John did not like this one little bit. He didn't know why, but he felt like he was back in the warzone, every nerve prickling and aware, senses expanded to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. It was an unpleasant feeling he didn't like to have. Then again, he was walking around with a dragon in a knapsack on his back and was on his way to the morgue to collect body parts. Who wouldn't feel uncomfortable in such a situation. True to his word, though, Sherlock was on his very best behavior, mainly because John refused to take a step outside of the flat until he promised so. The detective was moving as little as possible, making no noise, and wasn't throwing out scathing deductions at everyone he saw. The restraint it took to keep such things contained, however, was surely taxing what little self-control the young Holmes had. John adjusted his grip on the straps of the knapsack and hurried his step. He just wanted to get to the morgue, get whatever the hell it was that Sherlock needed, and get back to 221B as fast as humanly possible, before someone miraculously noticed that his knapsack was moving.

"Morning, Molly," he greeted as he pushed open the doors of the morgue.

The pathologist glanced up at him and offered a small, friendly smile. "Morning, John." Her gaze flickered to the door, noticing the lack of a certain someone. "Where's Sherlock? Did he run off like a maniac and leave you behind again?" she asked with a teasing smile.

Lying to Molly wasn't an easy thing to do. She was one of the few true friends John could boast of, and he often came down to the morgue to vent his frustrations when Sherlock became particularly insufferable because she understood as well as he did how very maddening the consulting detective could become. Still, he wouldn't push her understanding so far as to let her see the scaly little bugger curled up in the knapsack he carried. "For once, no. He's back at the flat, brooding over Moriarty," John answered; the lie tasted bitter on his tongue. "He sent me down for some new body parts for his experiments."

Molly paused in her rearranging of files, turned, and fixed the doctor with a look that wasn't all too dissimilar from Sherlock's. For a split second, John feared that she'd seen through his lies, but then a tiny grin flitted across her face. "So he's made you into an errand boy now?" she asked, then chortled. "Glad I'm not the only one he treats like his own personal serf."

"Tell me about it. Normally I'd have told him to stuff it, but since it's my day off, I figured that it'd be better to get out than sit around in the flat listening to him mutter to himself." There was a sharp bite of pain in the back of his shoulder; the dragon was listening intently to their conversation, and displeased with the way he was being spoken of, he'd dug his claws into John's back. The doctor gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to drop the knapsack on the floor out of spite. "So, what do you have that could be of use? I'm not sure what exactly he wants, and you know more about this..." He made a gesture towards the cadaver currently on the autopsy table. "...than I do. Or at least, more about what he'd like."

Molly was all too happy to oblige, showing him a new crop of body parts that no longer had use in the morgue, free for the taking. John began wondering how Sherlock intended to let him know which he'd need, but then he felt a light tapping on his back, slightly muffled by the layers of fabric—Morse code. Genius, Sherlock. Under the guidance of the silent instruction from his miniature passenger, John picked out several of the various organs, all of them preserved in their own separate containers, and he tucked them all into the knapsack, careful to keep it out of Molly's view so she wouldn't catch sight of the tiny dragon's luminous eyes or scaly form. She was entirely unaware, fully believing that there was nothing at all unusual about their interaction. He was beginning to think that maybe they could pull this off without any trouble at all. It was so nearly perfect.

Nearly.

As he began to bid Molly goodbye, the doors of the morgue swung open, and in came Detective Inspector Lestrade, a scowl set firmly on his face. "Sherlock, I—oh, John, it's you. I thought that Holmes was down here again," Lestrade muttered. "Where is the lanky git anyways? Run off without you again?"

Again, the doctor felt the claws bite into his back. Well, if you didn't want people to call you a git, maybe you shouldn't frequently act like one, John thought vindictively, wondering if maybe the little dragon could hear thoughts as well. "He's back at the flat obsessing over Moriarty. I'm on a supply run," he answered, gesturing to the knapsack on his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"We've got a brand-new case that has 'Sherlock' written all over it. I tried texting him earlier, but he didn't answer me. I figured he was just ignoring me, so I was coming down here to talk to him," the inspector replied. "Where is he?"

