There we go! Next chapter up! :3 I'm so glad once again for all the lovely reviews and kind words!

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

Chinese Dragons (Species): Chinese Dragons are the second-oldest of the Dragon species, and most likely appeared sometime around the late Ming Dynasty era. Their ancestors originate from all over Asia, although China to this day holds the largest population of the species (hence the name). The Chinese Dragons differentiate from their cousins the Northern and English Dragons in their small, compact forms. In Human form, it is common for a male to only be around five foot seven to barely touching six feet. The females will on average be anywhere from four eleven to five foot five. However their Draconic forms are extremely long and slender. Bearing a snake-like figure, the Chinese Dragon was once largely worshipped by humans in medieval ages, seen as a sign of good luck. There are still many pieces of ancient art today in Asia that depict them. They are the most common type of Dragon, and are a species designed for speed, swimming, and warm weather. (See page 78 part G for details on weather and Dragons.) The Chinese Dragons are well known for their remarkable capabilities of seeing the truth in matters, their magic tending to be rooted in deep honesty and clarity of the mind. Beware though: Chinese Dragons, although small and relatively more fragile than their other cousins, can boil water they collect in a separate pouch inside their bodies and spit it upon their enemies. The temperature of this water can easily exceed 150 degrees Celsius.

Cerioth was a Chinese Dragon, and as a result he was at once both small in stature and graceful, delicate in appearance. Yet as John welcomed the servant at his front door, who bowed low once in greeting, he got the distinct impression that if given permission the creature would have no qualms about snapping his neck. He was not tall, not even by John's standards, but he held himself with a quiet elegance, a stillness that contrasted sharply with Lieutenant Dodge's entrance.

Dodge was all hard edges and solid confidence, a strength that was always on display. Her shoulders remained ramrod straight, and she held herself in such a way to appear taller than she was. She nodded sharply at John by way of greeting, short mahogany hair dipping as she was ushered into the flat. Her boots thunked solidly on the floor. What she saw was, admittedly, better than she had been expecting.

The place was tidy, cleared of any obvious debris and organised, with objects stacked together on the tables and shelves. Not a book was out of place but the overall effect was not so clean as to be staged. (What she didn't know was that John stayed up late into the night, cleaning desperately). Late morning sunlight streamed lazily through the window, making the polished wood floor gleam a rich red with a warm tone.

Sherlock by design, was nowhere in sight.

John had spent the entirety of yesterday trying to explain to the Dragon what was expected of him at this "meeting" of sorts. Or rather, he had attempted to explain even as Sherlock appeared hell-bent on deliberately ignoring his heed for caution. His thoughts had been sharp and acidic as he sat sprawled on the sofa, hands folded under his chin in a strangely mimicry of prayer as his thoughts nearly whip-lashed out at John.

I will not be treated as if I am a show horse. I am a Dragon, and though I've been captured I still have some pride.

It was clear that Sherlock was becoming more comfortable speaking his mind. At least, within the silent confines of John's thoughts. Aloud Sherlock still demanded nothing, and as he regained his strength his eating and sleeping habits dwindled considerably. It concerned John somewhat, especially since the one time John caught Sherlock sleeping of his own volition (or exhaustion) he witnessed the Dragon was prone to nightmares. The creature's wings had flashed mottled shades of grey and sickly green, small whimpers coming from his lips as he writhed in his bed and thrashed in the sheets. John didn't dare wake him lest he was mistaken for an enemy, but distinctly heard broken pleading in Dragon-Tongue, and often Sherlock's body contorted as if he were being struck. Misty fog streamed from Sherlock's parted lips and flared nostrils, cooling the room to a freezer, yet John hadn't been able to tear himself away, even for a moment to fetch a warmer jumper.

In the morning, Sherlock either didn't remember or didn't care to bring it up. Certainly, he appeared neither weak nor vulnerable in declaring his thoughts on meeting with Dodge.

They will try to turn you against me. I will not have it! You are the least boring Master I've had and I will not be sold off like a common street cow.

John didn't bother to hide his eye roll, depite the fact he inwardly revelled and despaired that Sherlock was growing bolder. He seated himself on the couch, pushing the Dragon to make room for him even as he checked over Sherlock's wings by demanding he unbutton his shirt. There was barely any sign of the infection; it was healing well, a shining scar the only indication there had been something wrong in the first place. The scar was vivid on Sherlock's alabaster skin, but then John would prefer to see marks that were the result of healing instead of punishment. Humming to himself in satisfaction, the young doctor replied snappily:

"You'll behave yourself and like it or we'll both be castrated. Dodge isn't someone to fuck around with, she means business. I'm not going to abandon you, so you're stuck with me and you'll have to tough it out. If she thinks for even a second that I'm not serious about looking after you and fighting in the war she'll have me sent home and you'll be sent..."

