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

Rune Marks (Magic): A Rune Mark is a special kind of spell that any fully-grown Dragon can employ. Not unlike a tracking device, it is often used between mother and Hatchling in order to make it easier for the Dragon to keep their young safe. It allows the Dragon to 'sense' where the person who possesses the Rune Mark is, the strength of the Mark growing as the Bond between the two subjects increases. Each Dragon's Rune Mark is unique, and can only be tracked by the Dragon who first cast the Spell (see page 66C for other kinds of Magic that is personalized). Though it may be weak at first, the Rune Mark's size and power will increase the more the two subjects come to rely on each other. Dragons will occasionally put a Rune on a trusted Human of choice, although the occurrence is relatively uncommon. It is generally seen as a sign of implicit trust, as the person who bears the Rune will effectively be connected to the Dragon so long as the Rune is in place. Whatever pain the subject may feel will also be transferred to the Dragon who cast the spell, as well as other extreme emotions, such as high anxiety or sadness. The stronger the Bond, the more emotions will leak through the link between the two.


Over the span of a few weeks, A strange and tentative trust formed between Man and Dragon. It wasn't perfect -far from it- but it was far more than either John or Sherlock had before, and the two quietly welcomed it into their lives with as little chafing as was possible.

The first step towards this was slowly bringing Sherlock to getting used to sleeping in 221 B. John soon discovered as the Dragon rapidly recovered his health that the creature had a seemingly boundless amount of energy, and would often spend long hours into the night merely pacing or picking his way deftly through John's collection of paperbacks. Though Sherlock at first couldn't read very much English, it soon became evident that the Dragon was merely ignorant, as opposed to stupid.

Though the Dragon had at first been hesitant to move from the room downstairs (after all he had claimed it as "His" and it would not do for just anyone to come and take his space away) John had offered him the room on the main floor, the promise of a warm bed (all for himself, now that was a treat Sherlock couldn't refuse) and a nice window view. All of this let the Dragon quickly get over his reservations. He soon tentatively began making the room his own, although John forbid the whole Marking ritual, much to the Dragon's sulking chagrin.

Instead, Sherlock made do by filling the small area with things that he could claim as his own. He liked to have his clothes scattered about the floor, his own scent permeating the room with them, mingled with a few of John's jumpers when he was in a good mood. When he wasn't those jumpers were often tossed down the hall angrily. Sherlock began writing pages upon pages in his own language, formulas and Spells tacked to the walls for later analysis. Strangely enough, John noticed the Dragon was spartan-like in the organisation of his sock-index.

Sherlock also proved to be incredibly clever, as well as surprisingly devious.

Once given the opportunity, Sherlock's brain absorbed information like a highly effective sponge. His mind connected the dots together faster than anyone John had ever seen, man or beast included. What's more, the Dragon seemed to effortlessly be able to make predictions based on knowledge previously learned. John woke in the morning a few days after he had given Sherlock the manual guide to most of the electronics in the house to find that new and different CD's played in the speaker's as he got up, Sherlock having rooted through his small collection and selected a fair few he deemed acceptable. Also, he soon learned that though the Dragon's English vocabulary was evidently increasing in size, (judging from the slow and gradual shift from picture books to chapter books to texts) Sherlock refused to speak to John in any way other than telepathically.

In fact, John quickly learned to take it as a warning sign that something was off if Sherlock made a sound at all.

He was at times, deathly quiet. He slunk about John with a skittish sort of grace, just at the corner of the soldier's eyes. Incredibly agile and flexible, John sometimes found the Dragon went ridiculous lengths to avoid being in his direct line of sight, a common sulking place being atop the refrigerator, where the Dragon's impossibly long tail would curl and uncurl about the cool handle.

The only time the soldier heard Sherlock be vocal other than for the occasional snarl or huff of grudging interest, John had been woken to a loud crashing of a thousand pieces of glass falling all over the floor. Within moments he was on his feet, cinching the belt to his robe as he ran down the stairs to find a sight that was at once shocking as it was strange.

Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room shaking, his eyes wild and wide as he took in the shattered vase he had accidentally tipped over with his tail. The scattered pieces lay about his bare feet haphazardly, shards powdered with the sheer force of the appendage's assault. John could tell the vase had literally been whipped towards the wall, the trajectory of the shards all in one general direction. However he didn't have much time to absorb all this as a low, keening noise that could be felt through the floorboards rumbled from Sherlock's throat.

In the next instant, the Dragon had curled himself protectively away from John, wings flared and defensive green-gold, a blazing banner to mask the fear in the creature's eyes. John could see some of the Human form that Sherlock had kept to lately fade as scales over took more of his skin, and a low, threatening growl that didn't sound nearly as sure as it should be emerged from his peeled lips. John was surprised when a rippling, melodic language came from the creature's lips, repeating itself over and over again until something clicked, and Sherlock switched to English for the first time. Though his accent was as broken as a badly-strung guitar, John could understand him.

