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

Comforting A Dragon (The action of): What many people fail to realise is that Dragons when they are in vulnerable states of mind are extremely physical creatures. In a natural environment, a Dragon grows up amidst brothers and sisters, as well as several relatives all living in one den. As a Hatchling they are rarely for want of physical affection (see page 444 for special exceptions) and so as adults when in distress a Dragon may want some semblance of physical touch. A Dragon's skin is extremely sensitive, and for a mate or a family member to offer a reassuring hand when needed is important. Dragon's also have an extremely sensitive sense of smell, and may want to 'surround' themselves with scents they find comforting (refer back to hoarding page). This could be the smell of a mate or close friend, or a child if the Dragon has Hatchlings. Prolonged isolation will almost always bear a negative affect on a Dragon's mental health, and it is advised to get to know other Dragons in the neighbourhood so that your Dragon will never feel too alone. Of course, once back to a regular state of mind, a Dragon will most likely like to pretend to be aloof from such affection. This is why it is good to treasure the rare moments when your Dragon opens up to you, as the action of doing so shows a great deal of trust between two friends.

The first thing John realised was that he could smell smoke. Like brimstone, it filled the air heavily as Mike opened the door. John gaped at his friend as he took in the man's frazzled appearance, jaw hanging open as he found himself staring at a black shadow rather than his friend. Mike was covered in what looked to be charcoal, the streaky black lines smeared across his cheeks and hands, covering his dark brown hair and turning it ashen and dull in the sun. He blinked at John through the soot rimming his glasses, seeming for a second not to recognise him until all of a sudden his eyes widened and he tugged his friend inside by an iron-grip to his sleeve.

Once inside, John saw with no surprise that most of the windows to Mike's small but posh flat were open. This was to help the brackish smoke that hung low in the air to ventilate, and wisps of it curled out into the air. Both of them coughed as the door closed, John's sounding much healthier than his friend's. Mike's cough sounded like he had been spending his free time inside a furnace, which given the scene laid out before him, John supposed was true.

Though Mike had lived in a slum district, it was a little known secret that John's friend didn't originally come from a poor name. His Mother, a woman named Willow Evelyn, had been distantly related to the Monarchy, before the War came and turned the government into a thinly veiled dictatorship. Said women in her time had arrived in the poorer district on the eve of a ghostly train in the middle of the night. She had no tags, barely any luggage to her name, and had been in tears when Mike's Father had met her at the Inn she stayed at that night. A barkeeper, and a shy one at that, he had been at first reluctant to pry into the woman's story. She had been a solitary figure, dark brown hair hiding her face and her melancholy just barely as she had stared into her drink. When he finally had gotten the nerve to approach her, he found out that Willow had run away from her home.

When he asked why, she had only ever responded with simply

"I needed to get away. I just wanted to get away..."

He had eventually introduced himself as Charles. Charles Stamford. The story went that she smiled at him, and in that moment her watery blue eyes had lit up her features to a warming glow, and the young man had realized with a start that he was completely smitten.

They had married within the year.

Though Mike's Mother had long passed (sickness, there had been a coughing disease one winter that took many people) her legacy it appeared had lived on. When Mike had attended her funeral, he had discovered that his Mum had kept more money than he knew tucked away for him.

She had also left him the flat, which even though it was obviously beautiful, was currently blazing in flame.

Mike on his part, seemed to be handling the entire thing relatively well. At least, he was crying instead of screaming. Which was perfectly reasonable, considering John felt like screaming himself as he realised what he had gotten himself into.

There was fire flickering amongst foam from a fire extinguisher, the walls blackened with the paint beginning to curl and flake in the air. Leather chairs had been over-toppled in the hallway, picture frames smashed to bits. Glass crunched underfoot as John stepped forward like gravel, loud in the eerie silence of the flat that was only punctuated by the crackling of live flame.

