A/N: "Here be dragons"? Mycroft is not a bad guy overall, but he does have arrogant ambition and power complex that lend themselves to over-the-top villainous archetypes...

I'll present my apologies by way of a heroic Mycroft in some other story.

Ps. Sorry, I couldn't find elsewhere to hide a giant pearl in the London landscape that wasn't the muddy Thames. I need to schedule a revisit to London once travelling is easier. -csf


Dragon Sherlock, part four (last part)

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My hands tied behind my back and under the careful attention of a revolver held by the scheming older Holmes brother (I could be proud of eliciting this level of paranoid scrutiny). I'm standing in the middle of London's iconic Tower Bridge, staring out into the river margin below. A truck has pulled over by the bank, and my best friend, Sherlock Holmes – the dragon detective, is making his way out. He's unharmed, and will remain that way through his task of collecting a priceless oversized pearl from the river bed. The Great Black Pearl of the Orient is a shipwreck treasure centuries old that Mycroft covets for his secret collection. Sherlock is obliging his brother's greedy impulses in order to rescue me, preferably before any bullet is fired.

All this, and it's not nearly noon yet. It's been a busy morning. Sherlock transformed into a dragon, London is suitably terrified, and the Baker Street duo have been sightseeing all over London. All in a morning's work.

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The champion dragon glances up towards the bridge, easily recognising his brother. He persists, attempting to locate me. Perhaps he finds me with his super vision, because his scales grade from tense scarlet undertones to a reassured homely blue, much like his favourite scarf. I'm glad that, by my side, Mycroft doesn't know what the colour grading means in terms of revealing Sherlock's emotional state. Even though the older brother could easily infer, I find that bit of private knowledge a last remnant of confidence that only someone truly close to Sherlock should read. Traitorous, greedy older brothers not included.

It's a bit like Sherlock's colour shifting alien eyes, in his human state. But a trick of the light according to the laws of physics, I find in the unique phenomenon a reveal of hidden depths in the amazing person my friend is. A secret hidden in plain sight, a key to the consulting detective's heart's workings.

If I could guess, Sherlock is vibrating with contained anger, determined to save his hostage friend, and return to that Chinese place to demand he gets put back to his normal state.

We probably should have started there, I recognise belatedly; but Sherlock was feeling cheeky and amused, as much as annoyed and cautious, over his transformation, and it would have been so hard on Sherlock Holmes to turn away an opportune exploration of the impossible – no, the improbable – without studying it first-hand.

'Do not concern yourself, doctor Watson. My brother will do his share of the bargain.'

'And you wouldn't really shoot me?' I smirk.

The three piece suit civil servant huffs an amused snort. So very like his brother. Though smoke-free.

'You are expendable, John. Do not delude yourself.'

Yeah, figured as much.

'And Sherlock? You have the ruddy army loaded and poised on each end of this bridge, Mycroft!'

The man looks grim. 'That is an incentive to my brother, but something I'll try to avoid. Can you imagine how messy it would be to clean after a twenty-five feet dragon shooting?'

I frown, and Mycroft's lips quirk up victoriously; but he got it wrong. I'm thinking of those twenty-five feet. Up from eighteen, this early morning. Sherlock is still growing in size.

Hopefully in power as well.

Although it will make returning inside 221B increasingly harder.

Mycroft carefully walks towards the bridge railing, still keeping me in his gun's bulls-eye target, and he waves his free arm widely so that Sherlock can see him give the start sign. I take a deep breath, and hate that I can't go down and help my mate, who alone needs to sort out this Holmesian epic mess.

There is no huge watery splash. Sherlock's diving into the murky and bitter cold Thames waters is elegant and deceivingly carefree. At first I can see the dark dragon shape under the surface, but as he moves away from the embankment and heads further down to the recesses of the bottom of the river, we lose track of him altogether.

I find myself holding my breath, just like my furnace powered lungs friend must be doing underwater.

Time elapses in a freeze frame of events. We all have our attention trailed on the quiet murmurings of the tidal river. No river vessels, no traffic by the wayside, even the usual joggers and dog walkers that litter the margins every day will have been succinctly turned away from the area today.

Come on, Sherlock. What's taking you so long?

He wouldn't just run away and leave me behind, of that I'm sure. Mycroft's threat is highly effective not only because I really think he'd shoot – he'd probably start with a body part that comes in doubles, as they're spares – but because it's a perfect mindreading act on Sherlock's weakness, his care and attention for me. Mycroft's plot excises precisely where the detective's fears run deeper, because it takes a brother to know precisely where to hurt you to make you squirm. And cold-hearted Mycroft has the advantage of a lifetime knowledge of Sherlock.

Still no sign of life. Just the tense fast stretch of murky water unfolding before our eyes. Mycroft twitches, uncomfortable. I smirk sadly to myself; I've got more experience at waiting before all evidence of loss when it comes to Sherlock. I wait in sharp military posture. Wait for a call back.

