Chapter 3: Sherlock Meets The Hatchling

Sherlock is mentally reeling. His hatchling is physically reeling. Sherlock comes to enough to reach out and grasp the man's slippery biceps. "Steady," he says, in a voice that's anything but. The man reaches up and clasps his forearms in a punishing grip, in spite of the trembling that's seizing his body. Dark eyes stare into Sherlock's. He can feel the unbelieving grin that stretches his face. A man! Or, at least, Sherlock remembers scientific impartiality, something closely resembling a man.

"John," he says, remembering the imprinting. "You must be John. How nice to meet you. I've been waiting for 93 days, 11 hours and 23 minutes, not counting your hatching." He can't fight the stupid grin. "You are humanoid. That was entirely unexpected. Well, so was everything else, so I guess I'm not surprised. Although I did have a few fantasies about flying around on a dragon, or a griffin."

The trembling subsides, although the man in front of him doesn't let go, continues to gaze straight up into his eyes. Sherlock strokes his thumbs across the slimy skin, notes that the man is naked, well, of course, and decidedly male. His hair is very short, and appears to be brown, although it's hard to tell with it all wet. He is about 1.7 meters tall. "You must have been getting quite cramped in there," Sherlock murmurs. There is some sympathy, but the comment is primarily a factual analysis. "Here, can you walk? Come with me into the bathroom, so I can get you on a scale. And wash you up."

The man doesn't move. Sherlock tries gently pulling him forwards, and the man pitches into his arms. Huh, thinks Sherlock. Not such a good idea to wear the suit. Now he has an armful of wet, naked man. His head is curled up under Sherlock's chin, laid tight against his chest, and he imagines that he must be feeling his heartbeat.

Sherlock thinks that is a good idea, and slides his hand down to his John's wrist, checking for a pulse there. 180bpm. Enough for an agitated human. I should soothe him, he thinks, and wraps his arms around the man's shoulders. "John. You're John," he says, deepening his voice, and letting it rumble through his chest, where John may be calmed by the vibrations. "I found you in the basement. I wonder where on earth you've come from. How can you exist? I've named you John. My name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective." He rambles for several minutes, gently clasping his new hatchling, who doesn't move a muscle. His fingers slip back to measure the pulse again. 130. Much better.

"Can you walk? Here, let's give try it again," and Sherlock begins to slowly back towards the door. John is held loosely now, some 20cm between them. John stiffly follows, lurching from one leg to the other, mirroring Sherlock's movements. John is staring intently at Sherlock's legs. "That's right! Very good, John. You're a quick learner. I knew you would be. All that violin music, I'm sure. Come on, then. Shower for you."

They stagger through the kitchen into the bath, where Sherlock manages to manipulate the man onto the bathroom scale. 68 kilograms. He pushes John to sit on the toilet while he leans over to start the shower. When it's warm enough, he briskly washes his new pet, clinically noting that there's no discernible difference between him and a human. He'll get a blood sample soon, and bring it to Bart's. Well, bring all of John to Bart's actually, because he wants x-rays, too. He towels him briskly when he's done, and wraps him in a spare dressing gown.

"Alright, John. Now I suppose I should feed you." Sherlock has laid in supplies for this moment. He has ground beef (in case it was a dragon), mash (in case it was some kind of bird), goat's milk (in case it was some kind of mammal), and a tub of squirming meal-worms (in case it was reptile). John, he thinks may only need Ready brek and tea. "Come on, sit here, I'll get you something." It is the work of a moment to have the kettle on, and then tea is ready and so is the Ready brek. John can smell it, Sherlock is sure. His nose flares and his pupils dilate.

"Hungry, then?" Sherlock scoops the spoon in the bowl, but John reaches around it for the tea. "Ah! Tea. Of course. I wonder if you could smell that when you were inside. Here, wait a bit and let it cool." Sherlock wraps his hands around John's and guides them around the mug. "Feel how hot it is? You need to wait. Or blow on it. See?" Sherlock demonstrates with his own. John watches his every move.

John's face is still blank. Sherlock hasn't seen any emotion on it yet. But as he pulls the mug to his mouth, his movements are still jerky, and tea sloshes over the lip and slashes on his hands. He thrusts the cup away from him, it crashes to the floor, and his face twists into surprise and pain. His mouth opens in a gasp of displeasure.

