Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1166929.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes, Mummy_Holmes, Father_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Dark_Sherlock, Werewolf_John, Werewolves, Top_Sherlock, Bottom_John
  Series:
      Part 1 of Trust
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-03 Words: 4964
****** To Trust Wholly ******
by Wolf_dog
Summary
     John was born as a wolf but has the abilities to turn into a human.
     His parents abandon him, and Sherlock finds him and takes him in and
     teaches him.
John was a werewolf, but he had been born as a wolf with wolf parents and a
wolf pack. Of course, his name hadn’t been John, then. It had been Sand, named
after the colour of his fur. He hadn’t gotten the name John for another three
years. He could understand both human and wolf languages, and the first time he
had transformed into human, he was three years old. His mother had nearly
killed him when she’d come back from her hunting trip and found the toddler in
amongst her litter, playing, until John had started whining happily at her and
telling her what they’d been up to. He would never remember the look of horror
in his mother’s eyes as she stared at him as a human boy. He hadn’t understood
– not back then – why his mother had looked at him like that. He’d transformed
back within the hour and was playing happily when his father came, and he gave
a happy yip, trotting up to the dark-brown wolf and tumbling around his paws.
His mother slipped into the den and curled around the rest of her litter, not
looking as his father picked him up gently by the scruff of his neck and
started walking away. He whined, asking where they were going, but his father
never replied. John grew anxious the further they went from the Den and he told
his father as such, but all he got in reply was a low rumble. After that, John
stayed quiet, slipping into a near-doze. He woke when his father set him down,
and he shook out his thick fur and sat up, looking around excitedly. He doubted
any of his littermates had ever gone this far away from the Den before! He
yapped happily, bouncing around his father’s paws, and his father nosed his
forehead gently, before he licked John’s back and pushed him in the direction
on the tree line, and John happily bounded in that direction, and when he
looked back, his father was gone. Confused and scared, he whined anxiously,
tail pressing between his legs and he crouched into the ground, wishing his
father would return and find him. John gave a high-pitched whine, panting in
terror. Where had his father gone? Why had he left him here?
“Come!” A soft, persistent and demanding voice called.
John’s fuzzy ears pricked, and his head swivelled in that direction. It was an
unfamiliar voice, and John crawled his way over to it, poking his head out from
under a bush, curious. There was a young human boy, with piercing multi-
coloured eyes, pale skin and a mop of curly black hair. He was just sitting on
the ground with his legs crossed. John wagged his tail and gave a whine of
greeting, but stayed in the safety of the bushes just in case. The boy turned
his head to face him and gave a small smile, beckoning with his hand. “Come,”
he repeated, softer this time, eyes trained totally on John.
John, unable to resist the call, scurried out of his hiding place and trotted
over, ears pricked and panting softly, and gave another soft whine of greeting.
The boy smiled softly and reached out a hand, and John nuzzled into it gently.
He gave a whine of distress as he was picked up in a both hands, but the boy
shushed him softly yet firmly, and stroked a hand down his back with surprising
gentleness. John was at least half the size of the boy, but he curled up in the
boy’s lap anyway, nuzzling into his chest and inhaling his scent. He smelt
nice, comforting, and John closed his eyes, rumbling in content as a hand
continued to stroke down his back, his tail wagging happily.
John’s ears pricked, body tensing slightly as a voice called out sternly,
“Sherlock! Time for lunch!”
John gave a soft whine, tail and ears drooping. Would the boy leave him all
alone now? He didn’t want that. He looked up at Sherlock with anxious and
pleading eyes. Sherlock stared down at him for a few moments with a small
smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Promise,” Sherlock reassured him
softly, scratching lightly behind John’s ears.
Sherlock gently pushed John from his lap and then stood, stretching his little
arms above his head. “Come… John,” Sherlock ordered with a small smile,
obviously pleased with the name he had chosen for the werewolf.
John’s ears pricked and he gave a happy bark, following Sherlock back to the
huge house. There was a woman – Sherlock’s mother? – standing by the door,
looking very tired. She frowned as she spotted John, and picked him up as
Sherlock passed by her and into the house.  John whined anxiously, ears
flattening and tail tucking between his legs. Sherlock didn’t seem to have
noticed, and John whined again, this time louder and more high-pitched as
Sherlock’s mother frowned at him and John could hear the heavy footsteps of
Sherlock rushing towards him as John squirmed in the long-fingered grip,
whining continuously.
