A/N: Life can be difficult and unsatisfactory. (Luckily I'm old enough to know that storms pass and life can also be amazing and fantastic, so I'll hold on to that.) Unfortunately that meant I pushed John and Sherlock away from my mind space for too long. I'll put that last plotline on hold as it was getting too intricate, and I'll have to study it to make a comeback and finish. (I'm a lousy spider, caught tangled in my own web.)
For sanity reasons, of course this a dream sequence. But if you don't fear for your sanity, just let it be a whimsical bit of suspension of disbelief. -csf
1.
'It's not bad', I say, through a mouthful of Chinese takeaway. I'm also studying the paper bag that carried the food, absently. It's from a new place, further down from where we usually get our stuff. 'What does that say, mate?' I point at the red ink pictogram on the bag.
'The Flying Dragon, John', Sherlock answers me. 'As opposed to the laying down dragon, one would presume. Or the standing up dragon, or the hanging upside down dragon—'
I shrug. An airborne dragon is a lot more interesting than a lazy or a lounging one. Although in fairness, I appreciate the metaphor power of variations such as "the sleeping dragon" or "the dragon who was just sitting down morosely". When did powerful mythological beings such as dragons become so boring as humans?
'And those characters there? The handwritten ones, what do they say?'
Sherlock is not impressed at being used as a living dictionary, but I suppose that comes with the territory of being a certified genius with incredible knowledge banks in a pristinely rational mind. Forget Internet search engines, Sherlock is the early Jeeves in person.
Of course he only answers if he's in a mood to talk. But he gets more things right than the Internet.
Tonight we've got good chances, as we have just stopped a perfumes counterfeiting ring – for once the crime scene smelled nice, if a bit overpowering – and, being decidedly late by the time the Yard's night shift came to take over the struggling, handcuffed criminals, Sherlock and I ended up walking home through near empty streets. Sherlock's stomach was given some internal permission to be acknowledged for it rumbled in the quiet of the night as we walked past this new Chinese place, amazingly finding it lit and open. I'm not entirely sure it was open to the public, mind you, legal trading hours and all that, but the restaurant team seemed to be having a personal celebration of sorts behind the counter, they saw our interest and took our orders. A young woman with a shy smile collected food from the pool of pots and pans, and stuffed it in a paper bag, before tucking away the money in a pocket.
Come back anytime, and that was it. We were then minutes away from Baker Street as we left behind the lit red paper lanterns, ornate golden archway by the front door, and the general good mood of a family style gathering.
Now in a quiet 221B, where the night's darkness is fought back courageously by the sterile white light of the overhead tube lamp, Sherlock uses his bamboo sticks to snatch one of my spring rolls; I pretend not to notice. Probably there's more in the paper bag anyway, but like a cat, he enjoys it better if he snatches food from under my watch.
In this case, he's like a lucky cat with his very selective arm movement, for he comes back for more.
'It's not too bad', the detective comments haughtily about the meal. I smirk, he'll be lethargic all morning after eating like a real person for the first time in a week. But I suppose that's just fine too. We don't have other cases going on, nothing that truly challenges Sherlock's high functioning brain cells anyway.
'Fortune cookie, mate?'
He rolls his eyes but nods to indulge me. I give him one and keep the other. There's a third one left forgotten in the paper bag. Maybe we should save it for the night's criminal who enabled our late night dinner?
I crack mine open and frown. It's in Chinese. That's a first.
'Fortune cookies are a modern fictional invention, John, based on the high mysticism surrounding a different culture, common people were prepared to believe in the superstition that the right Fortune Cookie would make its way to the person with the correct fate. Very elaborate for insipid origami folded doe, don't you think?'
I shrug, studying the promising swirls of a dialect I can't make heads or tails. It reminds me of other mysterious foreign lands, where the swirls of speech were elongated like long veils by the camp fire, and drawn from right to left, and punctuations pierced the language with staccato councils of war—
'John.'
I come back crashing from my war days to Baker Street with a jolt. Sherlock's cold assessing gaze is set on high alert as he studies me. Seeing the first signs of embarrassment in his flatmate, Sherlock's nearly vibrating probing, like a nuclear core spinning fast, slows down to normal speeds and he finally releases his scrutiny.
He's not nearly yet in off work mode.
'Have another spring role, mate.'
Sherlock's lucky arm instead snatches the piece of paper from me, and he translates with ease: 'The adventure lies in the path, not by the side of the road.'
'What does that mean?'
'From my perspective, it means this unfortunate fortune cookie went to the wrong diner. You, my dear John, are the least likely person I know to pass on an adventure.'
'Doesn't that make the words a sure thing as a fortune?'
He shrugs, a bit starch-lethargic already. That means he concedes the logic to his blogger assistant. Underwhelming as that fortune telling was.
'And mine says—' Sherlock offers, knowing I'd want to know, or just to even out the playing field now he knows mine, 'the ancient dragon's nature awakens with the first morning light'.
'Ugh... sorry, mate, that's too foggy for me. I like it better when fortune cookies just say you'll get rich, or will have a nice unexpected visit.'
