**In this AU, Sherlock season 3 is discounted, but everything from season 1 and 2 happened, even if nothing is mentioned from them**
I already have ideas for five more parts, but whatever happens, this will be slow updating. It's mainly just a bunch of one-shots in the same 'verse, which I have called 'A Dimension Jump to the Left.'
P.S. There will be johnlock, but it's only hinted at in this part
A Dimension Jump to the Left
Part 1: Not Ordinary
John Watson is not ordinary.
You must remember this, dear reader, for that is important to know for this story – the story in which John Watson saves Sherlock Holmes' life by very, very unorthodox means.
Looking at him, John Watson, one couldn't deduce the abnormality, even if that one person was the infamous Sherlock Holmes himself. How could he? To the great Consulting Detective, John looked and acted like just any other bloke with his sandy blonde hair and wide, cheerful (read: idiotic) smiles, his strange fondness for jumpers (or anything with long sleeves really) and his mind that doesn't see the blatantly obvious, and then there's his dark blue eyes that occasionally hold a green tint to it when the light hits it a certain way. He's shorter than the average man, but besides that, John Watson is completely normal compared to the brilliant detective according to the brilliant detective.
If only that brilliant detective knew.
John Watson is not ordinary because in order for him to be ordinary, he would have to be like all the other blokes in the world. He's not like all the other blokes in the world. Those blokes are beings called 'humans' and John Watson…well, he's not exactly human. Even among his own kind, he's far from being a normal, ordinary bloke. You see, dear reader, there's only been a small handful of John's particular breed, a mixture of water and fire.
Oh dear. I can see you're a bit confused, my dear reader. Perhaps we should start at the beginning so all this might make a bit more sense for you?
Understand, dear reader, that there is the human world, the world in which you (I would presume) live in, with excitement and danger and love and normality, but it doesn't stop there. Not even in the world you live in does it stop there – not everything is considered to be normal and regular and ordinary.
There are all sorts of things in your world, the human world. Some things are more abnormal than others, like, for one example, that Jack the Ripper character, who was quite the opposite compared to the regular civilians at that time; even compared to those of his own caliber, both then and now, he's considered to be one of the most dangerous serial killers, partly because he was never caught. Then there's the "Wonders of the World" as you humans call it. Sometimes you say there are seven, other times there are more. I don't understand why you must list them or even compare them – the 'wonders of the world' weren't meant to be numbered and categorized or whatever else it is you humans do. They were meant to be looked upon and marveled at. Stonehenge is one of them I believe, and so is the Roman Colosseum and the Grand Canyon, yes? Isn't it strange how in your ordinary world there are things so beautiful and things so deadly? Sometimes the beautiful and the deadly coincide.
There's also fantasy. It's one of my favorite notions you humans have, mostly because it's called fantasy. You humans dream up things like mermaids and faeries and goblins and elves, putting them into books and movies and stories. As children, you believe that they're real, but the older you all get, no matter who you are, you eventually stop believing in "fairy tales" because they "aren't real."
My silly, innocent human readers, you must stop for a moment. Look at your surroundings. Listen to what they're trying to tell you. You might be surprised what you hear. Or see.
There's a whole other world out there. It has no name besides "Earth" (or sometimes it's called "Other" by those who live there but are currently residing in the human world) because that's where it resides, just a slight dimension-shift to the left of the human world. That is the place you dreamed about as a child. Nymphs and dryads, mermaids and unicorns, faeries and mages, even things you've never heard of or only imagined live in Other. It's all right there, right beside you. All you have to do is a dimension jump to your left.
The guardians –because there are no rulers or governments in this land– are the dragons. There are four types of dragons: Water Dragons, who protect the seas, Wind Dragons, who protect the air, Earth Dragons, who protect the soil, plants, and wildlife (the animals that aren't intelligent), and Fire Dragons, who protect the inhabitants of the world (those who are intelligent). Each species had their own king or queen or leader, whichever word the species fancies. Some even have none, preferring to be on their own in solitude, like the jeslers (they're similar to moles in blindness, size, and color, but they can also foretell the future for anyone brave and smart enough to catch one of them – and give them a piece volcanic rock).
All dragons have a human form; it's what makes them the perfect guardians. When they get old enough, some dragons transfer to your world, the human world, in order to protect humans too. A few other creatures also have a human form while some, like mages, are already human, but they are born with blood filled with magic. (No one is sure what makes them different to regular humans, and no one has ever had the desire to find out.)
