the curse would not lift when she kissed him.’
‘And you love me’, John realised.
‘I do’, Sherlock said. ‘I’ve loved you for a long time.’
John kissed him. ‘Me too.’
‘I suppose it was all for the best’, Sherlock said. ‘I don’t know if we would have gotten together without this.’
‘We might have, eventually.’
‘But not nearly as quickly’, Sherlock countered. He gazed off into space for a bit, then snapped his fingers. ‘Do you think she meant it for me?’
‘What?’ John asked, genuinely confused.
‘The curse. She definitely knew I was in love with you, she kept making little digs at me about it. Do you suppose she cursed the photograph, knowing I’d pick it up?’
‘I guess it’s possible’, John said. ‘Somehow I don’t really want to find her and ask, though.’
Sherlock nodded, fingering the sovereign Irene had given him, which he had kept in his pocket. It was a vintage coin, bearing the visage of Queen Victoria. ‘It will, I expect, remain a mystery.’
Recipient:LupaLunae
Author:
acorn_squashVerse: Sherlock BBC
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, minor characters
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Needles & blood in a vampire context; non-consensual transformations
Notes: Title credit goes to my beta. I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this; it probably qualifies as crackfic of some sort.
Summary: After a peculiar incident involving Irene Adler, Sherlock and John have a very strange week.
At first John thought he was dreaming when he found a horse in his bedroom.
A horse! In his bedroom! How had it gotten up the stairs? For that matter, how had it gotten into the flat?
‘Mrs Hudson will be terribly put out’, John said. He was fairly sure their lease specified no animals.
The horse neighed in apparent agreement. John wasn’t exactly an equestrian, but he supposed this was a fine enough sample of the species: a black stallion, with powerful muscles and a glossy coat.
John sighed. ‘Yeah, me too, mate.’ He walked up and rested a hand on the horse’s flank. It was only then, somehow, that he noticed the horse was wearing That Hat.
He honestly wasn’t sure Sherlock would mind if his hat was eaten by a random equine. Still, he plucked the hat off the horse’s head, if only to help him narrow down whether this was some sort of prank and, if so, who was playing it on him.
With the hat in hand, he finally got a clear look at the animal’s head. When he did, he saw something that made him stop in his tracks. Between black ears grew a curved horn, gleaming with an iridescent shine.
‘You do know I’m not a virgin, right’, John said. It was the only thing he could think to say.
The unicorn, surprisingly, nodded.
‘Right.’ He looked more closely at the creature. ‘May I…’ He stretched out a hand.
Again, the unicorn nodded, and John inspected the horn more closely. It was real horn, insofar as he could determine from such a brief inspection. It wasn’t a plastic horn glued to some more stallion’s forehead. And, furthermore, it was definitely attached to the animal’s body.
‘Two possibilities’, John said. ‘One, someone got a kick out of some unethical cosmetic surgery involving a horse and some narwal horn. Two, you’re an actual unicorn.’
The unicorn thumped the ground twice with his hoof. Option 2 it was, then.
‘You know’, John said, ‘Sherlock’s always nattering on about eliminating the impossible.’ (At this, the unicorn sort of snorted. John was not previously aware that a magical creature could sound so derisive.) ‘But I’m starting to think you really are a unicorn.’ He scrubbed a hand over his face. ‘Do you want anything? Apple, sugar lump, oats?’
A headshake.
‘All right, then. Just… let me know if you need something, I guess.’ John considered how the unicorn might be able to do this, and added, ‘I feel silly asking this, but do you know Morse code or anything?’
The unicorn tapped out - . - - / . / . . . with his hoof.
‘That’s a yes, then. Okay. I learned Morse code in the army’ — actually, he’d learnt it in secondary school in a particularly embarrassing attempt at coolness, but he saw no reason to tell the unicorn this — ‘so just get my attention first and go slow, and I should be able to understand you.’
The unicorn tapped out, at a particularly mocking snail’s pace, ‘Will do.’ John didn’t know how, but he got the sense that the unicorn had heard what John hadn’t said. Not telepathy, just… figuring things out somehow. The way Sherlock always did.
John shook his head, impatient with himself. He had met an actual unicorn, and he kept thinking about Sherlock? God, he was obsessed.
Maybe it was the hat. And the colour. The unicorn’s mane was the deep black of Sherlock’s hair, while the coat was the lighter black that John suspected he’d forever associate with The Coat. There was even a slight marking around the animal’s shoulders that looked, in a strange way, like a scarf.
