Dragon Surgeon

by vifetoile89

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and I don't own Temeraire. I've read a few variations on this crossover, and I thought I'd try my own.

Also, any discriminatory-based remarks uttered by characters are there to contribute to the sense of a period piece, and do not reflect the opinions of the author.

Enjoy! And please feel free to review!

"It's a damned peculiar site, a dragon having a nightmare." Captain Anderson had just tossed back his second whisky, and his voice, though starting to slur, had lost none of its irritating smugness. "It squirms, flaps its wings a little, whips its tail to and fro – almost like a little helpless kitten!" he laughed.

Sherlock's ears picked up at this. He had been tuning out the conversation, applying his mind instead to observation and analysis of the crowd, but Captain Anderson's voice had a way of dragging Sherlock out of the world of the mind and into the world of… well, Anderson.

"It's a damned nuisance, too." Captain Anderson was getting fonder and fonder of damnation as the night went on. "Dragons aren't supposed to get nightmares. That's what my father used to say, and that's what I tell my boys – you've no business having nightmares and jumping like a rabbit at everything. Look at Crescendium. He doesn't get nightmares, and he's been carving people up since you lot were in nappies."

Sherlock could have mentioned that Captain Anderson had merely inherited Crescendium from his (equally foolish) father and grandfather, and that Anderson himself had barely seen any battles, as he and his crew were on permanent patrol duty, but instead he merely interrupted: "Are you talking about a dragon that suffers trauma?"

"Oh, Sherlock. Welcome to the party," Anderson drawled. "I'm surprised you haven't heard. There's a dragon out in Edinburgh – what's its name?"

"Wealdhere," answered Captain Donovan, sipping at her sherry. "Odd, pagan sort of name."

"Right, savage. Anyway, apparently he used to be a fighter in the Great War, and with the new conflict brewing the higher-ups are trying to get him to accept a new handler, but he won't. He mopes around and refuses and flies away, even out of the covert bounds! He claims he's shell-shocked. Can you believe it? I'd like to go up to him and say, Stupid beast, you're bred for fighting. The only time you should be shell-shocked is when you're –" he paused for comic effect – "in your shell!"

Sherlock's voice cut through the watery laughter that greeted this message. "Your pathetic attempts at humor are only matched by your complete failure of the basics of psychology. Not that I am surprised. The dragon's response would probably be to shred you to ribbons, which would be, in my book, entirely called for. What sort of dragon is it?"

"He's a Pascal's Blue-Winchester cross," Donovan answered. "Classed as a Winchester, officially, on account of his size. I saw him, last time Nonimpendat and I were at the Edinburgh covert. Very small little thing. Hitler must be pressuring the Corps something terrible, if they're reduced to pushing on a dragon like him."

For the first time, Lestrade spoke up. He generally remained sober, preferring, like Sherlock, to watch his compatriots' inhibitions collapse around them. "You should know better than to judge a dragon's effectiveness by its size. Wealdhere has won high honors, and he's only now in his prime. I heard he was a remarkable fighter. It is a shame he's sickened so early of the fighting life."

"He's probably embarrassed on account of being so small!" Anderson snorted.

"Then you should truly empathize, Anderson," Sherlock said, before spinning on his heel and walking out before Anderson could work out what he had just said.

The next morning, Sherlock took an excursion to the library and the hall of military records. There was a uniformity to the leather-bound books that Sherlock found very calming, very pleasing. He didn't have to look very far to find the records of the Pascal's Blue-Winchester mix, Wealdhere. There was a photograph of him, a portrait with his captain and crew from the Great War. He was surprised to see that the captain was a young woman. He read on.

Wealdhere's first handler, Captain John Doyle, had waited many years in the shell for his egg to hatch. By the time he greeted Wealdhere and harnessed him, he was in his early forties and had a small daughter, Harriet.