John was about to ask what exactly happened, when his query was cut off with a rumbling that he felt from the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. It was a terrible noise, gut-wrenching and distinctly predatory, the kind that made a man's hair stand on end and his knees tremble. At least it would have, if John hadn't grown quite used to such noises from his life with Sherlock as of late. Mike watched with some trepidation and surprise as his friend sighed a put-upon sigh, scratching the back of his neck before seeming to level his shoulders in silent determination. When he unzipped the edge of his jacket and pulled out a thick green-covered tome, Mike raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"You're sure reading is the right thing to do? I managed to lock her in the bedroom, but that door's not going to hold for long."

As if to punctuate that statement, the terrible cracking of splintering hinges echoed throughout the flat. It was followed by another hair-raising roar. Smoke billowed down the stairs.

John looked at his friend, and Mike saw something glimmer in those blue eyes that he had never noticed before. A sort of spark, something heated that flashed like lightning cresting a storm in a dark field. It took him a moment to realise what it was, and when he did he considered the idea that John Watson might be just a bit mad.

It was excitement, a craving to chase the dangerous.

Except it wasn't over Molly.

Because even Mike could tell that John's thoughts were far away when he easily replied

"Lately I've had to deal with worse."

Mrs. Hudson (As she had introduced herself to him cheerily) didn't seem to much care for Sherlock's obvious barriers around his horde. Though she was careful not to step directly into his little corner of territory, she had a tendency to flutter just outside on the edge. Though Sherlock snarled at her whenever she tried to move anything he had claimed as "his", she was determined it seemed to right the flat as much as she could. Overturned chairs turned back onto their legs, the table which still had dishes on it from this morning was cleaned, and she hummed to herself a small, nameless tune even while smiling under the Dragon's suspicious glare.

Though Sherlock wanted nothing more than for the old woman to leave him alone, there was something decidedly Motherly about her presence, and the small instinct he had to respect the elderly niggled at him just enough to keep him from hurting her. He tried to tell himself it was for that reason at least, and not because her company kept away some of the dark thoughts that were circling his mind as he curled back into the corner behind the couch. Absently, he nibbled on a piece of cake as his sharp eyes ran over the old woman, the chocolatey flavour rich and sweet on his tongue. It was good, really, really good, and illogically Sherlock's brain tried to tell him that anyone with this kind of cooking ability couldn't be evil.

Instead he licked his lips when she wasn't looking and went for another piece, carefully gathering data about John's strange housekeeper (Whatever that was) even while listening to the soft song the old woman sang.

In her mid to late seventies, suffered from an abusive mate. Now long dead murder charges pressed. Grew up not in London but somewhere in America, probably Florida given that her skin has grown up with a slight tan and she seems to be around the right age for the large immigration that happened when the War began. Likes to sew and watch crap telly, is gentle and owns no Dragon. However has owned one before, or at least interacted with them given her knowledge with language. Husband's job? Highly probable. More data needed. Bakes sweets.

The radio had long since stopped playing, if he strained he could make out the edges of lyrics to Mrs. Hudson's song.

Three little children dancing in the sun, oh la, dee day la dee day,

One shoots water into the sky for fun oh la, dee day la dee day,

One breathes fire, paints the sun oh la, dee day la dee dee day.

The last brings snow, turning the world so white oh la, dee day oh la dee day,

Then all must leave, time to go home oh la, dee day dee day.

It was a simple little rhyme, but Sherlock recognised the meaning behind the lyrics easily. He guessed it to be from before the War began, as such songs weren't sung very often by Humans any more. Anything that glorified Dragons in anyway had been banned from teaching in schools. Sherlock knew because he had been a servant of families before. The children had always looked at him with a complicated mix of mistrust and fascination, and he had reciprocated the stares more often than not with a glower of his own.

Though he understood Human-Speak far better than he was about to let on, he surprised himself when he found his thoughts following the tune, something hypnotic and light about the melody that drew his interest. Mouth still sweet from the lingering taste of chocolate, Sherlock was slightly irritated as he realised the soft, rumbling and vulnerable noise that echoed throughout the flat was coming from himself. He rolled his eyes as he rook into account the fact that he was all but crying like a bloody Hatchling, and instead found himself curling more tightly into his protective ball. If Mrs. Hudson heard the noise, she was good enough not to comment.