“Mother!” Sherlock protested, and John caught a glimpse of him and saw that the
young boy was frowning, “Give John back to me! He’s mine!”
“Yours?” Sherlock’s mother asked and trilled a cold laugh. “He’s a mutt,
Sherlock, and I will not allow mutts inside this house!”
John stilled in fear, twisting to face Sherlock with a pleading expression.
Sherlock would take care of him, wouldn’t he? “He’s not a mutt!” Sherlock
protested vehemently, scowling, his expression suddenly dark, “he’s a wolf! A
purebred!”
John kept his gaze on Sherlock, whining softly and his tail twitching slightly,
anxious. Sherlock glanced at him, and his expression softened slightly, before
hardening as he looked back to his mother.
John could sense Sherlock’s mother wavering, and finally she sighed and handed
John off to Sherlock, who gripped him tight to his chest and turned without so
much as another glance towards his mother. John nuzzled close, his nose
pressing against Sherlock’s neck, just below his ear, and he whined softly,
tail wagging and he licked Sherlock in thanks. Sherlock stroked a hand firmly
down his back, and John relaxed against him. Walking into a room, Sherlock set
John down and told him firmly, “Stay by my side, John. I won’t let anyone else
try and take you away. Do you understand?”
John nodded, ears pricked and he wagged his tail once.
                                    *.*.*.
The next morning, Sherlock began training John on how to be good. John tried
his best, he really did, and John was completely devoted to Sherlock and did
everything he could to please him. John would never forget, however, the first
time Sherlock punished him.
It was only a month after Sherlock had started training him and John had broken
Sherlock’s first rule – never go outside of the room without Sherlock. To be
fair, Sherlock had left him alone in the room for only an hour, but John wanted
to be sure that Sherlock was alright, and had gone to try and investigate. When
he’d found Sherlock, safe and well, Sherlock had been absolutely furious. John
understood that the Rules were there to protect him, but he had wanted to be
sure that Sherlock was alright.
After taking him back to their room, Sherlock had firmly shut the door and
ordered John to sit. Ears drooping, John had done so, giving a soft whine.
“John,” Sherlock said in a soft voice, walking over to John, “You disobeyed me.
You know I have to punish you for that.”
John dipped his head, eyes on the floor. John listened to Sherlock approach,
and he leant into the feel of Sherlock’s small, four-year old hand on his furry
cheek, and John gave a yelp and was sent sprawling onto the floor as the hand
slapped him with unexpected force. Whimpering softly, John looked up at
Sherlock, and saw the boy coming over to him and crouching in front of him,
gently stroking down his back in a now-familiar comforting manner.
“Now. You won’t do that again, will you, John?” Sherlock asked, and John forced
himself to meet Sherlock’s gaze and shook his head and was rewarded with a
smile.  “Good boy,” Sherlock praised and John’s heart lifted and his tail
thumped against the floor. “The rules are there to protect you. By breaking
them, you place yourself in danger and I don’t want that to happen.”
                                    *.*.*.
It was four years later the first time John transformed in Sherlock’s house. It
wasn’t that he didn’t want to show Sherlock that, it was merely that John had
forgotten about it. He hadn’t even meant to transform. He’d curled up on the
end of Sherlock’s bed (a privilege that he’d earned) in his wolf form while
Sherlock went to school, and gone to sleep like he usually did.
When Sherlock burst in a few hours later, John woke with a start and lifted his
head sleepily and he stretched out and realised with a start that he must have
transformed while he slept.
“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded, striding over to him and looking around, a
tinge of worry in his gaze, “Where’s John?”
“Sh-er-lo-ck,” John sounded out as he sat up, and then a pleased smile came
over his face. “Sher-lock,” John said again, just because he could, and looked
happily over at Sherlock, who was frowning.
“Who are you?” Sherlock repeated, more firmly, looking more confused now.
Slipping from the bed and standing, John walked in a loose circle, getting used
to just two legs instead of four, and then pointed to him, pointing to his
heart, and said, “Jo-hn. John.”
“John?” Sherlock repeated, a note of disbelief in his voice. “You’re John. My
John?”
John nodded his head happily, and ducked his head like he always did when he
wanted Sherlock to pat him. Sherlock’s hand came out and stroked through John’s
soft blonde hair. “John,” Sherlock repeated in a murmur before stepping back
and demanding, “Show me.”
