The full moon is Wednesday, so Sherlock is compelled to wolf form as long as the moon is visible on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The wolf is strongest during this time, even during the daylight hours when the moon shares the sky with the sun. Sherlock transforms willingly by noon on Tuesday, claiming that there is no reason to wait for the forced transformation. His wolf is larger than John expects: Sherlock's shoulders are about even with John's hips. His head and paws are massive, to match his equally massive (and sharp) teeth. Every sleek black inch of him screams 'predator'. Screams 'dangerous'.
John loves dangerous. Even if he didn't, John loves Sherlock.
That doesn't mean John isn't going to kill Sherlock before Friday. Because the wolf is driving him crazy. John goes to make tea, and Sherlock butts his head against John's stomach and rubs against his legs. John would say that Sherlock doesn't know his own strength in this form, but of course Sherlock knows his own strength precisely. So the three times John nearly falls on his arse from a too-strong head butt are anything but accidental. John sits on the sofa, and Sherlock crawls onto his lap and sprawls there. He is far too heavy to act like a lap dog. John goes to eat dinner, and Sherlock sits with his head on John's thigh, drooling all over his trousers and looking up at him with begging puppy-dog eyes. Oh, and apparently Sherlock needs to protect him from the loo, because if John tries to lock him out he scratches at the door and whines.
No, there is no way Sherlock is going to make it to Friday morning without John killing him. Next month, Sherlock can run with Mycroft and his pack, or run on his own, or lock himself up in Baker Street by himself. But John is not being confined to another three days and nights with nothing but Sherlock in wolf form. John can't even use his laptop or read, because Sherlock gets jealous and upset whenever John's attention wanders even the smallest amount. John turns on the telly, which is apparently permissible as long as John looks at Sherlock once every fifteen seconds while he continues to run his fingers through Sherlock's fur.
It is driving John up the wall. He expects some of this behavior, from a (not so) covert conversation with Lestrade. Apparently Sherlock's wolf still sees them as potential mates, because he has not yet officially claimed John. As such, he thinks John needs to be sequestered and guarded during the full moon, when he is most vulnerable to poaching from outside wolves. John doesn't know who exactly Sherlock thinks will wants to steal John from him. John certainly isn't waving a sign around and yelling: "Here. Here I am, nice little wolves. I'm all ripe and available for mating. Don't mind the brilliant daft bugger ready to rip your throat out with his teeth if you so much as glance past me."
Lestrade says that it doesn't mean Sherlock doesn't trust John: it is just instinct, he can't help it. Well, Sherlock is just lucky John has enough self-control to resist the instinct to shoot Sherlock in the head for being so annoying. Or at least bop him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper while chiding him for being a bad dog.
John heads up for bed at 9pm, because if he can't do anything else he might as well sleep. Sherlock follows him to his room. John looks from Sherlock's dark fur, to his light duvet, and back to Sherlock's dark fur.
"I suppose you want to sleep on the bed, then?" John mutters to himself.
Sherlock's 'Of course, why are you such an idiot?' look transcends forms. John can practically see the derision in those eerily sharp eyes. The sneer doesn't really translate well with the muzzle, though. John just sighs, pulling back the duvet for Sherlock before stripping out of his clothes. Sherlock's head immediately swivels to lock eyes on John. He watches intensely until John slides his pants down and reaches for his pajamas.
Then he bounds forward and rips the pajamas out of John's hands, before darting away and jumping over the bed to the other side. He dips down to look at John playfully, his rump in the air and John's pajamas clutched in his grinning mouth. God, those teeth are something.
"Give those back," John orders, walking around the bed to approach Sherlock. The wolf waits until John is within reaching distance, before darting out of range and around the bed. His tail is wagging furiously, and he is still staring at John with challenging eyes.
"I am not chasing you around this bed," John informs him calmly - before jumping across the bed and diving for the pajamas. He gets a firm grip on the trouser leg, pulling it towards his body until he and Sherlock are eye to eye. Sherlock lets go after a second, only to dart forward and lick all over John's face.
"Stop! Stop!" John says, trying to pull Sherlock's face away. He gets a mouth full of wolf-tongue for his trouble. "Ugh, stop! Sherlock, that's disgusting. Drool!"
He drops the pajamas in his struggles, and Sherlock snatches them back up and smugly bounds around to the other side of the room.
"You wanker!" John mutters. "Fine. You want them, you have them. I'll just wear my other set."
He grabs them out of the drawer and immediately raises them above his head. Sherlock drops the set in his mouth, eyes locked on the pair John is holding. John makes a split-second decision: he runs for the loo, getting the door closed and locked just before Sherlock can follow him in. John gets changed quickly, because Sherlock is howling like someone is slowly murdering him with a kitchen knife.
"There," John says, stepping out of the loo. Sherlock immediately stops howling, stepping forward to butt his head against John's stomach. John stumbles back a step, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to stand on his hind legs, with his forepaws on John's shoulders.
"If you lick me again, I will lock you out of the bedroom," John tells him sternly. Sherlock is obviously not impressed, as he licks John from chin to forehead before falling back to four feet and trotting to the bedroom. John considers following through on his threat for about three seconds, before giving into the inevitable and following Sherlock into the bedroom. John can be stubborn when he has to be, but he really doesn't want to be kept awake all night by Sherlock's whining and howling.
Sherlock is lying in bed when John walks in. He's sprawled across the mattress, taking up at least two-thirds of the space. John walks to the edge of the bed and stares down at him, folding his arms over his chest. Sherlock rolls on his back, exposing his belly. His mouth is open, his tongue hanging out as he give his best wolfie smile.
"You're not cute," John mutters, shoving him over to make room. "I know you think you're cute, but you're not."
Sherlock cannot quite raise an eyebrow in this form, but John knows he wants to.
"You're not," John mutters again, rolling onto his side so he's not facing Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't get the message. Or more likely, he gets the message and he just doesn't care. He snuggles up against John's back, resting his muzzle over John's side.
"Well, maybe just a little," John admits, resting his hand over Sherlock's flanks and giving him a fond rub. "But I'm still kicking you out of bed if you try to hump me in my sleep."
Even John has his hard limits.