COLD HEART - Chapter Ten

Sherlock woke up to the sound of John moving around the flat, and laid staring at the ceiling in the light filtering through his curtains. He stared up at the ceiling and waited until the sound of the door announced John's departure from the flat before he got up. Once he'd showered and finished with his annoying human needs, he dressed in one of his smarter suits, but with a cheaper shirt on underneath, leaving his feet bare. Once he considered himself presentable he went into the lounge, scooping up his phone from the table. No messages or missed calls. Placing it carefully back on the table, he sat down, staring at the window and waiting.

And waiting…

And…. Waiting…

Sherlock was bored within an hour. The only person he had any true patience with was John and right now it was telling. He got to his feet, pacing around, then scooped up his violin and began to play, carefully strumming the bow over the strings, working down the melody he'd been developing for a while now, but he kept getting distracted, staring out the window. Eventually he gave up, placing the violin down and flopping back onto the sofa. He began trying to manipulate his features.

When he heard a crunch he jumped up to stare in the mirror; his eyes and mouth had started to change, huge canine teeth fixed strangely in his jaw. Yet as much as he focused, tried to make himself angry, he couldn't will himself further into the transformation. He let out an angry snarl, making a face at himself, but all that happened was his nose clicking. Muttering angrily, he relaxed, and watched as his face morphed back to normal. It was fascinating to observe; he practiced changing his face back and forth for a while. Then something occurred to him.

He imagined his body transforming, the feeling of power running through him, the running, the flying… he envisioned chasing something, anything. A sudden impulse made him turn and open in the window, breathing in sweet air as he tried to consider what was wrong, why he couldn't make himself into that form right now. Frustrated, he kicked the wall, then hopped away, muttering in pain and falling back onto the sofa, spotting John's laptop. Maybe that was why they hadn't gotten in touch again.

He opened the laptop and logged into John's blog, easily getting past the passwords. He checked; yes, the post about the case had been posted, with a very large amount of hits. Frowning, he leant back, staring at the screen, trying to work out what had gone wrong - when his phone beeped. Pushing the laptop aside, he snatched it up, and a wide grin spread over his face.

Required for more tests. Please report to centre ASAP. Thank you.

()*()*()*()

The cab slid up and he stepped out, handing the man a tenner and telling him to keep the change. It wasn't that far away, anyway. He straightened his shoulders, looking up at the clean, shining building; no one would know what happened here. Stepping inside, he approached the desk. "Sherlock Holmes. Testing." he announced, and she gave him a wide smile, "Mr. Holmes, yes. Please head up to room 19." he nodded and stepped away, striding over to the lift.

His heart was pounding with excitement as he knocked on the door of the office and was called in. Across the desk sat a man he had never seen before. "Mr. Holmes." he said, and grinned, widely. Sherlock's eyes flickered over him, noting things; smart dressed, muscular, young, probably late twenties, no pets, no wife or children, work-a-holic but somehow… more energy than normal. Slicked back black hair to the nape of his neck. Yellow eyes; rather green with a very bright yellow spiral in the middle.

Then he took in the room; books, everywhere, but most of them looking untouched, just for display. No photographs; an expensive painting, original, a few thousand pounds at least. Solid mahogany desk, no mirrors, expensive carpet. Yes, this man was a high up. That was absorbed in the five seconds it took to sink into a plush mahogany chair opposite the man, folding his legs and resting cupped hands on top of his knees. "Nice to meet you, at last." the yellow-eyed man got to his feet, staring. "My name is of no interest, but you may call me Lazarus if you wish." he gave a short bark of laughter but Sherlock's face was emotionless. "I am what you are, sir, but much improved." he held out a hand and, in an instant, claws curved out.

"Minimal pain. No practice to transform. You have no idea the amount of deaths I have had to cause to get myself perfect. I don't have to spend time conditioning myself, like all those pitiful scientists below me. I just think it, and it happens." Sherlock was just watching him, eyes turning, not bothering to turn his whole head. When the man strode behind him, he went back to staring straight ahead.