John hesitated a moment before admitting, “Don’t know how.”
“You don’t know how to transform back?” Sherlock asked and John nodded.
“Sit,” Sherlock commanded, waving a hand towards the bed, and John obediently
sat and watched as Sherlock paced, hands pressed together under his nose.
After some time, Sherlock strode over to John and he was smiling, a gleam in
his eyes. “This is perfect!” Sherlock exclaimed, and flopped onto the bed
beside him. John rolled over and cuddled up to his side, and Sherlock absently
placed a hand in John’s hair and stroked gently. “Do you want to stay with me?”
Sherlock asked and John instantly nodded, “Forever?” Sherlock clarified.
“For-ev-er,” John repeated happily.
“Good,” Sherlock said, sounding immensely satisfied.
                                    *.*.*.
From then on, Sherlock taught John in both forms, even figuring out how to get
John to transform between them. In human, Sherlock taught him how to speak and
write in English, as well as how to fight and do mathematics. In wolf, Sherlock
continued with his training on how to be good, and it was implied that John
needed to follow these no matter which form he was in, and taught John how to
fight.
Every now and then, Sherlock would grant him rewards for being good and not
breaking any of his rules. Sometimes it would be a simple pat on the head, or a
‘good boy, John’ and he was even allowed to sleep at Sherlock’s side in the
bed. John was completely devoted to Sherlock. He’d do anything Sherlock asked.
Once, when John was in human form, a few years later when Sherlock was twelve,
Sherlock ordered John to sit on the edge of the bed. John, well used to
Sherlock’s orders that didn’t seem to have any purpose, sat without hesitation
or question on the edge of the bed, eyes focussed completely on Sherlock as the
twelve year old paced, hands folded in the now-familiar position.
It was a few minutes of silence before Sherlock ordered him, “Close your eyes,
John.”
Immediately complying, John knew better than to question Sherlock. He felt
breath waft over him, and resisted the urge to look or ask a question, and
after a few moments, John felt a gentle, soft pressure against his lips. A
surprised sound escaped him, and he leant forward into the sensation slightly.
It felt nice.
“Open your eyes,” Sherlock whispered, his breath wafting over John and he
inhaled, loving the scent as he opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock with a
small smile.
“M-my heart,” John said softly in confusion, reaching a hand to rub against his
chest, “It feels funny. Warm. Is this… normal?”
Sherlock’s eyes darted over his face, and then he smiled. “I feel it too,”
Sherlock murmured softly, “It’s love, John.”
John tilted his head to the side. “Love? Like… like parents love each other?”
John asked, blinking.
Sherlock nodded. “Yes, John. Would you do anything for me?”
“Anything at all. I’d die for you, Sherlock,” John told Sherlock honestly.
“And you care for me?”
“More than anything – much more than myself. I swear it.”
Sherlock smiled in satisfaction, but it turned into a scowl as there was a
knock at the door and Sherlock’s brother appeared.
“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded, drawing himself up to his full
height and glaring at his older sibling.
Mycroft ignored him, and his gaze strayed to John instead. John blinked in
surprise, and his gaze turned to Sherlock.
“You know,” Mycroft said coolly, “Mummy would hate to see you with a mere
commoner.”
Sherlock visibly bristled and laid a hand on John’s hair, stroking his hair and
John leant into the touch, eyes half-closing.
“John is not a commoner, Mycroft. He is the furthest thing from common, and you
will never know why, Mycroft,” Sherlock said coldly, eyes hard as they gazed at
his brother.
“It would be a … shame if Mummy found out about your pet, brother,” Mycroft
said, glancing down at his feet with disdain before back up at Sherlock.
Sherlock’s grip tightened before he released John’s hair completely. “Do what
you will, Mycroft. You cannot keep us apart. Neither John nor I will let that
happen. Right, John?” Sherlock said, looking down at John.
“Never. I’d rather die,” John vowed, gaze locked on Sherlock.
There was a soft huff, before the door closed and Mycroft was gone. “Good boy,
John,” Sherlock praised him, and John smiled happily.
                                    *.*.*.
It was only a mere week later before It happened. John was in wolf form,
napping on Sherlock’s bed, when he heard Sherlock’s voice raised in outrage
with a slight hint of fear and panic. Instantly awake and on alert, John’s ears
pricked.