'Maybe it does say that, this is not one of my most fluent dialects', Sherlock comments kindly. That's not much like him at all.
'Wait, that's not... the usual Chinese?'
Sherlock could flinch, but he's too tired to stir now, the post case fatigue seriously hitting him, drooping his eyelids and slowing his dextrous fingers. One of these days he'll fall asleep over his meal like a toddler.
'You mean Mandarin? No, this is a northern province variation of—' he glances at me, suddenly a bit guarded. 'Does it matter, John?'
'S'pose not', I don't disguise my own yawn. 'We'll clear up the kitchen table in the morning. Come on, mate, let's hit the sack, we're so done.'
He nods, getting up with gangly uncooperative limbs and shuffling tired feet towards his bed down the corridor. Lucky him, I think when faced with the stairs to my bedroom. I don't think either of us will bother to undress before we drop on the mattress.
''Night, Sherlock, sleep well', I say, dragging my feet with obstinate determination. Last minute, though, I change course and male a beeline for the sofa.
From the confines of the bedroom at the end of the corridor, I hear what mutterings sound like
'Good night, John' and
'Get your Union Jack cushion or you'll get a kink in your neck, John.'
Can't stop deducing, my mate, even mumbling foretellings as he falls asleep. I smile gently, feeling truly at home.
.
'The fortune cookie was right, mate. Wait, what did mine say?'
'John', he hisses venomously. I know he doesn't mean it, he's just panicking a bit. I know that because I'm panicking a bit too.
'Do you suppose it was the spring roles that did it?'
'John!' The wallpapered walls shudder, absorbing most of the deep vibrations of his threat.
Better try to appease the creature that Sherlock has turned into overnight. He has grown dark rubi red scales over a slender serpent body that spurted to fill the empty space between bed and window, squeezed to the confined space in what looks like uncomfortable acrobatics. His scaled body is coiled on itself to fit, the tail spread lazily against the crushed inwards wardrobe doors, a clawed foot peeks from the tangle of duvet leftover rags at the end of the bed, an arm is tampered to powerful talons that claw the floorboards leaving deep scratches under the bed, his shoulder is slightly lifting the heavy bed from the floor on his side, and his huge head squeezed between the bedside and the door jammed against his shoulder.
He must have rolled off his bed onto the floor during his transformation to become a dragon, landing on a big rug that I cannot see, for his body has grown in size to fill the space, and more.
He looks like a Chinese dragon the most and retains a lot of quintessential Sherlock features, just made more... dragon-y. The black lustrous waves of hair are now more of a shaggy mane, his teeth have grown pointy over a huge mouth, his grey eyes are slits as windows to a fathomless soul, his pale skin has suffered a big colour shift to dark jewels tones now it's covered by thousands and thousands of deep ocean dark iridescent scales. Bewitched by this sight, I want to reach out and touch them. It's the sight of two stumpy lumps on his forehead that stop me, those are horns. Baby dragon sized horns; instinctively I know they'll grow if Sherlock remains as a dragon.
I shake my head to collect my thoughts.
'Alright, alright. We'll get this reverted. It's obvious you can't stay as an 18 feet coiled serpent dragon, it's no fit state to be a detective.'
'Good of you to recognise that, John.' His scales ripple through his back as he breathes our the words. Amazing. His breathing is not human, just a continuous loop of air to spur the furnaces on his chest... but can he really? Breathe fire?
'I wonder if it's an enchantment or if the fortune cookie just brought out an underlying nature in you, Sherlock.'
'What do you mean, John?' he asks in wisps of smoky hisses.
That answers the fire breathing question for me.
Well, Sherlock's voice is usually that bit husky, smoky, the type of voice that could convince you to shoot murderous cabbies from across the street to save his skinny backside. But now the dangerously low tone is dark and clipped, menacingly reverberating in the bedroom made tiny by a huge dragon.
Well, a baby dragon, going by the baby horns.
I let myself fold to the ground, joining Sherlock from the other side of his bedroom door, still jammed against his body from when I opened the door. Sitting cross legged, I wonder what can I say to make this alright.
Sorry you're looking a bit rough, mate. I guess you've been cursed. We won't be going to that Chinese place again for food. Please don't crush me, burn me, or otherwise kill me?
'Remember my fortune, Sherlock?' I end up saying, as he huffs angrily as a cover to the uncertainty plaguing his grey eyes – as inhuman as they have always been, that only a few people can read from their depths. 'I'm not staying on the side-lines in this adventure, Sherlock. I'm with you every step of the way. We'll find a way to break this enchantment, and before we manage that we'll make the most of it, together.'
He hums, and the humming travels through his scales like rippling water, leaving the glazed surface tone shifting to a deeper hue, a sapphire blue undertone.
Sherlock can talk – even if an angry imprecation could cause a minor earthquake, his emotions are colour coordinated in ways I can learn to interpret, and if we're really lucky Sherlock might learn how to fly before his top civil servant big brother sends the air forces to shoot down the dragon over London. Yes, there's a good chance we can actually do this.
.
TBC
