"You're alive… you're safe. Don't you see? That's all that matters to me." He murmured softly.

As their voices calling his name fell silent and his eyes closed, Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective and King under the Mountain, fell into a deep, restful slumber, in the warm embrace of the treasure that he loved so much, just as the great dragon Smaug the Terrible had so very, very long ago. The voices of those he loved the most sobbing and screaming his name around him.

"Sherlock!"


When Sherlock went limp, Mycroft was sure that something in him broke. He remembered what he'd said to his little brother back when he'd been 'banished', It seemed like so long ago, now.

Your loss would break my heart.

Mycroft was not lying that day.

The feeling, the ugly, black, twisted, horrible feeling creeping across his whole body, coming from his chest and settling in his stomach, could only be described as his heart breaking.

Unlike most people, Mycroft could count on only one hand the number of people he loved. He loved his parents, he loved Euros, he loved Anthea… and then there was Sherlock. Sherlock. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. His little brother.

From the sweet little boy who had loved to play pirates with him when they were little, to the strong, brave, wise man who loved to play deductions with him even though they were all grown up.

His parents had loved him since before he was born, and Mycroft of course loved them, too. They were his parents. Of course he loved them, as bothersome as they could be sometimes.

Though their relationship was still on shaky ground, Mycroft did love his sister. Nothing would ever be 'good' between them, but he had done what he'd done for both her safety and the safety of all of Britain. And it was difficult for him to even look at her without thinking about the Sherrinford incident.

Anthea had known him for so long that of all the goldfish in the world, she was the only one who came close to truly understanding him and the way his mind worked. Mycroft didn't even think his parents knew him as well as Anthea did at this point. Then there was the fact that she was his girlfriend to consider.

And then, there was Sherlock. Sherlock was different. Mycroft loved his brother more than he had ever loved anyone, and more than he ever would love anyone. His parents were fine, he could never have a normal or civilized conversation with Euros (even more so now because she had gone mute), and as well as Anthea understood him, and as much as he loved her… they weren't Sherlock. Sherlock was the only one who, like him, didn't just see, but observed the world around him. And with no other person did Mycroft share more good, happy memories.

Getting to hold Sherlock for the first time when he was brought home from the hospital. Mycroft had been only seven at the time, but a prodigy for his age. Mycroft remembered thinking just how amazing the little one in his arms was. No one in the whole wide world was more genetically similar to Mycroft than Sherlock was. At the time, Mycroft Holmes was the only one in the world that knew how to deduce, but he swore to himself right then and there that he'd show Sherlock how to see the world the way he did. Sherlock was not a calm baby in the slightest. He looked all about, squirmed if you tried to hold him, got frustrated and angry all the time, and seemed to despise the entire concept of sharing with a passion. But Mycroft loved that little boy more than anything else in the world.

Sherlock, age 1 year, eight months. Stumbling, but still walking into Mycroft's outstretched arms for the first time after months of frustration. Mycroft remembered hugging his brother tight, so proud he thought he'd burst, grinning wide, and saying, "Well done, brother mine." Things were different between them after that day. For the next few months, Sherlock was calm only when Mycroft was around. It took a bit longer for him to warm up to his parents.

Teaching him how to deduce.

Sherlock's first day of school.

Sherlock's first playdate with Victor. Mycroft couldn't lie, he'd been a bit jealous of Sherlock's new friend. But he was happy for his baby brother. Still, just because Sherlock had a new friend didn't mean that Mycroft wasn't allowed to play.

"Mycwoft, Wedbeard and I are gunna pway piwates! Do you wanna pway wif us?" Who could possibly say no to that sweet little face?

Sherlock slowly being able to deduce all by himself.

Protecting Sherlock from Euros.

Redbeard's death and the turmoil that followed.

Sherlock getting into drugs.

Sherlock graduating.

Sherlock Holmes: Consulting Detective.

Sherlock, playing deductions.

Sherlock smoking with him.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock!

All of this went through Mycroft's brain in the awful, heart-wrenching few moments, before John Watson's face suddenly changed. A smile split across the former army doctor's face, and he started to giggle, shaking his head.

"What. The bloody hell. Are you laughing at, John?" Molly asked in the tone of someone ready to commit murder. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she was hugging Sherlock close to her, his cheek pressed against hers, her face buried in his shoulder as she sobbed.

