Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Thank you Hoodoo for your initial advice; Shakespeare 6.7 for your betaing, your advice and for the Sherlock rant you wrote for me, and especially Sideris for your thorough, honest, quick and invaluable alphaing rather than betaing, I should say. I'm deeply indebted to you people. Thank you.

~ ~ Prologue ~ ~

Mycroft had called him 'dragon slayer'. He could deny it as much as he wanted, but Sherlock was no goldfish.

It had been a flattering insult, very Mycroft-like: witty and ambiguous. But Sherlock understood him; they understood each other like nobody else could. The truth was that underneath both the mockery and the compliment lay a stern warning. And below that, his brother's concern. His ever interfering and utterly infuriating brother's concern.

Sherlock felt cold. He hated having to stand still and wait, but there was nothing else he could do. He was paying the price for his choices, he thought moodily, and shot a glance at Mycroft, who seemed an ice statue. It was a cloudy, windy day; with a 60% probability of rainfall within the next three hours. He'd checked.

Sherlock frowned. He had always been smart enough to know he and his brother were not attuned to the rest of the mortal world. He'd been okay with that for so long, it still felt weird to stop being sure he was above human errors. Only, they didn't feel that much like errors any more. No need to be Mycroft to know what had changed. Although, not being Mycroft, he had taken time to notice it. John. John Watson. John Watson, with his bright smile and his expressive face and kind eyes and yes, he was Sir Lancelot in Shining Armour. Sherlock snorted to himself. He had even started talking like John. His ridiculous writing style's influence, no doubt. Messing with his massive intellect, as the good man once called it. Yes, it was all John's fault.

He'd always been numb to the world, and proud of it. He'd always thought getting involved was an error. That yielding Reason to Feeling was an error. It was an error because it made you suffer and prevented you from thinking rationally, objectively, scientifically – properly. That's what he'd always believed – and believed still. It's true, isn't it? You can't get your empirical data collected and your inductive reasoning done if your head is full of silliness. You've got to be stoic. You're a genius, you're above the rest of humankind. You must be untouchable, inpenetrable, insensitive, unyielding. You've got the knowledge, they haven't. You've got the power, they haven't. Deceive people into thinking you're as soft-hearted as they are; that your heart, if not your mind, is ordinary – make them underestimate you, that makes your job easier, leaves you unscathed. Make them show their cards without showing yours. Trick them into yielding to you. Let them think you're one of them. But you're not, you're not a goldfish, you're a shark. You're the strongest of all, the most cunning of all, smirking from the shadows. Unscathed. That's absolutely true.

But John had changed him. He was a brilliant conductor of light; he made him think in new and original ways – made him think in ways he never had before. And amongst other things, he made him ask of one little, simple question:

What for?

What did he want to be the strongest, the most cunning for? Why did he want to be a predator, a wolf in sheep's clothing? What was the point? He'd enjoyed John's company. He'd enjoyed John's company without having to categorise him as either prey or a rival predator. He had at first, of course – prey, with no doubt. An idiot, like all prey. But later he realised that no, he was wrong: John was strong. So weak-looking at a first glance... yet so strong. Strong in another sense – a sense he'd never considered before. A strength he'd catalogued as weakness before knowing him, but now...

John. What had John done to open his heart? To make him unafraid of... 'getting involved'? The doctor admired Sherlock's sharp mind, true, but it was nothing compared to the admiration the detective had developed for his friend's courageous heart. John had endured two years of grief without breaking down. He had endured an arsehole of a best friend. Hell, Sherlock thought, he had endured a war! And yet he still was able to smile so warmly, his eyes so honest, his face so open. He had not only endured a predator like him but actually befriended him; considered him his best friend. John's heart had been broken so many times, and he still was able to... love. To get involved. To get hurt and yet rise up again – and again, and again. He was resilient. He was able to heal. He was able to be prey and yet carry on. Christ. He was so human. So very not like him. And yet... there also was a cold, hard core deep within him. A core made of the other type of strength – the dangerous, dark one. John hadn't thought twice before shooting that taxi driver dead. For his sake. Not even a week after meeting him for the first time. They had never discussed that again, but now he understood just how big of a deal it had been. What it had truly meant. Yes, now he knew. Too late.

Sherlock's right hand moved on its own to reach for a cigarette box that wasn't in his pocket. Obviously not, you stupid man. One cannot smoke on planes. He had left his cigarettes behind on purpose, and had taken nicotine patches instead. Damn. He was too nervous, Mycroft was too calm, why the hell was that man in black standing so close to him, and God, finally! The car arrived. Black, intimidating, official. Clearly one of the thousands Mycroft had stashed away in some warehouse outside of London, if the dust and dirt collected under the windsheild wipers was anything to go by. You can tell a lot about a car from the wipers, and a lot about the people who drive it. You can put in a fresh tank of gas and give it a 'thorough' cleaning, but no one thinks to clean under the wipers. Stupid. Goldfish. The car came to a stop in front of him and his brother. The car from which John and 'Mary' got out. Sherlock didn't really observe them, because as soon as they approached him, he made sure to look through them. He said friendly but redundant words to Mary, who was honourable enough not to kick a bloke when he was down, and who replied with the same kind of friendly niceties. He knew she strongly suspected the truth, because yes, he had done those things and said those words mostly for John's sake, even if she had benefited from them, and she was aware of the fact. And she was thankful, as she should be. Sherlock tried his best to school his face into a sympathetic expression. It was hard to resent such a fair player as Mary, but he couldn't help feeling a bit sour. This was turning out to be the most bitter pill he had ever been forced to swallow. But he'd smile. For John's sake. And... for Mary's sake too.