He'd have understood the tone of someone pleading for mercy, even if he was half-mad and blind.

"S-sorry. Sorry. Not. Fault. Accident. Not-" A small, clicking sound of exasperation came from Sherlock's lips as he couldn't find the right words quick enough, his panic seeming to have cut off the easy mental communication they had kept up now for a few days. Seeming to grow frustrated with John's lack of action and his own incompetence, the Dragon abruptly resorted to the only tactic that had always worked before, kneeling in the pile of glass and cowering.

John gasped as the creature folded at the knees, wincing as he could see shards digging into Sherlock's skin, creating vivid paths of blood. His first instinct was to wrench the Dragon to his feet, demand what in the seven hells was wrong with him and treat the cuts. However when John stepped forward, (cautiously trying to avoid getting glass pieces on the soles of his feet) the creature shuddered bodily and seemed to shrink away. He paused, carefully reconsidering his knee-jerk reaction and instead crouching delicately on the floor, keeping a safe distance away from where the Dragon knelt, hands clasped behind his back. John noted that Sherlock's posture was a vulnerable position, not one someone who felt threatened would normally take. He knelt with his hands clutching each other behind his waist, dark curls bowed as if expecting blows to befall him at any moment. Though his wings were out they were flared instead of protective, expecting pain but not willing to fight back. The realisation that this was a posture that had been trained into Sherlock, and not a natural response (even if that thought was equally disturbing) made John grit his teeth as anger spiked through his system.

He kept his hands gentle and feather-light as they reached out for the Dragon, pausing an inch from those dark curls before they carefully plucked a piece of glass from their snarls. John watched as Sherlock hardly dared to breathe, the keening noise stuttering slightly as he felt no onslaught of pain. Glancing in slight confusion up at his Master through his lashes, he saw how John rather calmly took to pushing the blunter pieces of glass into a pile, moving them so he could get closer to the Dragon. Sherlock found he had unconsciously backed himself into a wall and whined, but John didn't crowd him. Instead, he kept carefully just outside of Sherlock's bubble, rising to clear away glass and even leaving for a moment to grab shoes and a broom. All the while the Dragon remained immobile, frozen between confusion and the instinctive thrum in his gut that insisted he fear.

His memories and past experiences told him to try and remedy the situation as much as possible by being docile and obedient, and yet every muscle in him also screamed to attack. Caught between the two, Sherlock did not see John clearly when he looked at him, instead, he saw a very different face. One that he'd sooner rather forget. He expected rough fingers to tug his head forward, searching hands to pull off the clothes so generously given to him, and growling commands hissed in his ear.

Instead, true to John's earlier promise, he was carefully approached, asked for consent before he was even touched, and then only to be moved, nothing more. John's hands were calloused but steady, Sherlock noticed, and they were warm where they lingered for a moment on his skin. They did not drift anywhere, did not search save for injury or damage. The soldier took stock of Sherlock's knees after he had managed to coax the borderline catatonic Dragon over to the chair, wincing at a particularly deep gash across his shin.

"That might need more than a band-aid."

He muttered to himself, and was surprised when the Dragon responded with a small and quiet

"Sorry." Under his breath. His voice was cracked and raspy, as if Sherlock hadn't spoken in a very long time. John was privately impressed with the creature's language skills, but saddened by the fact that begging was the first time the Dragon had bothered to speak to him. Crouching in front of Sherlock and grabbing his medical kit, he rolled up the trouser leg of the Dragon's clothes, dabbing at the smaller cuts with hydrogen peroxide. Sherlock hissed at the sting slightly, but offered no other complaint.

John's voice was calm and steady.

"It's okay. I just want to know what spooked you. I don't mind, it was an accident and I saw that. You're not in trouble." The soldier felt rather than saw some of the tension leave the Dragon's spine at his reassurances. Though at first Sherlock was reluctant to reveal what had frightened him, he soon realised that John was not about to let him escape. Though his gaze kept flicking towards his new room, the soldier carefully blocked his exit, being at once solid and yet non-threatening. It was obvious that John wasn't about to let Sherlock slink away, and twitching slightly, the Dragon looked at his knees where white plasters now greeted him. His voice was small. He hated himself for being so afraid.

I figured it out.

"Figured what out?" John's brow furrowed, but he paused to listen and heard the radio, still playing through the flat. Not music, but words drifted from its speakers, an old mystery audio tape. Some kind of slash thriller. A woman's very fake screams radiated from it, followed by cheesily eerie music. Realisation hit John, and he broke into a small smile as he looked to Sherlock and grinned.