"That drama queen! That bloody… fucking… drama queen!"

"John Watson, Sherlock is dead. My brother… is dead. What the fuck is so funny about any of this? You have exactly two seconds to explain yourself before I break your jaw." Mycroft said dangerously. He knew good and damn well that between the two of them, John would most likely kick Mycroft's ass all the way to Scotland. But the grief was bringing out more aggression than Mycroft's brain could rationalize or control.

"What's funny… what's funny is that he's not. He's not dead!" John said happily, his face lit up like a freaking Christmas tree.

That was when Mycroft noticed that John had taken Sherlock's other hand, the one Mycroft wasn't holding, and his thumb was pressed down on Sherlock's pulse point. Immediately, Mycroft took the hand he was holding and pressed his fingers down on the same spot. His stomach sank. He felt nothing. There was no… wait! That was a heartbeat!... Another one!

"Forty five beats per minute. That's impossible. The average human heart beat is between sixty and a hundred bpm. There's no way he's still alive with his heart beating this slowly. And he's not breathing." Molly said.

And at the perfect moment, as if to say, 'yes I am', Sherlock inhaled. Everyone jumped. It was one slow, deep inhale, and one slow, deep exhale. Then he was still.

No one moved for a few seconds. Two… Three. Four. Another breath. Just as slow and deep as the first.

"Guys… I have a theory. And this is going to sound incredibly stupid." John said.

"We were rescued by a dragon that turned into Sherlock. I'm willing to believe anything at this point." Mycroft said.

"I think that he's somehow put himself into a state like animals do when they're hibernating. Or like a coma or something." John said.

"Why does that make sense?" Mycroft asked.

"The human body will sometimes shut itself down in moments of extreme stress. I think that's what Sherlock did. People have woken up on autopsy tables before. It's never happened to me, but I've heard stories of it happening." Molly said.

"This is actually a good thing." John said.

"How is this a good thing?" Mycroft asked.

"We have no idea how extensive Sherlock's external or internal injuries are, but they're bad enough that he collapsed as soon as his adrenaline wore off. If he's not conscious, he's not moving, therefore he's not making them worse. That, and he's not in any pain. Both of those are good things." THe former army doctor explained.

Everyone was silent for a few seconds as it sank in.

Sherlock is alive. Mycroft felt that awful feeling leave him, replaced by a bubbly, relieved sensation in his stomach that made a wide grin appear on his face.

He's going to be okay. He has to get to a hospital. But chances are, he's going to be okay.

"You're right, Doctor Watson." Mycroft didn't know when he'd started to giggle, but it wouldn't stop. "He is a drama queen."

Then, all three of them were giggling. And it only got worse. Within seconds, the three of them were laughing like hyenas. It was excruciating with Mycroft's already cracked ribs, but he couldn't stop. Besides, despite the pain, it felt good to laugh! It wasn't even that anything was particularly funny, it was the kind of uncontrollable laughter that results from one narrowly escaping death. The, "Holy shit, I'm alive. Holy shit, no one died!" sort of laughter that was born both as a result of the sheer number of times the three of them had narrowly escaped death in the past few hours, and from the fact that Sherlock wasn't dead. Sherlock was alive! And if John's guess was correct, then chances were, he was going to be just fine!


The fire that Sherlock had lit before returning to human form and then passing out was more than enough. It didn't take long for the majority of the cave to be nice and warm. There wasn't much they could do about the draft that came in from the cave entrance, but no one was complaining. As soon as everyone was settled, they all waited.

Molly had no way of knowing how long they waited. And it didn't need to be said what, or more accurately, who, they were waiting for.

It was an unspoken fear: that Moriarty's men were coming for them at any second.

An hour passed, maybe two. That was when John left.

"Sherlock needs a hospital. And so do you, Mycroft." John said when they tried to argue with him.

It didn't take much convincing from John to get Molly and Mycroft to agree, but once Mycroft thought about it for a moment, he made another interesting point.

"Sherlock decimated Moriarty's forces. They're too busy licking their own wounds to worry about us." The elder Holmes brother said. "For all we know, Sherlock killed Moriarty while he was escaping. Besides, even if Moriarty is alive, he doesn't know that Smaug changed back into Sherlock… He'd be stupid to chase after Smaug."

No one could come up with a logical argument for that. As to the reason why John left, it was simple.