The fact was, Sherlock felt like he was drifting, and he wasn't sure what to use to keep him connected to reality. There were so many thoughts in his head, each one destructive and demanding. Like sitting in the eye of the storm, he felt like he was watching them all tear each other apart. He could only try to pluck one at a time from the hurricane, shelter one thought from the desolation. For some reason, the one he kept picking was at once brutally honest as it was horrifying.

I want him to come home. I want this to be my home. I don't want to be alone...

He was unaware when Mrs. Hudson carefully stepped into his hoard, singing halting as she brought something held carefully in her hands. When she reached the edge of the couch she stopped, listening for a moment to the high keening growls that the Dragon made as he tried to make himself shrink into a sharp bundle of elbows and knees. It was the same sort of noise that she had watched Hatchlings make when they had been separated from their Mothers too early. A kind of broken burble, one that had often pulled her heartstrings even when she had still been married. To hear it coming from a fully grown Dragon, a creature that should be strong and fierce and proud, it broke her heart.

She didn't know if it would work, but she was willing to try. Carefully she leaned forward, still aware of the hidden strength in Sherlock's limbs that could tear her apart. She made full moves, certain that he knew she was there even if was only subconsciously.

Sherlock barely felt it when she wrapped around his thin shoulders something woollen and soft, his mind instead latching onto the scent that filled his nostrils. Immediately he clutched the fabric about his wiry frame, brushing his cheek against the oatmeal jumper before he could help himself and inhaling deeply.

The growingly familiar scent of tea and warmth filled him, calming his pounding heart and making him floaty with relief. Like a spring being uncoiled, he could feel the energy leaving him, draining out of his limbs like water. It was at once both soothing and distressing, how easily one person's scent could calm the roaring in his mind. He wanted to fight it, but it was like a balm to a flaming wound, and he could have cried with relief. Instead he stopped whimpering, small sounds turning into a half-ashamed purr of content. Guilty.

Sherlock looked at the woman carefully before him, half sure she'd mock him for his weakness. However she didn't seem to mind, sitting on the couch backwards to face him and watch his reaction carefully. The Dragon wanted to be mad. He wanted to be able to rage and spit ice and snarl, but everything was suddenly too much to handle. He felt himself slipping, and for some reason that scared him almost as much as it was delightful.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as the Dragon's hunched frame finally started to relax, not surprised in the slightest when Sherlock's chin began to hang forward, sleep tugging the Dragon firmly. She pulled on his hand gently, no longer quite so worried he'd attack her in a moment's notice, laying him out gently on the floor before standing to grab an afghan and some pillows. When she returned, she was surprised to see that the massive wings and curling horns that had been Sherlock's last vestiges of protection were gone. In fact, the man that lay curled around a woollen jumper before her looked shockingly Human. If it weren't for the thick collar encircling his throat, one would never be able to tell. His bare form was covered with old wounds and bruises, and the old woman tutted sadly before throwing the blanket around his huddled form. The Dragon muttered slightly, fighting sleep for a second longer as he looked at her with hazed blue-green eyes. His voice was soft and childish, and a thousand times more fragile than Sherlock would ever be willing to admit. Though the murmurs were in Dragon-Tongue, Mrs. Hudson understood the question asked completely.

"He will come back, won't he? He won't go...?"

Smiling, the old woman patted the Dragon's knee softly before cupping his head, lifting it up to tuck a pillow underneath. Her hands were warm, Sherlock thought. Small and wrinkled but gentle.

He tucked his nose back against the jumper, dreams already filtering into his mind. Flickers of images. Stars. Snow. Sleep.

He barely heard her response, but it carried into his dreams. Wrapped him up safely in comfort, because the Dragon couldn't help but trust the old woman, and coasted silently into the waves of his mind.

"Where else would he go?"

Molly smelled it when someone else entered her and Mike's territory. A Dragon's nose was at least five times stronger than a Human's, and she picked up the vaguely familiar scent even though she was disoriented and wasn't quite sure what was going on.

She knew that somehow, what had happened to her room was her fault. There were small patches of fire everywhere, the smoke alarm (which had been turned off in a moment of foresight from Mike) barely visible on the ceiling from the haze that blurred everything. It didn't affect Molly's breathing, being a Dragon, but she knew right away that Humans could die from smoke asphyxiation and immediately looked around in panic for her Master. He was nowhere in sight.