“JOHN!” Sherlock yelled loudly, and John could hear muffled thumps and his
blood boiled. Someone dared try to harm his Sherlock? “COME, JOHN!”
Without another thought, John leapt off of the bed and bent his head, ramming
the bedroom door with the flat of his forehead, breaking it cleanly off of its
hinges, and, breathing in a deep breath, raced along the halls and down a
flight of stairs before he found Sherlock in the living room, Sherlock’s
mother, father and Mycroft watching as men restrained Sherlock forcibly.
Growling low in his throat, hackles raised, he stalked into the room, eyes
darting around. Sherlock visibly relaxed when he saw John. “Release me or I’ll
have John kill you!” Sherlock threatened.
Sherlock’s father snorted and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Take him out and to the
car,” Sherlock’s father ordered.
“John!” Sherlock commanded, and John didn’t need any further instructions.
Leaping from where he stood, teeth bared in a fearsome snarl and claws
extended, he leapt onto one of the people restraining Sherlock, taking care to
avoid the tween who had taken care of him and loved him and taught him so much,
and knocked him to the floor, ripping into him with his claws, not caring about
the blood that gushed and oozed from the man as he weakly tried to push John
off. He would not be stopped! Sherlock had given him an order, and John would
fulfil it. John leant down and tore a chunk out of the man’s throat, spitting
it to the side away from Sherlock and snarling in his face before the man died
and John looked up, blood staining his fur and claws and dripping from his jaw.
Everyone was staring at him in horror except for Sherlock, who was looking at
him with approval. John warmed at the look, pleased.
The other thug was still holding Sherlock, a look of horror on his now-pale
face, and John’s eyes went to the thugs beefy hands on Sherlock’s thin arm,
pressing in hard and John growled threateningly, stalking towards him, ears
flattened.
“John!” Sherlock shouted, eyes wide as John’s ear flicked at the sound of
movement and he spun around, tackling another thug to the ground, snarling and
he hardly flinched as a knife struck into his shoulder.
The thug’s eyes widened in shock as he saw how John was obviously bleeding, but
not even twitching, instead waiting for Sherlock’s command.
“Kill,” Sherlock’s voice was cold. “All of the hired goons.”
Tail flicking in acknowledgement, John went for the throat, and wrapped his
jaws around the man’s throat, squeezing the life out of him, anger boiling
through him. No one would threaten his Sherlock and get away with it. No one.
Then, he released the man and twisted his head and closed his jaws around the
knife in his shoulder and tugged it out before spitting it onto the ground. The
other thug released Sherlock and started backing away, but it was too late for
him. John stalked across the room, snarling and baring his bloody teeth, and
then leapt, tackling the man to the ground an ignoring his futile struggles and
punches and crushed his throat like he’d done to the others.
Once the man was dead, John stepped off of him and sat down by Sherlock’s side,
nuzzling him tenderly and checking to make sure that he wasn’t harmed, and
making sure that none of the blood on his fur got on Sherlock. His shoulder was
oozing blood, but John paid it no mind as Sherlock gently pet John’s head,
glaring at his family. “I warned you to not try and force us apart,” Sherlock
said, his anger evident in voice. “John is mine.”
“Sherlock,” Sherlock’s mother said in a deceptively sweet voice, “John is a
wolf. How can you be sure that he won’t turn on you?”
John bristled at the accusation. As if he would turn on Sherlock! He loved
Sherlock. With all his heart.
“Forever, right, John?” Sherlock addressed him, and John nodded eagerly,
pressing his nose gently to Sherlock’s cheek.
John, now eleven, was a fully grown wolf, and his shoulders came up to
Sherlock’s cheekbones, and his head was above Sherlock’s height.
“He can’t understand you, dear. He reacts to tones,” Sherlock’s mother said
softly.
John gave a short growl, but quietened instantly as Sherlock pet his head once
more before sighing and saying, “John. Go get the ring finger from the thug
that you attacked first from his right hand and place it in front of Mycroft’s
left foot.”
John dipped his head and trotted over to the thug, tearing off his ring finger
from the right beefy hand and went over to Mycroft, placing it in front of the
older sibling’s left foot before retreating to Sherlock’s side and his tail
wagged happily as Sherlock looked at him warmly. Love. That’s what Sherlock had
said this feeling was.
Sherlock’s family was silent, and John saw their expressions of mixed horror
and fear. Good. They should fear. John could smell it in the air, and he gave a
vicious toothy, bloody grin. Sherlock’s mother flinched.