John cut off then, throat suddenly tight as he refused to think further. As if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, the Dragon quietly replied

Foolish... As yet you're the only Human I've met who's bothered to care...You'll have to order me if you want me to leave...

And in a rare gesture of faith, Sherlock leaned his head against John's shoulder, nuzzling his curled head against the man's neck and inhaling his scent greedily.

Softening, the army doctor let him rest there for the afternoon even as he read more of the mysterious book he had been gifted. Privately, he sent a thought of his own towards the scaly creature.

I'll never order you unless I absolutely can't help it... Not if I can't ask you instead...

Sherlock didn't reply, but simply nestled closer, prehensile tail twisting protectively around the Rune Mark that had just barely begun to inch up John's arm.

Though John truly believed after that point that Sherlock would try his best, he still asked the Dragon to stay in his room until called. The Dragon had grumbled, but didn't put up much of a fight. With the click of the lock sliding home, John hastily made a pot of tea, setting it in the living room so that it could be accessed easily as a way to stall. Much of this would be bluffing, and so the young soldier made sure to keep as many options open as possible. When Dodge and Cerioth had arrived in what seemed at once both an eternity and an instant after, he ushered them inside and offered them something to drink. Both being painstakingly British and neither wanting to seem impolite, John and Dodge seated themselves across from one another, not saying much as they nursed their cups and stared at into the other's eyes unflinchingly. A silence stretched between them as Cerioth took the customary place of a Dragon, kneeling on the floor by Dodge's side. John itched to haul the small creature to his feet. Instead his fingers tightened impotently about the handle of his mug. Tentative of his welcome, he reached out with his mental Thrall to address the slave.

Hello. Nice to see you again.

Cerioth's dark eyes widened as he shot a look up from under his lashes, a slightly perplexed and mollified expression on his face before his gaze slid back to the floor. After a moment, John felt the somewhat delicate brush of a stranger's voice on the edge of his mind.

It is generally considered rude, Sir, to speak to the help before addressing their Master. Be glad that my Mistress is no Thrall.

Does she hurt you? If you're impolite?

She is not excessive in her punishments. Mistress only does what she must.

Cerioth's voice came across as clinical. Detached and curt. John got the distinct feeling he was standing in front a mirror with no reflection. A sheet of glass that was steel grey and fogged. Revealing nothing.

What must she do? Is she expected to hurt you?

John asked before he could help himself, yet got no answer. The Dragon looked pointedly towards Dodge, silently encouraging John to use his manners instead of replying. After a moment, the soldier gave up.

Aloud, he spoke.

"You'll have to forgive Sherlock, he's a bit of a late sleeper. I didn't want to wake him, since he's still healing. He's been eating more, think he might actually gain some muscle if he continues getting regular meals into him."

"Name's Sherlock? Interesting, in English that's fair-haired, isn't it? May have been the dirt, but I could've sworn his hair was as black as night."

Dodge spoke in light, easy tones, although there was always an undercurrent of command about her. Years of being on duty had shed all meekness she once possessed; a woman who often held a gun in her hands didn't flinch when confronted with a chance to take control of a situation. Instead she leaned forward, eyes bright and strong. If it weren't for the professional way in which she addressed the issues, John might have thought she genuinely cared about Sherlock's welfare.

"He doesn't seem to have any mental problems? Anything besides the aggression and protective tendencies? Are his wings functional? Everything checking out like it should? He's not unnecessarily confrontational or weak in stamina?"

John found his reply was somewhat cool, despite the fact he didn't dislike his commanding officer. Something about her just rubbed him the wrong way.

"He's as sane as any man can be when confronted with a mandatory drafting. As for his wings, one was infected with a mild rash, but it's mostly cleared up now. He's been doing a lot better with his protective tendencies." The last part was a bit of a white lie, or rather an exaggeration, but John let it slip past his lips without thinking. It was better this way, so long as everything went smoothly. John could continue to work with Sherlock on his aggression, and by the time they were called to duty they would be at that point. For now though, the Dragon was still slightly unstable. He couldn't let Dodge become aware of this. She'd haul his ass right down to headquarters and have them tranquillise Sherlock.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Dodge nodded thoughtfully. She sipped her tea before folding her hands in her lap. She wore her army uniform, John noticed. Must have just been off on training somewhere then. Her voice was terse.

"I need you to be honest with me here John. As honest as you think you can be. Do you feel you can trust him? Your Dragon? Because if you can't, then you will find the training in Afghanistan to be extremely... challenging."

She looked up at him, one eye half-hidden by her fringe, and John stared at his cup in contemplation. His blue irises focused in silent thought. Could he trust Sherlock?

The immediate answer came straight from his gut, an instinct more than fact. Want more than reason.

Yes, I trust him.