"Here be dragons," he had said. No shit, Mycroft.

Slaying his first big, fat dragon hadn't cost him his life, as so many people believed. Sherlock felt a now familiar pang in his chest. No, not his life. Damn Mycroft. The price had been John, losing John.

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself. Neutral. Sensible. Strong. He must remain strong. He must. He must become the imposing King Arthur statue he so liked to impersonate. Sherlock fucking Holmes didn't commit human errors.

Or did he?

Enjoy not getting involved, Mycroft had said. Ha. Damn you, Mycroft. Breathe in, breathe out. And speak.

"Since it's likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

There. I've said it. But that's just the easiest part. Now, I've got to enter the dragon's den. John is nervous, he doesn't know how to react. It's such an awkward moment.

"So here we are," he says. Indeed, my good friend. For the last time, here we are. "I can think of nothing to say." Well, John, I'm envious. I'm thinking of a lot of things I want to say, yet I can't utter a word.

"The game is over."

Oh no, John, not that. Don't say that, don't put it into words.

"The game is never over. It may be some new players, that's all." Damn it. I've put it into words. And the conversation, our goddamned last conversation, goes on without us.

"Here be dragons." Yes, Mycroft, I know that. Except, he hadn't really known until he had been forced to shoot down the dragon who had out-witted him. Because Magnussen had out-witted him, just like his brother always did. Checkmate. The only option left had been to throw the board to the floor and scatter the chess pieces. And the price to pay was losing John. Again.

Unbearable.

He needed to smoke, badly. Mycroft and 'Mary' were now far enough away and John was looking at him with that painfully attractive expression of his, between unsure and hopeful, and so utterly open. He seemed to shine, even when angry, even after murdering a cabbie with a cold bullet through his skull. But that probably was just his perception. Yes... human error.

Could John actually be hopeful? Did he suspect the truth? He probably did. Sherlock was an ace at interpreting facts, but John read hearts. Although, he wasn't as insensitive as people thought he was. He did perceive mood – most of the time. He just didn't dare to remove his armour. And he had been wearing armour for so long, that he was clumsy about acting according to what was expected. Besides, he couldn't help getting impatient with the hypocrisy people insisted on calling politeness and social etiquette. That much he had made clear at John's wedding.

On that occasion, he had gone in and out of the dragon's den, but without slaying the beast. No, of course not. He would have looked foolish to Sir Lancelot, who didn't seem to notice that particular dragon. That ugly, nasty, invisible dragon. Oh, John. Don't tell me you don't see it.

"John, there is something I should say... I've meant to say always and then never have..."

Go on, go on!

"... since it's unlikely that we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."

God, my good friend. John! You're nervous. Even I can see that. But not half as nervous as I am, I can tell you that. Or are you? It hurts, right? It's a different kind of pain for each of us, I know. I know I'm hurting you, once again. I wish I wasn't. It hurts me too. You could put an end to it – yet you can't. Not really. A doctor cannot heal with his hands tied. And you're such a kind doctor, John. I know you wish you could ease my pain.

A 'dragon-slayer'. It had been a beautiful insult, all right. Mycroft wasn't King Arthur or Sir Lancelot; he was Merlin, and was able to read both facts and hearts. He had known, had known all along, had known way before Sherlock had. And he had warned him. Remember Redbeard?

The invisible dragon looked at him with big, watery puppy eyes. "Don't slay me," it implored. "John and Mary's happiness will shatter if you do".

The silence was beginning to become awkward. The dragon just kept staring at him, and the agony strangled the heart Sherlock had forgotten he had. The silence stretched and stretched and streched in the wind, heavy and rotten like the hot breath of a dragon.

And then he spoke.

"Sherlock's actually a girl's name."

Bravo. That's your best misfire so far. It even beats that time when you made John think you'd die in the Tube – John always manages to be so sincere when it matters. Sherlock felt like a teenager unable to court the girl he liked and who pulled lame jokes instead to cover that fact. He hated feeling immature, hated it. But in front of John, he simply couldn't help it. Couldn't help showing off. Couldn't help turning his collars up. Couldn't help tricking him into expressing his feelings, instead of asking him directly. And he certainly couldn't help running away from the dragon.

John just laughed. That incredulous laugh of his which wasn't a true laugh at all; and averted his eyes, trying to conceal both his disappointment and his relief. Sherlock smiled; it wasn't a happy smile either, but now he knew. He knew John had noticed the dragon as well, he knew he had looked into its eye as well, and he knew he'd been just as intimidated by it as Sherlock had been.

Yes. He had thrust Excalibur with courage but he had failed at the last moment, and now it was stuck deep into the cold, hard rock. And once again, the dragon hadn't had the smallest scratch. Its puppy eyes had now become two unpleasant, mocking orbs; and its pleading pout, a cruel sneer. You cowardly, cowardly man.

"To the very best of times, John."

That's as far as your courage goes, Sherlock, isn't it? That, and a hand shake. John's hand is almost as moist as yours, and he has that same odious smile you have plastered on your face.

Here be dragons. No shit, Sherlock.