Sherlock was already drawing conclusions from the photograph, the short biography, and, most pointedly, the dragon's name. "Wealdhere" was an Old English name, meaning something like "ruler of army." The fact that Doyle had clearly picked a name with care, a name to honor the original people of Albion's soil ('Yes,' Sherlock thought, 'he would call it Albion') instead of the Roman invaders, meant that he was certainly intelligent, patriotic in an Anglo-Saxon way, considerate, and proud. And he wasn't afraid of standing out. Small wonder his dragon had inherited a stubborn streak.

It appeared the same was true for his daughter. Her name was listed as "Harriet (Harry) Doyle," so clearly she had insisted on the nickname so much even the dry archivists had yielded. She had been left motherless at the age of eight, whereupon her father had made her a runner on his dragon so as to keep her close by, and fifteen years later, when John had been killed in battle, Harry had stepped into her father's harness without any ceremony or fuss. She had performed very admirably in the Great War, until she and her dragon and crew were captured in Afghanistan. They were held prisoner for quite some time. When they managed to escape, only Captain Doyle and Wealdhere were left alive. Neither she nor her dragon ever spoke of what happened to them in Afghanistan. Harry died early, poisoning her liver with drink, and Wealdhere had since refused any handler.

'What kind of horrors,' Sherlock thought, 'must they have endured, to leave a dragon with shell-shock?'

It was entirely possible, he thought, as he put the books away, that Wealdhere was simply a weak-willed beast, and had been more sensitive than the draconic norm. But the records of impressive service did not match with that fact.

A shell-shocked dragon. A shell-shocked dragon, who dreaded fighting, who no one could coax into talking. A puzzle to solve, waiting somewhere in Edinburgh.

Sherlock smiled to himself.

As soon as Sherlock had arrived at the covert, and asked where he might find Wealdhere, a guide had been assigned to him: a pale little maid with a timid smile, who curtsied and introduced herself as Molly. Sherlock was familiar with the relaxed manner of aviators, but was still somewhat nonplussed by this guide.

"He likes me, sir. Begging your pardon, but he does." She led him up the hill towards the dragon's cave. "I'm a simple gel, but he listens to me, and always likes to hear me tell about my day. He's a real gentleman – er, a real gentledragon, I suppose." She gave a little laugh.

"Does Wealdhere often take human visitors?"

"If I bring them, sir, and usually he'll tolerate them for a little while before flying away or folding up behind his wings. And he prefers to be called Watson," she added. "Most aviators will insist on calling him by his proper name, even if they can't pronounce it right – some of the ways they mangle it! But Watson is what he likes. Though –" she put a finger to her lips in thought, "You have to earn it. It's like a pet name. Maybe I shouldn't have told you."

"No. It is a very interesting fact." Watson was a contraction of Walter's Son; the name Walter, now that he thought of it, almost certainly derived from Wealdhere. So was the dragon trying to distance himself from his past by taking on a commonplace, even prosaic human name? Or, to be simpler, had he opted for an easier pronunciation? Perhaps the truth was a combination of the two.

They were at the mouth of the cave. It was neat and well-kept. Molly peered in at the mouth. "Watson? It's me. I have a visitor, he wants to see you." After a silence, she ventured, "He must be out flying. He does love to fly."

Sherlock stepped around her and looked into the cave. He could smell the old, coppery dragon-smell, but there was something else – smoked meat. Since the Napoleonic Wars, many dragons had developed a taste for cooked meat, but this was smoked meat, meant to last a long time.

"Wealdhere is not a fire-breather, is he?"

"No, sir. No offensive abilities whatsoever."

"So you make the fires for him, then?"

"What?" she stared at him, a bit dazed. "Well, he does like to keep a fire going in his cave – he's dug out a sort of chimney, farther in the hill – and sometimes I light it if it goes out. He can use a flint and tinder, but the training master took it away from him."

Of course they would. A dragon, using tools? A dragon, making fire? Unheard of.

A new idea popped into his head: 'Also unheard of: a dragon who is scared of the dark.'

