You're a dog. (Log; complete.)
Her day started with a ringing alarm clock. Buffy picked up the old fashioned clock and stared listlessly for over twenty minutes before deciding to turn it off. Even then, she did not immediately rise from her bed.
She showered. Dressed. Weapons were serviced and cleaned and then put away. The house was tidied. There were exactly two dishes to be done in the sink.
And then she had the rest of the day. There were no trips to the Magic Box. No Big Bads to investigate. Patrols were normally saved for sundown. That meant there were several hours left to fill. So Buffy took heavy steps and spent much of that time breaking the imagined bones of a high end, professional grade punching bag.
At least the asylum had mixed things up. (What a terrible thought.)
As glad as John was to have Sherlock back, he was quickly reminded of all of the irritating qualities that sometimes drove him to distraction. The violin at three a.m. The moping when he got bored. The horrifying experiment on whatever-it-was in their kitchen sink. Some days? He had to get out. Losing his temper did no good, so John had taken to cooling off by wandering away. In London, that would’ve meant popping in to see Sarah. In the City? He reasoned that Buffy probably wouldn’t mind.
He texted first, a message to say that he was coming by and, if she weren’t in the mood for company, that it would be fine. He was leaving early to deal with any barriers the City might throw at him - just text and he’d turn around.
The trip over wasn’t any trouble, though, and he was at her door inside of half an hour. No texts. So, he lifted a hand to knock.
Buffy used to listen to music while she trained; lots of pop music and dance beats. Just as long as it wasn’t Cher. She didn’t listen to music anymore which was why she was able to hear the knock from upstairs. Buffy grabbed a towel and jogged up the stairs, opening the door in yoga pants, indoor tennis shoes and black tank top.
She hadn’t heard her phone vibrate when he texted. Oops. But she looked pleased to see him anyway, opening the door wide for him. “Hey. Come on in.”
“Thanks,” John stepped inside - he didn’t need to be asked twice. “Flatmate’s driving me crazy, I had to get out. It was that or shout at him, which is about as productive as shouting at a wall. He’s a wonderful, brilliant man. He’s also completely infuriating.” And there was no arguing with him, because he had a tendency to be technically right, even if socially or emotionally there was a different, preferable answer. Yes, if the violin were a necessary prop and helped Sherlock focus his thoughts - if the music led to solved cases and saved lives - it was more important than John’s sleep.
It just wasn’t very considerate. AUGH. John took a breath and forced some calm. He was at Buffy’s. She was pleasant company, and he needed to stop brooding.
“Sorry. I didn’t come to complain. How have you been?”
Buffy shrugged, “I probably shouldn’t complain things are quiet, living in The City and all.”
Being a warrior Buffy was at her best in the thick of it-- even her witticisms were more clever. Puttering around the house was not her style or preference. Not anymore. Even if she was trying to be productive. She closed the door softly behind John.
“I’ve got a spare bedroom if you need to crash. Unless that’s too weird? On the bright side at least The City brought Sherlock Holmes in. ...That is a bright side, right? It isn’t Robert Downey Jr, is it?”
Buffy couldn’t say just Sherlock or Holmes. It had to be Sherlock Holmes. Besides Dracula, the slayer couldn’t think of a bigger legend she might possibly meet.
“No. God, no. It’s him, the proper one - the one who texts me because he needs to borrow my mobile. The one who’s...” Ah. And he said he wouldn’t complain. John shut his mouth and smiled sheepishly.
“You can complain. There’s a difference between ‘trapped in a mental institution’ and ‘ordinary boredom.’ Honestly, I’m suffering a little from the latter, myself.” John lifted his shoulders into a shrug. “I could go looking for a job, but I’m still not sure my credentials would be any good. It’s not as if I have any of my paperwork.”
And Buffy didn’t work. He remembered as much from one of their earlier conversations. John again felt a burst of curiosity about her pastimes, but couldn’t decide how to ask her about them. Well. Maybe he’d get a chance to see - he was, after all, in her house again.
“You won’t know until you check it out.” Buffy shrugged. “Pizza for dinner? I can make a mean bowl of cereal and all but the pizza’s probably safer. And later if you’re not feeling too British afterward we can have one giant Complain-Fest. Or not. It’s okay if you need to vent.”
Buffy pivoted, walking a few steps to open the basement door. She tossed the towel down the stairs which landed across the room on the laundry machine before clicking the door shut. “As awesome as the training montage look is, I think I’m going to change. I can show you the upstairs if you like? It’s like a floor of stuff, built over another floor. Of stuff.”
See? Buffy was boring. Nothing to see here. She hoped. Walking upstairs she motioned to a clean but clearly unused room, spacious with a king-sized bed. “Master bedroom. Very swanky. Connects to it’s own bathroom.”
The only thing out of place was a small cardboard box which had been left out. Inside was a gold pocket watch which ticked innocently away.