"You mean... You guessed the murderer?"

The Dragon nodded emphatically, some of the worry leaving his eyes as he straightened. Those dark curls bobbed slightly as pale fingers moved to emphasize Sherlock's deductions that came to John's thoughts like a babbling brook unleashed. With his excitement his tail began to swish, twitching at the tip and wagging with his interest. John realised that must have been why the vase had gotten knocked over. He could feel the deadly force in that movement even from where he sat.

It's obvious, really. It's the husband, not the servant. They explain early on that each of the servant's are mute, their tongues having been cut out, and it is shown by the way the Dragon speaks only to the detective when no one else is about because he's a thrall. Though the servant has motive given the fact that the wife bought him from slavery and tore him from his mother as a Hatchling, he lacks innovation. He's uneducated, and would not be able to leave notes with elaborate riddles on them if he can barely spell. Really. As well the husband's motivation for murder is far more plausible, given the fact that the woman has been sleeping with his business associate now for nearly a year, and the husband only just found out the night before the murder. You can tell by the voice acting too, the actors are stilted, and they gave the husband a horribly fake accent that's stereotypically evil-sounding. Really, textbook.

Then Sherlock fell silent, a suspicious expression crossing his features as he didn't see John's face turn dark or glowering. Instead, all he felt was slight disbelief and awe come from the soldier, and in a cautious tone the Dragon asked

Is... Am I right?

John laughed, tossing his head back and sitting on the floor. Sherlock looked at him like he was half-mad, wing-tips tingeing a confused, mottled shade of calico before the soldier got the breath to reply.

"You... you're amazing, do you know that? The tape's only on the second chapter and you've already got it all figured out..."

The Dragon's chest momentarily swelled with shy pride, scales simmering to a slightly smug dark blue before turning grey with worry.

I've always... observed things. It's something I'm good at... But most people don't usually think it's all that amazing... It's not what they usually say. I got overly excited, as you can see...

Then the Dragon's head ducked down, hands curling in his lap, his wings curving as if to hide him from some unseen anger. The rhythmic thumping of his tail died away, the appendage curling itself about one leg protectively. John's grin faded, noticing how small and fragile the Dragon looked without the usual spark of defiance in his cool eyes. Moving slowly, John seated himself on the other side of the couch, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck as he gently asked

"What do they usually say?"

Sherlock's thoughts were low, tinged with black humour. He bared his teeth slightly in distaste as he murmured to the knuckles of his hands. Still, John felt he picked the least volatile of the insults he had been handed over his life.

Piss off.

Though it was delivered as a joke, neither man nor beast really found themselves laughing.

Instead, John looked hard at Sherlock, blue eyes flicking over the skinny form that was still too thin even after all the food he had been eating lately, glossing over the scars that he could still see in the holes he had made for the Dragon in the back of his shirt. He did not see weakness. Rather, he saw a fierce resilience. Something unshakable and aloof from the rest of the world, happening to lower itself right before his eyes. In that moment, he saw some of the usual cold mask slip from the Dragon's features, mellow into something more malleable and soft. Though it was still an icy expression that Sherlock returned his gaze with, it lacked the sharpened edge it held before. Now it asked for comfort, although grudgingly, and John found himself wanting to give it. He wanted to reach out, pull the Dragon out of his own memories, out of his own mind and warm that dead expression off of his face. The broken look of hopelessness.

Because Sherlock could not afford to be hopeless, not when they were already preparing to go into a battle. If he remained this way, there was little doubt in John's mind that the Dragon would die in that desert. He'd let himself get shot, or kidnapped, or burned at a stake, and that was unacceptable.

To John, Sherlock's life was necessary. He wasn't exactly sure when it became so, but it was. Vehemently so. Somehow, the scaly git had managed to worm his way past John's usual armor. The protection he had developed over the years, the one that kept him from helping Harry again and again when she begged him to save her from her own mistakes, the one that had made him stand firm and refuse to go to his Father's funeral. Somehow, the Dragon had managed to waltz through every fence, curling himself next to the warmth in John's chest. He wasn't even totally sure he could trust Sherlock to protect him in a battlefield, because he couldn't even guarantee the Dragon would be willing to protect himself.

And in a war where they were to be facing rebels that could turn into two-tonne scaled beasts of horror, that should be something that worried John. A lot.

And yet, he couldn't help but glow over the fact that somehow, he had managed to find a place in a creature's heart that owed him nothing. That Sherlock could have chosen to just eat him, and John would never stop being thankful that he had decided against it.

And evidently, Sherlock wasn't even aware.