However her terror receded when she found she could smell him, his presence still in the flat. Next to a stranger's scent. She couldn't remember what had happened, but when she went to cautiously open the door to her bedroom she found with a jolt that the door was locked.

Mike had never locked her in before. The thought in itself was immediately distressing. She did not like locked doors, did not like rooms she could not leave. Molly tugged a little, hoping the lock was just stuck. It held firm. A bubbling panic began to fill her as she tried to remember what had happened.

Closing her eyes, the images came in disjointed shards. Fractured scenes, playing out in her head in such a way that they made no sense.

Cloying perfume.

Fear, crawling over her skin and tightening around her throat like a metal band, pulling a noose that constricted her breathing and made everything burn

-Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me stop-

Mike's terrified face.

Smoke and the brilliant scarlet-orange of molten flame.

Things that did not make sense. Molly tried to force the memories, to recall what had just happened, and came up against a stubborn wall that refused to be budged. She swallowed the instinctive cry that wanted to leave her throat, panicked thoughts coming to a dawning horror as her mind demanded answers.

Where is my Master?

Is he okay?

Who is the stranger?

She didn't have long to wait to find out the answer. Molly's ears pricked as she heard two sets of footsteps walking determinedly up the stairs. Baring her teeth, she hunched into a small, defensive position away from the door, wine-red wings flared in warning.

However, nobody came to barge into her room. Curiously enough, the footsteps paused right outside the door. Tails whipping in confusion, she waited tensely for some kind of assault or attack, a low growl rumbling in her chest as smoke drifted from between her gritted teeth. A soft, unfamiliar voice drifted to her, Human-Speak slow and deliberate, firm in its question. It took her a moment, but she understood what was being asked.

"My name is John Watson. I'm a friend of Mike's. I'm not going to harm you. I promise. Can we come in to your territory?"

For a moment she feared it was a trick question. Molly had never been asked before. She had never been anything but ordered. Surely it was some trick. She waited patiently for the order, tail twitching in impatience. However, none came. Soon the question came again, this time in Mike's quavering voice, and the Dragon realised in shock that John Watson had been serious. She felt herself sway lightly in place with the force of it, not knowing quite what to do. Her confusion must have manifested in some noise or another, because her Master's voice spoke softly.

"I'm not mad Molly. I just want to help you. You're scaring me is all."

Scaring? Was she scary?

Molly thought, wondering with fear what she had done. She looked into the mirror, cracked and broken from an event she couldn't remember, and realised with a jolt that she looked terrifying. Her copper-brown locks were messy and wild, her dark brown eyes slitted in defence. Her teeth had become angular and pointed in rage, and her wings billowed behind her in great big sails, tearing a hole into the back of the nightgown Mike had bought for her. Her tail curled ruby-red about her legs, dark spines glinting dangerously. She didn't know what had happened.

Would she be punished? If so, she should let them in. Better to be agreeable than draw things out and make them angry. She shook at the thought.

Drawing a deep breath, she used what little broken English she knew to affirm her consent, hoping her voice didn't waver.

"You can come in."

Still it was a moment before they did, and quite a while longer until Molly fully realised what had happened.

John watched after nearly an hour of gentle coaxing as Molly curled herself around Mike, sobbing into his neck like a small child and winding her tail about his middle protectively. She begged forgiveness, trying to explain in broken English why she had reacted that way and what had made her scared. Clutching to him like she didn't want to let go, her voice came in a high and broken rasp that sounded so small and scared for something with so much killing potential. Though her grammar wasn't perfect, both men understood enough that John's hands tightened into fists for the tiny, sweet dragon and Mike's cheeks flushed red in unspeakable anger.

Sobbing, Molly hiccuped apologies but continued to cling to her Master, horrified that she had nearly barbecued him over something that wasn't his fault. She couldn't bear to look either man in the eye, fearing punishment almost as much as she wanted it over with. Yet no harsh blows or words came, and after a beat of silence, she looked up to see Mike looking down at her with wide-eyed sadness. When his lips moved, she didn't understand what he said.