A: The trek to the village was quite a hike. Mycroft had multiple cracked ribs and was never a very mobile person, anyway. Plus, he was still wet, though not as much so as before, so it would be cruel to make him make the trip. Sherlock had wanted Mycroft to be warm. He'd even remained in dragon form longer than he should have just to share body heat with his big brother. Mycroft was simply in no condition to go.

B: Presentation. They were all dirty, with soot, ash, and rubble covering them all from head to toe. But Mycroft was also wet, and poor Molly had nothing descent to wear. Her shirt was ripped open, mind you. The boys kept having to awkwardly look away when they accidentally got a glimpse of her bra. So between the three of them, John was the most presentable.

C: If John ran into trouble, being a former soldier and Sherlock's partner on the vast majority of his cases, John was the best fighter out of the three of them. Therefore, he was the most likely one to make it out on top and in one piece from said trouble.

All of these events had led up to Molly being where she was, now. Sitting as close to the cave entrance as possible while also being within the ring of heat from the bonfire, keeping watch for John's return or (hopefully not) Moriarty's men.

Being Sherlock's brother and still being soaked, Molly had told Mycroft to stay close to Sherlock and the fire until he dried off, and that they could switch off later. Out of courtesy, Mycroft had tried to argue. But unfortunately for him, Molly had plenty of experience dealing with a stubborn Holmes. Mycroft didn't stand a chance. Molly won the argument in less than thirty seconds.

But that was a while ago. For now, she was lost in thought.

"You are so beautiful. You're one of the ones that matters the most. You always have been. I've always trusted you… I love you."

Sherlock had told her he'd loved her. She was positive he'd been talking to her. Not all three of them. Not Mycroft, not John, her. Molly's logical side was telling her not to believe him. How many times had he used her to get what he wanted? How long had he known she was in love with him, but he had done nothing to indicate he returned those feelings?

Why did you have to chose the moment before you passed out to tell a girl something like that?

But despite everything in the past… Molly believed him.

His hand had been so soft… so gentle. And those eyes… Sherlock had looked at her with a look of absolute adoration. The only word she could use to describe the emotion behind those icy blues was love. Love. Sherlock loved her.

Molly shook her head at herself.

Molly, you idiot!

Sherlock, hugging her tight like she'd slip away on the night after the Sherrinford incident. "I'm sorry… I'm so sorry. I hurt you. I'd never hurt you, Molly. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. I thought I was going to lose you. I was so scared. I'm sorry…"

What are you thinking?!

Smaug- no, Sherlock, slaughtering the men who would have been her rapists. Sniffing her all over.

He was checking to see if I was hurt. Molly realized, now.

Sherlock, thanking God that he'd been there in time to save her. Sherlock, apologizing for frightening her. Sherlock, promising that he'd never hurt her. Calling her beautiful.

I didn't know that he was Sherlock at the time. Molly realized. He was flirting with me, but he wasn't trying to get anything from me. He just wanted to protect me. He just wanted me to feel safe.

"And Molly, I swear to any deity that might be listening, I am going to kiss you once this is over!"

That sentence had slipped Molly's mind in all the chaos. But it was yet another indication that Sherlock loved her.

"I love you."

Sherlock loved her. He was in love with her. She was in love with him, and had been for years. And he loved her back. Molly was positive. She smiled.

"Molly." Mycroft's voice nearly made her jump out of her skin.

"Mycroft. It's you. Sorry." Molly chuckled at her own silliness.

"No, the fault is mine. I apologize for startling you."

"It's alright. Nothing to apologize for. What is it?"

"You've been out here for awhile, and I'm dry now. The only polite thing to do would be to keep watch for awhile and let the lady go inside."

Mycroft was indeed dry, and because he'd been wet and hadn't been exposed to the rubble and chaos for as long, he was cleaner than Molly or John. Though his hair, usually so well groomed, was a certified disaster.

Molly smiled and stood up. "Thank you, Mycroft."

Molly stood up and started to walk towards the fire, but Mycroft's next words stopped her.

"Something's troubling you." It was said as a statement, not a question. Holmeses, always so sure.

For a moment, Molly considered just walking away. But she also knew that no one knew Sherlock better than Mycroft. Not even John.

So, she found herself saying, "He said… he loved me."

Mycroft hesitated, as though looking for the right words. "And his past behavior has led you to question that?" The elder Holmes finally asked.

