A/N: If I had planned this story properly – which I haven't – I wouldn't have planned this. -csf


Dragon Sherlock, part two

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In the end, the bedroom door had to be detached from the hinges, freeing my enchanted friend from his bedroom captivity at last. Tentatively he got detached from the torn bedsheets tangle and crushed wardrobe doors and flattened rug. Once all the mishaps were cleared from Sherlock's path, he became truly magnificent as an 18 feet mythological creature (albeit stuck in a regular room in London).

The early morning lights were shining down on his scales covered back, shimmering colours reflecting on the glossy coat that spread smoothly and tight over the strain of powerful muscles and rhythmic heartbeats just under the surface. His heart a powerful natural machine sustaining a small giant with sharp, quick beats, reminding me Sherlock's alive, alert, intense as ever.

I nearly reach out a hand to touch him, but I falter as it seems too intimate a gesture, without due reason. Curiosity being the wrong reason, as it would make him a freak, a specimen, or the patient; and none of those were the cause of attraction for my amazement. Out of respect, I keep my interactions with Dragon Sherlock much like they were with my human flatmate, showing him nothing's changed.

'I don't suppose any tailor out there makes bespoke clothes for dragons, and too bad if you want to have a shower because even the bathtub won't fit the lenght of your tail, let alone the rest—'

Sherlock raises his head in interest, listening carefully as I list mundane morning routines as if the adjustment was but a matter of logistics. Is there some wonder in his eyes? Certainly not, I'm the one currently with a dragon flatmate. Would he be surprised that I'm taking this in my stride?

'—but breakfast is not something we'll skip. Let's see... Sherlock, are dragons vegetarian?' I wonder.

He blinks rapidly. 'Do you think, John?' The floorboards shake from where his thorax meets the ground, and his words carry over to me in a doubly intoxicating way.

'I don't know, how should I know what legendary creatures eat?' I mutter, feeling a bit embarrassed suddenly.

If a dragon can eye roll me, then that's exactly what my mate is doing right now.

'John, you are a very good doctor, but a terrible...' he hesitates.

'Veterinary?' I complete, feeling completely lost.

'Certainly not!' the window panes quake after he speaks, I do my best not to recoil instinctively. 'I'm higher functioning than a flying lizard, John, and you'll do well to remember that!'

Captain Watson has stared down cold-blooded mercenaries in dangerous ambushes, so I just calmly cross my arms in front of me as he growls. Literally growls at me.

After all, I'd be cross too if I had been enchanted by the first dinner I had in a week. This won't be the needed incentive for Sherlock to eat and sleep better, will it?

'Fine, we need a plan. I'll call Mycroft afterwards. Off you go, breakfast.'

Simulating ease, I wait rooted to the spot to see if Sherlock can master the incredible body he's spurted overnight; just a small test, kitchen first.

Sherlock's eye slits narrow dangerously as he ponders my orders – he'd do exactly that as a human too – before an elegant shoulder shake ripples light waves across his back.

'As you command', he mocks, slithering past me in the narrow corridor. I'm thudded back against the wallpaper, but I can tell he's being careful under the gruff, as he finally uncoils that graceful long body and slides forward. I worry if he'll get rug burns, maybe I should lather the flooring with suds while this lasts, and – ouch! – Mrs Hudson won't be pleased with the claw scratches as Sherlock moves on all fours.

My detective friend reaches the living room, looks forlorn towards his chair (too tight a fit), then across the familiar scene, and turns lazily left, rounding towards the kitchen through the double glass doors we always keep pulled back.

Right, we've got eggs, ham, toast. I can pull some breakfast together for – No, Sherlock, don't! Come back right now! Don't!

Sherlock kept curving and, fully flexible, pretzled himself to go out the other kitchen door, straight into the landing and down the stairs. He's planning to go out!

Images of a London's Godzilla come to mind.

'Sherlock!'

The tail whisks me back, crushing me against the wallpaper, keeping me from reaching him, before it too loops into the kitchen, slithers across the corridor and away from home.

'Sherlock.'

I'm stunned. He's leaving me behind.

No.

He got it wrong. I want to help. He's not facing this alone.

'You could have waited until I had put my shoes on, you know?' I protest, following that tail down the old wooden steps.

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'Ta.'

I come out of the convenience store with my arms full, struggling not to drop anything.

'Have you got them?' a deep voice rumbles impatiently from the nearby alley. A convenient hideout.

'Yes, yes I do, but I'm not sure how this is meant to work, Sher—'

He hisses to stop me: 'Don't use my name! Can't you see I'm undercover?'

Two seconds' silence follows his declaration, before he growls: 'You better not be rolling your eyes at me, John.'

'Or else what?' I demand.

Darkly, he answers: 'I'll torn you limb by limb.'

'You and who's army?' I snigger. He immediately joins my giggling with deeper chuckles that make pavement cracks appear under my shoes.

