COLD BLANKET
Hi guys, just a little ficlet in the Dragon!Lock series. Hope you like it I'm doing to try to do a digital image of Dragon!Lock soon, as I can't scan in…
John Watson woke up slowly, his mind catching up with the senses that had awoken him. A crash - a recognisable male grunt - a horrible, gristly crunching noise - followed by a Damnit! It sounded like Sherlock had broken something again. Sitting up slowly, he listened. Thud. Crunch. Hold on, that sounded like - "Oh god, not again!" he swung up to his feet and out of his bed in one movement, shooting out of the room and down the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called out, listening to try and locate his friend, before opening the door to the detective's bedroom.
Sherlock was crouched on the floor, attempting to claw himself upright, stumbling into walls. He tripped and landed on his bed again, crunching once more, and John sat down, getting close to him and putting hands on his shoulders. "Calm down, Sherlock!" he said, desperately. "Let it happen. You know you have to. Push it. Go on!" he stared into the slate eyes with their dragon pupils. Sherlock was breathing hard, sweat slicking his curls down as he fought against the shift. John had no idea what had caused it this time, but he knew Sherlock got frustrated so easily; and it was not the first time that he'd been forced into a transformation by an unhappy accident.
He gently placed his hand on the damp cheek. Then Sherlock yelled and twisted, crunching and clicking. He tugged off his clothes, quickly, hopping onto the floor, so as not to damage anything. Ever since the fight with the leader scientist, when he'd come home covered in blood, spitting it up, shaking and horrified, they'd become more common. Still, after all this, if he wasn't prepared for it, there was agony when he changed, and the idiot would still fight it. He wouldn't be able to change back until he calmed down enough, anyway, usually meaning sleep, an incredible frustration for Sherlock.
Right now the transformation was almost complete. John had to duck as a wing flashed out, cracking and crunching, before Sherlock was able to reign it in close to his body. The dragon then laid on it's side, wheezing, tailtip twitching, and John moved over, carefully placing his hand on the warm scales. He ran another hand over the feathers that looked dark brown, but were in fact a muddy red. They twitched under his touch. "You're okay." he said, quietly, as the eyes opened and turned to look at him. They were still… Sherlock.
John stepped away and frowned, quietly. "Water?" he questioned, softly, not evening needing the quiet whine in response. He knew Sherlock could speak in this form, but preferred not to, frustration over the difficulty in it making him impossible to deal with like that anyway. When Sherlock had drunk a bowl of water - transforming made him incredibly thirsty - John sat on the sofa with a tea, rubbing his eyes. It was almost 4am. "Blah." he commented, leaning back and closing his eyes. He jumped as he felt a warm, heavy weight settling on his leg.
It was Sherlock's head, staring at him with those eyes, reminding him of a German shepherd he used to own… "Sherlock." he sighed, gently resting his hand on the top of his head, running a thumb a little harder on the little bony ridge over the eyes. Sherlock let out a low moaning noise in his throat, like a dog settling, folding his legs and curling up almost like a cat, tail resting on John's foot as he rested.
John sighed, sipping his tea, then resting back, keeping his hand with the gentle stroking motion until he began to doze. The dragon on his leg drifted off as well, both of them content in the strangeness that was life at 221B.