Dear reader, why do you scoff? You do not believe in this other world; why? Is it because you have discarded your childish ways? If you truly do not believe me, go ask John Watson. After all, that is the world he was born in, the world he grew up in. Why, then, is he here in your world, you ask? Well that's simple. He chose to protect the human race. John Watson went to college in the human world with, like every other dragon who chose the same path, a made up human childhood, so no one questioned his sudden existence, and a made up name. His last name isn't really "Watson" because there is no concept of last names in his world. However, "John" is actually his first (his only) name. He took "Hamish" as a middle name because he liked the way it sounded, the way it formed on his lips.
John was a special dragon; his father was fire, his mother was water. Very few dragons have that sort of power, because dragons generally mate with those in the same category, which make mixed breeds rare and extremely dangerous, and just like a wise boy once said, "With great power, comes great need to take a nap." Meaning, John is constantly drinking tea, which tastes much, much better in Other than on Earth, or taking naps, which decreased once he settled in the human world because there was no need to use his powers as much.
Even when he decided to join the human war, John Watson didn't use his dragon powers, save for small things like finding water when his garrison needed it most or lowering the heat intensity slightly when it just became unbearable for his comrades. (The heat never bothered John, being part Fire Dragon.)
Then he was shot. A simple, human bullet impaled his shoulder. It nearly killed him.
Humiliating is an understatement.
Granted, that human bullet was what led him to Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant genius man, who's actually a bit of an idiot. His imagination stops when the case or the facts do. So John never worried that his secret would be discovered; how could it, if Sherlock didn't believe in the thing he was anyway? That didn't stop him, though, from being absolutely surprised when this ordinary human turned out to be…well, not ordinary at all. When he first deduced those things about John, John was rendered speechless; he'd gotten nearly everything correct, and it was brilliant. (Well, everything except the fact that Harry was his half-sister and that John wasn't even from this dimension, but besides that, Sherlock Holmes had nailed it on the nose.)
John was happy to keep part of him a secret though. Yes, he loved and missed his home, but here in the human world, John had found something besides the reverence of begin a half-breed (or the scorn). He found acceptance for who hewas, not what. Now he realized why his half-sister, a full Fire Dragon, turned her back on her job – she found love. (Of course, John wished she also hadn't found cheese; cheese is to the creatures of Other like alcohol is to humans.)
Things were going great – he and Sherlock had a system. Sherlock would deduce and detect and solve crimes while John helped (if you could call it that) and blogged and made tea. That is, until that day.
Watching Sherlock fall to his (supposed) death had broken something inside John. Dragons can become attached to a human in either a romantic or platonic sense, and John, knowing that Sherlock was "married to his work," did everything in his power to make that attachment purely platonic, and it really didn't help that people kept calling him gay (which he is not; he is, like all other dragons, bisexual, there is a difference). But when he heard Sherlock's voice, listened to what he was saying, and saw him jump, John knew that the attachment was no longer platonic.
He also knew the attachment was one-sided.
Not that it mattered. Sherlock was dead. Gone. Never coming back.
Dead.
…Except, as it turned out Three years later, he wasn't.
When Sherlock first appeared to John, who had just returned from his world, John's first reaction was to stare at him wordlessly. Then, when Sherlock stepped closer and said his name, John punched him in the face. Hard.
Three years. He'd been gone three years.
John had spent six months during that first year trying to convince himself that it wasn't true. Sherlock had to be alive. He had to. John searched and searched, using his dragon abilities, but he couldn't find him. Feeling hollow and cold, John returned to his home, alone, knowing he couldn't live in the human world without Sherlock. Even if his attachment to the detective had remained platonic, brotherly, John knew he still wouldn't have been able to stay.
When a dragon attaches themselves to a human, they cannot function if that human was to die. John remembers his mother's stories, how she became very close to a female human, sisterly close, but when that human died (thankfully of old age), his mother's heart had broken. She had returned to her world, found John's father, who had lost his previous wife in combat with in the human world centuries earlier. Together, they mended the other's broken hearts and, well, had him. Dragons don't age like humans do. Even if their human form were to become old and decrepit, they simply needed to change back into a dragon and they'd still be young. The only way for a dragon to die would be in combat or if they chose to – some dragons do not wish to live after their mate dies (dragons mate for life) and others have been alive so long, they wish to be at peace, but that doesn't usually happen for several millennia.
Returning home had been hard. John was so tempted, several times, to end his life in order to be with Sherlock. His mother, father, sister, and friends convinced him not to. (John really isn't entirely sure how they did that.) Two and a half years later, he felt like he could return to the human world. He could still protect the humans, even if his was no longer there.
Right as he reentered, right as he stepped out of the "old, abandon house that no one had lived in for what must be centuries and no one wants to buy" (you silly humans and your inability to detect glamour) and stepped onto the alleyway, he collided into Sherlock. The detective never questioned what John was doing in the alleyway nor why he was in the building in the first place, and John, though he knew it was because of the heavy magic that flowed around the building, felt saddened by it afterward. Even the great Sherlock Holmes can be defeated by a little bit of magic.