"Well… it's silly, really. But… some of the things he said as Smaug, Mycroft. And the look on his face. I… I think I believe him. I think he loves me. I just- I just don't know why. Or when? How long has he been in love with me? Why hasn't he told me until… now of all times? I think he loves me. But… I'm just so confused."

Mycroft chuckled, but not in an amused way. As heartless as the Holmeses tried to be, Mycroft seemed to understand. "One thing that Sherlock and I have always struggled with is feelings. We don't interpret things quite the same way as 'normal' people, and that sometimes makes things, in relationships particularly, difficult. We either don't feel something that anyone else would, or we do feel it, and we react to it differently. Then, sometimes on rare occasions, we do feel something… and have absolutely no idea how to express it or what to do about it or how to react to it. Do you follow?"

Molly nodded. "That does sound like Sherlock."

"Good. Now, as to the question of whether or not Sherlock loves you… yes. I believe he does. More than you or even he knows."

He gave her a moment to let it sink in, then continued.

"I realized that he was in love with you during the Sherrinford incident. The phone call, specifically."

Oh, that was right. Molly had almost forgotten that Mycroft and John had both been on the other side of the line that day, watching in terror and praying for Molly to just say the bloody words so that her flat didn't explode.

"Truthfully, I believe that was the day that Sherlock himself realized to the extent that he was in love with you. He may have had a bit of a crush, or an infatuation with you that he didn't understand until that day. There was an instance where you two solved a small case together, correct?"

Again, Molly nodded.

"I think he was in love with you even then. He just didn't realize it until he thought he was going to lose you. Then, you cornered him into saying the actual words. Into actually saying, 'I love you', and I think that's what did it. I know you heard him say it, Doctor Hooper. But you weren't there. You didn't see the look on his face."

It was then, that Molly realized something she had never thought of before. That phone call hurt him just as much as it hurt me.

"I held Sherlock as an infant. I was there for his first words, his first steps, his first and last days of school, and his first case as a detective. I kidnapped John the day he and Sherlock met just to make sure that he was trustworthy, just as I did with you." Mycroft chuckled, gesturing to the spot on his stomach where Molly had stabbed him with her car keys that night.

"I was there when he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital, and it was I that rescued him from Russia when it was time for him to come home. Every single time Sherlock has needed me, I have been there. I was there before, and by God, I will be there, again. All the time I've known him, Molly. All the crises I have stood by him through… I had never seen that look on Sherlock's face."

Mycroft shook his head at the memory. "And I don't ever want to see it, again."

Mycroft looked back into the cave, where Sherlock was lying peacefully next to the fire. "I don't deny that I am a heartless man, Doctor Hooper. But at that moment, a blind man could have seen that Sherlock was in love with you."

Silence. There was simply nothing more to say. The waves crashed against the shore, and the gulls cawed.

"Then why didn't he tell me?" Molly asked quietly.

"There's a plethora of reasons he may not have told you." Mycroft replied. "For one thing, Sherlock Holmes is a man with many enemies. How many times now has John's life been on the line from his friendship with him? Who were the snipers pointing their guns at during the Reichenbach incident? John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. People Moriarty thought Sherlock cared about. Had he been under the impression at that time, I assure you, you would have been a target that day, too. He was trying to prevent something like… this from happening.

"Another possible explanation is that he simply didn't know how to show you or tell you he loved you. Sentiment, emotions, feelings. They're not exactly his forte. You and I both know that."

"He either doesn't feel something that anyone else would, or he does feel it, and he reacts to it differently. Or, he does feel something, and absolutely no idea what to do about it." Molly said, quoting what Mycroft had said a few moments ago.

"Precisely."

Mycroft was quiet for another few moments before he chuckled and said, "The final reason I can think of is rather silly, honestly."

"And what's that?" Molly asked.

"Well, he may very well have just been scared."

"Why… why would he be nervous, though? He knows I'm in love with him. I've been in love with him for years." Molly said.

"Even if he did know that, he may have just been scared that you'd be angry with him for waiting so long. Or that you would think that he was playing some sort of trick on you. Or that the wound from the Sherrinford incident was still too fresh. These are just guesses. When it comes to Sherlock Holmes, even I have no way of knowing exactly what goes through his mind."

"I don't think anyone ever will." Molly giggled. "Thank you for talking to me, Mycroft. I think I feel a little… less confused, now."

