Excerpt From The Book Of Dragonology, a Memoir By Mycroft Holmes.

Dealing With PTSD And Other Psychological Trauma (Mental Health): Just Like Humans, Dragons are just as susceptible to forms of psychological trauma. Though the Draconian species as a whole may seem rather invincible to a Human being, one must understand that they are just as likely to come with a past as dark as any Humans. Often Dragons have come under my care as sexual assault survivors, war veterans, and even prisoners of battle. As a result, mental trauma is a sadly common thing I've had to witness. When dealing with any kind of psychological issue a Dragonologist must have above all: Patience. Listen to your Dragon. Communication is important and key. If the trauma appears to be severe, considering getting the help of a trained professional. Allow yourself to be a sound board for your Dragon, offering comfort to them when needed and avoiding situations in which your Dragon could become potentially stressed (See page 533). Ask about triggering factors, such as scents or places that your Dragon may find uncomfortable. Be gentle. Be considerate. And most of all, be there for them.

Meriath, or "Molly" as she was now apparently aptly nicknamed, had grown up in the Kennels all of her life. Her Mother, once a proud warrior during The Times Of Blood (As the Dragons called the beginning of The War) had been captured as a prisoner, her mate killed in battle by some of the first Human Crusades.

Unable to defend her partner due to the fact that she had been protecting her nest (Molly had a younger brother and sister, but to this day she didn't know what became of their eggs), the proud Dragon had almost managed to succeed in protecting her eldest child from the men that came to take her. If she strained to remember, Molly could still see the flames her mother had spat that night upon the men that had slowly climbed their way up to her den. She could still feel their heat, warming the back of her ears as she had been pressed against her mother's side. If she strained to listen, she could still hear the lullaby she sang for the last night they shared together in that cave.

She didn't remember what they did to her.

What became of her mother.

Somehow, she suspected she never made it to the Kennels. There was only so much grief a Dragon's heart could stand, and Molly knew that night her mother had watched everything she had ever cared about be torn away from her grasp. The loss of a mate sometimes instantly killed a Dragon, and the loss of a Hatchling was something too terrible to even consider. In fact, there was a word for Dragon's who could not bear children.

SànChu.

An insult in the highest degree. A word that Molly knew too well, seeing as when her body reached puberty, it was evident by the mark on her shoulder that she was impotent. For this reason, she hadn't been able to join her sisters in the Breeding Program, and had instead been considered for war service. Unfortunately, it became instantly apparent that though her heart had a great willingness to try, it was not nearly as strong as her brothers' and sisters'. She flinched at the loud sounds of bomb raid drills ringing in the air, whimpered at whips and cowered when the Humans came and roughly grabbed her chin and pulled at her shoulders like she was property to be handled. She only spat fire when in pain, and not out of aggression.

She had come to accept the fact that even if she was chosen for battle, she'd be luckier to be sold as a whore than be faced with becoming a weapon.

When Mike had knelt at her Kennel, she had almost believed it to be too good to be true. She has leaned into his touch like she was seeing the sun for the first time, and for an instant the Dragon had almost believed that her Mother's hands were cupping her face. She had nearly cried, terrified and not understanding when she was thrown into a foul-smelling crate in the back seat of a car and forced to listen to another Dragon's terrifying snarls.

However, it soon became apparent to Molly almost as soon as she was taken away from her old home (more like prison) that Mike had absolutely no clue how to care for a Dragon.

For one, Molly soon found herself rapidly unsure of where she stood in her new Master's presence. Mike was... different than the Humans she had encountered before. Kinder. He didn't shout at her when she accidentally dropped his favourite mug while trying to make him a cuppa in the morning, nor did he order her around as much as other Masters had. In fact, Molly had found her usually tightly-strung nerves being soothed by the husky but gentle face that would smile at her approvingly when she did something right, which admittedly wasn't all that often. Though she admittedly didn't understand much of Human-Speak, she did know when orders were harsh or cruel, and Mike's tone was never either of those. In fact he was soft... hesitant almost, and almost reminded her of a Hatchling attempting to be a full-grown adult, all awkward limbs and overly-false confidence. He blushed beet-red when she called him "Master" and stuttered when she had asked him in confused and broken English why she hadn't been hit for failing to prepare him his evening meal. Molly hadn't understood what he said when he placed his hands on her shoulders and looked into eyes, but if she had, she might have cried.

"You don't have to do that. I...I'm not like them. I couldn't be if I tried...Believe me, I wish I could be sometimes..."

She shyly, quietly, grew to like him if not trust him. Maybe it was just because she liked looking after children, but she saw a vulnerability in the young man that made the Mother that had died long ago inside of her rekindle to life.

In the end, what had brought the illusion of safety tumbling down had been something horrifyingly simple.

Mike hadn't realized that there were certain scents that triggered things in Molly's memory, echoes that triggered her memories of the past. She was no stranger to sexual abuse, and when she woke to the sharp and acrid tang of cologne hanging heavily in the air, her sleep-addled mind immediately snapped to a Master she would have much rather forgotten. Opening her eyes, she saw not the plain bed she had been given to sleep in, but a relic of a past time that made her shudder and cower in fear.