‘Too British?’ That stopped John’s grump-fest. He laughed and ducked his head. “No, no. Pizza’s fine, but I’m really alright. Unless you want an, ah, a Complain-Fest. In which case, sure.” He’d gotten his fussing out of the way. Probably. Sure, sometimes he felt a bit like a sidekick, a visitor in his own home, but he knew it wasn’t intentional on Sherlock’s part.
On the tour, he was careful to keep his hands in his pockets and to not touch anything, although he did notice the cardboard box with the watch. Something nagged at the edge of his mind - why had it been left out? - but he forgot to ask as they moved on from room to room. How was he to know that he was making a terrible mistake?
“It’s a lot of space,” John observed. “Our flat is much smaller. Which, I suppose, is the heart of the problem. Two people trapped in a few rooms. There’s an upstairs, though, so there’s some escape.”
“Alright. I’m going to change, we’ll order pizza...” Buffy paused for a moment. “Yep. Just a normal night in the Summers’ house.”
Buffy excused herself to go into her room and close the door. She took a few extra moments to check for anything that might look strange in her room and shove it under the bed or into the closet. Once the examination and clean up was over, she riffled through her wardrobe. Leather pants were so not an option. Great for slaying, not so great for hanging out. She settled on a pair of skinny jeans and a sweater and comfortable flat souled shoes.
All the while there was something nagging at her. Something maybe she forgot to hide. Buffy stared at her collection of cross necklaces which made up 90% of her jewelry collection. Crosses were normalish, it wasn’t that. The basement door was closed. There wasn’t anything in the living room downstairs or the kitchen. She ran through a mental check list of rooms in her house until she thought of the master bedroom. It took a few more moments to click. The--
“Cursed watch.”
Buffy took approximately three seconds to process the information before she bolted from her room into the hallway. “Hey, whatever you do don’t touch the--”
Meanwhile, John had lagged behind. There wasn’t much to do while Buffy changed, so he wandered back into the large empty bedroom to look around. The watch in the cardboard box seemed so out of place - all of the other signs said that the room was largely unused, but then there was a trinket sitting in the open. He reasoned he’d put it away - stash it in a drawer, or...
...well, alright, he was snooping a little. Not in cupboards or under the bed, not in a nosy way, but the watch was out and right there and it was something to do with himself until Buffy returned.
He touched the watch and abruptly lost about four feet in height.
When Buffy turned the corner, she’d find a Collie sitting in the middle of the room, looking - if dogs could have such expressions - rather perplexed. John had no idea what had just happened, which was lucky, because if he’d realized he was a dog he’d have been so humiliated.
“....Watch.”
Buffy looked down at the ‘lassie dog’ with a wince. It was an iconic dog, and even if she didn’t recognize the breed she recognized what he’d been changed into.
“Okay, before you freak out, it’s really not that bad. We can fix this. It’s fixable. This one witch turned me into a rat once. No biggie. I mean, besides the fact that my friend Oz found me naked when I was transformed back, no biggie. And if it’s like the last person the watch cursed, you can at least talk and still think. Way better than when I was turned into a rat. So...”
Buffy frowned.
“...Magic is real. This probably isn’t the best way of finding out. I am so sorry, John. But really, I’m sure we can have this fixed in no time.”
She tired her best to nod reassuringly.
Alright. That was officially too much to process. John Watson had hit his limit.
Buffy must’ve been right about his mind remaining intact, for the perplexed dog looked down at his feet. Yep, paws. Then he looked back up at Buffy. And, of all the things he could’ve remarked upon - magic being real, the fact that Buffy had been a rat, or the fact that the watch had cursed someone before - he went for the obvious. “Of all the animals,” he mumbled, “it had to be a dog.”
It was like some terrible family film from the late 1950s. Mortifying.
Internally, he was freaking out. Cursed! How did you get uncursed? And how was he going to function without opposable thumbs? But outwardly, he looked calm. Thank goodness for relatively inexpressive canine faces. “What -- how -- what do I have to do to turn back?” And then, after a pause, “Magic.” Impossible. Except that it apparently wasn’t.
Buffy crouched down to be closer to eye level.
“I’m not exactly sure,” she confessed. “I was kind of on this City-forced scavenger hunt once and we broke into this shop called The Magic Box. One of the people I was with touched the watch and then, well, it turned him into a cat. I guess it likes to mix things up. But when I escaped the asylum there was someone who called herself the Scarlet Witch. I’m sure she could undo this.”
The Slayer at least sounded hopeful.
“The other fellow - the cat. He didn’t end his days as a cat, did he?” If the other man hadn’t turned back, John was going to have to break down and call Sherlock. Actually, he’d probably have to do that eventually, no matter what. Didn’t mean he was in a hurry to admit his predicament. “There was a Scarlet Witch.”
What was a Scarlet Witch, anyway? “Like, pointy hat and cauldron? I don’t -- witches are make-believe. Herbalists and people who understood the natural world and were distrusted because of it. There aren’t actually witches.” But he didn’t sound convinced. Until a few moments ago, he hadn’t believed that a grown man could turn into a dog, either.