John promised himself then that he'd make Sherlock aware of it, if only by pulling the Dragon's lanky form so that his head rested on the soldier's shoulder. Sherlock's eyes were cat-like and wide as they peered up at John questioningly, but he didn't give justification for his action of comfort. Soon, Sherlock stopped searching for one. The Dragon felt his eyes slide closed as those capable, strong hands delicately ran through his curls, scratching just at the base of his horns in such a way that was positively sinful and wonderful at the same time. Finally satisfied that he wasn't in trouble, Sherlock allowed himself to relax into the touch, melting bonelessly towards the comfort like a moth pulled to a flame. Little sparks flashed behind his eyes, electrical pinpoints as John's hands worked his dark hair into some semblance of order, and if the soldier noticed how Sherlock's tail automatically curled possessively about his waist, he chose not to say anything.

Sherlock's wings stretched to engulf the both of them, shielding John in an ever-changing forcefield that melted from blue to green to darkest violet. It was lovely and strange, and he longed to reach out and touch.

He didn't dare.

Not yet.

Not when Sherlock seemed so fragile and small, not unlike a monster but more like a very young child, alone and afraid.

The two of them spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in that way, ignoring the pile of glass. They might have spent the evening as well, if John hadn't insisted on getting some food into the Dragon. Before the soldier could stand, Sherlock grabbed his wrist possessively, looking at him with deep, shifting eyes. A tingling rushed over the soldier's spine, bubbling up his veins and through the crook of his elbow to spread to the rest of his body. It was not unlike being exposed to a ray of sunlight, the sensation slowly warming until it nearly burned to the touch. He gasped, and in the moment he did Sherlock uttered something in Dragon-Tongue, the words eerie and chanting and quick. Like a butterfly's breath.

"Etcha. Protcheva. Novest itch Xiao seich."

In his head, the soldier heard the translation.

Guard. Keep safe. No harm to come to what is mine.

When John finally managed to pull his wrist away, there was a mark, a twisting Rune overlapping delicately about his skin. It circled about his arm, glowing a faint blue before dimming to black. Small, but intricately designed. It looked incomplete, but promised to be beautiful when whole. Hexagonal in nature, two or three patterns traced up his arm. Plain black, one with swirling designs that looped over each other, another as delicate as a snowflake. When he looked at Sherlock questioningly, the Dragon's eyes glowed with the same light. Blinking, the Dragon's only explanation left mysteries surrounding John's thoughts.

I'll prove you can trust me the only way I know how... Through actions instead of words.

At the beginning of the last week, Dodge phoned John to let him know that he had a day to get Sherlock used to the idea of her bringing Cerioth over for the equivalent of a 'play-date'.

"Standard procedure." She had sighed over the phone, the tone of her voice tired and edged slightly.

"They want to make sure he won't go all kamikaze on the first Dragon he sees. After all he's a Red-Card, and you guys will have to work as a team with other pairs on the field."

In retrospect, John understood the logic. Still, he felt a surge of annoyance and exasperation at the government, or specifically whoever had come up with the outlines to join the military.

The fact was, he was fairly certain this would not go over well.

It worried him.

Because Sherlock was many things, brilliant, aloof and yet strangely affectionate at times, calculating, thoughtful, but above all, Sherlock was possessive of things he viewed as his.

Like a true Dragon, it had been shown to John over time that his Draconian flatmate wasn't one to share.

Sherlock was inherently protective, to the point where John found the strangest of things squirreled away in supposedly 'safer' locations. The Dragon's blue scarf was often tucked under Sherlock's pillow at night, along with a midnight snack (as the Dragon had odd eating habits and frequently decided an apple would be nice at one in the morning) and his notebooks full of scrawl. John's favourite tea mug went missing from the dishwasher, only for the soldier to find it later hidden inside the skull. A collection of mold cultures Sherlock made himself by spoiling the milk were lovingly hidden in the bathtub for John to find later on, and every single book in the house was treated like it was heavenly, stacked in Sherlock's bed to resemble a nest of literature.

Inviting someone into the flat could prove dangerous, given the fact that Sherlock did not trust anyone as of yet besides John and Mrs. Hudson. At one point the young Dragon from next door had brought their post, the postman having put it into the wrong box, and John had found himself tackled to the ground by a snarling Dragon of the North, protected by Sherlock's impenetrable scaly stomach as Sherlock all but threatened to murder the poor servant where he stood. The Dragon, skittish and small, had taken off running back to their Master, tail tucked between their legs.

Sherlock had been quite proud of himself for scaring away the intruder, until John had scolded it for him later.

Then, he had only been mildly repentant.

Sighing to himself, John squared his shoulders.

A day.

He had a day to get Sherlock to accept it.

It wouldn't be so hard, right?

Somehow, as he looked at the mess his flat had become in only a few weeks, the soldier couldn't bring himself to be so sure.