It took a lot of trust and a lot of uncomfortable conversations and silences, but about a year later, John and Sherlock were back to their routine. Everything was fine; Sherlock worked on his cases and did experiments, John blogged and drank tea, and both of them hid something from the other. (In John's case, he was hiding two things – his true identity and his true feelings.)
Then, the second Moriarty arose.
I hope you're all caught up now, dear readers, and I hope I didn't make things too confusing for you. If not, feel free to call me, and I'll clear it right up, but for now, let me take you to where we need to be – in a condemned gym in the middle of nowhere.
0~X~0
"My boss is interested in you and wants me to give you a proposition, John Watson," the man said.
"A proposition." John repeated cynically, glaring daggers at the man. "And why would I care?"
"It would be very beneficial for you to care."
"Oh, it would be beneficial, would it? Is that why I'm tied up?"
John tugged on the ropes binding his wrists together, but just like all the other times, it didn't budge. He looked around at his surroundings again. The room was dark, but the moonlight and John's sharp eyesight made it possible for him to see, though he had trouble making out the man's face. Weights and machines were all around him; he didn't know the particular machine he woke up on, but his hands were tied behind his back, around the machine, in a very uncomfortable position.
The man snorted. "If you weren't tied, you and Sherlock would be running off into the night right now while I lay on the floor dead. Am I right?"
"…Point taken."
The man snorts again and John wonders why he finds this amusing. Possibly because he's not the one tied. There was a brief silence as the man regarded John curiously.
"My boss really wants you to comply," he finally said.
"Why me?" The question slipped from John's lips, but he was truly curious. It was Sherlock who was interesting, who did the deduction and the solving. John, at least to the human's knowledge, was only an ex-army doctor and current blogger. An ordinary, common, everyday man.
The man shrugged. "Don't know; don't care. I was given a job and I did it. She told me I needed to tell you about her proposition and I did. The 'why' questions you have don't regard me, so they don't matter to me."
She. John filed that information away to tell Sherlock later. Once he saved the idiot that is.
"Well, you already took Sherlock and you have me; what are you waiting for?" John asked.
"Me," a new voice said.
John looked up as a woman entered, most of her body hidden by shadows.
"I take it you're the boss?" John asked, suddenly feeling angry. "I would offer my hand or maybe I'd just punch your face, but either way, my hands are a bit tied at the moment."
The woman didn't find him amusing either. She stared at John coldly and silently. Even though he couldn't see her face, John had to repress a shudder. There was something about this woman… Something his instincts told him was very dangerous.
"Take him to Sherlock," the woman said suddenly, interrupting John's thoughts. "Let's see how well he fairs."
From the tone of her voice, John got the distinct impression that she knew exactly how he'd "fair" and she actually wanted to see what he would do.
"Yes, ma'am." Taking out a gun, the man –the woman's minion– walked closer to John. "I'm going to untie you now," he said. "But don't try anything stupid or else this gun," he waved the item in front of John's face, "Will go off."
He needn't have worried. John wasn't planning on escaping. Not yet at least. He needed to get to Sherlock first.
As he was being escorted away, the woman spoke up again.
"I'll give you another chance, John. Join me. Kill the detective and help me rule this miserable world."
The man stopped, but didn't turn John around, so John couldn't see the woman's face as she spoke. Not that he needed to. His answer could be said facing forwards, backwards, sideways, or upside down.
"Never," he said scathingly, and as an immortal dragon, 'never' is a long time for John.
Even in the silence, John could feel the fury radiating off the woman. The fury was so hot is burned cold, and John knew that goose bumps were forming on his skin.
"There's something you should know, John. Something important."
John heard the clicking of her heels. He felt the man move away so the woman could lean down, her lips barely grazing his ear and her breath warm on the back of his neck.
"Just so we're clear: I am nothing like Moriarty. That man was infatuated with Sherlock; he wanted to impress him, please him. Court him. I have no such desire. All I want is Sherlock out of my way. Maybe I'll play with him for a bit, remind him of how much he failed to catch me. Failed the world, failed his friends. Failed you." She pauses and John forces himself not to move. Not to take in a deep breath or break his bonds because he needs to save Sherlock and he will not let this pathetic human female get to him. She will not get under his skin.
"And while I'd love for you to join me, John Watson," she continues, purring into his ear. "I don't need you. What I'm doing, I do for myself. The only one I want to please is myself, meaning I have no desire to get caught by or play games with that detective of yours. Remember that."
Then John was pushed forward.
x~X~x
So hot. He's so hot.
He tries to remember how long it's been.
Two hours…? That's sounds right; he was taken roughly two hours ago, give or take ten minutes. Sherlock concentrates on this, trying to block out the heat. He tries to remember every single detail.