"Home, milling about in his mind palace," John explained. "He might have turned off his mobile. Or he might be abusing his violin again so he didn't hear it. He can get a little...tetchy when he has nothing to do."

Lestrade shook his head, grumbling something under his breath. All three people in the morgue jumped slightly at the loud, unmistakable sound of gunfire from somewhere in the hospital, closely followed by people screaming. "The blood hell...?" Lestrade drew his gun and stuck his head out of the morgue cautiously. "John, have you got—?" The inspector closed his mouth as he turned and saw the doctor tensed and aware, holding his pistol in a practiced stance. A tiny grin quirked his mouth. Had it been anybody else, Lestrade would have been horrified to see a civilian walking around with a concealed firearm, but there were exceptions to every rule and John running through London after criminals on a daily basis was certainly an exception. "'Course you do. C'mon, let's see what the hell's going on out there."

"Molly, once we leave, I want you to lock the door behind us and don't open it unless it's us," John instructed; the pathologist nodded hastily. The two men left the morgue and headed down the hallway towards the sounds of gunfire. She quickly jumped up and locked the doors as they swung closed, watching out the small window as doctor and inspector disappeared around a corner. She would never understand how they would be so brave as to move towards the screaming instead of running away like any other sane person. Moving away from the door, she took a deep breath to calm her nerves and walked back towards the counter where her latest case file waited. She had to work on something, otherwise she'd worry about John and Lestrade until she went utterly crackers from anxiety. As she turned, her elbow caught on John's knapsack—he'd set it down the moment he heard shots—and sent it to the floor, all its contents spilling out.


Sherlock did not like being carried around in a knapsack. At first, it had certainly seemed like a brilliant idea, but he had entirely neglected to consider how uncomfortable it would be, curled up in a dark, cramped space, unable to see anything other than the rough fabric in front of his nose, being jostled about as John walked, and having to keep utterly, totally, maddeningly silent. He had no problem with not speaking; sometimes he could go days without uttering a word when he was thinking. But being forbidden to speak...that was infuriating beyond reason. So he had to keep as still as possible inside his little prison, clenching his jaw tightly and mentally naming each bone in the human body in alphabetical order to keep himself from clawing his way out of the knapsack. It seemed that being in this new form of his also came with a new set of instincts, one that he was not at all used to. He had never in his life been claustrophobic before, but now, he felt anxious when he did not have a view of the sky above him or room enough to fully stretch his wings. It felt odd, giving names to body parts he'd never had before. When the cabbie that brough them to St. Bart's was rude for no apparent reason other than to be impolite, he had to resist the urge to leap at the man with claws out, wanting to rip the sod's tongue out for daring to mistreat his blogger.

Now he was sitting in the knapsack besides his fresh crop of body parts, waiting for John to return, and being so still and quiet was wearing on his very last nerve. He heard the gunshots and screaming—in fact, he'd probably heard them better than anyone else did due to his new, incredibly sensitve hearing—and he knew that it was only logical that John leave behind the unneccessary burden of the knapsack. That didnt mean he had to like it. Sherlock barely bit his tongue on a sigh of boredom and began to mentally plan which experiments could be done with these new parts, going as far into detail as possible to pass the time.