"Less?" Mycroft questioned.

"Nothing will be completely clear until I have a much-needed talk with Sherlock… once he wakes up, that is."

"Yes, indeed. Erm… you should probably be headed inside, now."

"Oh. Um… alright, then." Molly stood up from where she'd been sitting down on one of the rocks outside of the cave. She started to turn in, but stopped.

"He loves you too, you know." Molly said.

Mycroft said nothing, but he glanced over his shoulder to look at her.

"In those terrifying few minutes that we thought you were dead… we didn't realize he was Sherlock at the time, so we didn't know why he was so upset. But he cried, Mycroft. I just thought you should know that. Just… I know he was a dragon. But he looked so… heartbroken when he thought you were gone. And at one point, a small group of Moriarty's men, some of the last men on the island, tried to attack us. He killed them, Mycroft. He killed them, and he killed all of the men who tried to drown you. So… he does love you. And I think you could plainly see by how happy he was when you finally started breathing that he loves you. I know how indifferent you two act around one another, so if there was any question in your mind… there it is."

Mycroft smiled. "There has never been a doubt in my mind, Miss Hooper. But… thank you."

The conversation over, Molly finally walked back inside. She had to pause a moment to collect herself when she saw Sherlock lying peacefully beside the fire.

Molly took a breath and walked over before sitting down next to him. They had him on his stomach. While checking him over for injuries earlier, they had been absolutely horrified. Sherlock was battered and bruised all over the place. And upon further inspection, there were injuries they had not noticed, before.

Sherlock was missing his entire fingernail on his right pinkie finger. John, being an army doctor, and Molly, being a mortician, knew that humans have more nerves in their fingers than in most other parts of their bodies because people of course use their hands and fingers for touching and feeling things. Molly knew this, too. But what she did not know was that a favorite method of torture, especially when it came to interrogation, was ripping out a person's fingernails. It was incredibly painful. Particularly brutal people will rip out all of a person's fingernails, whether they talk or not. The smart and not wasteful ones however, like Moriarty, know that people who refuse to talk after one nail is removed, are not going to talk at all.

Sherlock also had cuts on his wrists and ankles consistent with handcuffs. Specifically, with being forced into stress positions.

What is a stress position?

A stress position places the human body in such a way that a great amount of weight is placed on only one or two muscles. Forcing prisoners to adopt such positions is an "enhanced interrogation technique", i.e: a torture technique, used for extracting information.

But the most horrifying physical injuries were on Sherlock's back. The Lord only knew what awful device had made all the long, deep lashes and lacerations stretching across Sherlock's upper torso, but Molly hated every single one of them. For no reason other than that they were hurting Sherlock.

What else had been done to him, there was no way of knowing.

Molly didn't like thinking about what else could have been done to him. Moriarty was a professional criminal. Undoubtedly the closest thing to Satan living on Earth. God only knew what he'd done to Sherlock before he'd finally realized that the only way to hurt Sherlock, really hurt Sherlock, was to hurt the few people he truly loved.

And that had been a mistake. A dragon-sized mistake.

Molly gently moved her fingers through his hair, brushing a few curly locks away from his face. He looked peaceful like this. As worried as Molly was about him, she couldn't help but be glad that he wasn't conscious. At least that meant he wasn't suffering.

"You get through this, Sherlock." Molly told him softly, though she didn't know whether or not he could hear. "Please come back to us. Come back to me… I love you."

Molly laid down beside him and grabbed his wrist with one of her hands, feeling the pulse beating gently beneath her fingers. His breathing and heart rate had evened out and returned to normal long ago. Just a few minutes after John left.

I love the sound of your heartbeat. Molly thought. It lets me know you're still alive. It gives me hope that you're going to wake up. That everything is going to go back to the way it was. Or maybe, that things will be even better than they were.

Molly didn't know when she had dozed off, but she was awoken by the sound of helicopter blades just outside the cave.


John Watson made it to the nearby village with no difficulty. He was careful to stay on all the main roads before he finally made it to the local police station. They were skeptical about his story. In fact, they laughed at it. But regardless, he managed to get them to let him use the phone. He didn't have any phone numbers for Mycroft's people, so he called the second highest person on the totem pole he knew, which happened to be Lestrade.

There was quite a lot of apologizing from the coppers who had laughed at him when the fleet of government issue and Scotland Yard Helicopters showed up about a half hour later.