He had just left Backer Street when a car pulled up to him, the exact make and model of Mycroft's. He had wanted to keep walking, but since he was in a hurry, he thought it was best to just wait until Mycroft rolled down the window, said what he needed to, and rode off. When the car door opened, rather than the window, Sherlock had just enough time to realize what was going to happen to him the second before it did. He was stabbed in the neck from behind with a needle and pushed into the open door before he lost consciousness.
Then he awoke in a gym (the smell was strong enough that Sherlock needn't have had to look around to know where he was) approximately forty-five minutes later (Epsom? Esher? Weybridge?) and thrown into this sauna. Fifty minutes later, he was dragged out, tied to a chair, given an 8oz. glass of water, questioned about some crime that has no connection to either him or his interrogator, injected with another sedative, and thrown back into the sauna twenty minutes later.
Sherlock finds himself wishing John would hurry up. Surly he noticed that Sherlock was missing. John always knew what to do when it came to people, even if that person was Sherlock Holmes himself. Sherlock wishes he were here already; John would know what to do right now.
(Okay, that's a lie, Sherlock knows John would have no clue, but if he were prattling off absurd ideas, Sherlock knew he could figure out what to do from there. He also really just wants John to be with him. He hates being alone.)
The heat intensifies and Sherlock feels sweat forming on his body. He despises that feeling.
How long has it been? He tried to remember. It hasn't been an hour, Sherlock knows this at least, but it's also been well over fifteen minutes. He feels faint, despite the fact that he's lying down, and his throat is so dry, yet he has an underlining urge to vomit. Sherlock wonders what his doctor would say about that. A bout of nausea fills him and Sherlock wishes he had his coat to wrap around him, protect him, but he does not.
His coat, his lovely coat, has been shucked off and tossed in a corner. Same with his shoes and socks. He unbuttoned his shirt and rolled the sleeves up, but he didn't take it or his trousers off; even alone, he was too, and he strongly detests this word, embarrassed to be in only his pants.
He hears the door open. Someone's being shoved in. They fall to their knees.
"Sherlock!"
Ah. John. Good. That's good.
"Sherlock! Christ," the man curses as he scrambles over to where Sherlock was – curled in a ball with his bloody hands trying to hide his face from most of the heat.
The door closes. It's still so hot. He feels someone's hands on his body, his face. They're soothing, searching. Sherlock opens his eyes even though he knows exactly who it is. John.
"How long?" he asks.
"Not sure," Sherlock rasps, knowing precisely what his blogging doctor wants to know. "Long. Not an hour."
He hears John muttering. "Dehydrated, over heated… Shit, shit, shit."
Suddenly, John's hands and his presence disappear. Sherlock misses them. He wants them back. He hears the door rattle.
"No use. Locked. Outside," Sherlock explains. "Can't pick it."
He hears a loud pound. John used his fist against the door. He's angry.
"You bloody idiot," John says. "How the hell did they get you?"
He's back now, his hands running over Sherlock's body. It's hot, John's body heat, but Sherlock doesn't want John to leave.
"Jumped. Sedated," he says. Then: "Water."
John's quiet, but Sherlock can hear him thinking. He's thinking hard. Too loudly. He wants John to stop, to go back to stroking him; he's already thought of everything he can do, and it's nothing. Even when he was first put in here Sherlock couldn't break down the door. Of course he was also fighting off the remnants of a sedative, but that's beside the point. (It didn't help that exactly fifteen minutes and twelve seconds later, the buggering minion –literally buggering; he likes his victims facing away from him with their faces shoved against cement– walked back in to give him yet another dose of sedative. Of course, then he was given another dose when he was removed thirty-four minutes later.) The walls and floor were wood, but he didn't have anything to break them with besides his fingers, which were bloody and torn from trying.
John gently takes hold of Sherlock's hands, examining the nails. He puts a hand to Sherlock's forehead, lingering it as he checks for fever. Sherlock knows he doesn't have a fever, no symptoms, but with the way he feels, he may as well have had one.
"You're hot," Sherlock complained.
John curses and moves away. "Right, sorry."
Sherlock frowns. "No, don't leave." He reaches out to John, and when John tentatively clasps his hand, Sherlock tries to pull him back down. It only works because his blogging doctor was unbalanced and caught off guard.
"Sherlock!" John cries out surprised as he lands half on the detective.
Sherlock curls into John, ignoring both the heat and the "Sherlock what are you doing?" coming from John. It would've been perfect had John not extracted himself from Sherlock's hold.
He holds Sherlock away from him, but he hasn't gotten up off the floor yet. "Sherlock. What's going on?" John asks.
"Hot," Sherlock said. "But not alone." He tries to curl around John once more, but John keeps him from moving.