He began to step closer into the cave. Now that his eyes were adjusted, he could see embers some way into the cave, smoldering slightly. On the floor there were deer, cut open, but on the wall, away from the carnage, there were neat rows of smoked meat, mostly venison and beef. Compared to that, the chains and jewels were really quite small. There were also charts – anatomical charts of humans and Winchester dragons, a weathered book, and a strong smell of alcohol.

"Mr. Holmes! Stop walking and come out here please!" There was an urgency to Molly's voice, and Sherlock obeyed, guessing that he would see – and he was right – the dragon itself, landing not twenty feet away.

The dragon's body was a very pale slate blue, which faded to gray along the wings. His landing favored his right foreleg – Sherlock saw a white scar stretching around the joint, a deep and lasting injury. The dragon's gold colored eyes didn't so much as glance at Sherlock until he had made a bow to Molly and said, "Hello, Molly, so good of you to drop by."

"This is Mister Holmes, sir. He said he's interested in meeting you."

"Are you?" Wealdhere crossed to the mouth of the cave, putting himself between it and Sherlock, and sat down heavily. "And what do you find so interesting about me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh, everything," Sherlock said with a little smile.

"I suppose you want to put me into harness. Stronger men than you have tried."

"I don't rely on strength. And I don't need a fighting dragon." He smiled. "You can keep a secret, can't you?"

Instead of waiting for the dragon to answer, Sherlock turned to Molly. "Miss, if you would be so kind as to give Wealdhere and I a moment?"

Molly looked to Wealdhere, who gave a nod. She curtsied and left, glancing back as she descended the hill.

"What secret would you want to give to a dragon?"

"It concerns national security. My brother is very prominent in that scene, for no reason I can easily fathom. He has badgered me into accepting a position in espionage. I am to spy for the Crown. Exciting, isn't it?"

"Ravishing." Wealdhere and Sherlock sounded equally bored, and Sherlock smiled. "But I don't see how a dragon can help you with spying. I am a bit noticeable."

"My particular methods of spying are different from the norm. I could use a fast transport, and an experienced mind. And I would not demand complete loyalty. In fact, I detest the sort of fawning affection between most aviators and their beasts."

Here Wealdhere tilted his head. "You detest it?"

"It clouds the judgment, which on the battlefield of all places must be crystal clear. You know the ill effects of it all too well, as you are still grieving your handler who died nearly a decade ago. You are trying to counteract the effect by cultivating more moderate friendships, such as with that simple maid, Molly."

"Molly is not simple," the dragon's eyes narrowed. "She is a good-hearted and clever girl. And I will not go into harness with you or with anyone."

"Let me make you a proposition. If I can deduce what happened to you and Captain Doyle in Afghanistan, you will go into harness with me for a trial period of two months. We'll see if we get along, and if not, we go our separate ways and never have to speak to one another again."

"Deduce?"

"Well, you and Captain Doyle were notoriously secretive. But I believe I can list out the events, rather exactly, just on having a look in your cave – and at your leg."

Wealdhere's eyes darkened. One claw raked the ground, making a loud scratching sound. "So you'll try to guess me out? For two months?" Wealdhere curled his tail around himself. "All right. Try me."

Sherlock licked his lips. So far Wealdhere hadn't seemed very aggressive, but he was shell-shocked. Men who were shell-shocked tended to be unpredictable. He might enrage a dragon, but he would be right.

"You were starved," he started, his voice flat. "You were starved and… force-fed in tandem. To force-feed you, they probably had other dragons holding you down. They had an advantage, there: your size. They kept you in complete darkness for days on end. They tried to torture you – taking the wound on your leg and—" Sherlock wanted to glance at the leg for confirmation, but he didn't dare break eye contact. Wealdhere's eyes were frightening in their focus. "—they probably worsened it, put skewers in it to keep it from healing properly. But they realized it wasn't working on you, that's why they didn't move on to your other limbs. They started to torture Harry instead."

Wealdhere had begun to shrink, retreating further into his shoulderblades, almost like a hedgehog. "Yes."