Half my boxes fall from my cradling arms. 'Oh, damn...'

A long, scaled tail emerges at my side, curls and gently scoops me and most packages along the pavement. I grab on to those deep emerald green hued scales for balance, and just like that, I've actually grabbed onto my friend's draconian body for the first time. It's not awkward at all. And, for once, Sherlock has it right; it's just transport, as he whisks me away.

Sherlock effortlessly drags me towards someone's back yard, a small garden space behind a quiet house. He looks around with that attention of his that intends to see beyond what is physically there. Finally he lowers that ancient profile of his to focus on me with another all-too-familiar assessing gaze. The one that wonders how much he can get away with before I break. It's never a reassuring gaze, that one.

'We walk, John. For now.' His decision made, he turns about and once more I'm chasing my runaway friend.

He may be big, bulky and heavy, but he's got gigantic steps and I need to jog to keep up with him. Some things don't ever change.

'Where are we going? And what do you mean, for now?'

He hums, pleased by my curiosity. Not far, an alley cat hisses and bolts away, terrified. Dogs bark wildly at safe distance.

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'You think this will work.'

I'm stunned, worried, surprised and a tiny bit amazed by Sherlock once more. He never stops surprising me, never quits transforming the ordinary into the fantastic, sublimating the commonplace into the phenomenal.

'I'm sure, John.'

I look around in the now deserted Trafalgar Square, where a mythical dragon and his human mate just sauntered in, not two minutes ago. We seem to have rudely appropriated the square by panicking all pedestrians, causing quite a few drivers to swerve and rush off with a traffic few near misses including a double-decker bus, office windows blinds were shut on us, workers were brought out by fire alarms (no alarm for Dragon-In-The-Vicinity, I'm afraid).

Sherlock is not one to go for low key.

'Go ahead, then. I say we'll have the army here soon.'

He smirks – I'm reminded that dragons can smirk – and notes: 'Your buddies' reunions are so boring, do you mind if we skip that?'

And before I can react, or protest, he lowers his wrinkly composite-beast head to one of Trafalgar fountains and blows boiling steam straight into that water, until the whole granite pool is a hot steaming lake. He lifts his nostrils from the water, mouth and nose dripping fountain water, and gently nudges me on the side. I bend down to pick up those tea packets I bought and start emptying them into the boiled water, followed by sugar and not enough milk.

'I did say "breakfast", not just tea.'

'It will do for now, John. Care to have some?'

I look down at the quickly murking fountain water. The aroma of freshly brewed tea is enough to sooth me instantly.

'That seems about the right size for a cuppa for you, mate. I'll pass.'

He tilts his head to about the uncomfortable plinth and statue and slumps at the fragrant tea with undignified delight. He stops once in a while to spit out tea bags, but overall it's a fast business, as if he knew we were on a countdown. And, sure enough, the first helicopters arrive overhead just as Sherlock licks his dragon lips over a nice cuppa.

'Not as good as your usual ones, John, but satisfying nonetheless.'

I'm looking up concernedly. I fight back the impulse to raise my arms in surrender. We've done nothing wrong, only perhaps scared the local humans a bit.

'Sherlock... it doesn't look like the army wants a nice chat with the giant dragon.'

'Hardly giant, I'm but a junior dragon, barely an hour old. Well, an hour awake, I mean. I'll have transformed overnight. I may still be growing. John, am I growing? Don't answer, it's size shaming if you do.'

'I don't think they care how junior you may be.'

'Hmm. Right you are. Then we make our leave.'

I look around, trying to conceal that spark of panic now. I need to protect Sherlock.

The dragon is smirking again. His scales are dark green-blue, and he doesn't quite look appropriately concerned about the paramilitary manoeuvres.

'John, this would be easier if you took the lead and got pedestrians out of the way', he drawls like bored royalty to a lackey.

'There are no pedestrians left in Trafalgar but us.'

'Oh no, John. We are leaving Trafalgar Square. We're going down Charing Cross Station. It's got the Bakerloo line connection, remember?'

I'm trying to ground common sense into the epic madness about when the first line of armoured trucks approaches the square. Overhead, the army choppers are hovering menacingly. My eyes narrow and my hands fly to my hips in a defying stance. Go play with someone your own size, boys; leave the big boys playground alone. By my side, Sherlock reads me right and nearly purrs with contentment.

We start at a run at once, for the Underground tunnels, where this bullying lot cannot follow us.

.

'Mycroft will have a fit when he hears his baby brother has nearly been shot down by one of his MI6 choppers!' I gasp, as we both run across Trafalgar Square and down and inside the Underground station. 'Get out of the way, folks! Incoming dragon!' I shout at the Underground entrance.

'Who do you suspect ordered the attack?' my friend reminds me.