Yet his mind cautioned him, so that he responded more slowly as not to appear too hasty in his choice.

"I'd trust him with my life. He's the sort of creature that's very much all or nothing in nature, and it seems he's decided I'm lucky enough to be considered an ally. He'd protect me, and I'd protect him."

He looked at his superior, the set of his mouth honest and unyielding. His shoulders were an unwavering line. Steady.

Dodge blinked at the force behind the young man's words. Then her gaze softened. She set down her cup with a gentle tap, looking up. Her features rearranged themselves back into blank stone as she looked hard at John.

Her voice was cutting.

"But can you get him to trust others at this stage?"

And then John stared down at his hands and swallowed, because he could not answer that one honestly. The words caught up in his throat, knowing the Dragon's true nature. It felt like his chest was sticky on the inside with them, their cloying deceit seeping into his lungs like brackish fluid.

He hoped that Sherlock hadn't heard the hesitation in his answer.

Which was why it came as a surprise when Lieutenant Dodge stood abruptly, her gaze held somewhere above his head. John's heart leapt as she stepped past him, assessing a kneeling figure he hadn't noticed come down the stairs. Sherlock crouched in his best clothes on the floor, a simple suit with a white undershirt, completely Human and appearing harmless. A shadow in the hollow of the stairwell. His collar gleamed about his throat, scarf conspicuously absent, head bowed towards the floor in the perfect semblance of submission. John felt his blood freeze in silent panic even as he looked on at what appeared to be a bizarre twilight zone.

His superior officer's voice was high and slightly surprised, edged with faint suspicion as she came to stand over Sherlock and inspect him. John was suddenly vitally glad he'd managed to trim Sherlock's messy black curls into some pretence of order the other night. He tugged on his sleeve, further trying to hide the strange tattoo that stained his wrist. An absent gesture. He could not tear his gaze away from the Dragon's still form.

"Well this is a fair change." Dodge commented wryly as she stood over the Dragon crouching before her, seemingly impressed by his stillness and good behaviour.

"I have to admit John, I had some doubts..."

John grit his teeth and braced himself for an explosion when Dodge promptly snapped her fingers, uttering a military-like command. Testing John's honesty.

"Up. Let's have a look at you."

The soldier relaxed minutely when Sherlock complied without complaint, rising gracefully to his feet. Sherlock's eyes stayed trained on the floor the entire time. The model of compliance.

But on the floor, Cerioth tensed. His dark eyes narrowed into slits and the muscles in his arms flexed almost imperceptibly, and John soon saw why.

Sherlock's tail had appeared, swishing cat-like and lazy behind him as he rose to his feet. The back and forth pendulum of rhythm betrayed his nerves, hidden under a mask of cold steel. His blue eyes were carefully blank, stance relaxed, but the appendage behind him twisted and curled with defiance. It wound around one of Sherlock's legs like a serpent as the Dragon stood at attention, barely quivering as Dodge reached out to tilt his head clinically towards the light. It caught the colour of his eyes, chips of ice in shadow. They did not look at John once.

Her eyes were sharp as they swept over the line of his jaw.

"His nose's been broken before, but looks like he was fairly young. Shouldn't cause any kind of problems. Does his dental work need anything? There's a free program..."

It took John a moment to realise that Dodge was addressing him as opposed to Sherlock, his superior not caring to look the Dragon in the eye as she continued her inspection. He sucked in a deep breath and held it, counting to five before letting it go and responding. John had to remind himself that this was her job, and that Dodge didn't mean any offence in the way she so casually handled Sherlock. She may as well have been inspecting a sack of flour. Her hands were cold and impersonal as she felt along the Dragon's scapulae, resting along the intersection where flesh morphed into wing. Her expression remained indiscernable as she pressed through the silky material of his suit. After a moment or two, during which she picked at the slits that John had made for Sherlock in the back of his clothes, with a small smirk ordered crisply

"Wings. Out where I can see them."

Like a coiled spring, Sherlock complied. Yet his irises constricted, and John saw how they turned to sharpened slits. He swallowed, shifting as if to somehow discourage Dodge from probing further, but a hand in front of him halted his progression. Cerioth's fingers were slender as they splayed outwards, still they held strength in them as the slave looked up at John, brows furrowed in warning. It was an extremely abrasive gesture for one normally so complacent, and John found himself disconcerted by the Dragon's voiceless worry.

A low, rumbling growl filled the flat, and John looked up to see Sherlock staring at the point of connection between John and the intruder to his home. The young soldier's eyes widened as Dodge froze at the sound, a quizzical expression on her face as she looked behind her, taking in what had lead to Sherlock's sudden vocalisation. Her voice was dry as she looked at John.

"Might have exaggerated a little bit about his progress, didn't you now soldier?"

