A.N. Thank you to everyone that's continued to read and interact with this story during my truly Sherlock-worthy hiatus. Love to you all, hope you enjoy the new update 3
As much as the prospect of observing Anderson immolated in the name of science fills Sherlock with unrepentant glee, he could hardly justify setting two of NSY's best ablaze – especially considering how difficult their deaths would make access to current investigations. So in that light Sherlock does the only appropriate thing that can be done to disarm a battle ready war dragon drugged up to the fangs on elephant tranquilisers; he leaps towards the beast and wraps his long-fingered violinist hands around its jaws, clamping down hard.
There is an audible snick as twenty-eight dagger sharp teeth slide closed, sealing the dangerous electric blue glow away in a cage of flesh and scales.
The room falls into unnatural stillness; the lull in destruction at the eye of a cyclone. Sally is stops in the midst of grabbing for her sidearm. Lestrade still has his hands up, fingers spread in place of a white flag. Even Anderson freezes in place, the fear in his pink on grey eyes fading to blank surprise. There is hardly a whisper of breath on the air.
Lestrade is first to break the fragile silence, voice barely above a murmur as he orders Anderson and Donovan to 'go wait in the car'.
Sally's hand drops from the holster as she gives a slow nod to her superior and then picks her way through the usual clutter of 221B. She pauses uncertainly on the landing but Anderson holds no qualms about leaving, grabbing her coat tails in his sharp claws on the way past and firmly dragging his partner from the flat.
"Alright," mutters Lestrade, his voice rising nearer to its usual volume. His officers were safe - now he just had to get Sherlock out in one piece. "On the count of three, I want you to release its muzzle and run downstairs. I'll go up, split its focus. You and Sally are to radio for back up and stay at a safe distance. There's some drac tranq guns in the squad car. You're a civilian, don't engage unless there's no other option. Blink twice if you understand."
Sherlock's response is a particularly patronising eye roll. Well, as patronising as he could make an eye roll look while not even a foot from one of the most deadly species of dragon in history.
"Seriously. We need to time this right or not at all."
"Really, Lestrade?" The brunette huffs in an amused drawl. "You continue to amaze me with your unparalleled ability to make passably accurate observations and yet jump to spectacularly incorrect deductions."
Being so acclimatised to the mad genius' habit of verbalising random tangents of thought, the Detective Inspector did not so much as blink in Sherlock's direction.
"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? How can you miss something so blindingly obvious?"
"Obvious?" Lestrade starts, incredulous. His anger was enough now to forget any attempt to stay calm and quiet. "The one obvious part of this whole disastrous situation is the fact we're both about to die rather fiery deaths. Now, if you've satisfied the need to put your giant foot in where its not appre-"
Sherlock spins around in a suitably dramatic pirouette, hands on hips and scowl neatly affixed to his angular face.
"Shit!" cursed Lestrade as he makes an instinctual leap to regain control of the now free dragon.
Unlike the previous ill-advised grab the older man had made towards the drac, the beast simply twists its great reptilian skull aside, easily evading the desperate attempt. Lestrade finds himself frozen in fear for the second time in as many minutes, this time only a handbreadth away from the creature that has him now solidly fixed in its crosshairs.
"Now you've satisfied your need to be an imbecile," says Sherlock from where he hasn't moved an inch, "I can show you the obvious part of this 'disastrous situation'."
Without a second's pause he stalks back to the still pissed off looking drac and firmly clamps his hands back in position around the bony jaws.
A menacing thrumming noise begins to emanate from deep with the dragon's chest, rumbling up through Sherlock's arms and rattling his teeth.
"Oh stop that," the young man scolds. "I'm making a point."
The beast blinks heavy gold scaled eyelids, its opaque nictitating membrane sliding sluggishly back into place each time. Though the warning rumble does not cease, it decreases in volume until it is a tremolo roll of percussion quivering in the air.
"Better," the consulting detective praises. "Now Lestrade, this dragon currently has seven ways to effortlessly murder us at its disposal including disembowelment and exsanguination. Only a fool would believe the average human's grip strength of approximately twenty pounds per square inch would have any effect on the thirteen thousand psi bite of a fully mature male dragon of this size and mandibular musculature. Obviously its murderous intent was aimed solely towards Anderson-" Sherlock releases the reptilian maw in favour of picking delicately at his expensive dress shirt, now ripped entirely to shreds "-that snivelling little wyrm."
The dragon which had fallen silent as soon as the consulting detective released him puts in a hearty snarl at that. Of course dracs, much like other domesticated animals, sometimes appear intelligent beyond their species' reputation. As Sherlock had discovered in studies conducted during his misspent childhood, this was merely an illusion. Response to stimuli such as body language and vocal tone. Nevertheless it was fitting punctuation to the audible loathing in Sherlock's baritone voice.
"If you didn't provoke him-"
"I hardly-"
"You know his pressure points you berk!" Lestrade grinds the statement out between clenched teeth. His right hand comes up to pinch reflexively at the bridge of his nose, attempting to dissuade the tension headache forming like a storm cloud behind his eyes. He forcibly exhales. Inhales. Exhales again. "Do you even have the proper paperwork for that brute? And where the bloody hell is it's collar?"
Sherlock stalks across to the mantelpiece over the still blazing hearth. Palming a stack of official looking documents, he returns to carelessly throw the pile on the coffee table before Lestrade. Being adept at skim reading, it takes the DI a relatively short time to pick through the useless legal drivel.
"Well there's a surprise," the older man sighs, taking a seat on the well-worn couch pushed up against the back wall. "Everything is present and correct; except of course for any information about your new dragon flatmate's history. It's all redacted."
"Well that's hardly my fault."
"You, Sherlock Holmes, are the only man I've ever met who would even consider bringing a completely unknown war drac home. Can't you just do one normal thing?"
"Dull."
Lestrade can think of no civil reply so instead turns his focus back to the mad man's companion. The big dragon is curled up on the rug near the fireplace, forelegs crossed casually with its tail draped across its snout. The amber eyes are slitted against the flickering firelight but he can still see its diamond shaped pupils tracking Sherlock's movements about the room. Resting then but alert.
"'War drac' is a completely inaccurate label," states Sherlock as if the conversation had never paused. "It is criminal to use such a bastardised colloquialism of a specie's scientific name."
"Oh a crime against science, arrest me now before I kill again!" the DI growls, looking suitably unimpressed with Sherlock's idea of a pressing topic of discussion.
"Ha. Funny. The statistical likelihood of this particular draconis ignis bellum specimen having any kind of military training - never mind active service – is one in one thousand and sixty-three, give or take two-percent for random error in data. Now you may understand why I disagree on the accuracy of the popular label."
"I'd redo your sums if I was you," came the reply. "It has scars all over it, its paperwork has more chunks blacked out than a politician's personal details and it certainly looks nasty enough to have done time in the Corps. You don't want to be knocking about with a war dragon, you know the RAMC doesn't let them go if they can still die in battle on the front. That sort of life changes them, like a dog that's only ever trained to guard and fight. They turn savage in the end, no matter what the Dragon Protection Society wants us to believe."
"I don't need your advice, Detective Inspector," Sherlock snarls, turning his back to the other man. "Now, if that is all, come back when you have a worthwhile case for me."
Recognising his cue to leave, Lestrade levers himself up, dropping the drac's paperwork unceremoniously on the couch. "Right I know when I'm wasting my breath. Just…be careful, Sherlock. And put a damn collar on that thing."
His only answer as he beats a hasty retreat down the staircase is a dramatic sigh underscored by just the faintest hint of an accompanying rumble from the fireplace.