A.N: Thank you so much to everyone that commented on the last chapter! I think I might have kicked that writer's block's arse ;)
Sherlock awakes the next morning to a horrid squealing noise. In that absolutely wretched moment of half-sleep – as his mind moves slowly up through the process of waking – he thinks this must be Mrs Hudson's warped idea of revenge.
'How petty', he thinks as the squeals morph into hearty noises and loud bangs.
That is until his brain suddenly comes online and he is upright, shooting out of bed to sprint down the little hallway into the kitchen. The source of the racket is all too easy to spot from his new vantage point behind the partially closed glass dividing doors. Even Anderson would not be able to miss the dragon sprawled by the fireplace. Especially as it was currently making Sherlock's favourite armchair into confetti.
Putting aside the destruction for a moment, the beast makes for a rather spectacular sight. Its shimmering wings are raised high in the cold dawn light. Well more accurately, the right extends proudly over scattered furniture; the left however trails at an awkward angle along the floor, scar tissue pulling tight across wasted flight muscles. Obviously Sherlock's prior deduction that the old injury had rendered the drac earthbound was proving to be correct. How unbearably pedestrian.
"You," Sherlock begins, advancing on the beast, "are the most useless dragon I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. You allowed yourself to be injured, captured and drugged; and when you're finally sold to someone more than halfway interesting you set about destroying their possessions at quarter past six on a Monday morning! Even my bore of a brother will agree you are entirely unsuitable to be my companion. There is no other option but to have you returned to the Dragonarium poste-haste."
The irate man automatically reaches towards his trouser pocket for his mobile before remembering he is still dressed in duck-egg blue cotton pyjamas. He turns swiftly to retrieve the phone from his bedroom nightstand only to pull up short when a long, spiked tail slices precisely through the space where his head would have been if he had taken but one more step. Next to appear is the dragon's head, its long reptilian neck curving close enough to Sherlock's side to feel waves of heat radiating out like a blast furnace. The drac curls its lips back from dagger length fangs, fixing the human with a decidedly smug stare. You didn't have to be a consulting detective to read the silent 'not useless after all' in that look.
Sherlock being who he is coolly returns the glare. He knows for a fact there are at least three of Mycroft's button cameras hidden in very predictable places throughout the living room. Perhaps his brother would send one of his more mildly competent response teams. Really it was his fault Sherlock was in this situation to begin with so it would serve him right to have to clean it up.
The dragon is not at all phased by the mad human staring it down. Rather it shifts closer, opening its maw to reveal the electric blue glow of impending death building in the back of its throat. As a scientist, Sherlock is fascinated by the principle of biologically produced fire. As someone about to burn to death he is less thrilled and more quietly terrified.
The beast inhales deeply, pauses just a moment to adjust its aim and then exhales forcibly, blowing a cloud of black smoke directly into the human's ashen face.
Sherlock reels back wildly, coughing and spluttering while wiping furiously at his watering eyes. "You absolute ba-"
He is interrupted by the front door swinging open and a cheery "Yoo hoo, Sherlock!" from the entryway.
"A moment, Mrs Hudson!" he croaks in reply and then, pointing an angry finger at his reptilian flatmate, "you behave."
The drac snorts another smaller jet of smoke in his direction but settles demurely on its haunches, folding its wings carefully and tucking its long tail securely around one forelimb.
"I hoped you were up; brought a light snack. And tea."
"That won't be necessary"
"You aren't on a case, dear," Mrs Hudson continues, flitting through the doorway, a tea tray piled high with homemade biscuits and cakes balanced on her hip. "I heard most of your fight last night – it's not like you to turn down that nice inspector when he brings a case."
"There are more pressing matter to deal with than some run of the mill poisonings. These 'serial suicides' are barely a four, you are well aware nothing above a seven is worth the cab ride to Scotland Yard. Now, I have some urgent business to attend-"
The elderly woman chooses that moment to come fully around the entryway wall and promptly drops the tea tray in fright. The resounding crash is enough for the drac at Sherlock's side to change stance into a defensive crouch, fangs out and wings mantled in a tense arc.
"Oh my!" Mrs Hudson gasps, grasping for the nearest armchair to hold herself up. Of course, the nearest armchair also happens to be the one now sporting large claw marks in the upholstery and bites out of all four legs. "Sherlock what have you done?"