"Dull." he announced, feeling the man freeze behind the chair. "All you science types, must insist on telling me about your brilliance." he sighed, and leant forward, unfolding his legs and up on his feet in a moment, turned to face 'Lazarus' over the top of the chair.

"You may consider yourself clever." the man's eyes had yellowed and were matched by Sherlock's, having shifted automatically. "However, I understand why you do this." Sherlock smiled at him, and could see the obvious discomfort. There came a quiet click in his spine. "A desperate need to prove yourself. You're lost. You need a partner. Let me guess; chemical reworking. You're older than you look, say, fifteen years. Why did you call me here?" Sherlock stared at him, clenching and unclenching his fists as pain rolled through them, nails dripping blood as they grew. He wondered if the transformation grew less painful with the conditioning that had been mentioned.

"We want you." the man announced, a syllabant hiss rolling with his letters, telling Sherlock how far the transformation had gone. He could see already that this 'easy transformation' the man boasted about was wrong. Any strong emotion would induce this change. Sherlock felt strangely pleased that only his eyes and teeth would change, it allowed him control, a limit… "We want you to work with us. Rather, I want you to work with me. We can manipulate the changes still. You'd be able to change, without pain. We could do as we want." the man gave a wide, sharp-toothed smile and Sherlock kept his face in it's emotionless state.

"No." he responded, softly. "I don't think I will." crunch. Audible this time, and he winced slightly. The scientist's eyes widened as he realised, and the next moment there was the sound of splitting fabric. The impulse to shift was too strong, and he'd started changing, and Sherlock saw that, though swifter than him by far, he had a minute or two to go. The roaring, snarling sounds of the creature he was becoming echoed in Sherlock's ears as he was running out the door, towards the stairs. Soon there was smashing noises, crunches and screams as people heard the beast that was thundering down the stairs behind him, and then - out into the lobby, running for the doors, then out into the street.

There was a moment of annoyance as he dropped to all fours, his face already half gone, making him unrecognisable; pain thundered through his body but he covered it with adrenaline. Not again, not again… he had to cling to his mind, as he felt his wings burst through, trying not to let the rest of his body shift. He had to be fast, powerful. There were muscles there that hadn't been previously and he leapt, took to the sky, feeling the air move behind him as the shifted man took flight in pursuit. Scotland yard, Scotland yard… the thought echoed in his head as he tilted, powering through, twisting, using his smaller form to enhance his manoeuvrability. But he was tiring, so quickly…

He was low, so close to the ground, only a few meters up; the air hard to move. He knew the dragon behind him was getting closer, and every part of his body was screaming at him to finish the transformation, take that form, but he couldn't, not now… he hadn't brought his coat for a reason. He didn't want to risk it. He regretted the shoes as they split away from his taloned feet, but once again, it had been a risk he expected, hence them being old. Panting like crazy, he let out a roar, seeing the turning triangular sign; then he folded his wings, twisting. He landed on his back, hard, feeling his scales come in a second too late over raw skin. Then the dragon was on him, such a dark purple that he looked almost black, but iridescent.

One kick, straight into the stomach; like a cat. His front clawed hands fought hard, pushing the face away from him, those deadly teeth; another kick. His claws locked under the scales, ripping them away, blood dousing his body. The third kick ripped open the other dragon's stomach and he roared, rolling, pinning them. He was three quarters transformed, clinging to half a face, panting and whining. Lestrade appeared, along with a huge crowd, police, animal control, everything; crowds in the street. His tail twitched as he stared at Lestrade, tears running down his half-snout. "Arrest him!" he managed to shout out. The body was turning human again, but still alive, as the flesh knitted in front of them. Lestrade wouldn't approach, but his mouth was wide open, recognising the voice.

He saw Lestrade mouth his name and let out a low whine before he turned, crunching the last part of the transformation, the crowd parting with a cry of panic. His wings snapped open as he took to the sky, and an astonished Lestrade managed to get a grip, cuffing the panicking, babbling scientist, staring at the horrifying wound already repairing itself. Then he stared at the vanishing form of the red and gold dragon, just as cameras arrived, missing all the action.

He could've sworn that that dragon was wearing a dark blue scarf, just wrapped around it's neck.