Sherlock is recording data. Facial expressions. Vocalizations. Minor burns on his hands, should run under cold water. He leans forward and grasps John's wrists, clicking his tongue. "Hot, John. It's hot. You need to be careful." He pulls him toward the sink and thrusts his hands under the cold water. John vocalizes again, an mmmmm sound, and leans back against Sherlock.

Five minutes later, they try again, and John very obviously enjoys his tea. The Ready brek goes down swiftly as well, once Sherlock shows him how to use a spoon. Sherlock rubs his thumb thoughtfully across his bottom lip. "Come on, John. Let's go to the lounge. I want to try talking."

John looks at him, and there's intelligence in his eyes. He opens his mouth, and then clears his throat. "Uh," is what he says. His first word. Sherlock grins, so proud, and John grins back. More data. More firsts. It's wonderful. Sherlock takes his hand and pulls him to the sofa. When they're settled, he points to himself. "Sherlock." He points to John. "John." He does this several times, and then waits, eyebrow cocked, indicating expectation. A look of puzzlement flashes across John's face, and then he noises again. "Uuuuhhhh."

Sherlock waits.

"Zhaaan," he says.

Sherlock beams at him, pointing, and repeats, "John."

He says again, "Djaaan."

"Yes. Very good. It's a alveolar affricate, the 'J' sound. Use the front part of your tongue against the hard palate just behind the alveolar ridge." Sherlock holds his tongue in the proper position and waits for John to study it. Then he repeats, "John."

John probably doesn't understand the detour into linguistics, but on his third try, manages to say his name adequately.

Sherlock nods his head. "Excellent. Now. Sherlock. Can you say Sherlock?" He taps his chest, to indicate his ownership of this name. "Sherlock," he says again, and then waits.

A faint smile passes across John's face, and he says, slowly and carefully, "Szhuur-lock. Szherlock. Sherlock."

It is nearing two in the morning, now, and Sherlock and John are communicating in very short sentences. How John knows the language is impossible (but what about this isn't?) It's as if he just had to be reminded to speak.

"What do you know about yourself?" Sherlock asks. "What manner of creature are you? Have you any idea?"

John looks puzzled. "I don't know," he says slowly. "I am... like you?" He places his hand on the sofa next to Sherlock's and looks at them both. "We are... together?" He can't think of the word. He holds Sherlock's hand up, palm out, and presses his own palm against it. His fingers are shorter than Sherlock's, his palm more broad, his skin more golden. He holds the two hands in his other, and turns them this way and that, examining, comparing.

Sherlock is mesmerized. Oh, the intelligence of this creature. Absorbing and reorganizing data, reaching intangible conclusions by extrapolation and inference. John releases Sherlock and sweeps his hand across his own face, visibly counting on himself, reflected by Sherlock, two eyes, two eyebrows, two ears, a single nose and mouth, the shape of his chin.

"Do you want to see what you look like?" Sherlock asks.

John's face is arrested. "Yes, please," he answers. "I would like that." John's movements are much more fluid now, as he levers off the sofa to follow Sherlock to the full-length mirror on his wardrobe door. His steps are quick, and his shoulders back. He walks like a soldier, Sherlock thinks.

John stands in front of the mirror, wonder on his face. He stares at himself, then Sherlock, then back at himself. His hair is sandy, with a patch of gray at the temple. His face is rounder, more lined. He runs a hand across a cheek becoming rough with stubble.

"We can shave you tomorrow, if you don't like it." Sherlock is floating over his shoulder, staring at him in the mirror. His hand comes forward and strokes down John's cheek. John's head tips back, and his jaws suddenly crack in a huge yawn.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I suppose you're tired," he says, irritated. "You've only been out for fourteen hours and 37 minutes. But I guess hatching is a big day for anyone," he concedes.

John yawns again. His eyelids flutter, and sink.

"Alright then. We're already here." Sherlock nudges John forward, to the bed. "Lie down and sleep. We've got a busy day tomorrow."

"Good night," John says comfortably, and nods off almost before Sherlock has drawn up the covers.

Sherlock putters for a while. He picks up the shell fragments, and stores them in bags for further study. He gathers samples of the goo from inside the egg, and places that in the fridge. He wipes up the floor.

At 3am, he decides it's more efficient if he sleep, and he curls up around John, like he's done for the past 93 days. Of course, John is much warmer and softer, now that he's not an egg. Sherlock likes this. It is more comfortable. He puts his arm around John's waist and snugs him up against his chest. Must be sure the imprinting is successful, after all.