Which had immediately led John to where he was now. Sitting in a military medical chopper being fussed over by a nurse, who he was trying to ignore, as his eyes scoured the beach for the cave. John spotted the bare spot where Smaug had ripped those two trees out of the ground and immediately looked closer, identifying the figure standing on the rocks waving at them as Mycroft.

The helicopters landed immediately. Almost as soon as they hit the sand, a door of another helicopter was thrown open and Mycroft's PA, Anthea, ran out to throw her arms around Mycroft's neck. She was followed swiftly by about twelve government-issue bodyguards, a rather important looking man in a suit, and two doctors. The bodyguards immediately formed a protective circle around Mycroft, the government official stood there, waiting for Mycroft to acknowledge him, and the doctors immediately went to Mycroft, poking around and asking him if he was hurt. With a rather irritated look on his face, Mycroft said something harshly (John was too far away and couldn't hear exactly what he said) and pointed at the cave. He must have been talking about Sherlock.

Flanked by two more bodyguards, the doctors left the circle of people in a hurry in the direction of the cave. John tried to get out of the helicopter, but the nurses held him back and wouldn't let him. John was desperate to know of Sherlock's condition. Was he still breathing abnormally? Was he still alive? Had he woken up?

That was when Molly appeared out of the mouth of the cave. John could only guess that she'd dozed off or something, because she was rubbing her eyes and looked rather sleepy. She was holding the two sides of her shirt together, and John was rather glad when Lestrade walked up to her and gave her his jacket. John could tell that the fact that her clothes were indecent had been bothering Molly.

A few seconds later, John's stomach sank in his stomach. One of the doctors who had gone into the cave came running out looking rather distraught. They said something to the doctors in another one of the choppers and three doctors and two nurses jumped out of it and ran into the cave.

Sherlock's breathing had returned to normal. John, Molly, and Mycroft elected not to tell anyone about it or the fact that Sherlock had been a dragon about three hours ago… but saying that Sherlock was in 'rough' shape was an understatement.

John, Molly, and Mycroft, with Sherlock unconscious and on a stretcher, were flown by helicopter back to London. The three of them refused to be too far from Sherlock the entire time, but stayed just enough out of the way that the medical team could do their work. Patching up whatever injuries they could and checking along his body for more. Apparently, he also had internal bleeding that John nor Molly had noticed. Bloody brilliant. What good friends they were.

The original plan had been to take them to St. Barts hospital. But out of caution and just a hint of paranoia, Mycroft requested that they be taken to a top-secret, very high security, government-run hospital that treated members of parliament and other important persons in the case that an ordinary hospital would not be safe.

John and Molly were for the most part unharmed. John's worst injuries out of the entire ordeal were a black eye and a split lip, which were both easily treatable. Molly had actually come out worse than John.

From where those disgusting perverts had groped her all the way down the hallway and from places where she'd been grabbed too hard, Molly had dozens of hand and finger-shaped spots all over her body that would most likely be black and blue by tomorrow. John had been absolutely furious about what had almost happened to Molly and what had been done to her. He couldn't imagine how angry Sherlock must have been.

But Molly had also told them about what Sherlock had done to them for it.

And John didn't know whether to feel satisfied with it or horrified.

Aside from Sherlock, with five cracked ribs from when John had aggressively given him CPR as well as the standard bumps and bruises from where all three of them had been manhandled, Mycroft had come out the worst. That, and the Doctors were keeping him in the hospital for three days to watch for signs of hypoxemia, pneumonia, or ARDS (acute respiratory distress syndrome). Mycroft wasn't particularly happy about that, but all three were quite serious and they were all possible complications of near-drowning.

But none of them complained much about their injuries. None of them felt entitled to complain about their injuries…

Not once Sherlock's entire diagnosis was complete.

Sherlock's black eye was a result of where someone had hit him in the face so hard, it actually cracked one of his cheekbones. He had nine broken and four cracked ribs. One missing fingernail. His muscles had been put under a serious level of strain that the doctors suspected that he'd been forced into stress positions, but John and Molly both suspected that may also have been a result of Sherlock transforming. He had six lacerations across his back. But each one must have been made by a cat o' nine tails or something similar, because each one was actually nine smaller lacerations each. For a grand total of fifty four. Then, there was the minor abdominal internal bleeding to consider.