Something hit the knapsack—a glancing blow, accidental instead of intentional. Molly gets clumsy whenever she's anxious—and he suddenly found himself falling. There was an impact that had him breathless, then glaring lights hit his eyes, temporarily blinding him as he rolled across a cold tiled floor. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lights, he quickly took stock. "No broken bones or contusions anywhere, lack of blood and severe pains. Possible bruise on the left hip, unimportant, not enough to hinder movement," he said to himself. Sherlock went rigid when his mind finally became aware of the fact that he was no longer in his prison and that Molly was standing less than two feet from him, her eyes wide as she stared at him. "Oh, bollocks," he muttered quietly. He backed away from her quickly, the spines on his back lifting as a low hiss spat from between his bared teeth. Those new instincts of his were flaring up high, and he was too full of his own panic to try and resist them. He had been seen. Escape. Now. Can't: doors to the morgue—locked, windows—none, alternate routes for escape—nonexistant. Trapped. Bollocks. Sherlock edged further away from Molly without taking his eyes off her, every muscle in him tensed and hyperaware. His wings unfurled, spreading out in an attempt to make himself seem larger than he truly was. He had no wish to hurt her, but right now, he was feeling a hot, unfamiliar flutter of panic in his chest. If he was caught, he could already imagine what would happen to him. Needles. Cages. Experiments. The word didn't hold the usual sweet taste it did when he would be the test subject instead of the observer.

Molly, however, hadn't moved yet. She was still staring with wide eyes, mouth open slightly. He watched her every movement, waiting for her to go for the scalpel on the counter beside her elbow, seize a weapon. But she didn't. Curious. Instead, there was a look of awe on her face, of wonder and disbelief. Not horror. Not fear. Slowly, she reached out and placed the files she held on the counter nearest to her. He bristled slightly, seeing how close her hands came to the tray of dissecting tools, but she didn't so much as glance at them. Her eyes remained on him. She sank down to her knees on the floor, watching him just as closely as he watched her. "Sherlock?" she whispered quietly.

The sound of his name leaving her lips made him blink in surprise, his snarl dissipating from shock. In that brief moment when his animal instincts were too surprised to take over his reasoning, he hastily began his observations. No sign of fear, he observed, looking over her closely. Made no move for a weapon, suggesting she believes I am not a threat to her. Hands are steady, heart rate is normal, breathing is regular. She is not afraid, he concluded. The spines on his back lay flat, and he furled his wings in.

"Sherlock, is that you? I heard you speak," Molly said quietly, gazing at him. "You don't have to be scared. I won't hurt you."

Despite everything that told him she was still dangerous, a possible threat, he believed her. The impulse to flee gone, he began to creep towards her, moving slowly and cautiously. His reflexes were much better than hers, and he had no doubt that if she moved to attack suddenly, he would be able to escape. Still, he was silently hoping that she wouldn't do such a thing. The realisation struck him with as much force as a physical blow—Molly's opinion of him mattered to him, just as much as John's did. He would be rather distraught if she rejected him. As he came closer to her, she moved. Instantly, he went rigid, shrinking back out of instinct, but she wasn't trying to hurt him. She had opened her arms towards him, an invitation. Sherlock crawled into her lap, still tightly wound and wary. But then all the tension melted out of his body as she wrapped both arms around him, enveloping him in warmth and the soft scent of herself.

Molly ran one hand down his back in a stroking motion, much like John did, and he was slightly ashamed of how he arched towards her touch eagerly. The spines on his back were peculiarly sensitive; it felt delightful when she ran her hand over them like that. His pathologist got to her feet, cradling him in her arms as if he was her cat, Toby; a low purr escaped his throat as her fingers lightly scratched behind his ears. Sherlock was ashamed of how pathetic he sounded, but right now, he didn't much care. This was even better than snuggling with John; his blogger was warm, no doubt, but made of hard muscle. She was soft and incredibly comfortable. "Oh, Sherlock," Molly said quietly, her warm breath just brushing the tops of his ears. "What have you gotten yourself into now?" she mused.

"You are not afraid of me?" he asked softly, peering up at her face.

"Of course not. Why should I be? You're still Sherlock." Her hands felt soft as she stroked his back, lightly running one fingertip along the row of spines down his backbone. "What happened to you?" she asked.

"That...is quite an excellent question," he said, "and one that I do not have the answer to at present."

She shook her head slightly. "My God, Sherlock, I can always count on you to get yourself into the most unusual bloody situations I have ever heard of."

Disbelief washed through him as he looked up at her. "How can you be so calm?" he queried. "Most people would have panicked at the sight of me, attempted to kill me, or called the authorities." So why didn't you? was the unspoken question he was trying to ask.