What if it's been too long? What if Sherlock got tangled in a mesh of algae or reeds under the surface and couldn't come up for oxygen? Even dragons must need the occasional breath of fresh air. What if dragons can't actually swim, or are allergic to water in some way? I shouldn't have let Sherlock gamble away with his life in order to save me. There must be something I can do to rescue my best friend!

A big splash startles us from behind, from the other side if the bridge. We hasten to transverse across and hold onto the railings to peer down to the sight before us. Sherlock the dragon is to all appearances happily frolicking with a huge pearl between his front arms as he wiggles about in the water belly up, like a giant otter would. A smile of deep relief emerges unbidden at the sight of my mad friend, taunting his brother.

'Very funny!' Mycroft shouts, looking paradoxically very unamused. 'I want that pearl now, Sherlock!'

It's lustrous, luxurious and large beyond belief for its kind.

The dragon's shrug of shoulders is easily perceived through the light shimmering on his gorgeous scales. His colour is deep, and fiery, and determined, as he basks on our interest from the bridge railing above.

'Come and get it, then', he mocks.

They're just shouting banter at each other now, it's really not the time, bros!

'Bring it here and I'll give you John', Mycroft bellows.

'Nah, you come down, or I'll run off with this!'

'Don't be a fool. You won't be able to set foot on land unless I say so, I gave orders to shoot if you try!'

Sherlock pretends to ponder his next actions, but I catch a glimpse of the slightest blink. He's still playing Mycroft's anger.

The dragon takes the priceless Black Pearl to his sharp teeth and scratches it ruthlessly for a second. By my side, Mycroft's anguish is channelled through an agonised imprecation.

'What are you doing!'

'Checking if it's hollow, brother dear. It feels awfully light...'

'Stop that!'

'I think it's hollow. It floats. That would make it a fake, wouldn't it?' Sherlock advises.

'Release it, I say!'

'Or else?' Sherlock smirks.

Anger boiling over, the older Holmes briskly shoves me forward. I hit the railings but can't stop it, as he pushes me over the cast iron balcony, and with my arms behind my back I'm powerless to the vertiginous fall.

Take John or keep the Pearl.

'John!'

I take a deep breath, prepare for slamming against the gelid waters, and have the world's shortest prayer for good measure. The seconds stretch elastically into terrorising expectation, and I know I'll be in deep waters soon, unable to fight their claustrophobic embrace, lucky if I retain consciousness throughout.

My balance changes swiftly as I bump against steely scales and a warm wet dragon's back. I open my eyes wide in disbelief as Sherlock rises from the Thames, through the open air, in a quick rescuing flight. The pearl still clutched between talons, just to annoy Mycroft I bet. Sherlock's no longer a junior dragon by the looks of it.

Trailing a heavy curtain of water after him, the dragon is precise in his route to drench Mycroft in the most undignified manner.

The first gunshots pierce the air, missing us as if those snipers were drunk, and Mycroft desperately shouts orders to stand them down. He won't have his baby brother hurt. Or the Pearl further damaged. He wouldn't lose sleep if I got shot, though.

'Sherlock, you're flying!'

'Obvious, John!'

'Well, I didn't know you could do that!'

'How inattentive of you.'

'What do you mean? You're flying and you don't have ruddy wings!'

'I'm currently under a powerful enchantment, John', he reminds me as he that was enough explanation. 'Remember the restaurant's name in the paper bag? I did translate it for you.'

'Oh. The Flying Dragon. That was a major clue.'

'Precisely. Although it did no mention of the aquatic element, and the water weight is slowing us down. Hold on, will you?'

I protest quickly – my hands are still tied behind my back – to no avail. Sherlock contents himself by a quick succession of spins to shake off the excess water, I very nearly slide off his tail, before he flicks me with disturbing ease back to a more comfortable location, just behind his head, facing the way forward.

'And now', he reads my mind, 'we find a way of reversing this intriguing spell, before Mycroft insists on having the Crown Jewels stolen for him. He's been itching to have them ever since Jim Moriarty thought of that first.'

.

If you want to hide a tree, you hide it in plain sight, in a forest. If what you need to hide is a twenty-five feet dragon (and counting), well... the only place we could think of was an amusement park. If Sherlock stands very still, puffing smoke sporadically, people will think he's a very lifelike construction.

'I can't believe you took one glance at the crime scene – pardon me, the empty restaurant – and you found a ticket stub to this fairground amusement park, and decided you could sniff the people we're looking for once we got here.'

'And I can't believe you are eating cotton candy while I'm imprisoned as a dragon.'

'You're the one carrying two toddlers and a bored seven year old on your back.'

'He's minding his brothers and he's not bored, John.'

"I am! Can't you go any faster?" the squeaky child intervenes.

