Full Moon Rising by Sarah Howell ~ 1998
Disclaimer:  Turnbull, Diefenbaker, Stanley Kowalski (referred to as Ray Vecchio for the purpose of this story), Fraser and Inspector Thatcher belong to Alliance.  I promise to give them back when I'm done - *eg*

The idea for this struck during a late-night bus-ride in Disneyworld due to a slight... misinterpretation of conversation on Hope's part so be forewarned...

     Constable Turnbull ran down the street, his heart pounding frantically.  He could feel the beast inside calling to him - calling him to do strange and unnatural things.
     "No!" he cried out loud.  "I will not howl at the moon outside the Consulate!  That would be very undignified."
     If only he had never stooped to pet that stray wolf four weeks ago.  If only that wolf had not bitten him in the hand.
     "It wasn't my fault!" he whimpered.  "I thought it was Diefenbaker."
     What to do?  Where to go?  Constable Fraser was out of town and no one at the Consulate seemed to know where he was.
     Turnbull stopped for a moment to catch his breath.  He looked around and noticed that he was standing outside the apartment building of Fraser's partner, Detective Ray Vecchio.  Perhaps Detective Vecchio could help him.
     "Although," Turnbull said as he entered the building.  "I'm not entirely sure that he would be very helpful, but I must try.  The future of Canada depends on it."
     A strange sense told him that Detective Vecchio lived on the third floor.  After dithering for a few moments in the elevator, he decided to obey this sense.
     The doors opened and he stepped out.  A strange yet familiar scent filled his nostrils.  Guided by sharpening senses, he followed his nose to Apartment 3-D.  He stopped in front of the door when the realization hit.  He had been tracking Detective Vecchio's scent.
     Putting his ear to the door, he could hear a shower running along with Detective Vecchio's rendition of "Bohemian Rhapsody".
     He twisted the knob and to his surprise, the door opened.  "How careless," he thought to himself as he entered.  The apartment had a... lived-in appearance.  Clothes were scattered on the floor and there were dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table.  He noticed the turtle in his aquarium and waved.
     As he gently closed the door, he heard the Detective shout, " 'So you think you can stop me and'... Damn it, I got soap in my eyes!"
     Turnbull located the door from whence the yelling and cursing was emanating.  Nervously he knocked on the door.  "Detective Vecchio?"
     "What the... Turnbull?? What are you doing in my apartment?  Especially since I locked my door!"
     "Ah, you locked the door?  Are you sure?"
     "Yes, Turnbull, I'm sure."
     "Oh. Well, in any case, the answer to your question is... well... I smelled you."
     "Smelled me?  Who do you think you are, Fraser?"
     "No.  No one can be Fraser.  That is quite impossible."
     "Sorry, Detective.  As I was saying, I smelled you when I arrived on the third floor and I just followed the scent."
     "That doesn't explain why you're here."
     "It's Fraser."
     "What?!?"  The shower was abruptly shut off.  The door flew open, sending Turnbull back a few steps.
     The Detective was standing in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his midsection.  "What happened to Fraser?"
     "I don't know.  I was hoping that you knew of his whereabouts."
     Detective Vecchio glared.  "You dragged me out of the shower to ask me if I knew where Fraser was?" he demanded, his voice rising with each word.
     "Well, technically, I didn't drag..." Turnbull began.
     "SHUT UP!"
     The next thing Turnbull knew, he was sprawled out in the hallway, the sound of the door being locked reverberating in his ears.
     The moment he left the building, a searing pain filled his body and he collapsed.  His bones began to pop and he could feel his fingers lengthening.
     "Constable Turnbull!  I was looking for you," a familiar voice called.
     He looked up to see Inspector Thatcher looming over him.  "Inspector, I..." he grunted, trying to control the change.
     "It's all right, Constable.  It's all my fault."
     "Your... fault?"
     "Yes.  I have a nasty habit of biting too deeply."