It hurt.

Chains pulled at her, dragging her unwillingly from her crate as she kicked and cried. Her nails were bloodied from her attempts to grip at the iron bars surrounding her, desperately trying to break free even as the choke collar tightened about her throat. She could feel its burn, tingling up her neck as she spat fire weakly even while coughing up lungfuls of water. They had drenched her before they got ready to pull her out of the cage, and the clear liquid that heaved up her throat was ashen and murky and mixed with the brimstone that normally came with her breath. Soaking and shivering, Molly winced at the bright lights that filled her vision as she was pulled by the neck and wrists across the dirty floor of the club. The name of the place was written in brassy letters, and as her eyes adjusted it was the first thing she saw. She didn't know how to read, but if she had she would have fought if possible harder against her captor's hold.

The Devil's Pleasure.

The air was smoky, she remembered that when she thought back to that night. It choked her, the fake fire-breath that Humans inhaled and breathed out from white sticks they held to their lips. Funny-tasting and foul. It made her sensitive nose wrinkle in distaste, and she curled her wings about her half-Human form to hide her bare body from the lingering eyes that followed her as she was pulled along. The man who lead her wore a dark suit and had glittering grey eyes, and he roughly backhanded her when she tried weakly to spit fire. He shouted-coarse, hard words- before lifting The Clicker in the air and brandishing it like a weapon. Molly cowered, the thought of being shocked too terrible to contemplate as she was already hurting so much. She felt so small, surrounded by men so much taller than her and so much more threatening. Lost in a violent hurricane of glittering drinks and lingering hands. She felt filthy and broken in the presence of such opulence, watches glittering gold around wrists and earrings glinting softly and winking at her by the neck's of Humans. She looked so thin, compared to them. So frail. So tiny.

Molly wondered why then their eyes followed her hungrily, looking at her scaled tail like it was something to be gawked at as they whispered behind their hands. Her eyes flicked restlessly about, her wings clipped to prevent flight. They throbbed in pain.

Her Master, the man in the suit brought her to The Room as she came later to call it. A background place, tucked away behind the bar. She could remember the squeaking of the hinges, louder than her own pounding heart as she was all but thrown inside. She could remember the way she stumbled over the stone steps, nearly toppling and sobbing for mercy when strange arms caught her on the other side. Pressed up against unfamiliar skin, Molly tasted on her tongue the stinging edge of an unfamiliar perfume wafting into her nose.

Bitter and blistering, something spicy and heavy. It was mixed with breath hot and sour on her cheeks.

And then hands trailing slowly down her arms, pinning her wrists to her sides as slowly she looked up and realized with a whimper that her chains had been shackled to a bed-

That unfortunately, was the moment Mike gently tapped on her bedroom door, wondering if his Dragon wanted any breakfast. He had just been getting ready to go out on a date with a nice girl he'd met at the café down the road, and had even put on a new cologne she had bought him. He opened the door just in time to see Molly's expression crack in fear before he was very suddenly being thrown backwards, and the young soldier cracked his head against the wall and saw stars.

Then a dangerous, savage roar shook him from the base of his spine to his toes.

There was much about Mrs. Lena Hudson that not many people knew. Having moved to London nearly thirty years ago, she had developed a rather prominent British accent overtime, and thus could pass fairly well to an untrained ear and untrained eye. Coming originally from District Seven in America (What used to be Florida), the elderly woman held a fair few trade secrets from her youth that one might not necessarily expect. For instance, she knew how to peel an orange so that its skin would unravel in a perfect spiral, having eaten many in her childhood with her younger sister (now dead and gone, sadly). She also knew how to appreciate a little bit of rain, since her home-town had scarcely been more than a desert during the summer, and so London by comparison was a viable rainforest. But most of all, Lena Hudson knew how to spot a soul that was hurting from a mile away, because she recognized the primal ache that both man and beast tried to hide when the ones they loved wounded them.

After all, she had seen it in her own face until the day her husband committed suicide, after going on a killing spree that shocked her small District and effectively alienated her from her friends and family in an instant. The move to London hadn't been a choice of luxury. It had in the end been a necessity.

Murder did things to a person.

Of that there was no doubt.

But finding out that the person you had spent nearly twenty years with was nothing more than a fabricated lie? Well, that in some ways changed a person on an entirely other level.

Lena Hudson was a different woman than she once had been.

Kinder.

Strangely observant at times.

And above all forgiving.

The fact that she was also fluent in Dragon-Tongue, her husband having taught her as he had a job in training the creatures, was just an added bonus in light of the very bad situation she quite suddenly found herself in.