“We’re leaving. Come, John,” Sherlock commanded and turned, stalking off, but
Sherlock’s father blocked the doorway, scowling.
“Father! NO!” Mycroft called out, sounding slightly panicked as Sherlock glared
at him.
“I will give you one chance to move out of my way,” Sherlock said coldly, and
John’s fur bristled, claws scratching gently on the wooden floor in warning.
“You wouldn’t kill your own father,” Sherlock’s father scoffed, and Sherlock’s
eyes narrowed. “You will stay here, you will apologise and then you will get
rid of your pet.”
Sherlock sighed, and clicked his fingers together gently. John leapt and
knocked the man to the ground, holding him there and snarling in his face.
“Apologise to John and I will spare your life,” Sherlock warned, and John
growled loudly, ears flat.
“I will never-“ Sherlock’s father started before Sherlock sighed and said,
“John.”
John wasted no time in capturing the man’s head in his jaws and twisting
savagely, hearing the crunch of bones and feeling the life drain from the man
under him. Sherlock didn’t spare his father another glance, instead stepping
over him and carrying on towards their room with John following.
                                    *.*.*.
Sherlock still held all of the money he had inherited, plus he got a third of
what his father had left, so they were quite well off. At fifteen, they had
moved into the middle of London, and were quite comfortable.
The first time they did anything sexual (besides kissing) was on John’s
fifteenth birthday. It was a treat, Sherlock told him with a grin as he ordered
John onto his knees. John felt a stir of excitement and anticipation roll
through him. A treat! That was like a really good birthday present.
They were in their room, and Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, long locks
falling in front of his face for a moment as he tugged off his trousers and
pants. At Sherlock’s gesture, John crawled forward, eyes locked onto Sherlock’s
hardening cock with curiosity. “Since it’s your birthday, you can explore,”
Sherlock told him and smiled as John looked up at him with eagerness.
John shifted even closer, his hands resting on Sherlock’s thighs as he leant in
close and nuzzled at the warm skin with his nose. Soft, but it was getting
harder. Curious. Sherlock’s hands slipped into his hair, and John looked up to
see Sherlock with a pleased expression on his face, so John continued. He
licked at the head, tasting the small clear drop that had formed at the tip. It
was salty, but it tasted nice.
Sherlock made a noise of pleasure, and John took that as encouragement as he
licked up and down the shaft, tasting and measuring the feel of it. John took
his time, savouring both the feel and taste as well as the fact that Sherlock
was letting him take his time and do what he wished. After some time of
exploring, Sherlock’s cock was hard and leaking, and John looked up for
guidance, unsure what to do now. He’d explored, but he wanted to give Sherlock
pleasure.
Sherlock’s face was flushed, but his hands were gentle as he stroked through
John’s hair. “Take me in your mouth,” Sherlock ordered softly as he caught
John’s look.
Relieved to have a firm order, John opened his mouth and took in the head
first, licking and suckling until Sherlock gently tugged on his hair, and John
slid his mouth all the way down. Sherlock moaned loudly, and John felt pleased
that he could give Sherlock such pleasure. The weight and the feel of it was
amazing, and John found that he rather loved it. John slid his head back,
flicking the slit with his tongue and tasting the saltiness once more, before
sliding back down, making a questioning sound and looking up at Sherlock for
approval. Sherlock’s eyes were shut and he was breathing heavily, and he gave a
shiver, “Don’t stop,” Sherlock rasped, and John set back to work even more
eagerly than before.
He loved being able to give pleasure to Sherlock in any form, and John rather
loved doing this. It was an almost addicting feel. After a minute or two,
Sherlock’s hips began twitching up into his mouth, and the feel of it was
divine, and John gave an eager whine, opening his jaw wide in invitation.
Sherlock started down at him, breathing heavily, and managed to get out, “It’s
meant to be your present.”
John pulled off, and smiled softly up at Sherlock. “Your pleasure brings me
pleasure. Please!” John said eagerly, shifting himself slightly closer and
opening his mouth wide once again, eyes locked onto Sherlock, waiting.
Sherlock stared down at him for a moment, eyes dark with lust, and then thrust
his hips hard into John’s mouth, John whining eagerly in encouragement as
Sherlock stood, pounding into John’s warm inviting mouth eagerly.
