iςηis [fire]
In a crowded market, on the outskirts of London, lay a large, worn-looking dragon. Of course it was no surprise to even the most moronic human being to see such a beast at Seb's Emporium of Pre-Owned Dragons.
The rusted sign nailed to one of the iron-barred cages proclaimed the stall as a fully licensed dealer (and retrainer) of secondhand scalies. Seb's Emporium, a drac for every deed read the slogan.
Owen (the salesman with no surname he cared to divulge) sat at the rickety shopfront table, gnawing habitually on a pen while he considered the morning paper's crossword. He'd just conceded defeat to 22 down and was about to give up completely when a commotion broke out next door.
"-what are you attempting to achieve? Was sending three nurses into witness protection and burning down the psychiatric wing at Redcliffe not enough incentive for you to leave me be? Do you really think this is going to-"
"Really, Sherlock," a surprisingly calm voice interrupted. "Must we go through this ritual every time? You have rarely met them in the past, these histrionics you are in over owning one are-"
"I do not need to own one to know what they are," hissed the man named Sherlock. "They are merely dumb beasts of burden. Dull. Boring."
Catching onto the thread of conversation, Owen decided it was high time he cut in. He smoothed down his balding hair, shrugged into his soot-stained leather jacket and stepped right into the fray.
"Good evening, sirs," he intoned in a way he thought most affable. "I could not help but overhear you are looking to procure a drac. We have some fine specimens available today for purchase or hire-"
The man called Sherlock - a tall fellow wearing a suit that would be smart if not for the appearance of having being slept in (and washed in mud instead of soap) - gave him a quick, appraising glance.
"You had sex with a man last night...and his wife as well if I'm not mistaken," pronounced the young man.
Owen turned plum-coloured, his mouth gaping open and shut like a particularly disgruntled trout.
"Obviously, I am very much correct," said Sherlock smugly before turning away. "May we leave now, Mycroft?"
The man in question brandished his umbrella at his brother. "No. We certainly may not," he growled before offering an apology to the shopkeeper. "If it is not too much to ask, may we take a tour of your available dragons? Price is not an issue..."
Owen perked up significantly at the mention of a customer with deep pockets. He sent Sherlock a downright hostile sneer before gesturing the older Holmes forwards. "Well in that case, we have several specimens that may be of interest to you. Do you have any preferences? Small or large? Male or female? Colouring and the like?"
Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in his brother's direction, "Sherlock?"
"No," he replied as both an answer to Owen's questions and another blatant refusal of his brother's idiotic plan.
"Well then," Mycroft continued as if Sherlock where as mute as a drac, "I believe we will know the beast when we see it."
Owen stepped up to a nearby cage, thumbing the plastic light-switch to illuminate its contents. A medium-sized dragon with pearlescent scales the size of tablespoons, luminous pink-tinted eyes and small, thin-looking claws stirred lazily against the concrete floor of its cell.
"This is one of our female dracs, she's obedient and as well mannered a beast as can be found-"
Sherlock stepped up to the bars, ignoring Owen's tenseness as he purposely forayed into the other man's personal space. "She's almost completely blind; likely the result of her being bred and raised in captivity by morons - next."
"How could you possibly accuse me of trying to sell you a second-rate scaley?" Owen spat, rounding on Sherlock. "She was wild! Caught in Norway and highly prized for her-"
"Rare genetic disease? Really, how on earth would a dragon from the wilds of Norway fall victim to an illness exclusively found in captive bred dracs? I doubt your employers would appreciate a hefty fine for their involvement in illegal activities, shall we move on?"
Owen spluttered while Mycroft breathed a long-suffering sigh. The dragon uncoiled her slender body a little more, her wings trapped against her rib cage by a thick leather (magically reinforced) band. Sherlock turned away in favour of observing the next drac. This one was smaller, green in colour and male; a perfectly normal dragon, Owen assured them.
"He killed both of his previous owners - ate them in their sleep. Next, shall we?"
The proceeding three dragons went much the same way as the others (Large, black, male - elderly and arthritic. Small, silver, female - pregnant. Large, brown, male - dull!) Owen had long since lost his patience and Mycroft was beginning to lose all hope of finding a suitable drac when Sherlock paused in the middle of a particularly crude deduction about Owen's mother.
"Why is that cage kept separate?" he inquired, already striding purposefully towards a darkened corner in the rear of the shop.
"Quarantine," replied Owen in a rather hasty manner. "Wild scaliestend to carry many nasty infectious diseases."
Sherlock paused barely a foot from the cage's rusted iron bars. "That statement would be true if this dragon had not been vaccinated within the past three years-"
"Really, Sherlock?" Mycroft scoffed. "How could you possibly know that?"
"You said it would 'do me well' to research the care and control of modern household dracs. The lack of sulphourous build up on these cage bars means that this dragon either cannot breath fire or has recently had the vaccination for draconis pyroacari, otherwise known as the Common Fire Mite. Only well-to-do owners vaccinate for those as each dose only lasts a maximum of three years. As there is a very slight build up of sulphur beginning to form, this dragon was vaccinated mid-March of the year 2009. Obviously he has not been wild in at least three years. Mister Owen is therefore lying, again." Sherlock paused to let his tirade sink in, wisely using the time Owen spent in stunned silence to grab the cage keys from his belt.
"Let's take a look then, shall we?" exclaimed Sherlock, popping the lock before either his brother or the shopkeeper could react.
The sudden entrance provoked an ominous growling from the cage's surprisingly large occupant. Sherlock caught a glance of luminous golden wings unfurling before a flash of electric blue light zapped along the cage bars, effectively blinding him.
"I was going to warn you," Owen grumbled, a hand at Sherlock's elbow pulling him back. "Highly dangerous that one; he's been deemed untrainable and a threat to public safety by the MET's Dragon Training and Safety Division. Been on the list for execution for a whole bloody month. Right drain on our profits to have to keep him here indefinitely!"
Sherlock, his sight now restored, turned back to examine the runes and magical wards engraved into the cage bars that still glowed faintly against the rust. Behind the bars the creature had slumped to the floor with the massive jolt of magical energy, its molten chestnut coloured eyes closed to bare slivers. Well, if Mycroft did insist Sherlock purchase a companion drac...he could really find no better a companion than this savage and broken creature.
"This one," Sherlock declared in a whirl of coat tails, turning his back on the stunned silence. "He is mine."
End Note: This is to be a multi-chaptered work with eventual sexing so just be aware later chapters will be mature. Hopefully I will be able to update about once a fortnight but I've had writers block for about a year and 0 motivation. Feel free to comment about anything, this is unbeta'd so there's likely to be a few mistakes :) Cross posted at the AO3