John was officially losing it. He sighed, and pulled out his mobile to see if anyone he knew had any tips on equine husbandry.
Greg didn’t know anything. He’d been around horses before, but had mainly tried his best to stay out of kicking range. He highly recommended the approach.
John explained that he was unable to do this, as his bedroom was of insufficient size.
This resulted in a number of all-caps replies, which John ignored.
Next, John tried Mycroft. Unfortunately, Mycroft replied tersely that he was in a meeting, although he was able to recommend a few volumes on the subject. John looked up one of the books. Even the blurb was too dense.
Finally, John texted Molly. It turned out that she had gone through a horse-girl stage (‘ok, several horse-girl stages :P’) and knew everything. Once she found out the details, she immediately asked to come over.
And that was how John found himself providing amateur care to a sarcastic unicorn alongside an enthusiastic mortician. It was, surprisingly, not the weirdest thing he’d ever done.
He wished Sherlock was there.
The rest of the day went pretty smoothly. Molly was excited to see a unicorn and asked a lot of questions, although the unicorn got impatient with John’s slow translations of the Morse code. Eventually John staggered off to bed, giving the unicorn a blanket and Molly a sleeping bag and a toothbrush — she’d decided to sleep on the couch in case any more creatures showed up.
When John woke up, Molly was already in the kitchen, her eyes bright and her hair messy. ‘I made tea’, she said.
John muttered a ‘thank-you’ and gulped the tea.
‘The unicorn’s gone’, she said, once John had finished the mug. ‘I stayed up pretty late, just, you know, reading on my mobile. And the unicorn was just kind of standing in the corner, since he couldn’t really talk to me — I did make him a letter board, but he wouldn’t use it. And then, at the stroke of midnight, according to my mobile at least, he turned into a bat! And flew off!’
‘Flew off where?’ John asked, blearily.
‘Well, uh, I generally like to sleep with the window open, so —’
John waved her off. ‘Yeah, yeah, got it. So he just turned into a bat? Why didn’t he do that before? I mean, if he can shape-shift, why did he spend the whole day as a unicorn?’
‘What I want to know is’, Molly said, ‘where did he go?’
Throughout John’s day, that question buzzed around in his head.
When he came home, the Sun was low in the sky. He headed in, piped a podcast through the speakers, and started heating up dinner. He told himself the open window was just for ventilation. When a little brown bat soared in through the window, he felt secretly, immensely relieved.
The bat, oddly enough, didn’t seem attracted to the kitchen light, or anything like that. It simply glanced around, and then settled down on Sherlock’s chair. And then something happened. The shadows shifted. The bat seemed to grow to an enormous size, waxing like the Moon. And then, there was Sherlock, sitting down with his ankles crossed. He was wearing his usual clothes, but his teeth seemed longer than usual.
‘What the Hell, Sherlock?’ John shouted.
Sherlock, as always, ignored him. ‘I’m starving. I’ve had to stay in a coffin all day. You haven’t eaten any garlic lately, have you?’
‘I — no.’ He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Sherlock. ‘How did you even get in? I thought you had to be invited.’
‘It’s my own home’, Sherlock said. ‘Now, about that meal…’
John suppressed a sigh. He really wanted a proper explanation, but Sherlock was making puppy-dog eyes, and John had never been able to resist the puppy-dog eyes. ‘You know I’m not eligible to donate blood, right?’ he said, more as a delaying tactic than anything else. It wasn’t something he’d ever talked about with Sherlock, but Sherlock knew, didn’t he? He always knew.
Confirming John’s suspicions, Sherlock just nodded. ‘I’m not the bloody Red Cross, John. I know that you get tested regularly, and I know that your tests always come back negative, and I don’t care about the rest.’
‘All right.’ John breathed out. He didn’t ask how Sherlock knew all that. John supposed it was, in its own way, obvious. ‘I’m not letting you bite me, though. You have sterile needles somewhere, right?’
Sherlock gestured to his current chemistry experiment, which was in violation of their lease.
‘Yeah, okay.’ John found what he was looking for and prepared it appropriately. He’d always had good veins. The needle went in. Sherlock eyed him hungrily.
After the syringe was full, he tossed it over to Sherlock, who slurped the contents down. John cleaned up and then got himself a glass of juice. ‘Not that I mind being your personal blood bank, but what’s going on?’
‘I’m cursed’, Sherlock said, licking his lips.
‘You’re what now?’
‘Cursed’, Sherlock repeated. ‘I turn into a different magical creature every midnight. It’s not a very strong curse — Mrs Hudson says it should only last a week.’
‘She’s a witch now, is she?’