John stayed where he was, back ramrod straight, even though every part of him wanted to pull Sherlock away, drag him up the stairs before he did something they'd both regret. He bore silent holes into the Dragon's skin with his eyes, radiating his displeasure at having not only been directly ignored but at how the lanky git was acting. Two parts pleading and two parts irritated. Although the soldier couldn't blame him; the more childish side of John wanted these strangers gone too.

"Sherlock can tell you he's a lot better than he was before. I mean, you saw how he was back -" He cut off, clenched his fists. John did not want to mention that bloody kennel again, and instead quickly changed topics.

"- He had a fever then. Wing Rot. It's mostly healed now, and he's civil if not friendly towards people he knows and trusts. It's just strangers, and it's not like he's done anything but defend his territory..."

As if to accentuate his point, Sherlock again fell silent, Cerioth's hand having moved away from John's personal space. The smaller Dragon still knelt on the floor, curled into a defensive posture. Truthfully the soldier was a bit relieved. There was something chilling in the elegant way in which the Chinese Dragon held himself, a sinuous grace. Like a dancer, only one that held concealed weapons in their costume of human flesh and bone. Dodge had her brows pinched in a disbelieving sort of way, hands on her hips as she assessed John from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head. It was clear she did not take his word as truth. Her gaze was the cutting expression of someone extremely fed up with excuses. Her tone turned from mildly commanding to barking.

"Watson. Did it ever occur to you that in only a short while both you and your Dragon will be sharing the same breath with literally hundreds of other men, women and Dragons?"

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off before John could draw in enough air to respond. She was merciless.

"Though it's obvious you've gained his loyalty, the fact is that your Dragon must only have allegiance to The Crown. What happens if you bollocks something up and a captain rightfully hands you your arse, only to have his throat ripped out by two tonnes of scale and ice?"

John felt the tips of his ears turn pink from the tongue lashing, but he held his ground as fury rose in him, hot and metallic. He had endured insults before, and would likely continue suffering them. He accepted it was part of army life, and he was used to them from his childhood. It was just that they weren't actually directed at him that made him momentarily see red. He worked to keep his voice controlled as he ground out -

"I'd stop him before-"

"How?" Dodge interrupted smoothly, dark brow rising. Her face was stormy as she pointed to John's empty hands, their tension.

"Don't think I didn't notice. You don't have the remote to his collar anywhere, and yet he's kneeling like a kicked puppy. You don't seem to be the blackmailing type though, or one to resort to physical violence. You've been treating him like a pet haven't you? You managed to turn a weapon into a lap dog-"

Dodge might have continued, but was interupted by a ferocious snarl as both she and John were unexpectedly flung back, pinned defensively at opposite sides of the room by their respective Dragons. It was strange: one moment the soldier was standing upright, the next he was being tossed to the floor like a sandbag for target practice. John wheezed, breath knocked out as he looked above him. All he saw was the shadow of massive dark wings.

Sherlock's horns, tail and wings sprouted from his body, as he stood half-crouched in front of John like a vicious guard dog. Bestial sounds emanated deep within his chest, vibrating through the floorboards as his slitted eyes turned feral. His scales were a murderous black, mottled with electric-white rage. He was like a demon, a terrible guardian of a prize, and John came to the abrupt realisation that he was the damsel in distress.

Still, he didn't dare move.

Cerioth also transformed, although he was far calmer as he stood protectively in front of his mistress. It was the first time that John had seen a Chinese Dragon even half-transform, and he couldn't help but gape from underneath Sherlock's protective wingspan.

The smaller Dragon's figure had drastically changed. For one, his skin was no longer the golden tone it had once been. Now it was tinged a deep jade green in places, smooth scales running up his arms and legs and creating swirling, delicate designs on his cheeks and chin. More fragile than Sherlock's, but sleeker, like the belly of a snake. Like war-paint, it enhanced the darkness of his eyes as it curled in decorative whorls about his skin. His horns differed from Sherlock's the way that a deer's might from a bull's, daintier yet rapier-sharp, with the potential to be lethal if correctly used. They glinted wickedly under the lights of the living room. The Dragon did not have wings; rather, Cerioth floated as if suspended in mid-air, steam curling from his parted lips as he let loose a low warning growl towards Sherlock's hunched figure. The tea set lay broken on the floor, hot tea creating a molten divide, the moat that separated both parties. Dodge had her gut out, but the safety still on. her figure was tense and her gaze professional as she assessed the situation. Unlike John, who was upside down and crushed by Sherlock's tail, which curled around him possessively.

In the span of only a few heartbeats, John's living room had become a battle ground.

And John suddenly realised Dodge might be right, that his illusion of control over Sherlock was just that, an illusion.

For the Dragon's mouth opened, and from his lips a glacial fog drifted, filling the flat and making it descend into chilly tension.