“I think that was her witch name or something. I’m not exactly sure, but I wouldn’t have gotten out of the asylum without her powers. No pointy hat or cauldron required. As for the other guy, I don’t think so. He left with his things and I don’t think he could have done so as a six pound cat. He wasn’t real big with the goodbyes, I guess.”
Buffy exhaled.
“The good news is at the top of each hour you’ll turn human again. For just a minute but it’s better than nothing. You can stay here, I’ll go out and see if I can find her or someone magicky?”
John fought the urge to say something snide about his one minute of humanity per hour. Buffy hadn’t made him touch that watch. Still, he was feeling a little overwhelmed, and he didn’t trust himself to remain pleasant. The dog huffed a few times, its sides heaving, and only then did it speak. “Yes, right. Scarlet Witch it is. I’d offer to come with you, but can we go quickly enough to avoid the surprise minute during which I’ll be human again?”
He wasn’t an idiot. John knew exactly where his clothes were. On the floor.
“I don’t know if I’d risk it,” Buffy frowned sympathetically. “I would have gotten rid of the watch, honest. I just sort of forgot about it and haven’t come up with a safe disposal method. Something tells me ‘smash it to pieces’ might not be the safest option. I am really, really sorry.”
She may not have forced him to touch the watch, but the slayer still felt very guilty for her part in his transformation. “Pizza is probably off the menu, too. I bet we could get some sort of steak type thing delivered? I kinda owe you that much.”
And now he felt badly about having been irritated. Fantastic. John tried to smile, but with the canine snout, the best he could manage was an open mouth with the tongue lolling out. Not terribly dignified. “I’ll wait here.”
He just wasn’t sure what he’d do with himself. Wander aimlessly and try not to touch things? Seemed sensible enough.
“Steak is probably best, yeah. I’ve never had a dog - I don’t know what they can eat. Not chocolate.” Oh no. What if he accidentally poisoned himself? There was no way he was eating dog kibble, not even if it was guaranteed safe.
There was no way Buffy was making her guest eat dog kibble. If he’d been turned into a normal dog, maybe. But Amy the Rat he was not. Buffy started for the stairs and grabbed her coat where it hung by the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can!”
But she didn’t come back until a good four hours later. And worst of all? She looked very unhappy. She had a bag of take out with her, her left pant leg was torn and, undetectable to a human nose, there was blood. Somewhere. On her. She walked with a very mild limp.
“John? I couldn’t find her but I can go back out.”
Buffy looked for the canine. Stepping into the kitchen she grabbed a plate and started plating his food. It occurred to her she had no idea if John could comfortably take bites out of an entire steak and so grabbing a knife, she divided it up into smaller pieces. When she finished, she set the plate on the floor and rather than taking a seat at a chair, Buffy took her salad and slumped on the floor next to her guest’s food, her back propped against kitchen counter.
Being a dog had its perks. The nose was a definite perk, although a bittersweet one. The under-scent of blood would forever be associated with steak in John’s mind, but at the moment he couldn’t lament his new perspective on red meat. He was too busy being concerned about Buffy.
The click-clack of nails heralded his arrival. “You’ve been injured.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t need to see the torn pant leg, but as John rounded the corner the sight certainly helped him understand how bad the injuries were. If dogs could gawp, John would’ve managed it. “What happened?”
Watson was still under the mistaken impression that the City was as safe as any other large city. In spite of the magic. In spite of the changing streets and the asylum.
“It’s not that bad.” Buffy unknowingly used the Slayer tone-- that speak softly because everyone that knew what she did was well aware of the pointy stick.
But to the laymen (especially a doctor) her leg did look bad. Or should have looked worse. The length and depth of the gash in her thigh should have been bloodier. On anyone else it would have required stitches. If John had seen her standing he would have noticed a lack of limp. “I’ll be fine,” she added. “You want something to drink? Water?”
“...no, that’s a serious wound. Or should be.” John was perplexed. He’d seen enough battle wounds for a lifetime, and he knew exactly what Buffy’s leg ought to look like, given the length of the gash and the rips on her pants. The offer of water floated right over his head. He was too busy staring.
“If I had proper hands, I’d offer to take a look.” Watson huffed the way dogs do when they want something. Hands. He never thought he’d be in a situation where he longed for hands.
“You don’t have to worry about me. If you’re hurt, you can go to a hospital. I can spend a few more hours as a dog.”
“It isn’t serious and I’m not going to a hospital,” Buffy’s voice remained soft but firm. As if to prove a point she moved to stand up. Though the slayer looked exhausted she didn’t move like a person seriously hurt. After retrieving a bowl from one of the cupboards she filled it with water from the sink and placed it near the plate of food she’d set on the floor for John.