‘She dabbles’, Sherlock replied vaguely. ‘Her ex-husband was in a coven of some sort; I’ve never asked the details.’
John sighed. Typical. ‘And how did you get cursed, Sherlock?’
‘Insulted a witch.’
‘Oh my God, Sherlock. Did you make a proposition, is that what did it?’
Sherlock winced. ‘No, even I wouldn’t do that. Do you remember the scandal in Bohemia that we cleared up recently?’
‘Yes, of course’, John said. He had been quite put out with Sherlock’s decision to take the case, considering how badly Irene had been treated.
‘Well, it won’t surprise you to hear that Irene was, shall we say, none too happy with the client. Do you remember that photograph she left behind for her ex? Well, it was cursed, and I made the mistake of touching before he did.’
‘Right, that explains it.’ It did not particularly explain it, but it was probably the best John was going to get.
‘Also, I’m asexual.’
This came as more or less a complete non-sequitur to John. ‘And that made the curse more effective or something?’
‘No.’ He paused to consider it. ‘If anything, it should make it less effective. My client was known for being something of a libertine. But you suggested that I propositioned Irene for sex. I wouldn’t do that, even if I thought she might be interested, because I’m not interested in having sex.’
‘I… okay.’ This had been an evening of many revelations. ‘Thanks for coming out to me, I guess?’
‘You’re welcome’, Sherlock said. He smiled, the low light giving his skin a yellow glow. ‘You came out to me. I just wanted to return the favour.’
Oh, right. John had implied earlier that he’d had sex with men. ‘I suppose I should do it properly, then. I’m John Watson, and I’m bi.’
Sherlock stuck his hand out. ‘Sherlock Holmes, gay asexual consulting detective. Glad to meet you.’
The rest of the week went smoothly enough. Sherlock woke up the next morning as a merman and spent the rest of the day sulking in the bathtub. John brought him all of his meals. Experiments revealed that Sherlock was completely safe staying out of the water, although slightly uncomfortable, but with the tail, he had a tendency to crash into things. Plus, John didn’t want him dripping everywhere. The chemical experiments were bad enough. If he wrecked the hardwood floor, Mrs Hudson might actually raise the rent.
‘Are you going to trade your voice to a sea witch?’ John asked, bringing Sherlock sushi on a tray. He tried to avoid looking at Sherlock’s bare chest. It was bad enough that Sherlock had been turned into a merman — John didn’t want to be attracted to him on top of that.
Sherlock crammed a piece of nigiri into his mouth. ‘Nope. Lesson learned, witches are bad news.’
‘Better not say that in front of Mrs Hudson. She’ll put another curse on you.’
The next day, Sherlock was a griffin. He shed feathers everywhere, which John privately decided to use as stuffing for his next pillow. He also went out flying, and immediately received some very concerned texts from Mycroft.
‘Word gets around quickly, eh?’ John said, when Sherlock told him about this.
‘He received reports of a “large, mysterious creature in the sky” and concluded his brother must be up to something’, Sherlock commented dryly.
John understood Sherlock’s annoyance, but in his own way, he wished he had an older sibling like Mycroft. Harry had always enough on her plate without worrying about her little brother, and John understood that, but it would have been nice if she’d taken more of an interest. He imagined her teasing him about the crush he had on his flatmate. No, it was probably better that she didn’t care.
Sherlock woke up the next morning as a selkie. He took his seal skin off immediately and spent the day as an ordinary human. John stole the seal skin and curled up with it. Since it was still living, it gave off a warmth that surpassed even the best electric blanket.
‘Do you think this is why the woman’s husband in the fairy tale took her skin?’ he asked, huddled under his makeshift blanket. There was a strange intimacy to the situation. It wasn’t like Sherlock couldn’t take the skin back if he wanted to, but still, John had stolen his skin. Did that constitute a selkie marriage? Did John want anything like that with Sherlock?
‘It’s seeming more and more likely’, Sherlock agreed.
And John wondered which question Sherlock was answering.
The next day, John found a note on the breakfast table. It was written very large in crayon and read simply: I am a troll. Spending the day under a bridge, hoping to catch up with the homeless network. Have my mobile with me but thumbs are too big to use it. SH
The next morning, John found a frog on the doormat. He was small, green, and looked very, very grumpy.
‘Hello there’, John said. ‘Croak twice if you’re poisonous.’
Frog Sherlock didn’t make a sound.
‘All right, then. Up you go!’ He picked up Sherlock and carried him inside. ‘I’ll call Mycroft’, he decided, looking down at his flatmate cradled in his hands. ‘He ought to know what frogs eat.’
