COLD FLESH - Chapter One
MOAR DRAGON! Yay okay hi guys. Yep, a new one already, I know I know. This one is going to be a little rougher, a little more character-building than plot. Enjoy.
"Anderson, get your hands off that corpse before you ruin everything!" John rolled his eyes as Sherlock's snap caused the man to step back from the corpse, glaring at the consulting detective with rage in his eyes. Thankfully, very human eyes. John had been on tenterhooks since that fight with the leader of the scientific group that had caused Sherlock's… condition. Lestrade knew what Sherlock was, if not truly, but to a degree; he had an anger management condition from the drugs was probably the length that he understood. It was as if he'd blocked out what he'd seen, a half-shifted Sherlock pinning a dragon, slicing him open with deadly hooked claws.
The man wasn't in jail. In fact, after being rushed out of sight, the then-human shape shifter had disappeared to America, deported, apparently… and somehow he had ended up in the chair. Even a dragon couldn't survive that. Especially not after a secret beheading followed, before he was buried. Everyone who had been tested was dead, apparently; Sherlock had easily picked apart the group, and told John that all of them had died, by the group that set them up. John believed it, of course. The problem was that, since that fight, Sherlock's emotional state seemed inherently linked with transformation; usually it wouldn't go further than his eyes and canines, but more than once John had had to comfort a frustrated dragon. In a completely platonic way, of course.
Sherlock's always-working brain had devoted several caseless days to working out how to transform at will, and the conditioning had worked; he'd used it to scare a couple of criminals into confessing, but he hated having to do that. It was also quickly discovered that, once changed, it was very tricky for him to turn back without sleeping or totally relaxing himself. He could almost speak in dragon form, as well, although it was a challenge for him, and he preferred not to.
"Lestrade, when did you say she was found?" John clicked his mind back into the present, with the human Sherlock crouching next to the corpse, carefully not touching it. Sticky dried blood coated the floor; it was a sickening murder. She was naked, left lying on her front, eyes open and without peace. There were dozens of criss-crossed marks on her back, like she was swiped with claws. "Last night. They don't know how long she's been like this." the flat was an empty one, unused for weeks.
"She was kidnapped, but the parents don't know." she was only fourteen. "Probably told them she was going to a sleepover. They would be collecting her this evening, only…" he gestured at the corpse. "This was a fetishist. Those markings; they were wearing hand made Wolverine claws." John blinked at Sherlock in surprise.
"Wolverine. As in-"
"As in X-men, yes. She's a fan. Probably was meeting up with someone else who said they were also a fan, only not in the way she expected. Got her drunk so she'd pass out, raped her, then decided to have a little fun. The shock killed her." he straightened up and frowned. "Check her emails. Track the IP. You'll find him. He'll come willingly. Come on, John!" he pulled off his gloves and walked away. John was left to follow after him, shooting an apologetic glance at people as he was whirled out of the room.
Back in a taxi, John could see that Sherlock was very twitchy. "How do you know he'll come willingly?"
"He didn't want to kill her. He's ashamed. No care's been taken over her body, it's obvious." rolling his eyes, Sherlock fiddled with a bit of string he'd produced from somewhere, turning it over in his fingertips. Even when in dire need of a cigarette, John had never known him to be so fidgety until recently.
The cab pulled up and Sherlock stepped outside, tilting his head up, staring at the grey skies. It wasn't raining but the wind was harsh, whipping his hair and coat around; John paid and as they went in, Sherlock was undoing his coat, and then his shirt. Ever since the first transformation, Sherlock had become a little more… wild was the only way John could phrase it. They'd agreed with Mrs Hudson that the roof door should remain unlocked, because of cases, and she'd agreed, a little bemused. "Just be back soon, alright?" he sighed, as Sherlock finished undoing his silk shirt and offered him a grin, hanging up his coat and scarf.
Then he was gone up the stairs and John sat in the chair for a minute, listening to the noise, before going to make himself a cuppa.
P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K*
Sherlock was pulling off his shirt as he reached the roof, opening the door. The wind was stronger up here but he was already transforming, unable to hold back any longer. As his skin cracked into scales and bones began shifting around, he ignored the pain, kicking off the rest of his clothing, folding it neatly and tucking it inside the doorway. Then he dropped to all fours, wings and tail unfurling from his body with many cracks and pops. His vision became more blue, ultraviolet visible to him, and he moved to the edge of the flat, gripping the border with sharp talons. He had to swallow down a roar, because it would not do good for him to be seen.
Sherlock waited for the right moment, then in a move he leapt, wings spreading wide. He was glittering even in this half-light, a sleek red body with faded patches of gold, the webbing of his wings gold as well. As he pounded the air out of the way, rocketing up, up and through the cloud cover, into glorious sunlight, where he did let out a roar. Dew beaded along the tips of his wings, as he breathed each deep breath; claws flexed and relaxed. Up here he could still smell London, but it felt like he had travelled an impossible distance; all his senses keen and sharp. He skimmed down, feeling the feathery clouds dispel as his wings sent them into swirling eddies. Then he folded them, feeling from the way the heat changed that he'd cleared London already and was over country.
His senses were correct. When he shot through the cloud cover like an arrow, he was above hills and trees, rocketing toward lush grass and a lake. He twitched the tips, flaring them, perfectly controlling the descent, a clear film over his eyes to protect them from the wind. Then he spread his wings half-open, twisting his body. His back claws and tail sent up a splash of water before beat - beat - beat and he was shooting into the sky again, mouth open to pant, body tingling and aching and heart pounding.
He circled once more before climbing through the clouds again, trusting his internal mechanism to guide him back to the flat. The closer he got, though, even above these clouds, the wind was blowing hard now, and it was taking more and more power to keep himself on track. He let out a growl of frustration, pounding his wings down, the aches now seeming troublesome rather than pleasurable. A particularly hard gust of wind sent him turning, and he now realised the lack of birds in the sky was a powerful sign he should've noticed. Cursing his rare lack of foresight, he dipped below the cloud cover, riskily, but knowing he had to get home. He was over London, now, on the outskirts; so he forced himself along, trying to keep speed.
His wingtips were shaking from fatigue. A hot gust came from below and suddenly he was climbing through clouds that seemed rather too solid compared to earlier. Flailing in the air, Sherlock lost his cool, starting to panic, spreading his wings as wide as they would go - just in time to be smashed into by a wave of air, throwing him backwards, tumbling like a skittle, losing track of anything except for the feeling of nausea and the never-ending swirling sky before - crunch.
P*A*G*E*B*R*E*A*K*
An hour had passed. Then an hour and a half. John gave up on his newspaper and stared out the window, listening to the wind rattling around it, before deciding to go see if there was any sign of it. To the roof door - the neat pile of clothes and shoes, all in place, the spots of blood from the shift on the ground - he really had to wash those off - but no Sherlock. The wind up here was furious and John squinted into it, scanning the skies, but seeing no sign. Worry flared but he squashed it; probably Sherlock had landed somewhere, nicked some clothes and was currently on his way back. Hopefully. Determined not to panic, John returned to the flat, where he spent almost an hour pacing anyway.
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