“I’m not exactly Miss Normal in case you haven’t figured it out already.” Buffy frowned. The normal girl routine had been nice while it lasted-- but when did that ever last? She sat back down with her salad and picked at it with a fork without eating. “I’m The Slayer. It’s sort of a mystical thing. One day you wake up with powers and you’re expected to slay vampires or demons or whatever. Then when one Slayer dies the next one is chosen and so on. It’ll be fine. In a week or so there won’t even be a mark.”
To his credit, John did not protest that vampires ‘weren’t real.’ Nor did he try to argue about the cut. Instead? He sat down on his hind legs and watched her pick at her salad. That is, after he’d dutifully lapped a little water. She’d gone to the trouble of getting it, after all.
“That sounds absolutely dreadful.” Watson observed. “Not the healing, that sounds useful, but slaying things? You didn’t put your name in for that job, did you?” It didn’t seem like the sort of thing people would submit a resume to get.
Meanwhile, the clock was ticking down to the ‘one minute per hour’ of humanity. Plus: John could get a look at Buffy’s leg. Minus: ah. Mortification?
“No one does.” This would have been the part where Buffy shrugged or said something witty or possibly changed the subject. But then there was a naked Brit in her kitchen crouched down next to a plate of steak. Buffy had no words, only raised eyebrows. Then she remembered the polite thing to do would be to look away. So she did. Along with closing her eyes and shielding said closed eyes with a hand.
As if to try and limit the awkwardness of the situation, she continued talking: “It’s a destiny thing. If it hadn’t been me it would have been someone else. I sort of got over the ‘why me’ thing in high school. Still, it was kind of nice to pretend. I wasn’t trying to lie to you or anything, it was just... a whim I guess. A harmless, whimy thing.”
Minute up yet? Maybe she shouldn’t try to fill it with her rambling. It was his minute.
“You didn’t have to tell me,” John pointed out. And, in an additional attempt to be helpful, “Until tonight, I probably wouldn’t have believed you anyway.”
He was absolutely mortified about his current state of undress, but he knew he only had a minute, and Buffy had averted her eyes. That bought him a chance to move. “While I have hands, I’m going to check your leg to make sure nothing’s caught in the wound. I’m sure you’ve already cleaned it, but I just want to take a look.”
Watson held his hands in front of him until he was certain that she wasn’t going to jerk away. If there were no sounds of protest? He’d reach out and touch Buffy’s leg. The once-over would have to be quick, but he’d certainly feel better afterwards, even if she felt the check-up was unnecessary.
Then, as quickly as he’d been human, he changed back. In spite of himself, Watson let out an irritated canine whine.
“If your witch friend doesn’t come through, I suppose we could ring Sherlock. I’m willing to sacrifice what’s left of my pride.”
As soon as the slayer heard the whine she opened her eyes, frowning sympathetically. “I know he’s supposed to be smart and all but he doesn’t really strike me as magic-smart. I’m sure it won’t hurt but, it’s up to you.”
Buffy set her salad aside. She wasn’t really hungry anymore. Which meant it was time for more witticisms to distract from the transmutated elephant in the room. “So what’s the verdict, Doc? Do I get to keep my leg?”
“I wouldn’t have said ‘magic-smart’ either, but if he’s making friends with aliens, who’s to say about witches and wizards?” Since they were back to trying for humor, John joined in. The laugh didn’t come out right - more a huff of air than a chuckle - but he attempted one anyway.
“You can keep your leg. It’s a nasty gash but you’re right, it’s already started to heal up.” If fighting things was a regular occurrence, he wasn’t going to lecture her on keeping it clean. She probably already knew.
“We can call Sherlock, but I’ll warn you. He’ll be full of uncomfortable questions.” At Buffy’s house, and probably again at 221B. It was a testament to how much Watson wanted to be human again that he’d even suggested calling.
“Which pocket do you keep your phone in?” Buffy stood up again. She left John’s food on the floor in case he was hungry but took her salad with her and packed it away in the fridge for the time being.
A quick walk through the living room and up the stairs, she was back in the master bedroom in front of the pile of clothes where she’d left them untouched. It seemed rude to search through his clothes without some sort of permission first.
“The inner jacket pocket,” Watson called. Sometimes he kept the phone in his trousers, but a jacket pocket always seemed more secure. “It’s one of those smartphones. His telephone number should be programmed in.” As would both of Buffy’s, a number for someone called ‘the Doctor,’ and probably also numbers for the other people he’d met. He hadn’t really checked; to date, Sherlock and Buffy were the only people he’d dialed.
As pride-maiming as it was, John then bowed his head to eat a little of the steak. He didn’t want it there when Holmes arrived. He suspected that Sherlock would be kind enough not to say anything, but he didn’t want to take chances. Plus, well. Apparently Buffy had needed to fight some demons to get it. Leaving it to cool seemed ungrateful.
John had not set a passcode on the phone. He knew it would be more secure that way, but he also knew that Sherlock liked to borrow his mobile. Sure, the detective could’ve deduced the code, but forcing him to do so seemed impolite.