John frowns at him. "What exactly did they give you?"
"Don't know," Sherlock said as he tried to move closer to John, who was still holding him back.
"You don't know, or you don't remember?"
"Does it matter?" Sherlock asked because honestly, it was so very hot and obviously they were expected to stay here until dehydration and Sherlock couldn't think about anything expect hot and John because of the sedative so he cannot fathom why John cares so much. It must be something those ordinary people do. "Not ordinary though."
"–What?"
John's grasp loosens and Sherlock moves closer immediately, seizing his chance. He realizes, as he curls back against John's side, that John had been in the middle of talking, most likely about why it does matter about the sedative, but Sherlock doesn't care. Right now, he just wants to sleep.
"You're not ordinary," Sherlock murmurs. "All the other people don't like me. You like me though. You're not mean or ordinary or boring. Much. I like you."
There's silence. Sherlock wonders if John went to sleep. Wait no, impossible; John didn't have a sedative. Part of Sherlock hates this sedative. It's making him vulnerable and stupid. The other part of Sherlock wants to close his eyes and sleep in John's arms forever.
A few minutes pass before Sherlock hears John say, "Oh, fuck it," and he feels John sit up, taking Sherlock with him, and blow ice-cold air on his face.
It feels marvelous. The air clears Sherlock's mind, chasing the heat away, and for a moment he feels like himself again, and it is positively delight–
Wait.
"Wha–?" Sherlock's mind is racing sluggishly as he tries to understand. That doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense. Cold air. Cold air. How could–
Again, there's ice-cold air. Then the heat starts decreasing, not just on his face, but everywhere. The room is cooling down.
"John. What – what's going on?" He opens his eyes, but Sherlock must be more delusional than he thought. It looks as though… As though the heat is going into John. "Not possible," he murmurs.
"Sherlock, do you trust me?"
The question doesn't register at first. Sherlock continues staring at John, knowing what he's seeing can't be true, but also knowing that he's seeing it happen right before his eyes.
"Sherlock," John says vehemently. "Do you trust me?"
"Of course. Yes. Don't be an idiot," Sherlock croaks.
Then John is gone again. He's at the door… No. No, he broke the door. Pushed against it and it just…crumbled. John's back at his side in an instant.
"John…" But nothing else comes out; he's in too much shock. There's something about John, something Sherlock missed. Something that makes him very not-ordinary in a very not-human way.
"It's okay, Sherlock," John says. "I'm getting you out of here."
And the next thing Sherlock knows is that he's being carried bridal-style by a man who should not be able to do that. Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around John's neck and tries to hunch inward, fearing John might accidently drop him.
They leave the sauna and Sherlock sighs in relief at the cool air. But it's not enough.
"Water," he says. "Need water. Shower."
John immediately makes his way to the right, opening doors with a kick even if they're not supposed to open that way and Sherlock wants –no, needs– to figure out why, what, how, when, everything…but he'd rather do that after he gets water. Water down his throat, down his body. He needs water.
Soon, Sherlock hears the sounds of a shower being turned on and then he's being pelted by drops of rain. Wait, no, stupid conclusion. Obviously he's still in the gym, not outside. Not rain, but water droplets from a shower head. Sherlock opens his mouth, letting the water fill him before swallowing. He does this for a few times, reveling in the way his body cools down.
Distantly, he wonders what would happen if they're found. Not only did they just escape, but John is holding Sherlock practically in his lap, one arm supporting Sherlock's tilted head while the second is wrapped around his bare chest protectively. He wonders if John even realizes that's he's doing it; Sherlock hopes he doesn't for a while.
"Better?" John asks. His voice conveys worry; not just for Sherlock's well-being (even though that's the first thing on his mind, Sherlock knows), but also because he's nervous about what he just did. He nervous about Sherlock's reaction.
"No," Sherlock answers truthfully, thrilled that his mind is clear again and his voice is no longer scratchy or dry. It couldn't just have been the water though, water doesn't have those properties. It's something to do with whatever John's hiding. An exited thrill shivers down Sherlock's spine. He does love mysteries.
"What's wrong?" John immediately asks. The hand not supporting Sherlock's head starts moving across Sherlock's chest, checking for something he's missed. "Tell me."
Sherlock pauses only a moment so he can shift position. He still wants to be under the shower, but he doesn't want the spray in his eyes – he needs to see John's face.
"I'll only be 'better' once you explain what just happened."
John's face is impassive and Sherlock almost decides that John's going to play the innocent fool, chalk up whatever Sherlock saw to his dehydration and sedateness, but Sherlock pinpoints the exact moment that John knows saying this would be both useless and imprudent. Good. John's learning.
"That's a very long story," John says quietly.