Sherlock's muscles strained with the impressive leap he made over the couch he'd stacked in front of him, half-Human shape landing animalistically on all fours as a threatening snarl emitted from his lips. He landed on the balls of his feet, wings flared protectively about him like massive sails as a shuddering hiss like the air leaving a can of soda rushed from his teeth. He eyed the intruder warily through slitted irises, scales shifting eerie and threatening shades of menacing green and hazard-yellow. He was caught between shifting into his full-form and staying in his half one, still too strung out to think coherently, unsure if the small creature before him can be considered a sufficient threat. She stood firm but mousy-looking before him, and the logical part of his brain insisted she'd be no more than a mouthful to eat in his full-form. Still her eyes are strangely clear and omniscient, and she gazed at Sherlock unflinchingly though her knuckles curl at her sides and give away her suppressed fear. Her scent was calm, and lingered in the air the faint aroma of chocolate and orchids. It made Sherlock think immediately of the cake still lying tucked away behind his fortress, and for a moment his growls faded away into a faint sound of confusion as his stomach gurgled piteously. Though in the next instant he reigned in his biological betrayal, the old woman before him smiled kindly, seeming to have heard his silent protest. When she opened her mouth, Sherlock tensed, preparing to lash out at the slightest provocation. Sweat beaded the back of his neck, the desire to hunthuntprotectmaimFIGHT-

Still humming in his blood.

Instead, he found a soft, whispered greeting in a tongue he knew but was scarcely allowed to use.

"Næchen, Hershetz li Ȑost." (Greetings, young lord.)

Sherlock's growls cut short, confusion lacing his features as he inhaled deeply, searching for a taint of Dragon. He found only Human scent before him, deceptively soft and fragile. He growled out a curt response without thinking, slowly drawing himself upright as vague imprints of manners pulled at him. Foolish traits he should have abandoned long ago and yet could not delete. When he spoke, his voice rasped from disuse. The Dragon realized with some surprise that he had not spoken in a very long time. It would not do to be impolite, if only because tradition mandated so.

" Næchen, salFah li, ermiest Fochen. Șyandor?" (Greetings, Mistress. You are a stranger, the blonde one has not told me your purpose. What is your purpose here?)

He noticed her accent was a little flawed as she replied, but she kept the flute-like tone of Dragon-Tongue surprisingly well as she smiled at him, seemingly delighted by his response. Sherlock was still on-guard, and he felt a petty instinct to scream MINE as he saw how her feet hovered just outside the threshold of 221 B.

"Fochen dai Gah. Irch John Tariel hist faust." (The blonde one is a Son (For Dragons were known to think of friends as family) To me. His name is John, and he lets me into his territory)

Sherlock reared on his hind legs, standing like a Human in order to appear as imposing as possible. He felt a slow snarl rumble in his chest like thunder as his eyes flashed with mistrust, teeth bared and once again poised on the blade of a knife.

"ESHAT! Ẅo shuben Tariel John! Eshat... Yersh Koshken Trast." (LIAR. All lies as John has let no one into his territory before! Liar... The Gods will eat your heart for half-truths...)

Mrs. Hudson did not flinch, not even when Sherlock began to breathe mist about her. It floated around the room, fogging her vision and sending cool prickles of moisture to settle on her skin. She resisted the urge to shiver, standing her ground despite the Dragon's size and fury. She had learned that with those that were trying to bully, their bark was often worse than their bite. Though she somehow didn't think this creature made a habit of it, there was no doubt now that Sherlock was doing everything in his power in order to force her to subjugate.

"Yersh Naust Nen. John ashkera naun?" (I do not believe in wrathful Gods. Where is your John?)

She watched as the Dragon flinched at her implication, eyes widening before narrowing into slits. His scales flashed the colour of starlight itself before turning a sulky grey, his petulance incredibly obvious, though he made an effort to hide it. He masked his hurt by huffing scathingly

"Nen. Nen John. Ishka. Ishka est ert." (No. Not my John. Alone. I am alone.)

He crossed his arms over his chest, a brief flicker of pride glittering in his eyes before he thought about what he just said. The emptiness of his own sentence shook him.

Then the mighty beast seemed to deflate, the fight draining out of his limbs as the weight of his own words hung heavily on him. His storm-blue eyes cooled to an ashen grey as his body instinctively tried to curl in on itself, his body crouching once more into a defensive ball as his wings hid the pain behind his false indifference. The old woman didn't know that she'd hit the exact nerve that Sherlock has been striking himself all day, the sensation raw and painful as he clutched at his wrists which bled sluggishly now and contemplated hiding back behind the sofa. He was surprised when after a beat of breath, the woman's soft voice called him from the barrier of his wings. He could make out the outline of her, curled hair and purple dress and arthritic hands. Soft edges and a hidden smile.

She spoke with a weight of wisdom that seemed larger than such a small body could bear. Surely, something so frail couldn't sound so certain of her own words. Not when Sherlock himself couldn't speak without shaking.

"Ishka ert? Nen. John. Fraulen essix dkath." (You're alone? No. John. John's been there to help)

"John hautch. Ishka ghaus Shyior..." (John Left. Alone is what I have...)

And then, softer. Like a whisper of death. His hands curled into fists in his lap, knuckles turning white.

"Ishka Xiaoli." (Alone Protects me.)

And in that moment, Sherlock doubted his own words.

He wished, just once in his life, he could dare to be wrong.