Buffy dialed the number. The line ringed twice before the posh accent on the other line inquired, “Is he alright?”
It took the slayer a half beat to recover. “Yes. Mostly. It’s sort of complicated. He wanted you to--” The line went dead. Buffy hadn’t even told him her address. She put the phone back where it belonged and jogged down the stairs.
“How did he know it wasn’t you on the phone?” Buffy had plenty of strange encounters with monsters and demons, but she was fairly positive a conversation with Drusilla would have been a notch more normal than that had been. “He hung up, by the way. I think that means he’s coming but I’m not exactly sure.”
“I’d wager a guess, but I’d probably be wrong. He’s always doing something like that - I half expect him to ring your bell and already know to look for a canine.” A look of surprise on Sherlock’s face would’ve been worth the embarrassment of going full-on Lassie, but John highly doubted that he’d be given the satisfaction.
“He’s coming.” For all the irritation Watson felt, for all the frustration at the late-night violin playing, he knew he could count on Sherlock. Absolutely, without fail - and he hoped the feeling was mutual, because John would always come to his friend’s aid in turn. “You know, this might not be too bad. You’ll get to see him in action, and believe me, he’s something to behold. If you think the bit with the phone was remarkable, just wait. He’ll probably tell you that the watch is made of melted ancient Egyptian relic or something. Mummy’s curse. Sing a few bars of the Bangles, turn thrice counter-clockwise, and all’s well.”
Alright, so he was exaggerating. But not by much.
“Well why didn’t I think of that?” Buffy smirked.
It took Sherlock over three hours to get to Buffy’s house. Buffy had waited on the couch in the living room for the consulting detective and fallen asleep. She hadn’t meant to, but it was late.
Sherlock hadn’t meant to be so late but he had known it wasn’t a time sensitive emergency and when John last saw him he’d been in his blue silk pajamas and matching robe-- another gift from a grateful client. So he had time to wash and get properly dressed. But then there was The City to contend with, who hadn’t taken it kindly that first, Sherlock was already starting to figure out the changing streets and second, he wasn’t taking a cab. But Sherlock could be stubborn and insisted on working it out on foot.
He did not knock.
Sherlock merely walked through the door and closed it not so gently behind him. He hid his breathlessness well but wouldn’t have been able to hide the scent of mild perspiration from the hours of jogging it took to get to Buffy’s residence. The slayer jolted awake and looked slightly alarmed. Before she could say anything the detective cut her off. “A vigillante? Interesting. Does John know? Wait. You’ve told him. Obvious. Where is he? I suspect The City had reason for trying to keep me away.”
Sherlock removed his scarf and hung it up politely near the door.
John had not gone to sleep. Aside from the inconvenient minute of temporary nudity, there were other reasons to stay alert. Nerves, for one. He knew that his friend would arrive, but he didn’t know when or if the ‘cure’ would be as easy to find as he’d joked. So, he stayed curled up at the foot of Buffy’s couch and waited. When Holmes came barging in, he sat up and watched as the detective rattled on.
Was it possible that he hadn’t realized the nature of the problem? Naaaah.
“Ah,” the dog cleared its throat, the sound more canine huff than human cough. “Sherlock, this is Buffy Summers. Buffy, that’s Sherlock Holmes.”
Yes, Sherlock. Your flatmate is, in fact, a dog. Surprise? “There’s been a bit of trouble with an enchanted watch. And before you tell me that watches can’t be enchanted, yes. I know how preposterous it sounds.”
Sherlock stared. What other reaction was there? Congratulations, John Watson, you had your surprise. It took a few moments for the detective to deduce that this was not some sort of elaborate prank. It took longer for Sherlock to find words.
“You’re a dog.”
It wasn’t often Sherlock Holmes stated the obvious so bluntly, like a common nitwit. Holmes looked back at Buffy who was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and trying not to add to the awkwardness of the situation.
“But why does she have a...” Sherlock flinched, quite irritated for not picking up on the clues and subtle hints earlier. He muttered under his breath, chiding himself. “Stupid. She’s not a regular vigilante. Obviously.”
Buffy decided to quietly leave the room and retrieve the box with the watch from upstairs.
Huh. Watson had genuinely not expected that level of surprise, which was foolish. How could Sherlock have known he was the dog? John had gotten so used to remarkable feats of deduction that he’d come to view them as routine. He’d been stupid. “For fifty-nine minutes of every hour, yes. One minute, at the top of every hour, I’m human again.”
Dead awkward, that. He could only hope that they’d figured everything out before he cycled through again. Otherwise, he’d find himself lunging for a blanket.
“I would be much obliged if you could figure out how to turn this around. Witchcraft. You know, eventually this will all stop being strange. When that happens, it’s really going to be time for me to go home.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. Instead he continued to stare. The more John spoke the stranger it looked. The slayer hadn’t looked surprised at all. She’d fallen asleep so it was reasonable to assume that she had a great deal of experience with magic. But not casting it. Not understanding it. Or she would have managed this on her own.