Sure, it was minor internal bleeding, but because of where it was, Sherlock still had to have surgery for it. Plus the countless number of bruises and small cuts across the rest of Sherlock's body, this was the worst Sherlock had ever been hurt. He also needed stitches for most of the lacerations on his back. John didn't ask how many. He didn't want to know. Sherlock's chest was wrapped to protect his broken ribs and his entire back was bandaged. So were both of his arms and both of his legs, on account of the smaller injuries there. A patch on his cheekbone, a wrap around his forehead, and a band aid over his missing fingernail.

There were so many bandages that one could barely even see Sherlock, even though he was only wearing a hospital gown. When Sherlock and Mycroft's parents arrived at the hospital to see their sons, one could hardly blame Mrs. Holmes for her reaction. A scream, broken off by tears. Followed by a lot of fussing over Mycroft. Her youngest son was too fragile to coddle, so the woman double-coddled her eldest son. Mycroft pretended to be annoyed by it, but John could tell he was secretly enjoying it. The doctors weren't letting anyone other than the medical team within a few feet of Sherlock's bed. Even the slightest bump could reopen something.

The doctors estimated that Sherlock could be comatose for over a week. Months, even. The injuries could take months, even up to a year, to heal. Sherlock would need months, even years of psychiatric therapy to recover from the trauma of it all.

But the morning after Sherlock's diagnosis, it was made perfectly clear just how wrong their prognosis for his recovery was.

Because when Molly arrived in Sherlock's room to visit him, she was the first to notice that his missing fingernail was back.

When his bandages were changed about an hour later, the nurses were thrown into a complete loop as to how much the inflammation had gone down around his wounds, and the fact that his black eye was about a third the size it had been.

John, Molly, and Mycroft were the only people who could provide an explanation. And none of them said a word. A glance was all it took to communicate what they all thought. What they all knew.

The doctors had never treated a dragon before.


Smaug was born in Withered Heath sometime during the Third Age. His first memory was standing in the remnants of his eggshell, staring up wide-eyed at his mother. She was gentle, as far as dragon mothers went. He couldn't remember her name, but she was the color of deep red clay, and she had a scar across her face from a fight long ago with another dragon. He had two siblings. A brother and a sister. His brother was dark brown, and his sister was deep green. He couldn't recall either of their names, nor did he really care to. Familial bonds weren't very important to dragons.

His sister got very very sick when they were only a few days old. His mother separated the three of them in order to keep the rest of her nest healthy. Smaug was pretty sure that either she killed her dragonet to spare her the pain of a slow death, or his sibling succumbed to her illness. Because either way, he never saw her again.

Smaug never got the pleasure of meeting his father. Mated pairs usually stayed together until the young could fend for themselves. Smaug always wondered why the nests of dragonets around them each had a male and female dragon looking after them. It was only once they were old enough to understand such things, their mother told them that their father was killed by elves before their eggs were hatched, while stealing cattle from them to feed his brood.

The few memories Smaug had of the first year of his life were fond ones. He had all the food he could want, no one would ever attack Withered Heath simply because there were so many dragons there, and he had plenty of dragonets his own age to play with.

That changed when they moved.

When the dragonets were a year old, the mothers left Withered Heath and returned to their own territories with their young in tow.

It was there that their mother taught them how to fight and where they went from simply learning how to glide to advanced flying lessons. His mother had been a strict teacher. Any messing around during a lesson would earn a dragonet a nip on the tail or wings for their insubordination.

Smaug was three when he and his brother left the nest. More like, were banished from it. But, that was the way it was done in dragon society. Smaug and his brother didn't go together. They exited their mother's territory, then parted ways without a word. They were a pair of males, which meant that they would be butting heads over females and territory, someday.

He never knew exactly what happened to his mother and brother. But based on the fact that after a few centuries the little people were calling him 'the last dragon', it was safe to assume that she and his brother were dead.

Smaug was never sure how he came to be the last dragon. He did nothing any differently than any other dragon did. He killed and ate whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. Started some fights, avoided others. Whenever the humans, elves, dwarves, etc irked him, he burnt their villages to the ground. But looking back, the number of his own kind that he would bump into got smaller and smaller until one day, he realized just how long it had been since the last time he brushed scales with another wyvern.