Experimentally swallowing as Sherlock thrust in, John watched as Sherlock
moaned loudly, his grip on John’s hair tightening, but his eyes never closed,
locked on John’s eager eyes staring up at him.
Not long passed before Sherlock gave a cry, and came hard into John’s mouth,
shooting his seed down John’s throat, who swallowed the salty treat eagerly,
licking every last drop up before pulling off. Sherlock had closed his eyes,
and was panting heavily, his grip tight in John’s hair.
John stood and gently pushed Sherlock back onto the bed, lying him down and
tugging Sherlock’s clothes off completely before tucking him under the covers
and then snuggling close to Sherlock on top of them.
“Under, John. Join me,” Sherlock murmured, and John brightened, instantly
snuggling under the covers and into Sherlock’s side, resting his head on
Sherlock’s chest, half-covering Sherlock, and sighing happily.
Sherlock’s arms wrapped around his waist, and frowned slightly. “Clothes, off,”
Sherlock ordered, tugging at John’s shirt.
John quickly obeyed the command, sitting up and tugging off his shirt and
throwing it off the bed before tugging off his trousers and his pants, chucking
them off as well before settling back down in his position and Sherlock’s arm
wrapped back around his waist and sighed contentedly. The last thing John heard
before falling asleep was a quiet, “Good boy, John. Good boy.”
                                    *.*.*.
The first time John got the chance to protect Sherlock away from the Sherlock’s
family, was at night, when they were on their way back home from a park (one of
Sherlock and John’s favourite things to do at night, after everyone else had
retreated to their beds, and John could transform and run around as he
pleased). John had been in human, and holding Sherlock’s hand tightly, swinging
slightly, and they were both grinning. Tonight, Sherlock had gone on John’s
back as the werewolf raced about the park. John had noticed the presence of the
men first, sneaking behind them, and he stiffened, gently shoving Sherlock up
against the wall and pressing his back against Sherlock’s chest, a growl
rumbling through him as he eyed the three men approaching. All of them looked
to be in their 30’s, with sneers on their faces, and John’s eyes rapidly
assessed them all, waiting for Sherlock’s command.
John’s arms were spread to either side, fingertips lightly brushing the wall to
protect Sherlock and keep him away from the danger, a growl rumbling from his
chest, eyes flickering between all three threats. “I think it would be best if
you all left me and my love alone,” Sherlock warned quietly.
The three glanced between themselves in amusement, “Your love?” One sneered,
“How old are you? Not even eighteen, I’d say. Your love is sure to leave you
eventually.”
John snarled at the accusation, only quietening when Sherlock gently stroked a
hand down his back, hand resting above John’s arse.
“He will never leave,” Sherlock said confidently, and another of the men
sniggered as they gradually drew close.
“Keep back!” John snapped, his body tensing in preparation of a fight.
They put their hands up placatingly, and John caught the glimpse of a knife
under the coat of one, but he still waited, murmuring in agitation, “Sherlock.
Please.”
John tilted into Sherlock’s hand coming back up his back and gripping his hair,
turning his head to the side pressing his lips wetly to John’s, making the
werewolf shiver, and then pet his arse and whispered lovingly, “Go on. Kill.”
John let a grin creep across his face, and he waited until Sherlock let go of
his hair and had ordered sharply, “Don’t let them hurt you!” before John lunged
at them, using the skills Sherlock had taught him, and quickly snapped the neck
of two in quick succession before turning on the third – the one with the
knife.
Except, he was closer to Sherlock than John had thought he was, and darted
forward as the other lunged towards Sherlock. John’s heart seemed to stop as
Sherlock looked up and reacted, dislodging the knifed hand easily and punching
the man in the face before stepping back as the man went sprawling and John
tackled the man to the floor, slamming the man’s head back onto the floor and
snarling in his face before coldly snapping his neck.
John’s body was shaking as he approached Sherlock, eyes darting rapidly over
Sherlock, concerned. “I’m sorry,” John whimpered, his voice shaking and head
lowered as he stopped just in front of Sherlock.
Sherlock studied him for what felt like forever, before smiling slightly and
bringing John in for a gentle kiss. “Don’t be. You can’t watch all of them at
once.”
Smiling in relief, John ducked his head like he always did when he wanted a
pat, and Sherlock obligingly stroked a gentle hand through his hair, causing
John to sigh happily and leant into his touch.
Sherlock took his hand again and guided him home, where they curled up naked
under all the blankets and drew comfort from the other’s presence. 
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