Buffy came back down the stairs with the box in her hands. Sherlock pulled out gloves from his pockets and put them on before also pulling out a set of tweezers from a pocket inside his coat. It didn’t hurt to be cautious and he wasn’t keen on turning into man’s best friend himself.
The slayer looked between the detective and John uncertain if she should say anything but decided against it. It was more strange to have Sherlock Holmes in your house than it was to have your friend turned into a canine.
Sherlock lifted the pocket watch into the air with tweezers and inspected it quietly for several minutes. Walking toward the couch he placed the cursed item on the coffee table. Behind an armchair the detective helped himself to an attractive wood chest. Though he suspected an arsenal, even he was surprised by the selection of ancient weaponry.
“...What are you doing?” Buffy frowned.
Sherlock put on a quick, humorless smile before picking up a heavy crossbow made of oak and metal, walked quickly over to the coffee table and smashed it, releasing a wave of golden, magical light and energy.
John had really not thought this through. He wanted to be human again, but he really hadn’t fancied the idea of winding up starkers in front of his friends. The price one paid for freedom from fur and teeth. The transformation accompanied the wave of light and left human limbs flailing about for something to use as a cover up. Eventually John put hands on a blanket and disappeared beneath it.
So. Mortifying.
“How did you know to smash it?” John muttered from beneath the fabric. He wanted to stand, but he also wanted to be sure he was covered before he got up. There was a good deal of shifting beneath the blanket, and then the former dog stumbled to his feet. “I mean. I’m just glad it worked.” But he’d suggested to Buffy that Holmes would have done some remarkable deductive work, and he was hopeful that they’d be treated to an explanation.
“It’s a common pocket watch owned by a middle aged man at least seventy years ago. German made, Irish owner. He was having an affair which the wife discovered. This was his favorite possession. So she cursed it, obviously.”
There was more. He could have listed all the tiny overlooked details that helped him come to that conclusion but there were other more pressing details. “To be honest I wasn’t sure it would work. I’m not a magician after all. The City tried to keep me from coming here. Part of its agenda, why we’re here. But why keep you in a cursed state? She tried to find help for you but was unable to, again, I’m assuming the moving streets were largely responsible, but for what purpose?”
Buffy quietly removed herself from the room again and retrieved John’s clothes from upstairs.
...he hadn’t been sure? There was a sharp intake of breath from Watson’s direction. “So what,” John began, his voice dangerously calm, “were you planning to do if it didn’t work? If you say ‘buy kibble,’ so help me, I will shout.”
Yes, Sherlock had done him a favor. Yes, he was grateful. No, he wasn’t happy to know that an educated guess had been behind the move. “And now I smell like dog,” he added, woeful. Oh well. He could always shower.
“I don’t know why this mad place would want me to stay a dog. Spite? Malice? A really nasty sense of humor? I ought not to be surprised, my introduction involved a mental hospital.” Watson lifted his shoulders in an expressive shrug, although the gesture was half hidden by his blanket. “Maybe it enjoys being contrary. I know I’m not permitted to get to the library any more.”
“The library? Why would it-- never mind. They’re distractions. Meant to keep us from finding our way out of The City or something else. Something equally important.”
He exhaled, sensing John was unhappy. “I was right, wasn’t I? What does it help wondering otherwise? You’re human now.”
Buffy came down the stairs at the moment Sherlock described trying to leave The City. She paused briefly but her expression remained neutral. She placed John’s clothes on the coffee table next to the fractured pieces of previously cursed watch. “I’ll, uh, be in the kitchen if you need me for anything.”
Sherlock said nothing to their hostess but he wasn’t known for his social graces when the situation didn’t expressly call for it.
John, however, was more than happy to acknowledge Buffy. “Thanks,” he said. “For the clothes.” Putting them on would be an undertaking, one that would better happen in a bathroom or a bedroom. A bedroom where he would most certainly not be touching anything that wasn’t his.
He couldn’t argue with Sherlock’s logic, so Watson simply sighed instead. “You were right.” And, in spite of his anger, John couldn’t yell. Everything had turned out in the end.
“I’m going to get dressed. I think you ought to take a look at the library; I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought you might be unsettled, but if you can handle canine transformation I’m fairly certain you’ll be able to see yourself in print without panicking.” Yes. John’s cryptic comment was, in fact, cryptic. He couldn’t muster up more concern - he was too focused on picking up his trousers without touching the remnants of the watch or dropping his blanket.
Before Watson could look back up, Holmes was already out the front door. Apparently his comment about being in print alarmed him enough that he couldn’t spare a moment without going to assess the damage. He did have a sensitive ego.
Buffy was trying to remain polite and did not come out of the kitchen to see who’d left. At least not yet. She chose to sit at the kitchen table and stared blankly at the clock.