Molly sat down on one of the stools, holding him in her lap. "Sherlock, in the four years that I have known you, your apparent magnetism for all things strange and unusual has lifted my tolerance level an enormous amount. And even if you think it's a bunch of superstitious nonsense, I do believe in a higher power. I might not call it God, but that doesn't mean I have no faith," she murmured. Her gaze was steady and unblinking as she looked down into his eyes, full of conviction. Despite everything that'd transcribed in the past several minutes, she was still, somehow, miraculously calm. "So I'll have to believe that this has something to do with that power, no matter how…unbelievable it may be. Besides, it's you. I ought to be used to you being the strangest man I've ever met in all of my life," she added with a tiny grin.

He wasn't sure what it was about her—maybe her willing acceptance of his new form or her straightforward answer or just her familiarity—but he felt as if he could trust this woman with everything that John made him promise to keep a secret. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one that he only ever felt around the doctor himself. It was like a blanket, almost, wrapping him up in a sensation of warmth and relaxation and trust. Sherlock curled himself closer to her warmth and told her everything that'd happened since yesterday, from the blinding pain he felt to waking up with wings and a tail, to his and John's plan to come to the morgue. Throughout it all, Molly was decidedly quiet, stroking his back and listening intently. When he finished speaking, he looked up at her face for some sort of reaction; there was a look of thoughtfulness on her face, similar to his whenever he was thinking deeply about a new case.

"So, do you know what caused this? Will you ever be able to change back?" she asked.

"I don't know," he replied reluctantly. Oh, how he hated those three words, hated speaking them aloud, hated hearing himself say them. "I've been working on several theories, but all of them seem quite impossible."

Molly looked down and fixed him with a decidedly amused look, a smile pulling at her lips. "Sherlock. You've been turned into a dragon as big as my cat. The term 'impossible' no longer applies to our situation," she said, and he could tell by the note of her voice she was going to some effort not to laugh at him.

If he was human, he might have blushed in chagrin. Instead, his ears lay back, flat against his skull. Molly giggled, recognising his embarrassment. They both looked up as there was a sharp knock on the doors of the morgue. "Molly, it's John. You can let me in, it's all right," called the doctor's voice.

"Is Lestrade with you?" Molly asked as she stood up.

"No, he's on his way back to the Yard. He arrested the shooter. It was some bloke, had a mental breakdown because his wife died a few days ago, so apparently he decided that he'd come back and shoot every doctor he saw," John replied, and they could both hear the slight exasperation in his voice.

The pathologist nodded, then lifted Sherlock up and lightly placed him on her shoulder. He curled his tail around the back of her neck for balance, careful not to accidentally dig his claws into her shoulder. Molly stood up, walked across the morgue, and unlocked the doors, pulling them open. John stood just on the other side patiently, and the doctor's face drained of colour when he saw the dragon crouched on her shoulder, wide eyes flicking from Sherlock to her face. Molly folded her arms across her chest. "I do believe that you have some explaining to do, John Watson," she informed.


A/N: two chapters in one week! I am on a roll! Again, I want to thank everyone that's reviewed the story so far, and major thanks to the people that have favourited/followed it as well. So, Molly knows about Sherlock the Dragon, and all things considered, she handled it pretty well. I know that some people might think it's weird, how calmly John and Molly took all this transformation thing in stride, but to me, Molly always seemed like she's one of those people that does actually believe in cosmic forces and otherworldly power, even if she's really good at hiding it. After dealing with Sherlock for so long, I would say that her bar for the weird and unexplainable has been raised a fair deal, too. And John? Hell, he's been in a war. It takes a lot to freak him out. I wonder if the next person to find out is quite so calm (insert evil smile here).

Next chapter—Mycroft reveals the truth to Sherlock, someone else discovers the detective-turned-dragon without keeping their cool as well as John and Molly, and Sherlock decides to try flying lessons.