"I consider myself married to my work."
"I'm a high-functioning sociopath."
"All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots."
"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side."
"I don't have friends."
"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."
These were a few, but by no means all, of the ridiculous mantras Sherlock Holmes, world's only Consulting Detective, and all round pain in the arse lived by.
The more he espoused these stupid statements, the more they became fact, in his mind at least.
And as such, they proved to be his ultimate downfall...
221B BAKER STREET – BEDROOM
Sherlock opened his eyes, and groaned. He felt like he'd been on a drug-fuelled bender after running a marathon, maybe several marathons. His whole body ached, and the more he tried to get comfortable the more pain he felt.
Even getting himself up into a sitting position proved extremely difficult, but once he'd managed it, he became aware of the smoke-haze that hung over his bed. And yet he had no memory of smoking the night before.
Unable to twist himself around to get out of bed, he ended up getting on all fours to crawl to the end of the bed, where he promptly lost his balance, plunging headfirst.
As he toppled off the end of the bed he automatically braced for impact. Instead however he managed to perform an impressive summersault that ended with him landing on his feet. It was only then that he realised how unbalanced and top heavy he felt. Taking an unsteady step forward he felt something wrap itself around his legs, impeding his momentum forward, and he fell face-forward to the floor.
His overriding thought, once he could formulate one was, 'What the bloody hell did I take last night?'
Raising his head he looked around to see what had tripped him up. And that's when he spotted something that looked suspiciously like a tail, a highly unusual tail.
With some effort he managed to struggle to his feet, and began to walk towards his chest-of-draws. But as he passed the full length mirror something extraordinary caught his eye, and he paused to investigate.
What he saw in the reflection left him momentarily stunned. He felt like he was looking through someone, or rather something else's eyes. His face and upper body still looked familiar, but even so there was no disguising the fact that he had undergone what could only be best described as a radical transformation.
His hair had been flattened, save for a few errant curls that fell across his forehead. Keeping his hair down was a crest of horns that had also elongated his ears. His skin around his now pointed ears had a golden brown hue to it. A colour that was also reflected in his eyebrows and eyes, although if he looked close enough he could still make out a flicker of familiar blue and green.
Golden brown also covered his shoulders. The skin here was covered in an elaborate pattern of scales of varying sizes that although soft to the touch were extremely strong, like armour. These same scales were visible all over his body, some light, others dark.
Two magnificent wings protruded out from his shoulder-blades. The membrane looked very thin, but was flexible and incredibly strong. Keeping the membrane in place was a patchwork of delicate, hollow bones, three of which extended past the membrane to form a thumb and two finger-like appendages.
The tail extended out from his tailbone. It was long and thin, with thorny spikes all along its entire length, ending with an arrow shaped tip. The tail was strong and flexible, and like the wings was prehensile.
Around his neck and upper arms were items of jewellery. They were made from the finest gold, inserted into the gold were sparkling rubies and garnets.
His nose, lips, arms, hands, legs and feet at least still appeared human. And although he still remained slim, his shoulders were now broad, while his chest had expanded to become much more powerful.
Abruptly Sherlock turned away and let out an agonised roar that resulted in a plume of flame emerging from his mouth. And with an audible 'WHOOSH' the chest-of-draws with its impeccably maintained sock index, was instantly incinerated.
Sherlock stared aghast at the little pile of smoking ash.
"Well shit," he muttered, before making his way over to the bedroom door.
But when he tried to walk through, he discovered that couldn't fit through the doorframe. Having no control over the appendages that had sprung out from his shoulder-blades, and as they stubbornly refused to fold back to allow him through he ended up having to take the matter into his own hands, quite literally. With the only way to deal with them requiring Sherlock to reach behind and take hold of each wing, pulling them close together so that he could fit through the door.
221B BAKER STREET – SITTING ROOM
Once out he made his way to the sitting room. He opened his mouth, intending to call out to Mrs Hudson, when he remembered what happened in his bedroom. So instead he walked over to the door to his flat, opened it, and called out as loud as he dared. "Mrs Hudson!"
To his relief only smoke emerged through his lips.
Shortly after the familiar footsteps of his elderly landlady could be heard coming up the stairs.
To her credit Mrs Hudson didn't bat an eyelid upon discovering that her tenant had transformed into a dragon. But given what she had to put up from him: body parts in the fridge, unsavoury types coming and going at all hours, bullets being fired into the wall because he was bored. This no doubt was the least of her worries.
"I need food now," Sherlock demanded, feeling unusually ravenous.
"Of course dear, you sit and relax, and I'll be back in a jiffy," she responded calmly, in a soothing motherly tone.
After Mrs Hudson had gone back downstairs to make his breakfast, Sherlock realising just how exhausted he was from the mornings events, decided to take his landlady's advice and attempted to sit down in his chair, only his newly acquired tail and wings made it almost impossible.
"What is the point of you?" he snarled, immediately becoming irritable when the wings continued to refuse to co-operate. A deep, rumbling growl of frustration emerged from his lips, as he attempted to do all he could to not lose his temper.
As he continued his struggle a cheerful voice from the doorway noted. "Wings are quite handy actually. They allow you to fly."