This story was suggested by a dream - yeah, I know, it sounds corny but it's the truth - it may not update frequently, depends on my mood and my other stories, but will be in 221B format as I seem to be lazily stuck in that mode.
Disclaimer - none of the BBC Sherlock characters are mine...
John had laughed at Sherlock's supercilious sneer; he had expected it, knowing the younger man's views on fantasy films.
"Go, John, you've been fidgeting since this film was released." Sherlock turned back to the kitchen table. "I have plenty to do here, and the peace and quiet will be appreciated."
Chuckling, John had trotted off, sitting enthralled through epic battles with spiders and orcs, and Bilbo's fearsome encounter with the firedrake Smaug.
Still buzzing he bounded up the stairs to the flat, not even feeling deflated when his flatmate barely acknowledged his return.
He shrugged mentally and made them both tea before grabbing his mug and a couple of biscuits.
"Going to bed."
Sherlock just hummed in agreement and kept his eyes glued to his microscope.
It might have been his overactive imagination, or it could have been the tea and biscuits he'd wolfed down before turning out the light, but he woke up at 3am sweating and out of breath, having run and fought alongside Bilbo and his friends.
However it wasn't just the dream that woke him, something felt wrong. Pulling some clothes on he headed downstairs.
"Sherlock?"
"In here John." the baritone voice sounded smoky.
John walked into the living room and stopped dead.
There, in the middle of the room stood an elegant dragon reading a book