'Sorry, Health and Safety regulations!' I snap at him. He didn't even have a ticket, the ungrateful infant!

'The ride ends here', Sherlock declares suddenly, halting immediately.

"Where are we?"

'How should I know? Get off!'

The children do, obediently. Luckily I spot their parents at a distance, and instruct them how to reach them.

Having done our bit, Sherlock is now actively sniffing the air. He grins openly as he picks up on the right scent. He's got that purple glow about him again.

'John, let's put up this old dragon skin away and go home.'

I smile too. Sounds good to me.

'Incoming dragon, folks! Make way for the incoming dragon!'

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We hike those familiar steps back to 221B feeling weary and spent. Sherlock beelines for his beloved armchair, where he drops with a contented sigh as the leather snuggles him in. He's all human again and able to handle his phone, play his violin, and dissect some body parts. He vibrates a content energy that doesn't require colour coding to interpret. As for myself, I'm suddenly feeling quite parched, so I go put the kettle on.

'I'm not leaving this chair for a week', the consulting detective bemoans. 'I've been through the most ghastly day!'

'I know, I was there', I comment. Funnily, that gets Sherlock's immediate attention, and he leans forward in his chair, scrutinising me.

'You're not hurt, John? Your scent wasn't a tell for hurt, before I transformed back.'

Nice of him to have been carefully sniffing me.

'I'm absolutely fine, just tired too. Even if you did most of it, really.'

'You're twitchy, which isn't surprising given that we were shot at, and you were thrown off a bridge. I don't expect being chased in a moving carrousel would particularly traumatise you, although you didn't seem to mind the roller coaster ride. In the end we got them, and I made them remove all enchantments from my person. Apparently they meant no harm. I gave them Mycroft's address anyway. They owed me one.'

'Should we have had them arrested, I suppose?'

'Lestrade couldn't have made heads nor tails of the case, alas. And, in a way, I did enjoy myself. Minus Mycroft's rude interference.'

I make a noncommittal noise and bring down the tea mugs to the worktop.

Sherlock narrows his eyes and persists: 'You're dusty and sooty, and I think I had something to do with that. And you're hungry; there are leftovers from yesterday's meal in the fridge.'

That gives me a deep chill. No, thanks.

'Why did you think they did it, Sherlock? Transform you into a dragon?'

'Probably their idea of amusement. I've already given the establishment a bad review online.'

'No, seriously, Sherlock.'

My friend leans back in his chair, his eyes shifting colours under the drooping lids.

'Must I have learned a lesson? I, John? I was a guinea pig for a disturbing experiment, what lesson could I have possibly learnt?'

I pour the hot water on two awaiting mugs in a kitchen worktop that rivals some of the best underground illicit labs in the country. Including the volumetric flasks where the mad scientist once concocted a poison that had me bedridden for three days, and that indelible dye for counterfeit money that I wore on my hair for a couple of months after Sherlock misplaced his beaker to the metal stand where we keep the shampoo in our shower.

I'd say a genius can reach the forlorn conclusion in due time, without my need to spell it out.

'Here.' I bring him a proper cuppa.

'Ta... What else have you got there?'

'The last fortune cookie, left in the paper bag. Like you say, it must have been the food that did it. I wonder what this one says. Something about lessons learnt, maybe?'

I crack it open before Sherlock's slightly apprehensive eyes, and he translates it out to me:

'"The bird's wings take off after the darkness settles in."'

'Ominous, hey?'

Sherlock gulps drily and glances at his wristwatch.

'The sun is setting. Maybe I can have a biscuit, after all.'

He saunters past me as a man trying to convince himself that all is well.

'Have we got any custard creams, John?' he bellows from the kitchen.

'Um-um...'

'Are they in the microwave?'

'Why would they—? Top cupboard, Sherlock, right-hand side.'

'Found them! Do you want to share these, they— John!'

I close my eyes and lower my head to my palm.

'Alright, I know. For the record, what do you see, Sherlock?'

'You've transformed, John.'

'Into what?'

He lowers the biscuits, uneaten.

'You've got the head of a golden pheasant, the body of a mandarin duck, the tail of a peacock, the legs of a crane, the mouth of a parrot, and the wings of a swallow. I say you're a Chinese Phoenix or fenghuang, John. They represent a combination of humanity, loyalty, altruism, and integrity, it's really not that bad for a silly looking bird of allsorts. You're also a powerful mythological creature too, you know.'

'Sherlock—' I hiss.

'And short-tempered and prone to going up in flames. Frankly, it fits.'

'Fits?' I shout. Is that smoke around me?

Sherlock hastily grabs my jacket and hands it over. 'We'll get you sorted in no time, John. Just keep calm, you're doing fine, I've got this!' Is that panic hiding in his voice?

'Sherlock!'

'John, would you mind terribly reminding me where we keep the fire extinguisher?'

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