The tall man glares disapprovingly at his new companion. "It had a misunderstanding with the furniture. It will only be a temporary nuisance."
The dragon gives itself a little shake, resettling the membranous gold wings into a more relaxed posture. Sherlock is not at all surprise the creature has assessed the old woman's intrusion on its new territory as no threat.
"Where on earth did you find him?"
"The Dragonarium on Market Street," he replies, the 'where else' clear in his tone. "Where - after this morning's performance - it will be returning to. Today."
"So he's been since…?"
"Yesterday, while you were conveniently out playing bingo with Mrs Turner."
Mrs Hudson lowers herself carefully into Sherlock's now ruined chair, falling into quiet contemplation for a long moment.
"Pets are not covered in your rent agreement, young man."
Sherlock chuckles softly, crossing the room to lay a fond hand on his land lady's shoulder. A slow-spreading smile lifts the corners of her lips as she reaches up to clasp it in return.
"Mycroft can cover it."
The room is quiet again as the old woman makes a careful examination of the drac, her eyes pausing on each scar and war wound, before she sighs in defeat. "Is it safe?"
"No, certainly not. Though it is proving to be rather tame."
As if to spite him the dragon gives a huge yawn before curling up comfortably on the hearth rug.
"Lazy beast."
Suddenly there is a loud chirp from Sherlock's bedroom. A text message. He ignores it in favour of glaring at the drac. After a minute there is a quick succession of beeps growing closer and closer together.
"That sounds important," Mrs Hudson prompts.
He huffs in return. "You might think so."
The phone starts ringing.
"Your brother?"
"No." He appears content to leave it at that until the older lady nudges his shin with her toes. "Mycroft would call first. If the second call went unanswered he would send a car around. No multiple text messages followed by three distinctively separate calls with voicemail messages left after each; that is trademark metropolitan police force stuck on a case."
"Sherlock," scolds Mrs Hudson. "It could be life or death."
"Oh death most certainly."
"Well check your messages before they send a police car. You know how the neighbours talk."
For once Sherlock concedes without a fight (or sulk), though he does make a point of stalking to his bedroom nightstand to retrieve the phone.
"I was right - it's the serial suicides. Anderson's jumped to entirely the wrong conclusion again. Completely dull and not worth my time right now."
"Don't be cruel, four poor souls are dead."
The brunette steeples his long-fingered hands beneath his chin, phone clasped between palms and eyes closed. He spends a long time in this position – phone occasionally squawking angrily – before finally breathing a dramatic sigh and sending a rapid fire text back to Lestrade.
"Fine. This won't take much to solve. The dragon will have to be dealt with tomorrow."
Mrs Hudson pushes to her feet with a groan, heading directly for the puddle of soggy finger food and broken crockery she'd dropped before. "What a mess! This carpet will be impossible to dry out."
"Take it out of the rent." Sherlock breezes past to grab his coat from a kitchen chair, pausing to drop a quick kiss on the elderly woman's cheek.
"Your brother's going to get a nasty shock when I post him the bill." She turns a speculative look on the now dozing reptile. "What should I charge for dragon board and lodgings?"
"For one his size, three hundred quid a week plus insurance," Sherlock answers easily. "At least it has one use."
The dragon opens his eyes at that and pushes up to stand on all four paws. Mrs Hudson who has just finished binning all the unsalvageable teacups stops and stares.
"If he was any bigger he wouldn't fit through the doors."
The dragon makes a show of stretching – wings, legs, tail, even his earflaps – before slowly moving closer to the humans.
"Yes he is stupidly large," sighs Sherlock, pulling on his leather gloves without looking up. The drac is alongside him now so is able to give the unaware human a reproachful smack with the leading edge of his right wing.
Mrs Hudson giggles instinctively. "How much English does he understand?"
"Dragons only learn basic commands. He must be more sensitive to inflection and body language than most - Though perhaps my studies are skewed if Anderson is not an average example of dragon intelligence and social behaviour." The phone beeps again and Sherlock stuffs it unceremoniously in a coat pocket. "Later. I really must be going."
"Be careful, dear."
Sherlock gives a slightly manic smile and bounds down the staircase, leaving Mrs Hudson alone in 221B with a one tonne fire-breathing dragon.
End Note: Hope you all enjoyed that, next chapter the fun really begins ;)