Well. That was one way to get a chance to change clothes. John exhaled through his nose but didn’t give chase - he’d text Sherlock when he’d gotten dressed and put his hands back on his mobile. After shuffling off into another room, he abandoned the blanket for trousers and a shirt. Then? He brought the blanket back out to be washed.
“I’m sorry about, well. Everything. So much for a quiet night.” Watson strolled back into the kitchen, bringing the blanket along with him. “He’s gone. I mentioned that he ought to check the library and I think it set him off.”
“No, it was my fault. I’m afraid nights in the Summers’ house are rarely on the quiet side. There’s a stack of replacement coffee tables in the basement and back in Sunnydale my mom used to get discounts on replacing the windows for being such a frequent customer. I’m actually kind of impressed the windows haven’t been broken in since moving to The City.”
Buffy shrugged her shoulders with a small smile. She probably jinxed it now. Oh well.
“It’s only fair to warn you, I guess. The non-complicated parts of my life involve slaying monsters and magic curses gone awry. Kinda goes with the slayer territory.”
“The magic is new, but people trying to kill me? Old hat. It used to be simple bullets, but since I’ve moved in with Sherlock we’ve had bombings and death-by-Chinese-knife-thingy.” It was meant to be a joke, although every word was truth. John even grinned, just in case there was doubt. “You’ll have to fill me in on the monsters. Just because I don’t mind the occasional mishap doesn’t mean I’ve any clue what’s going on.”
Nope. Apparently he wasn’t - forgiving the pun - going to turn tail and flee. “I should probably warn you. Sherlock had a ‘fan’ back home. Some lunatic we think was named Moriarty. No magic involved, although he was dangerous and not above using people Sherlock knows to get to him. People who go places with us tend to get drawn in.” He didn’t mention Sarah, but she was suddenly on his mind.
“I think I can handle it. I’m pretty good with Chinese knife thingies.” Buffy was going to spare him the lecture on human danger versus slayer danger, but she wasn’t intimidated. She might have been had she known the closest anyone ever got to actually killing her had been a human with a gun-- but that was ahead of her time.
“The only fan I really had was Dracula. He was annoying and he did this thrall thing. Most other vampires and demons? Not really big fans of someone who’s sole purpose is to kill them.”
“That’s the sensible thing to do - avoid someone who’d like to do you harm, but this fellow? Apparently he’s a special sort of completely mad. And Sherlock. I think he’s actually excited to have someone worthwhile to thwart. Who’d have thought that vampires would be the sens---- hold on. Did you say ‘Dracula?’”
Yes. The name-drop had just registered for Watson. “Right. Alright, so there’s a Dracula. Bram Stoker’s Dracula?”
“Back on my world, at least. But yeah, that was the one. I didn’t believe it either. I’ve fought more than a few overweight vampire fanboys calling themselves Lestat.”
Buffy decided not to mention that that Lestat was in The City. Or had been. She hadn’t seen him around recently but that was probably for the best.
“Apparently he doesn’t do the laying low thing. He had a castle imported or something, big on turning into a bat, the whole nine yards. Never did figure out how he did it. Doesn’t matter now, I guess.”
“...sorry.” Watson blinked a few times as a realization hit him. “It just occurred to me -- if there are vampires, that fellow Sherlock brought home might actually have been an alien.” He hadn’t questioned Holmes’s judgment, not really, but somewhere deep in his subconscious there had been doubt. Aliens. PFFT. But now, with cursed watches most certainly real, it was harder to hang on to those last hints of ‘couldn’t possibly.’
“Right.” Now that he’d had his non sequitur, Watson was back to the present. “A bat. And a castle. How did he hide? You’d think that the production would draw all the wrong sorts of attention.”
“The attention was what he wanted.” Buffy shrugged. “Like your Mort-and-Artie guy, I guess. Can’t prove your a Big Bad unless you have a hero to defeat. If it makes you feel any better I think you have a good chance of going back home. Like I said, not a lot of people stick around here long. Six months, maybe a year? Then home.”
“I don’t,” Watson began, before stopping himself. He wasn’t even certain what he was trying to say, but he knew that he needed to finish the thought. “I don’t like feeling as if I’ve been imprisoned and I don’t like being toyed with, but there’s not a lot for me in London, honestly. Holmes is here. I was seeing someone, but we weren’t - I mean, Sarah’s great, really great, but it hadn’t been long term. I’m not...”
John stopped and searched for the word. “I’m not angry. About being here. I’m out of my element and I’m worried, but I’m not really missing anything. I don’t know what to expect, but that’s true in London too.”
“Well, that’s good.” Buffy nodded a few times, “...It’s good to be roll with the punches guy. Even if you weren’t here it sounds like life is pretty unpredictable around Sherlock with the detecting and the running and stuff.”
“Exactly. So I’m not really upset.” Shaken, sure. But while he realized he ought to feel rage at his abduction, it was hard. Besides. Watson was a sensible man.