Mycroft did, in fact, know what frogs ate, and furthermore, had all the necessary pet food on hand. Handing off a grocery bag to John, he said, cryptically, ’I’ve been anticipating something like this.’
‘What do you mean?’ John shouted at Mycroft, but Mycroft had already left.
There wasn’t much to do for the rest of the day. Sherlock croaked out in Morse code that he wanted to listen to an audiobook, so John set one up for him and hung around in case Sherlock needed anything. The audiobook was extremely gruesome, but Sherlock seemed to find it terribly compelling. Despite his better instincts, John was drawn in too.
At the end of the day, after giving Sherlock some food, John said, ‘Well, I’d better turn in now. Can’t wait to see you human again in the morning!’
Sherlock croaked out the Morse code for ‘me too.’
John slept fitfully, dreaming about witches and photographs. He woke up in the night in a cold sweat, and was relieved to see that his skin hadn’t turned green. In the morning, he padded downstairs, telling himself that it was all over.
A small green frog was sitting on the table.
‘Still?’ John said, in disbelief. ‘It’s never lasted past midnight before.’
Sherlock gave him a Look. ‘Clearly has now’, he croaked out in Morse.
‘Right, right. I’m going to find Mrs Hudson.’
With Sherlock in his pocket, John knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door. ‘Sherlock’s still a frog’, he said, without preamble, when she opened it.
She tutted. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how I am? Nobody taught you boys manners, I see. Well, let me look at him.’
Sherlock reluctantly submitted to an examination, which seemed to consist mostly of Mrs Hudson waving her hand over him and muttering incantations. At one point, she burned some herbs that made John cough.
‘The curse that was making him turn into different creatures each night has worn off’, Mrs Hudson concluded. ‘But he seems to be stuck in his current state.’
‘I thought that he’d turn back to human once the curse wasn’t keeping him a frog anymore’, John said. He wished Sherlock had been stuck as a selkie or something instead. At least that way, he would have been able to go about as a human. Plus, John could have kept stealing his skin.
‘The curse isn’t keeping him a frog’, Mrs Hudson corrected. ‘It’s something else.’
‘What is it?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t say, sweetie. I’m no healer. You can ask Mrs Turner if you like — one of her tenants is a necromancer, I heard. Married, too.’
John turned down the offer, although he was starting to get curious about Mrs Turner. Instead, he plodded upstairs, set Sherlock down, and texted Molly about the situation.
Molly texted back almost immediately: Kiss him.
What? John replied.
He’s a frog. Kiss him.
John relayed this to Sherlock, who gave a froggish imitation of a shrug. At a loss, John brought Sherlock to his lips. He felt, at first, clamminess, and then spreading warmth. When he opened his eyes, Sherlock Holmes was in his arms, fully human.
‘So you were a frog prince after all’, John said, grinning foolishly.
‘I guess so’, Sherlock replied.
‘I really liked that’, John admitted.
‘Yeah’, Sherlock said. ‘I noticed.’ And he kissed John again.
Later, John asked, ‘Why do you think Irene did it? I mean, you said she’d meant the curse for her ex, right? So why did she want him to be a frog prince?’
‘Well’, Sherlock said, ‘turning someone you don’t like into a frog is a classic move for a witch. The series of transformations prior was probably part of a novelty curse; I doubt she created it herself, although she probably found it amusing. For her, the point was the final stage, where he would turn into a frog. I’m no witch, but I expect that curse could be lifted only by the victim’s true love. He did not love his new fiancée; therefore, the curse would not lift when she kissed him.’
‘And you love me’, John realised.
‘I do’, Sherlock said. ‘I’ve loved you for a long time.’
John kissed him. ‘Me too.’
‘I suppose it was all for the best’, Sherlock said. ‘I don’t know if we would have gotten together without this.’
‘We might have, eventually.’
‘But not nearly as quickly’, Sherlock countered. He gazed off into space for a bit, then snapped his fingers. ‘Do you think she meant it for me?’
‘What?’ John asked, genuinely confused.
‘The curse. She definitely knew I was in love with you, she kept making little digs at me about it. Do you suppose she cursed the photograph, knowing I’d pick it up?’
‘I guess it’s possible’, John said. ‘Somehow I don’t really want to find her and ask, though.’
Sherlock nodded, fingering the sovereign Irene had given him, which he had kept in his pocket. It was a vintage coin, bearing the visage of Queen Victoria. ‘It will, I expect, remain a mystery.’
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