"And one you don't have time for," a voice says. A female voice.
Sherlock looks over, surprised that John pulls him closer to his own body.
"You," John says coldly.
It's one of the things Sherlock finds fascinating about John. He can friendly and open to anyone, but you give him just a sliver of doubt and his attitude completely changes.
"You knew I'd get us out of there," John continues.
Sherlock can't help but feel proud; John deduced something all by himself without Sherlock's help. Yet he's also confused. He wishes he could've heard the earlier conversation, wishes he knows exactly what the woman had said to John. Word for word with the precise facial expressions and body language.
"Of course," she says dismissively. Pausing, she regards them carefully, her face transforming into amusement. Smirking, she walks closer to them, her heels echoing loudly. "My, what a position you found yourselves in."
John doesn't say anything, but Sherlock does a double take.
"Your – Your face," he stutters in complete shock. "I can't make it out." His mind races. The women is smirking, he knows, but he can't see. No, he can see it, he's staring at her face, but the details, the colors…it's not there. It slips from him the moment it enters his mind.
The woman nods approvingly. "Very good, Mister Holmes. Most people can't detect a glamour when they see one, and this is quite a strong one. Not even John over there could see through it."
"Glamour?" Sherlock echoes. He's heard the term before, but can't place where. He almost asks John, but he stops when he feels John stiffen. He can hear John thinking again and he knows John's figuring it out. Sherlock's half upset that John's able to understand what's going on faster than he can (he blames it on the dehydration, overheating, and being sedated, and certainly not because he actually is quite confused about the whole ordeal), but the other half of Sherlock is reminded that John's hiding something, and perhaps, whatever he's hiding, is in some way connected to the woman and her 'glamour'.
"You're a mage," John says.
"Very good!" the woman exclaims, clapping her hands. "I knew you'd get it eventually, dragon."
Dragon? Sherlock thinks. That's a strange pet name.
"Why don't you reveal yourself, mage," Sherlock said, not entirely sure what a mage was. He knew it was similar to a magician, but they used tricks to entertain and – Oh. No, impossible. Unless… Unless… Oh! How brilliant! All this, going on right under his nose! He's been blind, but this is just fantastic!
"As I've told John," the woman says ignorant to Sherlock's sudden revelation, "I've no interest in getting captured. I don't care to arouse you, Sherlock, with petty games like Moriarty did. I wish to have fun." She pulled a gun out, aiming it toward both him and John, "And you two are in my way."
Then several things happened at once.
The gun fired, Sherlock heard it, but never felt it. What he did feel, was John pushing him back and his skin…changing. Hardening. Suddenly, something stood in front of Sherlock. That something was big and large and not human.
The mage cursed in a language Sherlock had never heard before, and he listened to the echoing footsteps as the mage fled from the… Well, from the dragon. Sherlock slowly stood up and circled until he was facing the dragon.
"John?" he asked hesitantly, wondering if John's human mind was still retain while in this form.
The dragon dipped his head, clearly in recognition.
Sherlock raised a hand, gently touching John's snout. "I can't believe–" he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "There's a whole world out there that I never knew, isn't there? An impossible world that shouldn't exist, but does."
John the Dragon didn't make any motion, but Sherlock could see it in his eyes. Even if he couldn't, the answer was obvious.
Yes.
Stoking the scales, Sherlock takes in the sight before him in the way only his eyes can.
The scales are the color of flames – a mixture of red, orange, and yellow with hints of blue. The body is like that of a serpent: flexible, long. While fantasies and fairy tales were deleted from Sherlock's mind as a young boy (and now, knowing this, he should restore those fables since some of them might hold something of great value), he hasn't deleted Chinese culture, and he recognizes John's dragon form to be very similar to a Chinese dragon – though John is certainly much thicker, stronger, and not as long as the Chinese pictures portray dragons to be.
He's about half the size of a football field –55 meters, though why Sherlock even knows that, he can't remember; probably for a case– and must weigh roughly half a ton (71.4285714 stone). He looked ridiculous cooped up in a men's changing room at the gym, but somehow there was an unhuman elegance to John's coiling. (Perhaps it was the fact that he was a dragon now?) The pure white hair covered the full-length of John's posterior side (or is it anterior, since it's the side facing upwards?) and looks soft to the touch. John also sported a very traditional-looking dragon mustache.
"Beautiful," Sherlock breathed out, stroking the scales, feeling the smooth coolness. "Oh, we have much to discuss, John Watson."
The cocking sound of a gun startled Sherlock. He turned around, and once again, there was the woman (and not being able to make out her face was infuriating), but this time, she was not alone.
"What are those?" Sherlock asked appalled.
Beside him, John bent his head and tensed his muscles. When he growled –a low, deep in the throat sound–Sherlock realized John was getting ready to fight.