A cold chill runs down my spine and I halt abruptly at the end of the stairs. I'm nearly knocked over by the heavy dragon in my wake, slamming against my back.

'John, what's wrong?'

Everything's wrong. Mycroft doesn't know London's huge monster sightings are actually his baby brother. He's gathering armies to kill Sherlock.

'We've got to talk to your brother, we've got to let him know—'

Vaguely I notice some agitation on the platform as the few commuters found there make their way back to the surface by other exits in panicked speed, leaving the open space to us alone.

'Tosh! Let Mycroft get it wrong. Her Majesty the Queen will be amused.'

'What? Sherlock, this is too dangerous! I can't let you—'

'You can't stop me', he interrupts me.

'And for what? To get one up on your brother and his secret services?'

He huffs, feigning hurt; or puffs a small cloud of smoke.

'Because I'm a whimsical creature of luck and fortune, if you like, John.'

I squint at him. 'That you always were.'

He smirks, his scales shimmering bright green for a mere second, before he notices the colour shifting and its emotional betrayal. He looks over his shoulder to his scaled back and glares down the hue to a dull lead grey.

'Sherlock, Mycroft has got to know.'

A sudden ripple of luxurious, daring purple ripples through the scales, there one moment, gone the next.

'Very well. I always listen to my blogger. We shall tell Mycroft. In fact, we shall chase Mycroft down in order to inform him of my present condition; happy with that?'

'What! No, no... wait, that's not what I said at all!'

Sherlock looks around in the empty platform approvingly.

'Emergency stop to all Underground services. Good, wouldn't want traffic accidents as we cross the tunnels on our way to the Diogenes.'

'What!'

Sherlock rounds all his attention on me.

'John, you may want to calm down soon. Your blood pressure is highly elevated.'

'Yeah? How would you know that?' I shout back, in a self-fulfilling prophecy.

He looks skittish all of a sudden. 'I can sniff it.'

'Oh.'

It's a big predator sense. Definitely not vegetarian, then.

'Are you frightened of me, John?' he asks bashful glancing under his lashes. Yes, I never knew dragons had lashes, but my friend caught onto it quickly.

'Never, Sherlock. Never.'

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There's no other word for it; Sherlock worms his way over the edge of the platform onto the electrified rails of the Underground. For safety reasons I didn't want to let him, but he assured me the electrics would have been turned off, of they'd be nothing more than an inconvenient itch through his thick skin. I still didn't want him to do anything foolish, but try and stop a huge, stubborn dragon with your bare hands; a flick of the tail and I ended up gasping for breath against the tiled far wall.

'Are you alright, John?' he asks me already from the lower level of the rails. 'I didn't mean to flick my tail at you quite like that. I'm still not fully in control of this stupid abnormal body.'

I push myself upright, leaning against the wall. 'You are incredible as a dragon, mate, don't you ever forget that.'

'Out of all of London, only you seem to appreciate me in my current state.'

'Only I know you well. The others a bit spooked by the sharp talons and huge teeth—'

'And you needed persuading that I wouldn't be vegetarian by nature?' he asks with a glint in his eye.

I deflate, tired. Yeah, looks bad, so bad the bloody army got called in. I glance towards the Underground entrance.

'John, it'd be remarkably faster if you were to jump on my back. Being you, I wouldn't consider it demeaning to carry you along the tunnels. After all, it will be dark and my eyesight is incomparably better now than what it was as a mere human.'

'Don't get too used to it, we need to get you back to human. London needs you.'

He looks dreamily away. 'I wonder if I can solve crimes better with my new heightened senses. A Dragon Detective of sorts...'

'Sherlock, don't!' I warn. Perhaps, beg.

That same good-for-nothing purple hue of machination carries over his scales, this time lingering slightly in places. Damn it. Reverse psychology, that's what he needs.

We finally hear the first sounds of marching ground troops from the Underground station stairs. Time has run out.

But how do you climb on a dragon for a ride?

The dragon solves it in the end for me, as Sherlock's huge head edges from the tracks where is body is perfectly aligned and packed, towards me. His mouth opens, his sharp teeth come over me, and I can't help it but cower slightly, taking my arms up to cover my head and trying to make me small. Sherlock ignores the fear he senses in me and gently, and incredibly precisely, he uses his sharp teeth to grab me by the scruff of the neck, that is to say by the jacket's collar, lifting me effortlessly off the ground and craning me around towards his back. I hover over his scaled back, before he gently lowers me to his scales.

It's a bit slicker than I imagined, the slope mountain of Sherlock's dragon back, and those scales I hang onto are lustrous, shiny as metal, hard as steel, and malleable as liquid mercury.

Are you sure this is alright? I'm about to ask, when I notice his scales are turning a content deep green-blue where I try to find a comfortable seat. I relax some more. I feel safe, as Sherlock is with me in this adventure.

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TBC