Emotionally-wise, being the last of his kind only actually bothered Smaug in retrospect. After he became Sherlock. After he learned what love and compassion were. After he had someone feel it for him and in turn felt it for someone else. The only time it ever bothered him as Smaug, in his previous life, was when mating season came around. Being the last dragon, when his body screeched at him to get hitched each year, there was no one else to help him… deal with that itch.

Moooooving on from that topic, without any competition for food or territory, Smaug had plenty of food and space to grow. And grow, he did. Into one of the biggest if not the biggest dragon the world had ever seen. And his pride, vanity, and pettiness only grew with his body.

To the point that when he decided to acquire a horde, as many old, large dragons did, the first thing his hellish orange eyes settled on was the assload of gold that the Dwarves had accumulated under their mountain.

Acquiring it cost the dwarves a few thousand lives and their homeland. It only cost Smaug a scale. Chipped from his armour when he was grazed by a black arrow. But it was that missing scale that got him killed years later.

Because the second black arrow to strike him didn't miss.

Smaug had no way of knowing how or why. But when the black arrow struck his heart, as soon as the world went black and he felt himself falling… he didn't die.

Not really.

When he'd opened his eyes, where was a gigantic human's face staring down at him saying, "Hello there, little brother. My name's Mycroft."

And the rest was history.

Back to the present, drifting in and out of deep unconsciousness, Sherlock's mind was mostly in a jumble. Mostly, he found himself drifting in and out of old memories, floating in a black mass, struggling to remember where he was or why he was there, or how to form a coherent thought at all. And sometimes he knew exactly what was going on. Sherlock wanted dearly to see his horde. Are they alive? Are they safe? Are Mycroft's broken ribs being treated properly? Am I being experimented on, or did they keep my secret?

But, each time he reached out for the light and started to pull himself out of the darkness, he would feel the pain his body was feeling and quickly let himself fall back into deep slumber again. It wasn't time to wake up, yet. Though in human form, the dragon's power was still at work. Healing his injuries faster and better than any human or doctor ever could. It was one aspect of the dragon's power that Sherlock couldn't quite control. Sometimes he could slow down his rate of healing to thwart suspicion that he was anything other than human. But now, his body was so badly damaged, that there was a chance he would be dead if he didn't let it do its' work.

And besides… Moriarty was still out there. Sherlock just knew it. And the Consulting Criminal would only see Smaug as a new challenge to overcome. A new reason to stay alive, as he would put it. And now that he knew the right combination of buttons to push to get Smaug to come out, there was no telling what he'd decide to do.

Sherlock had to be ready to protect his horde again as soon as possible.

So, for a full week, that is how Sherlock stayed. Drifting in and out of deep unconsciousness, listening to the voices that would occasionally meet his ears from the outside world.

He didn't care to hear the voices of people he didn't know. The doctors, he could only assume, based on the wording they used.

It was their voices he was listening for.

Mycroft. "Are you going to sleep forever, Brother Mine? If memory serves me right, you would never let me sleep in as boys. We used to wake up bright and early to watch the sunrise. You used to call it 'the sky waking up'. Do you remember that, Brother mine?"

Yes, Mycroft! Yes, I remember!

John. "You sure sleep in once you decide it's time to rest, don't you? Mrs. Hudson wants to visit you, but we can't seem to get her the clearance to. But she keeps baking fresh biscuits every day. Your favorite. Just in case it's the day you decide to come back. And Rosie misses you, too. She keeps asking for 'Lock'! I miss you too, you know. You git. Aren't you going to wake up, soon?"

Just… a while longer. Then we'll all have biscuits, and I'm sure I'll be roped into another ridiculous game with Rosie… it'll be such fun. I look forward to it.

Molly. "Had an interesting one at the morgue, today. I think you would love to look at it. And you still owe me a coffee. Remember? We were supposed to go out for coffee, Sherlock. It would have been great you know, to ease into things like normal people. We have so much to talk about. Please. Please come back to me, Sherlock. I love you."

Molly… I… love you.

Then, just like that, the time to be asleep was over. Sherlock reached out of the darkness, and he could hear the quiet 'beep… beep… beep…' of the heart monitor. He could feel the warm blankets draped over his body. He could feel his hospital gown against his skin. He could feel the mattress pressing into his back.

But he felt no pain.

With a deep breath and a slight groan, at about 2:00 in the morning in a secret hospital about a kilometer underneath the heart of London, William Sherlock Scott Holmes awoke.