After that small fiasco, things went surprisingly well for John when it came to looking after the dragon. He was able to buy the fireproof spells in Fleet Street (the kitsune also tried to give him her number, but he wasn't interested), and then the rest of the items from Tesco. Sherlock (of course) noticed that John had brought home an extra bottle of milk, as well as a large package of raw chicken-giblets included-and raised an eyebrow at him. John just said, "This way we'll run out of milk less quickly," and put the groceries in the fridge. Then he went upstairs to check on Fang, and found him clawing at the window, obviously bored and hungry. Also, to his consternation, John found the charred remains of his jumper from last night across the floor. But he reminded himself it had been ruined anyway.
Despite their rocky beginning, John and Fang got along all right. The dragon was a lot like a cat: give him a saucer of milk and a chicken liver or shoulder or similar piece of meat, and he'd sleep pretty much the whole time John was gone. Leave some things for him to play with, chew on or set on fire, and he'd be happy enough. Of course, there were still a few mishaps here and there-Fang figured out how to open the window and got out onto the roof one evening while John and Sherlock were on a case, and ate two pigeons and a squirrel. John came back to find him sprawled on his pillow, surrounded by feathers and a fluffy tail. The dragon's ears drooped when John scolded him, and he lashed the air with his tail in a way that seemed to say, in a voice not unlike that of Sherlock, "Well, what did you expect me to do? I'm bored!" The next day John bought some extra toys, and even a kind of fancy gold bracelet for Fang to guard (surprisingly, the dragon took little interest in the latter, except to gnaw).
John didn't know much about Fang; Mr. Wormwood had told him as little as possible, in case he got captured and interrogated. But he did know that the little dragon and his mother had been the pampered pets of a mob boss somewhere in America; recently the boss had been killed by a rival gang, and Fang had been the only witness to the incident. So now he had to be protected until all the gang were rounded up, so he could testify against them. Yes, that's correct: in a monster court of law, they could use a nonspeaking dragon as a witness. John didn't know how, but suspected some kind of spell or mind-reader or something.
As weeks past, Fang began to grow a little bigger. He was still small enough that John could pick him up, but now his front and back dangled further to the floor if held around the middle, and was a bit heavier. John began considering the possibility of just wearing him around his neck like a big blue scarf. Thinking of that made him think of Sherlock, and his stomach lurched. The detective had obviously been hurt by John's refusal to say what had happened to his arm, or give any explanation for his abnormal behavior, even though he was more often than not guilty of the same thing. After the bathroom incident, he'd begun sulking, and hardly spoke to John at all, whether or not he was in the room. They still went on cases together, but Sherlock only told him the bare minimum of information, and often would just run off by himself, even if it might be easier to have an assistant. He even began making his own tea, which tempted John more than anything else to just explain what was wrong. But he remained quiet.
Then, in early April, Sherlock went out for the whole day, only telling John that he probably wouldn't be back until tomorrow. And John decided, in celebration, to bring Fang downstairs. The little dragon was tremendously excited to be in this new environment; he leaped around, sniffing at everything, chasing his tail, making even more of a mess than usual. John worked some of the energy out of him by tossing balls of crumpled newspaper into the air and having Fang try to flame them before they hit the ground. Since they did this in the kitchen, and Sherlock was always doing things in there that caught fire or blew up, he might not notice the extra smoky smell. Besides, John made sure to sweep up the ashes afterwards and wash them down the sink.
Towards evening, John was getting hungry, so he made a small dish of risotto. He and Fang shared it, along with a mug of tea and a small saucer of milk (the latter was only for the dragon). Then they retired to the living room, where John put on a James Bond movie. Fang was interested for a while, but eventually yawned, and curd up on John's chest while he stretched out. The doctor didn't complain; by now he'd become resigned to having Fang sleeping on him at night. He actually enjoyed the affection, and there was the added benefit of Fang not having fur to shed on him. He absentmindedly scratched the dragon's ears, massaging them between his fingers. Fang whuffled with pleasure, and his blue eyes drooped as his head flopped down, tucked against John's good shoulder. Watching the dozy dragon made John's eyelids start to get heavy too, and before he knew it, he was snoring away.
He didn't hear the thumping of footsteps come up the stairs a couple of hours later. He didn't hear the door open, or the familiar deep voice start to say, "John, I'm home-" And he most definitely didn't hear the stunned silence as Sherlock Holmes took a good, long look at the two sleeping forms on the sofa.