"Being as conservative as we know the Musselmen are, they probably did not take well to the sight of a female captain. She was raped, wasn't she?"

"Yes."

"And like you, starved. Force-fed. Locked in darkness. They didn't burn her, but maybe that's the only thing they didn't do."

"How can you say that so coldly? How can you just recite symptoms like – she was a real person! How do you even know? Who told you?"

"No one told me. Your cave explains everything." Sherlock reflected that, in the dragon's mind, Harry was still probably more real than Molly, or Sherlock himself. "You live on a covert with all the deer and cattle you could want, but you hoard food the way other dragons hoard gold. You hardly care for gold. You're afraid that someday the food will be taken away again, and you keep it all nice and neat and sterile because you remember it being crammed and rotten. You fear the dark, or the nightmares it brings, which is why you keep a fire banked at all times. But you don't mind the smell of smoked meat. In fact, it's what you eat." He dropped his gaze, a new revelation occurring to him. "It's actually all that you eat."

Wealdhere had drawn himself onto his forelegs, regarding Sherlock from on high. "Well done, Mr. Holmes. Well done indeed. Congratulations, you've completely plumbed my secrets. Now that you have gawked and debunked the spectacular shell-shocked dragon, I kindly ask you to—"

"The alcohol," Sherlock looked up, trying to see past the dragon's bulk and into the cave beyond.

"I hate the smell." The dragon's wings started to rise in anger. "Despite what everyone says, but I do not keep it around because it reminds me of Harry—"

"I am not everyone." Sherlock took a few steps back, to look at the dragon with new eyes. "You miss the war, Watson, but you don't want to go back to fighting."

"Who said you could call me—"

"You want to be a doctor."

The dragon fell silent. "How – could you possibly know –"

"The deer. There's a deer cut up on the floor of your cave, but not eaten. You're trying to dissect it without tearing it apart. You're studying human anatomy, and unless I'm much mistaken, the moth-eaten book kept to one side is a medical textbook. Does Molly read aloud to you? Yes, she must. You use the alcohol to sterilize your instruments, aren't you thorough? But no one will take a dragon surgeon – a literal dragon-surgeon – seriously, will they?"

Watson – really, the dragon looked like a Watson, Sherlock thought – glanced to the side. "Yes. I miss the war. But I got sick of seeing how bodies could be torn apart. I wanted to find ways to put people back together – to give them their lives back, not just to kill them. But no one would hear of a combat medic dragon. I told Harry - she laughed. That was in the last days. It was one of the last things she laughed at. She thought it was ridiculous." He cleared his throat, a deep and impressive rumble. "She was the most wonderful woman in the world – brave and clever and passionate – but she had no imagination."

"Neither do I," Sherlock said cheerfully. "Contrary to what everyone says about me, I have very little imagination. I only see what's there. But as it so happens, I can imagine a dragon doctor. I think that it might be a very good idea. If you go into harness with me, I promise you won't be heartbroken if I die, we'll not be bored, and I'll help you study medicine all you like. You can even work on me, should the need arise."

Watson lowered his wings. "I have nightmares."

"I play the violin. Badly."

"I won't trust you."

"I won't trust me, either."

"I'm not a very good surgeon."

"Not yet. But I believe in experimentation."

Watson bowed to Sherlock, the same kind of bow that he had given Molly. "Two months."

Sherlock smiled. "Two months. Welcome to the secret service, Watson."

"And welcome to the Aerial Corps, Holmes."

They made a damned peculiar sight, that's what Anderson said. But neither Sherlock nor his dragon ever cared much for the opinions of others, though Watson did always hate to disappoint Molly.

Perhaps they were an odd sight, with Watson's solitary rider dressed in a black greatcoat, rather than the typical Corps uniform, the belly-rigging full of books and modified surgical equipment and massive bottles of rubbing alcohol, and the two of them bantering and snipping at each other. But no one could deny, they were an effective team. Not even Anderson.