"I-I never knew... I never- They never told me-"

The young man cut off, biting his lip. He looked at John, eyes wide and pleading. John could see the betrayal in that gaze, the shock that anyone could do this to another person.

Except they're not people in the government's eyes, are they?

John's mind whispered tauntingly

Really, they're little more than livestock...

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to stop the flood of anger that made him suddenly want to hit something. Mike continued to talk, oblivious to his friend's anger.

"Is... is this normal? Is this what happens to them? How they break them?"

Mike spat the word break, large and trusting eyes threatening to fill with tears of his own. It was obvious his Dragon didn't really understand much English, but she recognised the wounded and vulnerable tone. Soft, comforting sounds came from her throat as she clutched to him tighter, her body like a furnace of heat that John could feel even from where he sat. The way Mike held her was like an older brother protecting his sister, and his friend's mind suddenly flashed to Sherlock when they had been in the bath.

Don't touch me.

John's throat was uncharacteristically tight. His stomach felt like it was twisting itself into tight knots, layer upon layer until his abdomen felt swollen with it. Like he had swallowed stones, it took John a while before he could speak evenly, and when he could he cringed as if the action burned him.

"It's... common... the book says...it has a lot of tips on how to help with this sort of thing..."

Mike's eyes flicked to the heavy tome, now tucked once again into John's jacket. Just the edge of it peeked out from the open zipper, and Mike found his lips twisting into a small grimace of worry. He had seen the title of it, despite John's obvious wish to keep its contents secret, and Mike knew for a fact that it wasn't just a book you could buy off the internet.

"Where did you get that thing mate? Christ it has to be illegal on so many different levels..."

His friend didn't reply, instead fixing him with a small, desperate look.

"Please Mike. You can't tell anyone. Please. They'll take him away if I can't care for him-"

John broke off, the thought sending a spike of pain through his chest. He was so, so close to finally gaining Sherlock's trust. Already he feared his absence would cause setbacks. He chafed to get home, now that it was evident that Molly would no longer be destructive. He needed to make sure Mrs. Hudson was okay, and that life at 221 B was as it had been when he had left. More than anything, he dreaded going back to the silence of the flat, the cold loneliness that had lingered in it before. It was strange, but ever since Sherlock had entered his life, John hadn't been bored. Suddenly, life had a purpose and an interest, and its name was Sherlock the Dragon. He no longer felt an oppressive need for routine, no longer felt as if the days dragged on. The idea of someone coming and taking the Dragon away, just when John felt Sherlock was beginning to trust him was painful. He could picture the betrayed look on the creature's face, picture how wide those blue-green eyes would get before narrowing into slits of hatred. It couldn't happen, John wouldn't let it. He glared at Mike, willing him to see that he wasn't going to budge until his friend agreed.

Mike had known John for a long time, and never had he seen such a willingness to fight.

Such a fierce protectiveness.

Holding Molly, he thought he understood. There was something wonderful and strange about Dragons, something at once terrifying and magnetizing. There was an adrenaline, brushing elbows with something so dangerous, and a pride at earning their trust. As it was, he couldn't imagine ever purposefully hurting his own Dragon. Despite what everyone warned against, it was impossible to look into Molly's eyes and see nothing but a small and scared girl, and Mike knew that it was that reason that had lead him to picking her in the first place. He wasn't even attracted to Molly in a romantic way, like he half-suspected John was to Sherlock. Still, he'd be more than willing to die trying to protect her.

If John's Dragon was even remotely the same, then he'd have to fight his friend tooth and nail to give something like that up.

With a sigh, Mike hung his head, knowing he was screwed. Keeping his voice low he ran soothing circles under the collar around Molly's neck, pleased when his Dragon slowly began to relax against him.

"Fine. But if you get caught I am not involved. I'm not kidding. If someone arrests you, I won't vouch on your side."

He tried to sound firm, but Mike's eyes were glittering with resignation. Both knew instantly that he was lying. John's face broke out into a wide grin, and he heaved a sigh of relief. Reaching out to pat Mike once on the shoulder, the blonde young man chuckled.

"Well, fine then. Next time don't come crying to me when something goes wrong."

John smirked at the horrified look Mike gave him in response.