"Goblins," the woman smirked. "Much more ugly than those children cartoons make them out to be."
"Much more odiferous too," Sherlock noted, unable to keep the excitement from his voice or face – it's not every day you discover a whole other world existing right beside your own! He observed the strange, round-shaped creatures. Their flesh was the various colors of stone, their ears were long and pointy, and their hands and feet looked painfully swollen; Sherlock wondered how they were able to hold those makeshift weapons.
"Yes," the mage agreed with a grimace. "But they enjoy the taste flesh, and they get the job done. Plus, none of their fingerprints are ever in your system." Then she grinned. It was manic; the smile of an intelligence, sane woman who chose madness and chaos simply for the enjoyment. "But yours will be in the system, Sherlock Holmes. And without you, how could they ever catch me?"
John snarled. It was a deep, low, rumble, but loud enough to feel the tremors in the air. It was possessive. Angry. There was a slight shift in the dragon's weight – John's foot (paw? claw?) raised, barely an inch, barely noticeable, but Sherlock saw it. He knew exactly what it meant.
"Yes, that is an excellent question," Sherlock agreed. "God bless those poor idiots; they are completely useless without me." He paused, allowing himself to grin smugly. He watched, delighted, as the mage's face twisted into confusion. "Of course, in order for them to be rendered useless, you have to catch me."
Then he jumped. He used John's foot (again, paw? or is claw the appropriate term? need more data; must talk to John ASAP) to propel himself onto John's back and once he was there, he held on tight. Sherlock couldn't wrap his arms all the way around the thick neck, but he used all the muscles in his arms and thighs to stay on while John dodged the bullets (note: body very fluid and flexible) and headed toward back toward the sauna. Sherlock could hear the outraged cry of the mage as they passed the sauna and head straight for –
"No, wait, John!"
But it was too late. They plunged into the pool and Sherlock could feel something changing within his body before blacking out.
x~X~x
"Sherlock!"
He wasn't waking up. He wasn't waking up, but that fine. It's okay. There is no reason to panic.
No reason to panic. No reason to panic. There is absolutely no reason to panic.
"Sherlock!"
It's no big deal. He turned his best friend into water molecules, which is about a thousand levels of illegal, and now his best friend is not breathing. No big deal.
"SHERLOCK!"
No movement. Not even a muscle twitch.
God, he's pale. So pale and so not breathing.
"Shit, shit, shit!" John muttered. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. Obviously shaking the detective wasn't going to work, so that left… Oh.
"Dammit!"
John is a doctor. A bloody doctor and the biggest idiot in the world; what the hell is he doing just staring at his friend's body?! He could be doing something!
Straightening out his body and tipping the detective's head back, John blew breath into the unbreathing man's mouth. One strong huff was all it took.
Sherlock immediately sucked in a breath, his unseeing eyes wide open. Of course, the minute the air entered his lungs, the water was brought up out of his mouth.
John kept Sherlock from falling into his own vomit when Sherlock's arms started shaking too much. He held Sherlock in a sitting position similar to the one in the shower. It wouldn't have been as awkward if John wasn't only wearing only a towel around his waist.
"What," Sherlock gaped out. "What did you do?"
John looks down shyly. "What would you say if I said I converted our molecules to water and then forced us out of the tub facet?"
"Well, normally I would scoff at you and tell you not to be an idiot." Sherlock glanced around, noticing that they were in a bathroom –their bathroom back at 221B to be precise– and the tub was indeed filled with water. "But then I would be the idiot if I said that."
"Yeah, I suppose so," John said, grinning. His grin slipped when he realized Sherlock was staring at him strangely. "Sherlock, what–"
"Where are you clothes?" Sherlock interrupted. John blushed, but before he could open his mouth, Sherlock continued, "Because I know you were wearing them when – Oh! Yes, well I suppose that would make sense."
Shifting uncomfortably, John explained, "Well, my clothes don't become scales or anything when I change into–"
"A dragon. Yes. Obvious." Sherlock scrutinized him once more before standing up, and, to his credit, he only wobbled marginally. "Well, get dressed, John. We have much to discuss and I'm sure you want to be clothed when that happens." He stands up and heads toward the door, peeling off his shirt and unbuttoning his trousers.
"Wait, Sherlock!" John stood up quickly, keeping a firm hand on his towel. A wave of vertigo swept over him, but John managed to ignore it. "Sherlock you should see a doctor, you were in that sauna–"
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock interrupted again. "I feel perfectly alright. Whatever it was you did healed me just fine, which you must explain what exactly it was that you did and how you did it." Then Sherlock paused, seeming a bit apprehensive at what he was going to say next. "Besides, you my doctor. I don't need anyone else."
