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Sherlock's POV
He snarled in disgust at the scene unfolding in front of him.
If throwing the mirror against the wall won't have broken his only bridge to the outside world, Sherlock would have thrown it, shattering it into a thousand little pieces.
It made his blood boil. The way they were fawning all over him. This...John Watson. What did they care if he survived? He was just another idiot villager. Someone, who had been stupid enough to attack him, when all he had been doing was collecting samples with Lestrade.
Nothing like this had ever happened before. He had been caught unawares and that was why he presently had two arrow wounds in his back. Although his tough dragon skin had protected him from most of the damage, it still stung like hell.
Sherlock took a hard look at the so called army doctor. He had sandy blonde hair and appeared to be the same age as himself. Sherlock snorted. Average. He still couldn't believe that he had listened to Lestrade and brought the wounded man back to the castle.
He had had to drag him inside with two arrows digging into his upper right shoulder. Sherlock placed tentative fingers near his wound. He's a doctor. Although, he was loath to admit, the attentions of a skilled doctor was probably exactly what he needed.
Sherlock watched transfixed as the man sowed up his own leg. John's eyes were set in a stern glaze. He listened as Mycroft told the stranger an extremely edited version of the enchantment that had turned them into talking furniture...and him into a monster.
Suddenly feeling sick, Sherlock placed the mirror back onto his dresser. Before he placed it down, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. It never ceased to shock and disgust him.
He was human and yet, not. Thankfully, the enchantment allowed him to stay semi-human inside the confines of the castle and grounds, but outside it, oh, outside, was a completely different story.
His skin would bubble up and his bones would burn. His whole body would transform. It was a painful process but he had been able to learn how to live with the pain. When he had finally learned to fly, the anticipation for that moment, when his body could leave the restrictions of the earth behind, almost made it worth never breaking the spell.
And yet...
Sherlock gritted his teeth. Love. Of everything that damned Warlock could have thought of for him to break the spell, why did it have to be that?. Why couldn't it have been a puzzle? A riddle? Something, anything, instead of weak, feeble emotion.
Oh, he had been weak. When he saw that stranger laid out on the bed, the first human he had set eyes on in almost two years, he had felt a stirring in his chest. Sherlock relished in the memory of it; his firm body against his chest, the shallow breathing and the sound of a heartbeat.
Sherlock let out a groan. His claws reached out and smashed the remains of what had once been a bed. His room was in shambles- victim to his erratic and violent temper. The only items that remained intact in his room where his experiments. They were all that mattered to him now. His work. His problems. It was the only activity that could...block the loneliness.
He was going to have to face the 'prisoner' sooner or later. John Watson now knew where his castle was, he couldn't be allowed to leave and bring back the villagers to destroy it. To destroy him. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. He has to stay here with me.
Sherlock quickly told himself that the only reason he was excited was because something new was happening. Finally, after so much stagnation in his life, there was an unknown factor. He was going to take great pleasure in taking it apart.