Sensible and decent with people. He didn’t know what was going on, but he had a good sense that something had Buffy upset. John frowned and leaned forward a little. “Are you alright? I am sorry if Sherlock was abrupt or rude. He doesn’t mean to be, he just doesn’t understand the importance of, well. Knocking. Or saying ‘goodbye.’”
“No, he was fine. Weird, but fine.” Buffy opened her mouth and then closed it, not quite sure what to say. “It’s just I’ve been here a while and I see people come and go. I haven’t really made any friends. Not really. Not anyone I see regularly. I guess it’s because I know they’ll go. Which is good for them. This place is kind of crazy.”
She sighed, “It’s just I don’t think I can go back home. The last thing that happened to me before I ended up here is I kinda died. Or, died-died. It’s not that I really meant to be anti-social or anything but I guess this is pretty much the most social I’ve been in five years. Most of the time I’m in slayer mode.”
She gave him an apologetic look, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lay all that on you.”
Yegads. Watson made a face. Not a disgusted face or a displeased face or even a panicked face - it was a stunned, ‘what do I do?’ face. He blinked slowly and, after the wheels had been given a moment to turn, he shuffled over to try and hug Buffy. It was an awkward, stiff hug - he was a demonstrative man, but not a particularly physical one. Needed to be done, though.
“If it helps, I probably died too. I was strapped into an explosive vest. Not that I doubt Sherlock’s capabilities, but it’s hard to escape something like that.”
No. John knew he wasn’t being particularly comforting, but it was worth a try. What else did you say to ‘everyone leaves, but I can’t?’
Buffy didn’t move. She didn’t pull away but instead rested her head on his shoulder. It felt nice. Familiar. Maybe a touch awkward but that only make it endearing in its own way.
“I was fighting a god. Well, more like distracting. It was trying to use my sister as a key to rip open a hole into one of the hell dimensions and I couldn’t stop it in time. The only way to close it once it opened was if she died, but I couldn’t let her. So I jumped through instead and there was pain and I blacked out and then I ended up here. I’ve seen some of my friends, what happens to them in the future. None of it looked good.”
Buffy took a half step back so she could make eye contact with John, “Whether you’re here long term or not, I’m glad I met you.”
Wow. All the things that John had been through, all the awful moments in combat, all the awful things he’d seen with Sherlock - none of it compared to Buffy’s story. He tried to process the information but failed. There was no real way to comprehend ‘fighting a god,’ was there? Not unless you’d done it.
“I’m glad I’ve met you as well.” And he meant it. John even used his earnest face - the one with the wrinkles on the forehead and the faint smile. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I’m happy to know you.”
Buffy finally stepped back just enough to break the hug before it became really awkward. He was British, she had just poured her heart out. More awkward was not what either of them needed.
“You want to see what I do?” It was a strange proposal. But he hadn’t bolted after being turned into a dog. And he listened to her. And after all the talking what she really wanted to do was slay something. Some people jogged. Buffy killed monsters. It only felt fair, somehow, to make the offer. “I feel pretty wired. I don’t think I’m going back to sleep any time soon.”
If her pants hadn’t been ripped it would have been almost impossible to tell she had a sizable gash in her leg.
“Do?” It took Watson a moment to realize what was being offered, but when it did sink in, he nodded. “Oh! Of course -- absolutely.” It would involved monsters, and any sane person would have said ‘no,’ but John lived with a fellow who kept human body parts in the appliances and actually sought out trouble. He wasn’t entirely normal, himself.
“I’ve got my jogging shoes and my legs back. I’m alright.” Had everything he needed, really. “Do I need anything?”
He wasn’t sure what a vampire hunting spectator ought to bring along. Silver bullets, just in case? Opera glasses?
Buffy stepped out of the kitchen and motioned with her chin for him to follow. With the promise of slaying she seemed to stand a little taller. Buffy was sure of herself again. Though she may not have been especially enthusiastic, the slayer was in her element.
In the living room she picked up the crossbow Sherlock had left on the coffee table with broken pieces of the previously cursed watch. “Know how to use one of these? If not a stake couldn’t hurt. You’d be amazed how versatile a pointy stick can be.”
John blinked and tried not to laugh. Buffy was asking an honest question, so he gave her an honest answer. He just smiled a little while he did it. “No. I’ve never used a crossbow - pistols, yes. Rifles? Sure. Did you -- I should carry a stake?” At first glance, the idea seemed ridiculous. It probably wouldn’t be much different from wielding a knife, though, and while Watson preferred projectiles? He’d been taught blade basics.
“Well, alright. Let me get the weight of it. I’d imagine that it’s a stab and not a slash?”
Good heavens. They were discussing the merits and finer points of medieval weaponry in a modern living room. When had his life gotten so weird?
"Mmhm. It's more pointy, less slashy. Also, aim for the heart. Most vampires go poof but some are ... not so poofy."
Buffy reached into the chest and tossed John one of the wood stakes.
"You can keep it if you want. They're pretty easy to improvise in a pinch."