John blinked, but by then Sherlock was out of the bathroom. Left alone, John gipped hold of the sink unable to ignore the nausea any further. It's been so long since he's done that; any of that. Transforming in a dragon and then altering both his and Sherlock's molecules into water is taxing. His heart beats rapidly and he knows if he doesn't sit down soon with either some tea or some food, he'll pass out. With the towel firmly placed on his hips, John stumbles his way into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He'd rather fall down on his bed and take a nice, long nap, but knowing Sherlock, he'd only wake him up in a very unsavory manner and then demand answers. (And dammit, John should not find the quality attractive.)
"You're making tea," Sherlock says behind him.
"Yes," John answers, trying to keep his hands steady. God, he's really out of practice if he's reacting this badly to something he could've normally shaken off with a ten minute nap or half a cuppa without trembling hands before.
A new pair of hands comes into view. Sherlock's. They steady John's, taking the cup and hot water away from him.
"John, are you okay?" he asks.
The first thing John notices is Sherlock is shirtless. He's holding some material in his hands, possibly his shirt, but there's a vast sea of pale, exposed chest right in front of John's eyes. John wants to curse whatever it was that made him attach to Sherlock romantically rather than platonically.
"Fine," John manages to say. "Just used a lot of energy. Need to sleep. Or tea. Lots of tea. Lots of sleep."
Sherlock frowns, though John knows he's also delighted to have more information, and he steers John in the direction of the couch. John sits down, watching as Sherlock goes back to the kitchen, shirt still in hand. Sherlock's wearing black pants, but nothing else; even his feet are bare. His hair is plastered to his face and John tears his eyes away when Sherlock faces John again, two cups of tea in both hands. The shirt is no longer in his hands, but he's still not wearing it.
John reaches for the cup as soon as Sherlock is close enough. "Thanks," he said, bringing his shaking teacup to his lips.
"Should it be like…that?" Sherlock asks, frowning in distaste. John wants to smile because he knows that this is how Sherlock shows concern.
"Well, no. I'm just a bit out of practice," John admits. He takes his first sip, the others had been large gulps, glad that his hands have stopped shaking even if the headache hasn't receded yet.
Carefully, almost as if he's worried about scaring John, Sherlock sits down next to him on the couch; his knees are turned toward John's body. "If it affects you so badly, how come you haven't been practicing every day?"
John laughs. "Sherlock, I don't need to practice every day."
"Your headache, vertigo, and rapid heartbeat say otherwise."
"It's not that," John says. "It's just… Well, I've no use to be a dragon here. My powers don't need to be used at such an extreme level, so doing that, just then, it took a lot of energy."
"Where are you from originally? Don't look at me like that; it's obvious you weren't born here. And also, don't be an idiot, your dragon…powers are welcome to be used at every case we have and every opportunity you can find."
John laughs again, leaning back into the couch. Sherlock, after a moment's hesitation, follows.
"Sherlock, people don't know dragons exist. It's not like I can just transform or detect something using my abilities without any proof that doesn't involve, 'Well you see, the culprit's heat patterns suggest he's eleven meters–'"
"You can see heat patterns?" Sherlock interrupts. He leans in, barely an inch away, and stares into John's eyes. "Even now? How? What makes your eyes different?"
"I – I don't – Sherlock!" John pushes Sherlock's hands away. "You cannot dissect my eyes."
Sherlock leans back dejectedly. "I wasn't going to," he mutters, pouting his lips.
"Yeah, sure," but there isn't any heat behind his words. "I don't really know what makes me different, Sherlock. I just know I am."
Finished with his tea, John starts to put in on the table, but Sherlock stops him, taking the cup out of John's hands and replacing it with his own cup. John immediately starts drinking it.
"I want to know everything," Sherlock says minutes later after he realizes he's just been staring at John. "About you, about the mage, about the other world."
"Hmm, yes. Okay," John replies, hardly able to keep his eyes open. "But later. Sleep. We've both had a long day." He hands Sherlock his empty cup, who reaches for it automatically, before John falls into a deep sleep.
x~X~x
Sherlock startles as John leans against him, but he makes no move to relocate John's head. He waits a few more minutes, until the doctor is deep in REM sleep, before gently standing up, holding John's head and upper body until it rests against the couch. Sherlock then arranges the rest of John's body into a much more comfortable position. If his hands linger a bit on John's chest and thighs, well, no one was there to see.
Going into his room, Sherlock bring out a blanket to cover John's body. He's sure John doesn't need it, but the gesture is something 'good' and Sherlock doesn't want John to scowl at him.
As soon as John looks comfortable enough, Sherlock grabs John's laptop, sits in John's chair, and starts his research. He has much to catch up on. He decides to start with 'dragons' before moving on to any other creatures.